Lessons in Hard

I’d wager to bet having Lon Dumont in your corner increases your chances of pro wrestling success by a factor of 10. Lon disclosed in my interview with him several years back that in his very early years of coaching, he had a hand in shaping the foundation of the babyface dynamo Cameron Matthews, and just look at all that Cameron’s accomplished on the scene!  In addition to wrestling around the world and starring in dozens of blockbuster homoerotic matches for BG East, Can-Am, Thunder’s Arena, and the predecessor to Movimus, Cameron now runs Wrestler4Hire, a growing player on the homoerotic wrestling scene, featuring high quality indy pros as well as established studs from other homoerotic wrestling companies. I’ve sampled Cameron’s products in the past, before the formal launch of W4H, and liked what I saw. So I recently signed up to sink my teeth into the meaty membership catalog and see what the newest kid on the block (although captained by one of the most established and productive kids of all time) is offering to the scene.

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W4H has a sweaty, hard bumping pro vibe

W4H has a provocative pro feel about it. Even the occasional mat match has pro attitude. There’s also a strong whiff of overflowing testosterone, with big, beefy bros messing around at the chapter house, but knowing full well the cameras are rolling and the audience is whipping out their dicks. If Rock Hard Wrestling and Thunder’s Arena had a baby, it’s be a lot like W4H (I’m probably not the first to make that analogy, but I think it’s apt).

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Well-known pros pound the mat for Cameron at W4H

With Cameron’s extensive connections in indy pro and homoerotic wrestling circles, the roster is pretty fucking amazing. There are up and coming, quickly rising indy pro stars showing up against sex wrestling veterans. And knowing Lon Dumont and Cameron go way, way back, little wonder Mr. Dumont shows up frequently on W4H. Even less a wonder, knowing my perpetual infatuation with the wrestler-turned-bodybuilder-turned-wrestler, I was immediately drawn to one of Lon’s match on W4H to enjoy first.

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Brad Barnes is strong, but can he wrestle?

Coach Lon has apparently taken Brad Barnes under his wing, and holy fuck, it’s about time. Brad is as beautiful as they come. You can see Brad go full monty and jack off at Randy Blue. He has a sensational sexiness about him, built like Adonis and sporting a painfully pretty face with a superhero square jaw and leading man cleft chin. However, all that magnificent, mouthwatering muscle and beauty have been, at best, a liability in his homoerotic wrestling appearances to date. He’s so fucking pretty and so completely ill equipped to seriously defend himself in a wrestling match. You get the impression that the long, long line of opponents who have beat his pin-up boy ass senseless never, ever get tired of owning all that hollow promise and impotent raw talent.

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Let’s do this, coach!

So thank the homoerotic wrestling gods that Lon has accepted the job of whipping the jobber Adonis into shape. As A Hard Lesson Learned starts, Coach Dumont is urging big Brad on as the kid does sit-ups. Lon is dishing out well-earned praise, liberally spiced with smart ass backhanded compliments (just the way I adore him). But despite Lon’s credentials as a physique star and personal trainer, not to mention his illustrious career heeling like a mother fucker for multiple indy pro circuits, Brad seems somehow a tad… ungrateful. It’s hard to put my finger on it at first. Lon has to remind the beefcake to show him the respect of calling him coach. There’s a spring in his step missing as he slowly rises to follow Lon’s instructions. But when he implies that Lon may not be strong enough to pick up the heavy bag that Brad has, moments ago, hoisted overhead, his contempt for coach really rings out. Not strong enough?! Are you fucking kidding me?! Have you seen Lon’s ripped, stage-ready physique and mountains of bodybuilding trophies!?

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Don’t worry, Brad! Coach just needs to test your core strength.

It seems like Brad senses he may have crossed a line, because when coach orders him to test his abs by lying on his back (so Lon can gingerly drop the heavy weight on him, simulating the bodyweight of an opponent), Brad looks nervous. “Just don’t drop it on my nuts,” the jobber beefcake insists. He again expresses concern that coach may not be strong enough to handle the equipment. But he need not worry. Lon can handle his equipment like champ. He can also hoist high a heavy bag and slam it with authority into the unsuspecting gut of an ungrateful trainee.

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Yeah, Lon’s got this.

“Ahhhh, FUCK, DUDE!” Brad screams, clutching his gut. Lon follows up with a stomp to one of the kid’s hamstrings. “Dude, what the fuck!!!?” Brad protests. Lon follows up with a stomp the chest, slamming his trainee to his back hard. “Don’t question my leadership skills, Brad!!!” Lon screams, slapping the kid’s ridiculously handsome face. “That is NOT something you want to do!” Lon unzips his warm-up jacket and peels it off, showing off the master-carved torso that has made me swoon for years. “Coach Dumont does not take kindly to that kind of activity!”

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Coach gets handsy.

The heel clinic Lon treats Brad to is classic Dumont. He pounds fists into the kid’s gut with abandon. He chokes the kid with is bare hands. Ominously, coach picks up Brad’s ankles, spreads them wide, and then drives his full bodyweight down, pounding his knee into the prettyboy’s testicles. “Why don’t you try a sit up for me now, Brad!?,” Lon yells furiously.  “How do you like my coaching style, Brad?!,” Lon screams in his face as he’s twist-tying the screeching manboy into an abdominal stretch.

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Brad grabs a handful of trouble.

Perhaps Brad is, finally, learning something from the avalanche of heel abuse he’s received up to this point, because he knows enough about pleasing fans to use Lon’s ridiculously long locks to pry his way free from one hold. He latches hold of Lon’s balls with a claw that elevates the heel’s typical baritone to a wailing countertenor. Brad racks coach across the top rope, bouncing him up and down on his balls a bit, to drive home the fact that he has, indeed, been taking notes.

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Lon’s muscles make me swoon.

I probably ought to be getting off on gorgeous Brad getting his big, bulging muscles owned like a bitch, but regular readers will be completely unsurprised to learn that I cannot take my eyes off of coach. When he has Brad screaming incoherently in a camel clutch, it’s Lon’s magnificent chest and shoulders that bring a tear to my eyes.  I know that it’s Brad’s bubble butt that I probably ought to be obsessing over, but it’s Lon’s zero-bodyfat glutes I can’t stop staring at as he digs a wedgie out of his crack.

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Brad delivers a forehead blow

I’m aware that Lon’s incessant, smart ass banter and perpetual psychological warfare make some fans absolutely hate him with a passion. Knowing Lon, I suspect he’s sort of proud of that. As for me, a match like this one demonstrates why I think Lon remains one of the most entertaining, provocative, engaging personalities in the homoerotic wrestling ring, and why I continue to submit my resume for the job of rubbing baby oil into every last one of his beautiful muscles before every bodybuilding competition and wrestling match. At the end of the day, I don’t know if Brad Barnes has what it takes to really benefit from coach’s lessons, but as for me, today, tomorrow, always, count me as a lifelong member of Team Dumont.

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Those. ABS!!!

For the record, A Hard Lesson Learned (copyright 2014) is one of 9 “new” videos available for streaming for the price of membership at W4H.  There are also dozens of photo galleries of many more matches available for members to peruse for the price of admission. The roster is pretty damn charming, with brief, one-sentence character descriptions (presumably in Cameron’s own words… Lon is described as “The most intelligent wrestler on the roster,” so maybe they’re Lon’s words), along with the vital stats that, inexplicably, turn me on. There are also dozens more videotaped matches for streaming or download for an additional price or the purchase of credits, that will cost you between $9.50 and and $12 per credit, depending on how many you buy (and it looks like most matches cost 2 credits for download). The math seems to me to be getting complicated. There’s a 3-day streaming rental option for a break in the purchase price. The combination of abundant photo galleries and relatively few full matches seems pretty typical of the industry these days, though it is frustrating to feel like you just ponied up for sizable membership dues and then have to dole out more for access to 90% of the catalog. But, like I said, I don’t think W4H is remarkably dissimilar to other sites with membership upgrades.

The production quality is solid. It’s not the most polished you can find. It’s certainly not the roughest. There aren’t many close ups so the effect is sitting ringside, which has both its value added as well as its drawbacks. Just one camera, but also almost no cuts, so the narrative feels fresh, the gasping and clawing their way off the mat feels authentic. This match is right around 20 minutes in total, including the opening “coaching” session, which looks right around the average run-time for most of the matches in W4H.

I’ll keep exploring W4H. Like all of the homoerotic wrestling productions I follow, I certainly want it to succeed, so I’m keeping my eyes open for value, quality, and innovation in what can feel at times like an increasingly crowded field of homoerotic wrestling productions.

 

Talking My Language

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Sizzling hot French Canadian rookie Fabrice

I’m a little surprised by just how much BG East rookie Fabrice turns me on. His build is severe. Not a lot of guys could wear 145 pounds on a 6’1″ frame and fail to look downright skinny to the point of starving. It takes me about 2 minutes into Gear Wars 5 to decide, but no doubt, Fabrice pulls it off for me.

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Fabrice likes the look and feel of Ben’s big biceps

He’s an anatomy chart at that BMI, of course. But once I get over my initial skepticism about how his super lean build might perform in a wrestling match, there’s an unbreakable vibe to him. I stop worrying about what isn’t there, and start to really appreciate this kid’s aesthetics.

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Ben’s appreciates Fabrice’s aesthetics, too.

Ben Monaco appreciates them as well. I knew he would, because Ben seems to never have met an opponent he wouldn’t want to fuck. The sexual tension always runs high in a Monaco match, and Gear Wars 5 is no exception. Delightfully, however, the homoerotic gaze first belongs to the lithe rookie. Fabrice arrives on the scene instantly infatuated with Ben’s muscles. He can’t keep his hands off of the veteran, stroking and palming the Canuck’s big biceps (fuck, Ben’s been working out!). For a few moments, I’m left wondering if Fabrice is done for before this even begins, because he looks like he’s gagging for it.

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Fine art

I need not have worried.  Ben is every bit as turned on by the rookie. There’s precious little dialogue, too little for my tastes because the character motivation is borderline opaque. But looking back from the tail end of this confrontation, it was always about one thing: who’s going to be in the driver’s seat once the post-match sex breaks out.

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The rookie uses that gorgeous, long body to beautifully break big Ben

 

Not that we see any post-match coitus. This isn’t an X-Fight. But the heavy doses of body worship injected throughout the match are sexy as fuck. The erotic attraction is so thick that the competition part of the narrative veers dangerously off course on several occasions. But then, repeatedly, it’s Fabrice that slaps it back on course, typically by snapping those incredibly long luscious legs around Ben and squeezing until the beefy bear whimpers.

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“Lick it. Lick it!”

This is a Gear Wars match, so be prepared for the initial gear, as sensationally sexy as it is, to get ripped off. In particular, the astonishingly tight tights on Fabrice are a marvel of modern technology, painted in place despite covering no more than 2/3rds of the beauty’s lovely ass cheeks while somehow managing to stay up. Ben’s red singlet is frankly utilitarian in comparison. But the playing field is evened out once they’re both stripped down to g-strings worthy of a Chippendale.

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Ben momentarily forgets this is a wresting match.

Fabrice’s balls never quite manage to fit inside his pouch, and for that, I salute him.  That’s quite a problem to have to contend with, balls too big to squeeze into your gear. Ben somehow seems not to notice. He does, however, clearly notice the amazingly fuckable ass on the rookie, as evidenced by him digging his fingers in deep and often. In his more vulnerable moments, Fabrice is forced to flex. Ben domineers over him, demanding obedience, taunting and teasing.

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“Your turn to flex for me!”

But in the battle for the driver’s seat, Fabrice is more than capable of punching things into overdrive by grabbing the bull by the horns, or, in this case, the Ben by the balls. The match turns slowly throughout, momentum ebbing and flowing, both boys taking turns on top to feel out who really belongs there when all is said and done. Hardcore wresting fans may find the diversions into intoxicating muscle worship distracting. There are bearhugs and a beautiful camel clutch, and every stripe and variation of torturous scissors that 2 pairs of hot, punishing legs like these can manage. There’s wrestling enough to stoke my kink, but the drama is psychosexual more than anything. The decisive, final submission is all about that concession.  The winner force feeds his opponent his bicep, hypnotizing him with every inch of his hot body stretched over top of the loser like a blanket.

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Nice and snug

Welcome to our world, Fabrice. You’re a fine, fine addition to the diversity of talents and bodies populating homoerotic wrestling fantasies these days. I get the impression English may be a second language for you, but what you do on the wrestling mat requires no translation. When you shove Ben’s head between your legs and make him cry in crotch-to-face headscissors, your talking my language!

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That smile speaks volumes!

Slaying the Red-Headed Beast

Further cementing my belief in homoerotic wrestling gods, YouTube decided to recommend I watch a video upload entitled Red Head Muscle Wrestler via BigBoy5604, via BG Enterprises, clipped from BG’s High Stakes Wrestling 4. Of course it’s no surprise that “red head muscle wrestler” is likely to be something I want to see, but what was a surprise was this red headed bodybuilder’s opponent: none other than recent neverland interviewee, Brook Stetson, aka, Brad Michaels from back in the day.

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Red-headed bodybuilder Rip Stone in pink vs. military superman erotic wrestler Brad Michaels (aka, Brook Stetson) in purple

I reached out to Brook to ask him about the match. He said this fabulous blast from the past pitted him against Rip Stone. He also reported that this was for fuck stakes, and that Rip’s asshole was as beautifully inspiring as everything else about him. He also had to laugh at how young he was.

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I love the feel of this “vintage” piece. There’s a hot authenticity about the mat scramble, the muscle testing, the grunting and vying for advantage. And, at the same time, how could these two gladiators not be fucking by the end of the match? You can spread the sexual tension with a butter knife.

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On the one hand, someone who just doesn’t know shit about Brook might guess that he’s an underdog in this match. Rip looks like a comic book superhero, with insane proportions and crazy, thick, luxurious muscle mass.

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Brook’s fans know he’s going to ride this for days on end!

On the other hand, this is fucking Brook Stetson! Sure, he wasn’t quite the phenomenally huge muscle master man of steel yet, but watch even this short 5 minute clip and you’ll see the same intensity, complete confidence, and tsunami will that has made him so amazing to watch all along.

 

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Watching Brook ride the red headed bodybuilder from behind, you can see where Brook gets his wrestling metaphors from. Even as he’s grinding his crotch into Rip’s sensationally fuckable, ripped muscle ass, Brook presses his lips into those mountainous trapezius muscles. He looks like he’s leaning in to smell a gourmet meal, moments before tucking in.

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Sizing up the cut of beef.

The way Brook’s hand lingers, palming his opponent’s lower abdomen, is fucking sexy as hell. His pinky rests right above Rip’s pink bulge. The position is far more possessive than punishing, communicating silently Brook’s roaring determination to earn this prize and then own it.

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I’m also entranced by the glimpses of Brook’s face in this match. When Rip manages to muscle him to his back momentarily, cranking on a headlock and pulling that mammoth, granite carved chin of Brook’s into Rip’s juicy right pec, there’s a fleeting moment where the camera captures Brook staring up at the bodybuilder bearing down from above. In a split second, you can see  both his sexual desire and raging competitiveness. You thought Michael Phelps eyes boring into the back of his rival’s head looked intense? Brook’s face shows that much will to win, with a heaping helping of carnal desire to fuck this muscle beast’s sensational ass as well.

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Eyes on the prize

 Can-Am has been selling the BG Enterprises catalog for several years now, but High Stakes Wrestling 4 appears to be one item from the catalog that they haven’t re-released yet, either in DVD or On Demand format (that I can find).  Thanks to BigBoy5604, we get a brief clip of this vintage slice of gold, but I’m hoping Can-Am shoves Brook/Brad and Rip to the top of the cue to make this available again. Because it looks sensational, and I’d pony up to watch Brook take that fantastic muscled ass.

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“Let’s See if Those Muscles are Real or Fake”

Muscle Domination Wrestling fans take note that you’ve got just about 4 days left to take advantage of a special offer from the MDW boys. Specifically, VIP Members can purchase any new release from Season 20 of MDW and get any match from seasons 1-18 for free. Get a double return on your investment, no limit.

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Cal Bennet gives Kevin James side eye

You may want to consider Oil Hunks 7 from the current season to get your qualifying bonus material. Bearded muscle monster Kevin James makes his debut in an oil stakes muscle match against the illustrated frat boy, Cal Bennet.

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Arm wrestling challenge? You’re gonna lose, fratbro.

“All right, man, you look pretty good,” Kevin acknowledges right off the bat. Immediately, I like this guy, and not just because his upper arms are significantly bigger around that Cal’s neck. There’s still plenty of machismo ego management in this match, but I seriously appreciate it when an incredibly built, beautiful wrestler acknowledges that his opponent looks good. See, your masculinity remains in tact, and your gay audience gets to hear out loud what we’ve been thinking all along!

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Test of strength!? You’re gonna lose, fratbro!

“You don’t look bad yourself, man,” Cal rumbles in those bass tones that barely register on the spectrum of sound audible to the human ear. “You look pretty solid, too.” Nicely put, Cal. Return the compliment, but so vastly understate Kevin’s superhuman physique as to effectively insult him with faint praise.

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Tan lines are super sexy

Cal is barely wearing the smallest patch of cheetah print cloth imaginable. There’s barely a thread visible disappearing down his crack. I’m sure I’ve mentioned it before, but Cal brings to mind again that special allure of tan lines. The fratbro pin-up boy has clearly been wearing board shorts and nothing else this summer, leaving his upper thighs and lightly furry ass cheeks pale and oh, so pretty.

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Fuck fashion. Just look at those GLUTES!!!

In what must be some sort of cruel rite of initiation at MDW, Kevin is sporting that bewildering super high cut singlet that I cannot imagine would look attractive on absolutely anyone. I’m pretty sure it comes from the same line of sportswear that Olympic gymnasts order from, and, of course, I’m talking about the women’s team. That said, the one thing that this unfortunate fashion statement says again and again is, “Look at that gargantuan muscled ass!” I don’t get the gear, but then again, if this is as close as I ever get to seeing Kevin’s ass naked, all right then.

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Cal does not like to lose.

The wrestling is sparse and mostly all about strength. Cal loses in arm wrestling, both right and left handed.  He’s pissed about it, though, really now, can he not see that Kevin’s upper arms are each big enough to qualify for their own zip codes? “Let’ see if those muscles are real or fake,” Cal spits bitterly. He challenges Kevin to a “full body” test of strength. And once again, he loses.  Will Cal never learn?

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“How’s that strength now, big guy?”

Yes, Cal learns! When the actual wrestling starts, he immediately drops the rookie with a blow to the balls. “How’s that strength now, big guy?,” Cal taunts, climbing on from behind for a choke. Kevin’s face flushes dark, dark red. Sweat breaks out across his forehead. “Go to sleep big guy, go to sleep.” There’s something powerfully compelling about seeing someone Kevin’s size really sell getting sleepered out cold. It’s exactly like Cal says, what was the use of those hours and hours (days, years) in the gym? All that intimidating, crystal carved muscle mass. All that cocky bluster. And then there he is, limp as a rag doll, out cold/hot, completely vulnerable. If only he was competing against someone with the good sense to take full advantage of that superhuman physique playground.

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Your muscles don’t mean shit unconscious

There’s a sudden camera cut for Kevin to wake up.  Back on their feet, he’s pissed about the cheap shot. A little wiser, Kevin charges. They jockey for position, mostly struggling to grab hold of something they can keep hold of with so much fucking muscle bulging and flexing. Kevin muscles him to the mat and takes a sleeper from behind. “Who’s the winner now?!,” the beastly rookie snarls in his ear. Cal writhes and struggles, but slowly, surely, finally goes limp. See my comments above about the missed opportunities that a real audience pleaser would’ve pursued.

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Beautiful fratbro laid out.

For the final fall, Kevin has blessedly changed into sensationally skimpy black posing trunks. As they go for the decisive 2 out of 3, it’s clear neither hunk is exactly a natural wrestler. The collar and elbow takes minutes, because they’re sorting their shit out, trying to figure out how to make an offensive move, self-consciously uncertain about how to pull the trigger. It’s entirely about muscle and mass. Kevin tries to cinch in a chicken wing, but no shit, Cal’s taut muscles are too much for the big man to pull back far enough to lock in (I really buy this, making me think Cal really, really needs to work on flexibility, or someone is going to seriously break this boy).

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“What’s the matter? You can’t lock it in?”

If it’s all about muscle and mass (and like I said, it is), then it should come as no surprise that the doe-eyed illustrated fratbro goes down hard. It takes a while, in part because Kevin is struggling to actually apply another sleeper. Cal simply tucks his chin, and no harm, no foul, the only thing going for the rookie is him, bearing down like an avalanche on top of his lighter opponent. At one point, Cal is on all fours and Kev is still struggling to seal the deal of this elusive sleeper (harder than it looks eh, Kev?). Suddenly, he climbs on top of Cal’s back, and it is quite a sight to see! All that mass of this ripped muscle monster entirely riding the sexy young punk struggling not to collapse underneath the weight.

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Avalanche!

Eventually, Cal goes all the way down and that gargantuan forearm finally starts actually grinding into his throat. The fratbro struggles to pry a little airspace between Kevin’s vice and his carotid, but fuck no. Give him a humungous weight advantage and an extra 10 minutes, and the massive rookie can pull it off. “Shhhhhh,” Kevin whispers seductively in Cal’s ear. “That’s right,” he coos, as Cal’s arms go limp. He cradles the kid’s head, pulling him into his massive pecs for just an extra couple of seconds, feeling the hot stud totally under his control.

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Feels good, eh, Kevin?

Once Kevin rouses his fallen prey, Cal sounds all sportsmanly all of the sudden. With good nature, he concedes as Kevin insists that the loser oil up the winner’s gargantuan physique. “For the record, I give it to you, you won fair and square, man,” Cal acknowledges, pouring baby oil onto Kev and rubbing it in. It’s such a twist of attitude, I honestly expect Cal to punch him in the balls again. But he doesn’t. He takes his medicine like a big boy.

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“Make them look pretty.”

“That’s right, show off the muscles,” Kevin demands. “Make them look pretty.” I’m thinking that’s a tall, tall order. Kevin is many things. Magnificent. Terrifying. Overwhelming. Mouthwatering. But it would take a whole lot more than a bottle of baby oil to make this bearded behemoth qualify as “pretty.” Cal does his best to comply, though.  Well, perhaps not exactly his “best.”

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Cal doesn’t venture far below the collar bone.

Tragically, Cal only slicks up Kevin’s upper back, arms, and chest. I think if he really respected Kevin, he’d have been on his knees and obediently lubricated those tree trunk thighs and behemoth muscle glutes. Kevin does take the suggestion to show off some mandatory poses for the camera, and you, and me (thanks for the suggestion, Cal).

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Miles and miles of lats!

“So… carry me off the mats, or what?,” Cal asks.  Again, thanks dude. Cal makes sure the rookie victor hits all the mandatory notes that make this homoerotic. Who’d have thought it would be fratbro Cal mentoring a newbie into the business like this? Our little boy is all grown up!

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Cal’s best side.

The victorious rookie hoists the beautiful loser over one shoulder, giving us one last lingering look at Cal’s gorgeous ass before Kev takes his trophy off camera.

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Beauty and the Beast

In summary, Oil Hunks 7 is light on wrestling and perhaps a little skimpy on the oil, for my tastes. I’m still hankering for a retro early-90’sish full on oil wrestling match someday.  This isn’t that. But I like the tone. I love the genuine admiration expressed between the two hunks. I’m intrigued by the sheer magnitude of Kevin James. If you like your wrestlers with acres of rippling back muscles and a sick, crazy tapered V to a glorious, ripped set of muscle glutes, Kevin probably needs to be at the top of your watch list. If you’re like me and simply cannot help yourself but be wooed by a blue-eyed, aesthetically marvelous, impetuously tattooed fratbro with a silky, sub-basement bass voice and possibly the most fuckable ass currently in play, then Cal in that cheetah print thong, walking the newbie through his paces even as he loses spectacularly, is like catnip. Now if we could only see a scenario like this culminate in sincere, full sell muscle worship, even a raw rookie wrestling bout like this could approach perfection.

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Homoerotic Wrestler of the Month

It takes a big, ballsy man to wrest the title of homoerotic wrestler of the month away from a 4-way tie like last month’s winners.  Happily for all of us, there are plenty of big, ballsy homoerotic wrestlers, and perhaps none as big, ballsy, bulging, blond, blue-eyed, and buff as July’s homoerotic wrestler of the month…

 

 

 

 

 

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Biff Farrell.

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Everything about Biff is built to thrill.

With all-American grade A beef like Biff, a post explaining how he earned the title of homoerotic wrestler of the month practically writes itself. This is Biff’s second time claiming the title, and it’s little wonder he also owns the distinction of being voted by fans as BG East’s 2015 Best Debut. He put out 3 brand-spanking-new BG East matches in July, constituting his first (of many, hopefully) Wrestler Spotlight collection. Many neverland readers need no convincing to hail the reign of Biff. He locked up an army of eager fans from the first moment we saw him barely one year ago. It’s been a rocky road for the flag bedecked beefcake, and perhaps never rockier than in the brutal 3 matches of his Spotlight collection. But win (rarely) , lose (often), or draw (never… this is BG East, after all) , it’s hard to deny that Biff embodies exactly the boyishly handsome, magnificently muscled, classically beautiful qualities of a chart topper babyface.

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Kelly King put big Biff DOWN!

I’ve already discussed just how much I enjoyed the phenomenal Biff-bashing in the opening match of his Spotlight. In fact, the dazzling, dastardly performance of prettyboy heel Kelly King nearly made me drop Biff from title contention for HWOTM, just like Kelly choke slammed big Biff to his back with absolute authority. If there had been only this one match to consider, truth be told, I’d be lifting Kelly’s hand in victory right now. Not that Biff didn’t sell like a mother fucking champion. I buy many times over the absolute devastation and brutality of Kelly in large part thanks to Biff’s sensational sell, and doubters need only watch this match to be convinced that pro wrestling is a full contact sport for serious athletes. I’m certain that Biff’s alabaster smooth muscles were seriously black and blue the day after this match, and the only flaw in the perfection of this pairing is that I was not invited to massage away the aches and pains from Biff’s oil soaked muscles as he recovered. But again, I have to say, the revelation and commanding turn on for me was falling in lust with Kelly King.

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Masked Menace carves up Biff like a turkey.

Fortunately for Biff’s prospects for winning the title of HWOTM, he showed up twice more. His mat match against another rising infatuation of mine, Masked Menace, is my second favorite bout in the compilation. Menace brings something I don’t think we’ve seen before from one of Biff’s opponents, namely, a carnal appreciation of Biff’s stunning beauty. It isn’t over the top. It doesn’t have to be, as far as I’m concerned. But the two things Menace enjoys most in life, clearly, are the feel of a pretty boy’s bulging muscles and the sensation of making a muscleboy his bitch. The first camera break in this match comes only after about 5 or 6 humiliating submissions get milked out of the beautiful headliner. I love Masked Menace’s momentum, his certainty, his precision. I love how he excitedly rips Biff’s singlet off, hungry for more skin, raging to peel the muscleboy down to the slimmest vestige of modesty. I also love the give and take in this match. Biff is out-hustled and outwrestled by his smaller opponent, but unlike the other two matches in this collection, he fights back.

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“This is what we call a wrestling match right here!”

In fact, Biff gets seriously pissed by his opponent’s repeated punches, and he climbs on top with pupils dilated and lips curled. “This is what we call a wrestling match right here!,” he snarls furiously, sick of the fists pounding into his abs, pecs, groin. “NO HITTING!,” he spits through clenched teeth, using all of that muscle mass advantage to nearly pop his opponent’s head off his neck in a vicious full nelson.

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Suck on that, Biff!

But in the end, Masked Menace has his way with Biff. The crotch-to-face headscissors may be the closest we’ll ever see to Biff sucking dick (but I’ll hold out hope anyway), and Menace milks it like the gay wrestling kink avatar he is. The hip swiveling face pin underneath the masked master’s cock may be the second closest we’ll ever see, as the wasted beefcake helplessly takes it on the chin (and across the lips) while his opponent does slow, quiveringly sexy push ups overhead. Biff’s writhing and wriggling clearly turn Menace on (I’m right there with you, MM). The masked master strokes his own hairy pecs, and he flexes excitedly overtop of the battered specimen at his feet. His Boston crab has Biff choking and weeping in submission, until Masked Menace drops one leg and uses his free hand to claw the living fuck out of Biff’s testicles, for no good reason, just to hear the bruising muscleboy scream.  And he does. Fuck, this is sensational wrestling, and the objectification of Biff’s battered, conquered body by a smaller, older opponent is lush.

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Guido hangs Biff out to dry

Biff’s brutal beating at the hands (and knees and elbows and boots) of Guido Genatto is breathtaking. I’ve been struggling with watching pro heel Guido lately, and I’m not entirely sure why. I’d like to see some more variation in his matches, true. Watching him steamroll one opponent after another has felt a little redundant. But I’ve sucked down similar performances of other favorites without growing tired. I think Guido’s brand of heartless viciousness needs a live audience, though. There’s something perplexing about his rage, about his gratuitous violence, that I think would make more sense if he were explicitly playing to the roars of a crowd. In any case, he does to Biff what he does to most everyone, namely, deliver a one sided beatdown peppered liberally with withering trash talk.  For someone who, reportedly, has big, big pro wrestling dreams, this is surely exactly what Biff needed, because if he still wants to climb into the ring after getting muscle massacred by a monster like Guido, then I think Biff is going to go far.

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On behalf of fans of Biff’s luscious ass, thanks for that, Guido!

I don’t remember ever getting to see as much of Biff’s mouthwatering glutes before, as we do when Guido nearly rips his trunks apart at the seams with a savage wedgie. For that, I’m deeply grateful to Guido. But this match is really all about Biff, with the blond bombshell selling the mother fucking life out of his beatdown. He screams bloody murder. He whimpers and wails. “No more!!! NO MORE!!!,” Biff weeps pleadingly. He’s such a gorgeous slab of beef that Guido literally sinks his teeth into the mountainous trapezius muscle of the muscleboy next door. “Sometimes, you just gotta take a bite!” Guido explains. And I totally understand.

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Mouthwatering

Biff is delicious. He’s gorgeous standing still. With his signature stars and strips and military cut, he’s the perfect July pin up boy for a homoerotic wrestling calendar. I never tire of watching him, despite his repeated humiliating failures thus far in almost all of his matches. Nay, not despite, but perhaps because of his failures, I can’t wait to tuck in each and every time he shows up wearing next to nothing but that crotch warming, earnest smile. He embodies the promise of hard work and fanatical attention to training and aesthetics, and therefore his terrified beatings, screaming in panic, weeping in agony, impotent and owned by one opponent after another, is hypnotic to watch. Well, hypnotic and incredibly sexy. I’d love to see more offense from him. I’m living for the day he seriously gets to muscle bully some new flavor of prettyboy rookie who knows as little about pro wrestling as Biff did the first day he showed up at BG East. In the meantime, set off some fireworks, stand at attention, and salute the flag, wrestling fans. Biff Farrell is unquestionably my homoerotic wrestler of the month.

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July 2016 Homoerotic Wrestler of the Month: Biff Farrell

“What’s Not to Like!?”

MDW’s Tank is a naughty, naughty boy. When silver fox muscle daddy Matt Thrasher shows up, having accepted the job of showing Tank a few things about wrestling, the bulging rookie is anything but gracious. “You look like my father,” Tank sneers at Matt’s salt and pepper whiskers. “You know what? ‘Father’ was too good. You could be my grandfather!”

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“You look like my father!”

If there’s a bulging young rookie in need of some humbling respect at the hands of a magnificent, more mature, more experienced muscle daddy like Matt, I’m all in. Daddy’s Home 6 is not the first time my heart has started pounding to see Matt Thrasher climb into the ring in street clothes. Fuck, I love the look of him so much. I’d be thrilled to see a masters competition among the rare breed of homoerotic wrestler old enough to be the average industry competitor’s father. But what I’d really lose my shit over would be to see daddy Matt team up with some other seasoned beefsteak like Shane McCall (or the elusive man of my dreams, Scott Williams!) to tag team terrorize pretty boys two at a time.

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“…show you how to respect!”

Anyhow.  As I try to reel my homoerotic imagination back in, let me just appreciate Matt’s stone cold reply to Tank’s ageist taunts.  “So?” Matt asks, flexing his mountainous bicep in Tank’s face and owning the fact that he’s aged to absolute perfection. “I might just not want to train you after all,” Matt mutters, slowly pacing around his “trainee” and giving those gargantuan glutes a long, lingering stare. “I might just want to give you a beat down and show you how to respect.” The shit eating, self-conscious grin on Tank evaporates as he gets up in Matt’s face. With total seriousness, he snarls, “I’d love to see that happen.”

 

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Rookie desire

And the genius of Daddy’s Home 6 is that I believe him. There’s a transparent cellophane wrapping of aggressive ego defense and intentions to measure up whose is bigger, but what I’m really getting off on is how much I buy that this big, bulging meathead who is clearly completely ill prepared to pull off anything of note by way of wrestling, deep down (somewhere around that pendulous package of his) wants a muscle daddy to take him by the scruff of the neck. Not that he’ll just roll over and take it.  Not by a long shot. He doesn’t want to give. He wants to have a muscle daddy milk the submission out of him. It’s not that he wants to be owned. It’s that he wants to be conquered.

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The ring trips them up.

I’m not sure what is up with a couple of production aspects of Daddy’s Home that I feel like I have to mention. First, the mat. There’s about 4 inches of foam tucked underneath a black cloth that continually trips the wrestlers. From start to finish, speed plays absolutely no part of this match because the boys have to step gingerly just to avoid getting tied up by the odd ring cover.  The other notable production detail that distracted me was the camerawork.  On the one hand, there are some fabulous close ups. The camera lingers long and hard on ass cheeks and bouncing pouches. The lens brings a sensational sexual tension to the bout, adoringly framing Matt climbing onto Tank’s prone body and pounding his crotch deeper and deeper between Tank’s mountainous ass cheeks.  Love that. Then, as if camera guy is suddenly using his free hand to whip out his dick and start jacking off (not that I’d blame him), the camerawork suddenly goes still. The wrestlers shift position, but the camera doesn’t, leaving an awkwardly long shot of Matt’s knee, and nothing else, before the camera suddenly points toward the ceiling a couple of seconds and then comes back to its senses. Not sure what the fuck was up with that

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Get used to this position, Tank.

But there are some truly fantastic elements to Daddy’s Home 6 that make up for the odd missteps mentioned above. I’ve already alluded to Daddy Matt’s propensity for dry(ish) humping Tank’s virginal ass cheeks. A lot. And fuck me, it never gets old. Tank may have big bulging muscles, but he’s got the stamina of a tsetse fly. So when he repeatedly finds himself face down, ass up, and mounted from behind, his tanks are on empty and the muscle daddy beatdown completely has it’s way with him.

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“What’s not to like!?”

At one point, Matt’s mounted him just right, and starts slamming his crotch down over and over into Tank’s vulnerable cheeks. “I bet you like that, don’t you!?,” Tank attempts a weak ass, borderline homophobic verbal defense, as if liking pounding a muscled ass like Tank’s is a bad thing. And then here’s another element of this match that thrills me. Matt replies, “What’s not to like?  A big, dumb kid with a pretty little ass, crying from my beating? What’s not to like?” Every varsity football star should get his ass spanked blood red and humped relentlessly, just so a homoerotic wrestling muscle daddy like Matt can pop that machismo balloon just like that and put it right there on the table. Yep, Tank. Beating your fine ass, humiliating you 5 ways to Sunday, and repeatedly simulating/practicing power fucking you senseless is, indeed, something Matt Thrasher likes. A lot. And so do I.

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That ass is angry red!

The last bit I’ll mention about this match is the spanking. I’ve talked about spanking before, and I’m on the record as being slightly dubious of it as a sellable wrestling offense. Humiliation? Icing on the cake?  Sure, I love it, mind you. But the use of spanking as a debilitating offensive maneuver stretches even my larger-than-normal homoerotic wrestling imagination.

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Matt digs deep

Until now. Holy fuck, two thwacks into it, and there’s a bright red welt exactly in the shape of Matt Thrasher’s big, meaty hand rising like a blood moon across Tank’s lily white cheeks. And the spanks keep coming, and fuck, I can’t help myself but flinch at the deeper, darker shade of red, beginning to turn a bruised blue, imprinted on the rookie’s ass. Matt spanks him for days, interspersed with occasional deep tissue massage as the veteran digs his fingers deep into that ass just screaming for it. About 9 minutes in, once again flat on his stomach and getting swatted incredibly hard across his butt, Tank is flinching and writhing, and he whimpers, “No… more… no more!” And holy shit, I believe every word of it.

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“Who’s your daddy!?!?”

And, happily for you and me and Matt, there are 11 more minutes to go in this rookie beatdown. The drama starts to hinge on the ultimate Daddy victory, as Matt insists that Tank must say the words, “You’re my daddy!” Like I said, Tank isn’t giving the milk away free. He spits out profanities and insults instead. Even in a single leg cradle, with Matt’s big, bulging crotch pressed provocatively against the rookie’s lightly hairy hole, Tank growls, “Fuck you, old man!”

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Tank takes it like the manboy he is

Frankly, I was prepared to be underwhelmed by Tank.  But there’s something incredibly sexy about his deep bass voice, and juxtaposed against (and all wrapped up within) Matt’s hot, sweaty, hairy muscles, Tank’s baby smooth body has me hungry for more. But the superstar of this match, and the very best Daddy’s Home matches I’ve seen, is muscle daddy Matt Thrasher. One of these days, I want to see one of Daddy’s boys show up to his next match with big Matt holding the leash, giving orders, coaching him through mastering his own muscle boys.

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Daddy’s home!

“You’re mine now,” Matt crows near the end of Daddy’s Home 6. “And you’re pretty excited by the prospect, aren’t ya?” The question is purely rhetorical.

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“You’re pretty excited by the prospect, aren’t ya?”

Throwback Thursday

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Can-Am stud Andy Sutton

I suppose we can call this a Throwback Thursday post, because it’s not like I’ve seen Andy Sutton in anything new in over 15 years. Recent conversations about bodies and types left me lingering on memories of picking lithe, lean Andy out of a crowd of big, beefy, Venice Beach type muscle boys in a couple of Canadian Muscle Hunk Wrestling collections by Can-Am. I ponied up for the likes of Bart Tyler, Skip Roberts, and Peter Ravell, but it was luscious, long-haired, Tiger Beat-looking Andy who pretty much won my heart.

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After he wrestled in the ring in CMHW 11 and CMHW 13, he anchored Can-Am’s conceptual art piece called Bodystrokes Vancouver. He was a bit bigger in Bodystrokes, a little more muscled out and defined, but that same raging youth timbre made my chest vibrate and my crotch swell.

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Andy gives and takes against big Harley Michaels in Canadian Muscle Hunk Wrestling 11

Andy makes me think of so many achingly young studs I’ve known who emerged into manhood on the momentum of easy muscle gains. Hyped up on late adolescent testosterone, they can eat tons of crap, completely not take care of their bodies, but then hit the gym and 15 minutes later they’ve got juicy pecs and abs. It’s no wonder punks like that, full of cum and convinced that they’re destined to star as the action hero in the movie of their life, run headlong into a homoerotic wrestling match with aggression and ferocity far exceeding their raw assets.

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Co-worker Tom bullies little Andy at his own peril

Not that I’m trying to suggest Andy didn’t have fantastic assets. True, he was cute as a button, and that long, long hair was screaming for opponents to drag him around by it (and they did). But despite often being around the range of 30% smaller than his opponents, I was infatuated by his lean, economical ass. His pecs were beautiful, but barely enough to sink your claws into, but his ripped abs were phenomenal.

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The raging young stud literally rips his tormentor’s chest hair out by the roots!

In the final scene of Bodystrokes, Andy plays a subcontractor on a construction site. I don’t really remember the narrative, but average Joe (by pornboy standards, as in lean, flat chested, and every bit a fuckable meat pie) Tom Spence shows up in overalls, clearly looking for a fight. The blue collar vibe struck an authentic chord in me, as if rip ‘n’ strip Can-Am All Star Andy could easily have been a painter by day, fending off bullying by older co-workers intent on claiming this long haired pretty boy as their bitch.

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Andy’s ego and refusal to back down lead to clipping shoulders with Marco D’Salvo, which, of course, leads to rip ‘n’ strip wrestling.

If anything, I suppose in pro wrestling perspective, Andy was simply a babyface. As I remember, he won some, lost others. But much more than that was that compelling character, constantly being underestimated, coming sprinting out of the emerging manhood gate with a chip on his shoulder and near superstitious belief that sheer will power and his newly minted muscles can overcome any obstacle. That crashing wave of rage and bluster, trying on the big boy trunks for the first time and determined to fill them out overabundantly, made me crush on young Andy hard.

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Andy’s ass was as pretty as everything else about him

I hope Andy eventually opened his own contracting business. I especially hope he kept working out and didn’t fall prey to the misconception that his superhuman metabolism would perpetually make it possible for him to down a large pizza all on his own and still look like the Greek god Hermes. And though his wrestling resume was far too small, I hope he kept wrestling.

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