I’ve noticed that I have this pattern of sparse posting this time of the year most years. I’m sure it’s work-related. I’m determined to keep up with the Homoerotic Wrestler of the Month titles this year, and March had a ton of worthy nominees. But although I haven’t had a chance to post about most of the wrestling I enjoyed from last month, I do have a favorite. Even though I’m a couple of weeks late getting this down in print, my new reigning homoerotic wrestler of the entire month is…
Honestly, it’s daunting to try to write a review of a Custom Combat match, like the one Jonny starred in last month against notorious heel Lane Hartley. It’s literally dozens upon dozens of different matches, depending on how you navigate the decision tree along the way. It’s conceivable that one of the iterations of Custom Combat 2 sucks, but since I haven’t watched every last possible combination of options, I haven’t seen the sucky version. I doubt that, though, because this is Jonny Firestorm and Lane Hartley. They are both their hottest versions of themselves, when it comes to aesthetics and fitness. And the dozen or so versions of events that I’ve constructed are consistently incredibly entertaining and top notch quality, any way you slice it.
With two such top tier talents, it’s a reasonable question to ask how Jonny earns my favored status over Lane. With a collaboration like this, where they must have been taping for hours on end, that consistency I mentioned has got to be a sign that both hunks bought into and then sold this concept with equal expertise. And Lane is fucking lush. As always, he’s ridiculously handsome, magnificently smooth, thick muscles everywhere. The moment I first saw Lane way back when he debuted with BGE, I instantly thought he was going to be a legitimate, honest to the wrestling gods powerhitter muscle babyface. That he’s turned out to be a bulldozing dominant heel instead has always felt like a missed opportunity. But then again, this is custom combat, and I’m calling the shots, so you can bet you know how my first foray into Custom Combat played out.
But Jonny edges out Lane for the HWOTM title because he just turns me ON that much more. First of all, those trunks. FUCK. Those shiny blue square cuts scream “STAR!” His ass is suction packed into them, but it’s his mammoth package that really grabbed my attention hard from the moment he climbs into the ring. On the one hand, Lane is obviously the bigger man in the ring, staring down a reported 7 inches of height advantage and around 50 pounds heavier. On the other hand, Jonny’s bulge knocks big Lane into second place just like that.
And then there are Jonny’s arms. Literally, I swoon. I’ve crushed on Jonny’s arms before, so much so, in fact, that Jonny once sent me close up snaps of his forearms as a Christmas present. But honestly, I’ve never seen his biceps bigger, nor his forearms thicker, than when they’re wrapped around Lane’s action hero as the giant GI Joe doll gets sleepered out. Jonny flexes repeatedly, satisfyingly, and the veins just about pop right out of his skin. Sure, without a doubt, Lane is one huge, dashing, handsome fucker, so it says a whole lot that I cannot take my eyes off of Jonny’s hot, hairy, muscle packed body.
I probably need to award this month’s title to the genius who conceives of and storyboards a product like this. There are at least 15 decision options that I’ve counted, everywhere from tit-for-tat-even competitive wrestling to bashing Lane’s balls to breaking Jonny’s back. The unique combo of give and take, advantage and reversal, are in the viewer’s hands each time he pushes play. Sewing together a seamless product to be able to watch one particular match (and then another, and then another) as convincingly as Custom Combat 2 accomplishes is astonishing. The fact that Jonny has starred in both Custom Combat products makes me think he gets at least a little of that genius credit, and even if not, he gets a ton of credit for working his magnificent muscled ass off selling everything. Everything. Winning. Losing. Suffering. Dominating. Weeping. Getting broken. Laughing. Doing the breaking.
Like I said earlier, if I were king of BGE (I know, I know, that title is definitely already taken), I’d have cast big Lane Hartley as a dangerously competitive babyface. Custom Combat 2 lets me do just that, and Jonny is never hotter than when he’s going all out heel. “Do you know what I like to do to pretty boys like you?” Jonny asks in one version of this confrontation. Right there. I so love that moment when Jonny doesn’t just call Lane the pretty boy he so obviously is, but he follows up by landing a solid knee drop to Lane’s balls. In my fantasy match, Lane literally tries to crawl out of the ring to escape the weapons of mass destruction that Jonny isn’t even bothering to try to hide from close inspection. The invincible, superhero muscle hunk Lane is literally left begging for mercy, humiliated and humbled by a vicious brawler seemingly half his size everywhere except for where it counts. The only way that this could have been more customized to fulfill my fantasy is if there’d been an option to have Jonny rip off Lane’s trunks (after KO-ing, sleepering, pinning or submitted him) and spank his naked ass. But even short of that, this is incredibly high quality wrestling with pretty much every hold and move and dirty trick you could order up delivered by incredibly talented pros.
You’re a winner any way you like it, but the muscled hunk who gets me off over and over in novel ways each time I watch this match is ultimately Jonny Firestorm, who is, once again, my reigning homoerotic wrestler of the month.
The mundane requirements in my life have kept me from posting more regularly here lately. However, I’m happy to report I’ve still had time to enjoy watching homoerotic wrestling. I’ve recently fallen in lust with a classic batch of matches from almost twenty years ago packaged by BG East as Britbouts 1.
Back in antiquity, when I received my homoerotic wrestling products on VHS, I used to love the promotional trailers at the end of the DVDs, with snippets of other products to tempt and titillate. I remember seeing a promo for Britbouts 1 and particularly being attracted to the 45 seconds or so it provided of excerpts from Kid Vicious mat match with Ron Holloway. In fact, I got off more than once on just that glimpse of this match slipped in at the tail end of some other tape I owned. I clearly remember the look of rage and anguish mixed on the adorably babyfaced pretty boy Ron. I’m sure at some point it was on the top of my next-to-order list, but tide and time and the regular rush of enticing new BG East products made me forget to follow up on it. Happily, I’ve rectified that situation, and I’m even happier to report that the match is every bit as satisfying as I’d imagined it would be when all I had was that hot little teaser with that pumping synthesizer techno beat pounding the soundtrack to the trailer.
Ron Holloway turns my crank the instant he appears on screen, stretching out his super-lean, painfully pale, gorgeously proportioned young body. He’s achingly pretty, but not in the way that so many pretty boys in homoerotic wrestling since are pretty. He’s not pretty in a way that would make him a candidate for the cover of a fitness magazine. No, he’s pretty in the way that I’d develop a dizzying crush on a next door neighbor, or the bag boy at the grocery store, or some nerdy cutie a grade below me in school. He has a Supercuts ‘do and a disarming, bright white smile. His classic, stark white trunks and matching boots somehow make the pale expanse of his otherwise bare body seem that much more vulnerable. His silky smooth jaw and chest place him squarely in the developmental state when one reaches the age of majority, and yet the last volleys of puberty are yet to be fired. His long, skinny legs are lightly hairy in a natural yet self-conscious way. Some would bitch about him being too skinny, I’m sure, but he’s perfectly who he is in this moment in time: beautifully fit, still growing into his long limbs, high on testosterone and late adolescent invincibility, and sporting a fuckable zero-padding set of glutes squeezed supertight inside of what must be size XXS trunks.
Enter Kid Vicious. I’ve been crushing on KV from the moment I first discovered homoerotic wrestling. He looks so young in this match, and still he’s unmistakably all man in this boy-versus-man melodrama. His shaved head reveals the outline of his receding hairline. His chest displays the dark, closely cropped hair of a man who likes control, who maintains a regimented grooming routine and knows at any moment every detail of his body’s appearance, position, and tolerances. He’s lean like Ron, but with a handful more years of muscle maturity and growth. Every hot little detail on the babyface is just a little hotter, a little more developed, a little more fully realized on KV. Also super lean, KV’s pecs are just a little fuller. His shoulders are an inch or two broader. His long lean thighs are just that much thicker than the babyface’s, and like the babyface’s, they’re ungroomed, but just a little hairier on the more mature man. KV is squeezed into red and black zebra print square cuts and villainous black boots.
So this is clearly, from the outset a battle of bright-eyed, beautiful youthful innocence squaring off against jaded, contemptuous sadism. Or perhaps you might conceptualize this as seasoned maturity stepping back in time to kick the arrogant shit out of his young, dumb, and full of cum barely legal self. Ron is impetuous and irrationally confident as he snarls at the deadly dangerous man staring coldly back at him. This was apparently the first time BGE, including Kid Vicious, ventured across the pond, so ostensibly anything could happen here. When West meets Wester, it could totally be the case that the toughnik Scottish prettyboy has the goods to shock and awe the American who so obviously thinks he’s a total bad ass. If you knew nothing of the next 20 years of Kid Vicious’ BGE career, the morality tale being played out here could legitimately hinge on the notion that a Glasgow street punk could upend and completely dominate his upperclassman opponent, proving that KV’s curled lip and heel cred are nothing more than the paper thin boasting of a big fish from a little pond.
Once they start to tussle, however, you’d have to note every signal indicating that this is going to be boy bashing brutality. Kid Vicious takes control of my crushworthy bag boy. He uses each and every edge in size and strength to manhandle the kid, ripping Ron’s quivering shoulders out of joint in a surfboard, milking the fight out him with crushing body scissors clamped viciously around the Scot’s 28″ waist. Ron is so fucking pissed. All of that late pubescent testosterone is still convincing him that he’s more than up to the task of making the Yankee pay for this early humiliation. His bangs flop from side to side, his jaw gapes open, lips curling in that incredibly sexy rage/anguish that so enticed me from the trailer those years ago. Even when KV is totally owning him, the bitterness on the Scot’s face says clearly that he’s seeing revenge fantasies playing across the backs of his eyelids as his eyes are clenched tight in agony.
Ron’s no pushover, to say the least. He takes a cargo ship full of punishment and sucks on it like a lollipop. Moreover, he’s surprisingly patient for someone so young, biding his time and munching on the humiliation for the right moment to counter. Slipping free from a headlock, the Scot cranks the fuck out of a tit-for-tat hammerlock, threatening to rip Kid Vicious’ arms off at the shoulders. KV is more than a little shocked and super pissed off, suddenly playing catcher to this ridiculously babyfaced rook mounted across his back. That familiar sneer on KV’s lips suddenly disappears and then reappears on Ron’s face, as the stark reality comes into focus: Kid Vicious is getting owned by an actual kid.
Ron gets a couple of shocking submissions out of KV, which, in and of themselves, are worth the price of admission. But even sexier is the diabolical comeback KV makes, patiently starting up from the bottom of the hill after each humiliation, and steadily, surely, expertly climbing back to the summit. Regular readers know that my favorite hold is the OTK backbreaker, and featherweight Ron is like a baby in KV’s arms when the Yank scoops him up, holds him there like it’s nothing, and then pounds the kid’s lower spine across his thigh. Babyface Ron writhes and screams. The first cracks to his invincibility fable start to show. With one hand on a knee and the other pressing on the kid’s chin, KV pries his prey backward, promising to snap the little fucker’s back in half.
The other submission that stands out for me (as in, gets me off repeatedly) is Kid Vicious’ magnificent knee breaker. Babyface Ron has mounted a few shocking volleys of offense by this point, and you can see KV is fucking over this. He’s going to maim the kid. He rolls the babyface up, hooking Ron’s left leg and pinning the back of the Scot’s head against KV’s crotch. At first, Rob’s face screws up in pain and he bitches about his quivering hamstring getting stretched to the point of snapping. It looks vicious (appropriately enough). You know the babyface is about to submit, because he’s got nowhere to go and his opponent can wring cruel, bitter anguish out of him at will. But then KV pulls the kid’s captured leg to the left and positions Ron’s hyperextended knee right over KV’s own bent knee. And the genius of this moment comes into clear focus, as KV pulls that much harder on the Scot’s leg, hyperextending the knee sickeningly that much farther around his own. Babyface Ron SCREAMS in panic. He submits about 50 times in the space of 10 seconds, as KV simply soaks it in, smiling sadistically, living for this moment of owning this once-cocky kid in body and soul.
The last thing about his match that I have to mention isn’t a hold. It’s Ron, writhing on the mat after this knee breaker, whimpering like a sniveling bitch, “No more, no more, no more, no more,” in that thick, sexy Scottish accent. KV stands over him domineeringly, silently threatening, and the boy first announces “no more,” but when KV doesn’t appear about to back down, the boy starts begging, pleadingly, “NO MORE!” The hot little bag boy isn’t just done. He’s burnt to a crisp. That facade of invincibility he started with has shattered to the mat around him. His illusions of being “the man” are dashed upon the realization that next to Kid Vicious, he’s just a snot nosed little bitch. The chemistry has changed within him, from equal parts rage and anguish to overwhelming, sour bitterness with a dash of “one-day-I’ll-grow-up-and-then-you’ll-be-sorry.”
Of course, Kid Vicious has about 5 more minutes of corporal punishment and vile emotional abuse to inflict on the overdone flank steak at his feet. He mounts the kid, with the Scot lying totally vulnerable, flat on his back. KV stretches out on top of the rookie, pec to pec, crotch to crotch, maximal body contact. He pins Ron’s hands to the mat above his head and starts a 3 count to finish this little bitch. That persistent overdose of testosterone the late-pubescent kid is simmering in still convinces him to jerk a shoulder free, breaking the count. It’s not a real challenge to KV’s complete mastery of the moment. Just a bitter refusal to accept reality. So KV rolls the kid up, crotch pressed against the Scot’s face, grabs the babyface’s ankles and rips Ron’s legs open wide. Ron’s still just as bitter, just as adamantly wanting to deny the facts of the situation. But he’s good and throughly fucked right here, so KV gets his 3 count.
It’s a fucking shame that Ron Holloway appears to have been a one hit wonder, because he emotes like an Oscar winner. He’s lithe and lovely and fierce and fucked all bundled up into one incredibly tight, sexy little package. I’d love to have seen KV rip Ron’s white trunks off and ride that raw, muscled ass. I’d give a kidney to go back and time and convince KV right then to give the Scot’s ripped torso a tongue lashing from top to bottom. But alas, this is not an X-Fight.
As for Kid Vicious, I find it fascinating to watch him get his hands on a Brit for the first time. It’s little wonder he will return to the UK repeatedly in the years following this match to sink his teeth into more hot Brits. He clearly had a taste for this succulent delicacy from the first moment he laid eyes on Ron Holloway.
PR is YUGE these days. From top to bottom, everyone seems to be doubling down on the postmodern paradox that nothing and everything can be true, and being persuasive is more virtuous than being honest. I think it’s a thoroughly pro wrestling sort of notion. Create reality by promoting the fuck out of something. Dance on the edge of believability in the service of working an angle. Manufactured grudges. Dramatic heel turns. Back office intrigue. It’s classic pro wrestling shenanigans that we all recognize as product, not process.
When I sat down to contemplate an unusual format of a match for W4H, I had a few things on my mind. 5-Way-Free-For-All draws me in on several counts. I’m a total sucker for a voyeur angle to homoerotic wrestling, so whenever two wrestlers are working their asses off in front of an audience (of any kind, including other wrestlers waiting their turns), I find it value added. And written there in the match description, and expanded upon in the promotional tweets and posts from W4H, is the sexy little implication that among the five wrestlers in this free-for-all, there are two pairs of boyfriends. I’ve been on record a long, long time as desperate for the drama of battling boyfriends. I’ve specifically begged for a rival couples backstory to fully realize the homoerotic potential of tag team pro wrestling. The promotional material doesn’t explicitly say that any of this is expressly part of the drama of this match, but of course, that’s where my mind goes. Just drop some innuendo of my fondest wishes, and I’m instantly, completely on board.
5-Way-Free-For-All delivers on some of the implied promises, but not all. First of all, the voyeur angle is super sweet in these 28 minutes. Any two wrestlers taking their turn are surrounded by three more sweaty studs jeering and critiquing and adding literal insult to injury. Matty O’Boy is the stand out trash talker. He’s got a smarmy, deep baritone and a quick wit. He’s also super game for this innovative format. He’s first to jump into the round robin initially, and he never shies away from an opportunity to join the fray again and again.
Matty is also, apparently, one member of a couple in the competition. The match description on W4H suggests that his boyfriend may be Zacky Darlin, based on the opening sentence that says Matty “is shoved by his boyfriend into the middle of the mat.” Said shover is lean, hairy hottie Zacky. However, a Facebook post promoting the match includes a pic of Matty bearhugging Jayden Mayne, with the caption, “Matty O’Boy is making sure his boyfriend, Jayden Mayne is flexible.” Not that I’m one to be trapped by binaries. Maybe Matty, Jayden and Zacky are a committed threesome. In which case, where do I send the housewarming gift and how do I get and invitation to the underwear parties!?
Anyhow, still another promotional post on social networks by W4H names Dashing Dustin and James Quarterstaf as boyfriends as well. With James’ magnificent ass and Dashing Dustin’s really, really tasty looking bulge, I’m completely ready to buy that these two are fucking soulmates. So, potentially, 5-Way-Free-For-All is a melee of a couple of couples and a hot 5th wheel, or maybe a menage-a-trois and a conventional couple. In any case, fuck, yes. Put more homo in homoerotic wrestling, I always say. I love this set-up.
Buyer beware, however. If you’re grooving for this battling boyfriends angle or rival couples bit like I was, it is not an explicit part of the product. It’s glittery, provocative packaging, but when you unwrap it, you get something quite a bit more conventional. Namely, 5 hot, pretty boys in super brief speedos scrapping hard one-on-one, devolving into 4-on-1s and splitting into side-by-side 1-on-1s next to 2-on-1s. If I hadn’t read the hype, I’d not have picked up anything at all about any romantic relationships in the mix. It’s super hot, mind you, but not because it’s all that upfront gay. It’s hot like 80% of the homoerotic wrestling industry is, because it’s produced with an eye for gay guys into wrestling. There isn’t a gay narrative here.
That said, 5-Way has a ton going for it that you just might find scratching your itch. For one, the action is fucking intense. I mean, WAY intense. There are about 3 or so camera cuts with some refocusing of the storyline happening, ultimately leading to 4 hotties sleepered out and one, undisputed winner posing on top of the pile, tugging at the edges of his speedo and flexing for the camera. Okay, sure, that’s way gay. But not like, “I just humiliated my boyfriend on camera, and I’m going to fuck all 4 of these losers now,” gay.
The promotionals also signal that all 5 of these guys are twinks. I’ll buy the shorthand. They’re all lean, young, and pretty. But they definitely aren’t carbon copies. Jayden is fucking RIPPED. The last time I talked to him, several years ago, he said he was planning on bulking up. I don’t know what may have happened between now and then, but as of this taping, he’s an anatomy chart. I’ve always been a Jayden booster, even when he’s been famously getting squashed like a bug. But, damn, I’ve never wanted so much to just have an hour with nothing more than him, a bottle of honey, and my tongue. In fact, I think he may have cut too severely for this match, because he’s waving off turns in the round robin, huffing like a steam engine. At one point, he scores a fall and announces he’s got places to be, turning his back and heading for the door. Matty O’Boy grabs him from behind and literally tosses Jayden’s exhausted ass back onto the mat to get quadruple teamed. Now, if Matty and he are boyfriends, that move is about 100 times hotter. But, like I said, you and the PR folks at W4H have to supply that.
After Jayden, the wrestler second most likely to star as the lead in a Hollywood superhero movie would be Dashing Dustin. He’s also ripped, and like Jayden, he’s ridiculously handsome. He’s a stunningly beautiful boy who stands out in this crowd, which is saying a lot. He spends a lot of his time in these 28 minutes bitterly focused on outscoring James, which, if they are indeed boyfriends, is super sexy. But, alas, see my last sentence in the preceding paragraph.
James is a surprisingly tough mother fucker. He looks soft compared to the other 4, and that ass is SO fuckable. But then he turns out to be surprisingly dominant and aggressive, at one point earning the ire of all 4 opponents and getting roughed up and humiliated hard by all of them at once. Even then, though, it’s Dashing Dustin who wedgies that astonishing ass on James. It’s Dashing Dustin who schoolboy pins him, shoving his hips forward and grinding his big, quivering package into James’ face. It’s Dashing Dustin who wrenches hard on a hammerlock, pounding James’ face into the mat and demanding, “Say you’re a little bitch. Say it!,” as the other 3 wrestlers laugh and egg him on. Seriously, isn’t that about 50 times hotter if Dashing Dustin and James are steady boyfriends?! But, alas, see my last sentence of the preceding paragraph.
The sensibility of the match is great. The boys like tossing each other (particularly James, for some reason) into the metal wall behind them. The ringing of metal is oddly satisfying punctuation on the brutality. Like I said, there are a handful of notable camera cuts, but like so much of W4H, the action is primarily unscripted, spontaneous, and relentless. The boys have to negotiate from time to time who’s going to wrestle next, but those slightly awkward moments of choreography are totally worth the momentum, and if anything, I think they give the whole scenario a sexy authenticity. The rapid fire holds and submissions convey the spirit of strong, lithe, fit boys stripping down for a bragging-rights free-for-all in some anonymous warehouse.
I can’t watch this match without the seeds planted by the PR team at W4H. Which is it’s own sort of genius, really. You can became the leader of the free world on more flimsy accounting of facts and plausibly deniable innuendo, now can’t you? But even without any corroborating evidence of actual romance involved, the match is beautiful to watch. Jayden is art. Dashing Dustin could easily become a star. But I think it’s Matty O’Boy who really shines through this match as the catch of the day. He looks sexy. He sounds sexier. And of the 5 of them, he certainly seems to have the firmest grasp on the bawdy, brutal, loudmouthed sensibilities of homoerotic pro wrestling. The match is messy and improvised and nonsensical at times, and somehow Matty just looks hotter and hotter by the second.
Frankly, I hope Matty and Jayden do own a condo on the beach in South Florida. I hope that Dashing Dustin and James Quarterstaf are high school sweet hearts who’ve recently spiced up their sex life with balls out, brutal, no holds barred wrestling. The video evidence is extremely sparse, but the camera doesn’t lie: 5-Way-Free-For-All is an intense, 28 minute sprint to an incredibly sexy finish.
Austin Cooper is huge. Of course, that includes his muscles. Check out the diameter around each of those gargantuan upper legs in his most recent BG East release, Mat Rookies 2. I repeatedly think to myself, fuck, Dr. Cooper can’t get bigger without popping at the seams. And then he shows up bigger and juicier.
But of course, when I say Coop is huge, I also mean that his presence in the homoerotic wrestling universe is massive. He’s variously been an anchor headliner at RHW, BG East, Thunder’s Arena, and most recently W4H. I have a horrible habit of bitching about wrestlers being “over-exposed” when they show up in too many places at the same time. I’m not at all sure it’s fair of me to moan about a wrestler being so successful that every producer wants a piece. But when it comes to Coop, I somehow never get tired. I still think of Ripped Rookies as his career defining moment, ripping, stripping, and sweating buckets of sweat all over his dreamboat bromantic partner Jake Jenkins. But Coop has continued to entertain, in large part because he has continued to develop as a wrestler and a personality on the scene. Despite his obvious amateur wrestling background, he threw himself almost exclusively into the pro ring for a while, eventually turning into one of the most sensationally sexy muscle heels in circulation, by my counting. But lately, he’s been reminding the world that his roots are on the mats, and, most delightfully, he’s been executing a really beautiful, innovative hybrid of amateur and pro sensibilities.
Enter gorgeous, blond newbie, Kerry Cunningham. I mean, fuck, this kid looks like he was kidnapped from a frat house. He’s pretty without being delicate. He has a sexy-as-fuck body, without being ripped to shreds or magnificently huge. He has a 5-inch height advantage over Coop, and seconds into his arrival on the mat, he has me thinking that he could be a serious player. He’s so fucking loud. I mean, he’s barking at Coop, telling him that he should’ve asked permission before he showed up on “his” mat. Kerry sells it impressively. He comes across as cocky and accustomed to having guys fall into line behind him. My mind tells me that this hot newbie is about to broken into a thousand pieces, but my heart (/cock) is experiencing a rush of adrenaline at the thought of a complete unknown possibly dragging Dr. Cooper to the bitter edge and, perhaps even, scoring one of the biggest upsets in homoerotic wrestling history.
If you hate spoilers, then you hate this blog, so I’m not going to be coy about what comes next. The balance of the universe is maintained as soon as Coop opens up a wrestling clinic and a can of whoop ass all OVER this fratboy next door. It’s lush and beautifully intense. Coop out-hustles the newbie as if Kerry is standing still, but not because Kerry is standing still. Coop is just that fucking fast! He scores take downs at will. If he earned points for exposing the rookie’s back, it would be a total rout within the first 3 minutes.
My longstanding ambivalence about squashes aside, there are several elements that make this lopsided match compelling and suspenseful. First, Kerry is toasted about 15 minutes before he recognizes that he’s toasted. He doesn’t get it. His ego won’t let him face the truth, even as Coop single-leg cradles him and rides his virginal ass to one humiliation after another. Coop demands that the kid acknowledge he isn’t a real wrestler. To you and me, the writing is in ALL CAPS all over the wall, that Kerry is going to be sniveling and groveling and conceding to anything Coop wants before this is all said and done, but in early days, Kerry is still stuffed with bluster and that delicate, swollen, youthful ego born out of being raised in a generation when it’s considered emotional abuse to tell a kid that he’s not the brightest, the smartest, or the best at something. Coop crows about how he’s annihilating the newbie. And he is. “Now, that’s the strongest bearhug in the state of Florida!” Coop brags about crushing Kerry’s ribs. But the newbie refuses to read that writing on the wall, opting for provocative trash talk rather than admitting he’s fucked. “That’s not what your mom said last night!” Kerry snarls defiantly, making his second yo-mamma joke of the match.
The other thing that makes this squash much more complex to the taste is the slow, seductive reveal that each of these characters makes to one another, and, vicariously, to us. I honestly didn’t know what to expect when Kerry goes down to a muscled lockdown of a single-leg cradle, absolutely pinning him and owning him. Coop hops up and demands that the newbie remove those retina-scorching pink shoes. It’s a total domination move. It’s easily read as just a bunch more trash talk to up the ante on the ego wager. A wrestler with even a couple days more pro experience would have told Coop to fuck off and punched the provocateur in the testicles instead. But, it turns out that Kerry is, for all his bluster, a TOTAL babyface. Having been schooled, he agrees to take off his shoes. It’s like he thinks there’s some accounting of debits and credits and fair play operating here. He’s not happy about it, but he pays up, as if he owes it. “Fine, I’ll beat you without them!” Kerry snarls almost petulantly, bending over and sliding his size thirteens out of the shoes. Again, you, me, and Dr. Cooper know that this kid is fucking toast. The only one who doesn’t know it yet is Kerry. Coop suddenly attacks the kid from behind even as he’s still pulling off his second shoe. “I’ll beat you WITH them!” Austin promises gleefully, before literally beating the fuck out of Kerry with his own shoes.
So the suspense turns out to be the anticipation building up waiting for that moment that Kerry Cunningham realizes that he’s bought, paid for, and owned by Austin Cooper. Like I said, he has the willful ignorance and irrational gullibility of a Trump voter. “This isn’t wrestling,” Kerry bitches like a sniveling, snot nosed 7 year-old when Coop mounts his back, cinches the tallboy up in a sweaty camel clutch, and wrenches another gasping submission out of the kid.
Moments later, Kerry is flat on his stomach, with his opponent’s right knee digging mercilessly into his lower spine. He’s stuck like a bug on a pin. The rook tries to muscle his way up to his hands and knees, and Coop just muscles the kid back down flat on his face again. There’s a furious scramble as Coop slowly but surely positions the impotent young buck for another cradle pin. But this time, Coop uses his free hand to rip the singlet straps off of Kerry’s square shoulders. The rookie starts bucking and squirming in panic, as he realizes that his wrestling opponent’s agenda for the day includes stripping the new kid to nothing but his pretty-in-pink super-briefs. Abruptly, Coop locks up the newbie’s right arm in and armbar and threatens to snap it at the elbow if Kerry keeps resisting the forgone conclusion that he’s losing his gear.
Right there. That’s the moment, I think. When Kerry lets out the air in his lungs that he’s been holding onto furiously for the past 30 seconds. When he doesn’t exactly go limp, but he acquiesces to his new master’s instructions to settle the fuck down and allow himself to get stripped on camera. Right then, Kerry Cunningham’s homoerotic wrestling cherry gets popped. It’s not that the kid stops whining and bitching. “You won’t get away with this,” the 6’2″ man-boy snivels when he’s been left almost naked and, astonishingly, defenseless. But the dialogue no longer conveys the swagger and threat of the newbie’s booming voice at the beginning of the match. It’s more like an implied threat to tell his big brother how Austin has totally bullied him, so that some day, some indeterminate day in the foggy future, Austin will look back and regret having so completely humiliated Kerry Cunningham.
However, that day is not this day. Dr. Cooper clocks in and starts absolutely terrorizing the fratboy. He pounds the kid’s long, lickable body down in a gorgeous OTK backbreaker, digging his elbow long and deep into Kerry’s exposed abdomen. You can practically see the stars and whistling, cartoon birds circling the rookie’s dazed head when his eyes are spinning after a brutal snap suplex. A crucifix displays the kid’s helpless, long, beautiful body gorgeously. With a reverse bearhug, Coop applies just the right pressure in the just the right spot to let the once-cocky kid know that, should he want it, Coop can take his ass anytime. Anywhere.
It’s the figure-4 leglock that finally brings Kerry Cunningham’s world shattering down around him. He’s giving up left and right now. The rookie is nearly trying to submit before the veteran can apply a hold, because the kid is worn out. He’s terrorized. He’s a plate of meat, already carved, just waiting to be devoured. And then that figure-4 leglock starts to pry apart the muscles and tendons in the rookie’s knee. He isn’t just beaten. He’s about to literally be broken. “Stop!!!!” the rookie screams in panic. “PLEASE, stop!!!!,” the kid begs so desperately that it makes Cooper laugh out loud. It doesn’t, however, make him release the hold.
Kerry Cunningham had no idea what a sick mother fucker he was facing off against. But rest assured, he learns. “What’s wrong with you!?” he screams at one point, somewhere both before and after being choked with Coop’s bare hands. I sort of wonder if, right then and there, Kerry Cunningham may be replaying in his mind’s eye those first 10 seconds after he stepped onto the mat and brashly, loudly, cockily demanded, “Austin Cooper, who told you that you could come in here and wrestle on my mat!?” Oh fuck, how the mighty have fallen, eh Kerry?
And, just for the record, there’s not one thing at all wrong with Austin Cooper. That bitter, screaming edge of terror he dragged you to, before tossing you over like the pretty boy chump you are.. that was fucking perfection.
As for Kerry Cunningham, I would guess that he does not count his debut BG East match as having gotten off on the right foot when it comes to his wrestling career. Rookies so often don’t quite “get it,” that pro wrestling is at least as much about the drama as the victory. I, for one, think that the tale of tragedy Kerry Cunningham tells in this match is sensationally sweet. He has all the raw ingredients to be an incredibly hot staple, and I, for one, am hoping we get to see him many more times walk this raw edge of big, tall, beautiful fratboy hijinks smashing face-first into the bitter, brutal, humiliating realities of homoerotic wrestling. Sooner or later, he’d have to cotton on to the lay of the land and either take early retirement or majorly invest in building the particular skill set required for homoerotic wrestling success. But, in the mean time, I would LOVE to see him try to strut onto the made and scream in the face of a few other forces of nature, like Kid Karisma, Jonny Firestorm, or Kid Vicious.
When I noticed that MDW has a recent release starring behemoth it-boy Mark Muscle and my long-standing infatuation, Matt Thrasher, I was instantly aroused. So I tucked in to enjoy the marvelous sight of these two fantasy men going pec to pec (well, considering the height difference, it’s sort of like pec to forehead… or pec to navel). The quick spoiler is that I loved Oil Hunks 9, but before I say more, there’s a little more to the story I want to tell today. So, since Muscle Master Kevin takes my calls (at least 50% of the time), I felt compelled after watching Matt and Mark to reach out to let the MDW CEO know that this pairing and product was a super sweet treat. Halfway into the conversation, and suddenly I was offered the opportunity to chat briefly with Matt Thrasher, who happened to be handy to take a few questions. So today, let me start with a brief review of Oil Hunks 9, and then conclude with my biggest thrill of 2017 so far, getting an off the cuff, but on the record interview with homoerotic wrestling’s reigning muscle daddy, Matt Thrasher.
“Wow,” Matt Thrasher says in his understated way, when Mark Muscle stands up and stares down at him. “Uh, yeah, you’re a pretty big boy,” Matt says. It’s faint praise for one of the most remarkably genetically gifted muscle boys to make a foray into our end of the homoerotic wrestling pool within the past year or so. My review of Mark’s W4H 2-on-1 match against the Ravaging Savages documented just how turned on I was by all of that lush, thick, juicy muscle hanging off of his 6’4″ frame. But whereas that W4H match tilted toward the gimmicky side, and, in the end, I found myself turned on hardest by the smallest man in the mix, MDW has centered the narrative on the most literal accounting of Mark’s assets for a homoerotic wrestling audience: muscle worship.
Matt is basically licking his lips as he lays down the challenge to the muscle freak towering over him. “You’re big. You’ve got some size,” Matt concedes, “but do you know how to use it?” As unabashed a Mark Muscle devotee as I am, I have admit that Matt has put his finger on the most pertinent question. Mark is visually stunning. In still frame, Mark’s achingly pretty baby face perched on top of his gargantuan, outrageously massively built muscled body is almost too good to believe. But as Austin Cooper demonstrated in his W4H match against him, Mark’s believability is precisely in question when it comes to turning the crank of a wrestling fetishist like me. A pretty body, even one as remarkable as his, will only get your foot in the door as far as I’m concerned. You’ve got to know how to use all that muscle. You can’t just pose your way into homoerotic wrestling stardom. You’ve to wrestle, and walk that line between competition and carnal delight, and inhabit our imaginations with character and motivation and salesmanship to suck us into the psychodrama of professional wrestling.
It always helps a dazzling pretty rookie to have an opponent who knows the score. Frankly, it’s hard to get a rise out of Matt Thrasher. And that makes such total sense, because he’s a sensational muscle daddy. His whole thing is the unflappability that comes with maturity. So when Mark locks down a reverse bearhug with shiny, gritted teeth, the tension is thick as big Matt grimaces, then groans, then squirms in agony. In case you don’t get the premise here, Matt calls in his daddy dominant cred to spell it out for those of you who need to get hit over the head with it. Mid-bearhug, Matt stares straight into the camera, his huge, veiny forearms flexed in the futile effort to pry apart his opponent’s hands locked across his upper abdomen, and growls, “Damn, the boy’s a beast!”
Still not sure how to approach Oil Hunks 9? Having demonstrated his superior strength, Mark announces that he needs to take off his America flag square cuts. There’s no strategic advantage to peeling down to the leopard print (!?!?) g-string, other than to pry more stubborn, clearly appreciative praise out of muscle daddy Matt, and continue to center this as entirely about Mark’s worship-ready physique. Mid-arm wrestling, Mark turns his baby blues and says straight into the camera, “Look at that muscle,” as he points at his gargantuan, flexed bicep. They hammer on the theme repeatedly. “Yeah, you’re a strong mother…” Matt growls. Mark drives this daddy to his knees in a test of strength, showcasing the startling, striking contrast in size between them.
“All right, you’re big. You’ve got some strength,” Matt gaspingly concedes again and again. That’s right, Mark mutters as he eye fucks his own hot body. “You’re prettier than I am, I’ll give you that,” Matt slips in a backhanded compliment that the rookie doesn’t even recognize. And younger, Mark chuckles, stroking his peaked biceps. “But that doesn’t mean shit,” Matt snarls, never, ever one to take an ageist insult without dishing out some muscle daddy punishment in reply.
Truth be told, there are basically about 5 minutes of relatively straight forward wrestling. As you might imagine, it’s all about power. Bearhugs, sleepers, side headlocks. The explicit stakes are based on the agreement that the loser will have to oil down the victor’s hot muscles.
This is NOT a Daddy’s Home match, mind you, so don’t be surprised when this drama unfolds the same way every signal up to this point has implied. Daddy Matt isn’t exactly bitter about having to slide his oil soaked hands all over the expansive geography of Mark’s muscles. And he narrates the experience, voicing his awe over Mark’s ridiculous lat wing spread, delighting in feeling up the up-and-comer’s tight glutes. I get the feeling that Matt isn’t one bit unhappy with his duty as the ostensible “loser” in this confrontation. In fact, he enjoys himself so much, it leaves you wondering whether big Mark Muscle may very well be getting suckered into a rematch, only next time appearing in a Daddy’s Home scenario, where Matt bags and tags him along with all the rest.
Oil Hunks 9 is light on competitive professional wrestling, but abundantly gifted in breathtaking demonstrations of strength and displays of gorgeous muscle. As far as wrestle-worship products go, I’d like to have seen a more competitive tussle. Mark is, as far as I’m concerned, still unproven when it comes to his capacity to genuinely sell his side of a pro match. But that insanely pretty mug and muscle freak physique can carry a product pretty fucking far, and with an unapologetic homoerotic gladiator like Matt on the other end of the teeter-totter, Mark is guaranteed to top off any muscle freak or size queen. Size differences, open lust, and oil across every inch of a muscled phenom. Of course I fucking love this match!
So imagine my delight, fresh off of soaking in Oil Hunks 9, to get a quick exchange with top daddy Matt Thrasher. It went like this…
Bard: I am beyond thrilled to get a chance to talk with mighty Matt Thrasher! I’m a huge fan of your wrestling. And your body, for that matter. Tell me about the path that brought you into the homoerotic wrestling universe.
Matt: I’ve always been a fan of pro wrestling, Growing up I watched Ravishing Rick Rude and Randy Savage, Hulk Hogan, the Ultimate Warrior and all those guys. I’ve wrestled throughout my life, and one day I went with a fellow MDW champ to watch a match and just thought to myself, Yeah, I’m in!
Bard: It seems like I’ve heard at least 9 out of 10 opponents of yours disparagingly refer to you as an “old man.” I love the fact that it never gets a rise of you you, though. Do you mind me asking how old your are?
Matt: Not at all, I’m 51 now and will never hide it or lie about my age. How many guys my age can look as good as I do and work as hard as I do, and reap the rewards in and out of the ring.
Bard: A precious few, I’m certain! Personally, I’m on the far side of 45 years old, myself, so I get a vicarious thrill from watching you pick apart these young, cocky punks and devour them. Does maturity give you a leg up when it comes to facing off against a younger opponent?
Matt: Absolutely! These young kids with cocky attitudes are all over-confident. They all seem surprised when they fall. My experience and maturity gives me the ability to back up my confidence.
Bard: I’ve been a fan of your wrestling work from first time I caught sight of you at MDW. But I must say, you’ve really come into your own in the Daddy’s Home franchise. I think you’ve made that series all your own. When Muscle Master Kevin first pitched you the concept of being a dominant, silver fox muscle daddy who conquers and collects hot young muscle cubs, what did you think about it?
Matt: Oh, I was all over that. They say art imitates life, and being a dominant muscle daddy collecting and conquering young pups is kinda my thing outside the ring as well.
Bard: In their rush to try to psych you out with ageism, it seems like every opponent you face somehow overlooks (or willfully ignores) your sensationally strong, gorgeously muscled body. Have you always been a natural athlete, or is being a muscle daddy a recent development?
Matt: I was always athletic in high school. I was a swimmer and a track star. I started lifting in college and just got addicted to size. The older I got, the bigger and better I got!
Bard: Personally, I love every muscled inch of your body, but if I was tied up and tortured until I confessed which part of you I like most, I’d have to say its your legs. When you lock those tree trunks around an opponent and crush the fight right out of them, it’s absolutely magnificent. Is there any particular part of your magnificent physique that you’re most proud of?
Matt: My legs have always been big and responded well when I started training, so of course they are a feature. But i’d say I’m proudest of these big daddy pecs, because they took the most work to grow.
Bard: And they’re sensational! You’ve faced the biggest and baddest at MDW, from Muscle Master Kevin to Morgan Cruise to every muscle punk and skinny bon-bon on the roster. Do you have a favorite match, one that you think showcases your best work?
Matt: I like any of the ones that show a really good match, that show our solid wrestling skills. I loved my early match with Chace LaChance. He’s a great opponent, and a good friend, so the chemistry was all there! But clearly my best assets were shown against Morgan Cruise.
Bard: There was a collective gasp from every corner of the homoerotic wrestling world when you didn’t just beat Morgan, didn’t just score what oddsmakers would have to agree was the Upset of the Decade, but then you molded Morgan into a slack jawed, muscle worshipping daddy’s boy with his lips wrapped around your gorgeous cock. It was an epic moment in Morgan’s career and in the history of MDW, as far as I’m concerned. Will we get to see your impressive jack hammer again in future matches?
Matt: That was quite a satisfying moment to have Morgan brought down and call me his daddy! Will you see the jack hammer in action? I guess you’ll have to watch and see!
Bard: When you think about what gets you hardest, fastest, is it the heat of battle as you’re conquering some new, loudmouthed pup, or is it that moment that they bend to your overpowering will? Because I just want to know how much of a fight you really want when you wrestle your first blogger vs. wrestler match.
Matt: (Laughing) Daddy loves a good hard fought match, but what gets me hardest fastest is when I get this muscle punk that’s all talk and all attitude, but who drops to his knees right away. They talk a big game, but they know who their Daddy is.
Bard: Duly noted. If you could square off against a former opponent in a rematch, who would you like to take another run at, and what would you do differently?
Matt: I’d have to say Master Kevin of course! Someone has to bring him down, and eventually it’s going to be Matt Thrasher!
Bard: I want front row tickets to that! Again, I want to thank you sincerely for taking the time, and being such a good sport, with all of my questions. To finish up, is there anything that more that you’d like to say to your devoted fans?
Matt: Hell, yeah, Daddy is just getting started! Bigger and better than ever at 230 pounds and growing! Check out my Instagram and follow me (@Matt_Thrasher_MDW).
Busy-ness has been keeping me away from posting here, but not keeping me from enjoying a lot of new release wrestling. I saw a ton of fantastic matches in February, starring a deep, deep bench of outstanding wrestlers. So this is another month when picking a Homoerotic Wrestler of the Month poses a significant challenge for me. I’ve flipped back and forth a lot in mulling over my choice for which wrestler starring in a new release in February turned me on and entertained me most. But I keep coming back (in my thoughts and in my viewing) to one particular match, and one particular wrestler who holds my gaze riveted to his magnificent physique. So without further ado, I’m aroused to announce that my new homoerotic wrestler of the month is…
On the one hand, there’s a strong sense of righting a longstanding wrong in picking Mr. Joshua for this distinction. I’ve been naming HWsOTM for over 6 years now, and somehow, although I’ve spilled gallons of ink and cum musing over how much I enjoy his wrestling (and body), inexplicably, he has never held the title of HWOTM before now. He has secured the title of my overall favorite homoerotic wrestler in the past, but not for any one specific match, not qualifying him for the brutal month-to-month title. I don’t believe for a second that this is the first time he’s deserved it. No, I’m sure that this has been a ridiculous oversight on my part, entirely indicative of my own moral failings rather than a result of any deficiency or lack of merit on Mr. Joshua’s part.
So let me just start off by apologizing to Mr. Joshua. I have sorely neglected and unjustly passed you over in the past. Your beauty, grace, and prowess as a homoerotic wrestler are not only praiseworthy, but they elevate you into the stratosphere of industry luminaries. You are the epitome of a wrestling fantasy man, and your ascendency to the HWOTM throne is long overdue.
My adoring sidebar with Mr. Joshua aside, I will speculate that it’s entirely possible that Mr. Joshua is only now getting the laud he abundantly deserves because he has only now, in Ringwars 26, faced an opponent who bring out his full potential. I am also a HUGE Cole Cassidy fan. Give me Cole’s ripped muscles, dollar coin nipples, and a bottle of baby oil and I’ll be enraptured for hours. Even more at the heart of my fondest fantasies, Cole is a superb wrestler. More like a force of nature, he is a one man wrecking crew 99% of the time. Facing off against Mr. Joshua, Cole exposes nearly every succulent inch of him. He wrenches and pries him apart, muscle by muscle. It’s not as if Mr. Joshua’s legendarily gargantuan (and award-winning) package has not been targeted by opponents in the past, but Cole possesses an unselfconsciousness about his relish in manhandling Mr. J’s man-handle. Cole centers Mt. J in the frame in astonishing and innovate ways. He serves up Mr. Joshua’s meat on a platter, over and over again, in an obvious nod to pleasing their fans as well as a fighter’s instinct to exploit an opponent’s weaknesses. Mr. Joshua suffers at Cole’s hands in a way that I have very rarely seen before, and the depth of his agony, and the literal ball bashing brutality, milk out of Mr. Joshua an unmatched sincerity.
Another novel element in this Mr. Joshua match is his gear. I cannot convey just how heartily I approve of his leopard print, supersheer, only marginally capable banana hammock. I think the “jungle boy” gimmick has been done so often that it’s a risky venture to gear up a wrestler, particularly a well-known one, into a Tarzan-esque patch of animal print cloth. However, not only does Mr. Joshua pull this off. He makes it his own.
I’m sure I say this every time, but I swear to the homoerotic wrestling gods, Mr. Joshua has never looked better. He’s not just fit. He’s a fucking work of art. That poor, overtaxed bit animal print somehow manages to polish off what is one of the most aesthetically beautiful physiques I’ve seen climb into the BG East ring, and that’s saying A LOT. Mr. J’s skin is silky smooth and bronzed all over to a perfect mocha latte hue. On the one hand, Mr. J’s working class Boston accent and sporty-Guido do, along with that wisp of a manicured soul patch between his chin and lower lip, provide stark dissonance with the wild man-of-the-jungle aesthetic of the gear. On the other hand, the overt sensuality and near-porn peekabo glimpses of baseball sized ball sac squeezing out the sides are spot on. It isn’t that Mr. J somehow comes across as a feral muscle beast raised by apes. But he nails like a mother fucker the part of the male stripper climbing off the pole and directly into the wrestling ring, bringing sensational taunting, tantalizing erotic cred to what turns out to be a legitimate heel-on-heel pro brawl.
There are about 30 distinct moments in the match when I’m aching to climb right into the ring and investigate with my tongue the erotic sculpture that Cole and Mr. Joshua create out of one another. The holds are just that provocative and long-held, like only two stellar pros with strong empathy for their audience could accomplish. And none of it feels gratuitous. It’s 100% brutal corporal punishment. It’s vicious and humiliating and veers full speed into open-faced sadism. They beat the living shit out of each other and, less like a performance than a documentary, the camera is simply there to witness the carnage.
Of course, Cole is lush and extravagantly muscled as always. But he’s the business end of the stick. He’s the one in relatively high-waisted MMA square cuts. He is (as he almost always is) humorless and calculating. The wild card is go-go boy turned pro ring badass Mr. Joshua. An ounce less intensity from Mr. J, even a shaving less vicious aggression on his part, and this could have been one of a hundred lopsided pretty boy massacres. But this time around, pretty’s got teeth. He takes the withering eye rolls and discounting by his opponent, and then throws every ounce of his gorgeousness whole heartedly into pounding the mats to make this legitimately suspenseful.
Mr. Joshua grabbed the title of HWOTM as commandingly as Cole grabbed Mr. J’s testicles, over and over again, and tried to rip them off his dazzlingly hot body. I still long for more Mr. Joshua matches in which his opponents acknowledge what we’re all seeing, that Mr. J is breathtakingly gorgeous. Right at the beginning of the match, I get the impression Cole is understandably impressed with stunning heft of Mr. J’s most prominent attribute, but other than that, Cole largely has little but rage and contempt directed at his sultry opponent. The chemistry works exactly the way a heel on heel brawl ought to, but I will always long to see more narrative in which the inspiration of Mr. J’s muscles (every one of them) is what drives the battle, where opponents overtly crave to conquer and possess this mythical beast. Without going full monty, Mr. J injects some of the most potent, undiluted erotic energy into his matches. Now that he’s faced arguably his most brutal test, I’m hoping that we get to see him face more opponents who will pick up on their side of the erotic narrative. Mr. Joshua is as dangerous and deliriously gorgeous as we have ever seen him. One of these days, a truly appreciative opponent is going to give every taunting flex and crotch adjustment and impeccably groomed and coiffed inch of him the erotic run for his money that he’s got coming to him.
In the mean time, on your knees, mere mortals. The king is setting his hot ass down where, by divine right, it should have been a long, long time ago, atop the throne as reigning homoerotic wrestler of the month.
I’m following the trail of one of my favorites and tucking in to watch Drake Marcos bring a fantastic new authenticity to W4H. Not that I think W4H hasn’t always featured sensationally authentic sell. It just hasn’t always read “homoerotic” as much as I think it’s supposed to. That’s officially old news as of right now, because Drake is the gay wrestling avatar for all of us when he stares down beefy Brad Barnes and muses out loud about playing “tops and bottoms” once this oil wrestling match is over.
“Brad Barnes here, master of the oil wrestling!” Brad lubricates his flexing muscles slowly and seductively, bragging about being the king of this sub-genre. No one can argue with his well-established position in the pantheon of homoerotic wrestling stars. He’s not as big nor as ripped as we’ve seen him in the past, but damn, he’s every ounce as tasty as always. The beard disguises his ridiculous beauty. Maybe he’s cottoned on that being too pretty is a liability in this business.
Drake strolls in and shakes hands respectfully. Hell, he even offers (and is welcomed) to finish oiling up Brad’s bulging physique in those hard-to-reach spots where Brad’s massive muscles get in the way of him reaching around. You know how, when we’re watching wrestlers apply oil, you can tell when they aren’t into it? How many times have we noticed probably straight grapplers look a little bored and engage in the least possible bodily contact while still, ostensibly, being able to claim to have oiled an opponent up? Drake, on the other hand, is happy to help. He’s the Cheshire Cat for a reason, so just watch the corners of his mouth curl in delight as he liberally coats Brad’s mile wide back, then drop to his knees to get the backs of the bodybuilder’s monster thighs (Brad’s meaty ass right at eye level, of course). Drake reaches around from behind and palms Brad’s abs, slides his hands slowly and expansively up and all over Brad’s juicy pecs. If a wrestling match wasn’t in the offing, I’d say Drake just might have kept this up until he was pounding out a load across Brad’s gorgeous muscles.
But Brad pulls away, looking uncomfortable. That bitch. Right then and there, I want to see Drake kick his mother fucking ass. Drake is the everyman on the mats here. More precisely, he’s you and me and every gay guy who’s been told he should apologize for getting turned on by a hot, cocky gym bunny flaunting himself provocatively and then pretending he wasn’t cock teasing all along. They shove each other in the chest, the aggression coming to a quick boil. Brad’s got a lower center of gravity and a ton of power advantage, and our gay avatar looks momentarily like he’s about to get muscle bullied (….again….). Then, suddenly, Drake swings his open right palm and lands a cracking, hard, wet slap across Brad’s way too pretty face. Oh, fuck yes, this is going to happen!
I’ve wrestled Drake, so I’m not nearly as surprised as Brad appears to be when the Cheshire Cat deftly slides to the side when the muscle tank comes charing in a rage. Smoothly, Drake lassos a side headlock and efficiently muscles the bodybuilder to the mat. “Master of oil wrestling?” Drake asks, cranking hard and making the bodybuilder whimper. “Looks like master of shit right now.”
I’ve faulted Brad for being flat-footed in the past. I’ve chided him for lacking initiative, for rolling over and taking it too quickly. And, honestly, this match could have easily been pulled down by that same dynamic if it weren’t for one thing: Drake makes him hurt.
Brad actually mentions out loud at one of his brief moments in the driver’s seat that Drake is working the match way stiffer than Brad expected. Read: Drake is actually, genuinely, pushing the pretty bodybuilder baby-ass right up to the point of seriously hurting him. He repeatedly tries to wrench Brad’s left shoulder out of joint with a severe hammerlock. He threatens to snap his oil-lubricated spine in multiple camel clutches. Hell, he looks like he nearly rips Brad’s massive pectoral muscles off the bone in long, deep, vicious pec claws. Fuck, Drake does us proud, gay wrestling fans.
Two things, in particular, Drake does that seriously bring excellent notes to the W4H catalog. One, he gropes the meat salaciously. The dragon sleepers lay Brad out best for Drake to use his free hand to slide his palm all over Brad’s fantasy man body. Brad bucks and kicks (more than usual, again making me believe the subplot that Drake is working this match harder than Brad is used to), and the Cheshire Cat just smiles brightly as he squeezes and feels up all of those bulging gym muscles. “You’re the kind of guy I admire at the gym,” Drake muses out loud at one point, treating himself to gently kneading, and then hard slapping, Brad’s muscle ass cheeks. “But, it looks like it should be the other fucking way around!” Drake narrates this drama beautifully, pointing out in both word and deed that Brad’s impressive muscles are nothing but fuel for Drake’s lustful fire. “This has got to be humiliating for you, right?,” he asks, mostly rhetorically. “I mean, look at your big ass! I’m destroying you!” More to the point, the relatively average physique on Drake is equipped with everything he needs to not just neutralize the pin-up boy, but to so completely break him down as to leave him wide open for an erotically turned on opponent to familiarize himself with Brad’s body the way we’ve all fantasized about taking possession of those hot muscleboys strutting and grunting and posing for themselves (though, really, you and me) in the mirror at the gym. He strokes the writhing bodybuilder’s pecs. His hand slides down to Brad’s lower abdomen. He drags his hand, fingers stretched wide, down Brad’s quivering inner thigh, and then briefly, but unmistakably, takes an appreciative squeeze of Brad’s vulnerable crotch.
The other thing that Drake brings to the table that is a sensational addition to W4H is the narrative itself. It’s hard for me to describe this match without dipping extensively into the dialogue (Drake’s), because it’s accentuating and counterpointing every move and reversal. “You say you’re the king of oil,” Drake crows, saddling up across his upper abdomen and diving in deep with double pec claws, “but it looks like oil might be your kryptonite.” The reference to Brad as Superman, to the medium that the bodybuilder was convinced showed him and his skills off to perfection as his ultimate weakness, is multilayered and a loving nod to the comic geeks among the gay wrestling fan audience. “In some circles, I’m known as everyone’s favorite jobber,” Drake explains in an obvious reference to this blog. “But it looks like you’re about to be my favorite,” he sneers, nearly decapitating the man of steel with a camel clutch until Brad frantically taps out. Again. And again.
It isn’t quite a squash. Brad actually fights back, which isn’t always something we can count on from the pretty boy. His most successful offense is trying to snap Drake off at the neck with monster headscissors and an angry showering of oil. If he were half the wrestler Drake is, he’d have ridden those moments of momentum and the crushing weight of gravity all over the Cheshire Cat until he shut the prattling provocateur up decisively.
But let’s face it, while Brad is undeniably gorgeous, while his muscles are magnificent, while that cleft chin is straight out of a comic book, while his body is the perfect, living rendition of my Stretch Armstrong doll from my childhood (which, yes, so got me off), he is not half the wrestler Drake is. I’ve long fantasized about Drake living into the moment and unleashing the heel within. I’ve told him, frankly, that he’s got all of the makings of a sensationally nasty, cruel, incredibly effective erotic heel. But this is the first time I’ve really seen that brilliance shine through quite this openly and directly.
No shit, Drake accidentally sleepers the bodybuilder out cold. Now, if it were you or I, what would we do with Brad Barnes, flat on his back, unconscious and completely at our mercy? Yeah, Drake drizzles on more oil and feels this side of beef up one last time, just to make his own crotch swell that much more and enjoy the spoils of victory.
Super sweet drama. The gayest thing I’ve seen on W4H, and believe me, I’ve been watching and hoping for them to highlight the “homo” in their bid to stake out more territory in the homoerotic wrestling market. Brad as the big, bulging, pretty muscle boy all shut up and humiliated and possessed by an unapologetically gay, obviously, superiorly skilled opponent is delicious. And seriously intense mat wrestling sold this hot and furiously is rare, and incredibly so when it comes to that most homoerotic of all contexts, oil wrestling.