Month: September 2010

Reading the Contract

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I just posted my latest flight of fancy over at the Sidelineland group. It’s a sequel to my resurrection/homage to BG East’s “The Contract” series which featured muscle jobber extraordinaire, Brad Rochelle, being made everyone’s bitch until he finally had enough, turned heel, and started laying out fresh face after fresh face. Like so many, I miss Brad, and it’s not hard to detect my nostalgia for some sweet Brad performances in this new piece of wrestling fiction.
In fact, Brad plays a role in the unfolding story of James Dawson Martin’s forced face down with the terms of the contract he signed with BGE boss Kid Leopard. In real life, Martin is a YouTube phenom, Britboy transplant to LA who’s been trying to work up traction as a fitness model, actor, personal trainer to the stars… whatever a smoking hard physique on a 6’3″ flawless body coupled with an English accent will get you (in my book, it’ll get you far).
Brad is a supporting character in this bout, leaving the head-to-head rookie slamfest to one of my rising favorites currently at BGE, Joe Robbins. Joe delivers the action, but I must admit that this story is merely foreplay for one of my fondest recurring fantasies, that being Brad moving into an explicitly homoerotic sex wrestling direction. I’m a big proponent of the argument that wrestling most certainly doesn’t need to involve fucking or sucking to qualify as homoerotic. That said, even the more conventional wrestling motif in homoerotic wrestling typically fires me up most when I can’t help but picture a post-match scenario that turns physical into sexual conquest. It’s a little like unrequited love that Brad never took a turn in the more explicit niche of homoerotic wrestling. That never stopped me from imagining it, though… fondly.
BG East has been generous in giving me their permission to post pics here, and they seem to tolerate the license I take with their hot characters as I write them into my own homoerotic wrestling scenarios. BG East and the fantastic performances of folks like Kid Leopard, Kid Vicious, Brad Rochelle, and Joe Robbins have given me a lot of satisfying entertainment for a long time. My hope is that writing them into fantasy matches of my own making is as respectful, humble contribution to promoting the BG East and larger homoerotic wrestling universe.
And writing them turns me on.

"Real Big.. and Real Hard"

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In a recent video posting, SteelMuscleGod teases us: “Hey there, what’s up? Here’s a quickie for all my fans out there. Yeah? Someone’s been growing real big… and real hard.”

I think this is a fantastic form of erotic poetry and performance art. There are multiple layers of meaning here. Indeed, SMG has been adding muscle mass over the past couple of years and, true enough, growing real big and hard. And of course, SMG intends to communicate the double entendre. As we watch him flex and boast and tease and taunt, we, too, grow big and hard.
I remain a little bitter that SteelMuscleGod continues to exist on a celestial plane that’s outside of my price range. I understand that godliness is a valuable commodity. But I have to believe that $50 per 15 minutes is not exactly priced to sell. At least, it’s not priced to sell in the circles I run in. I’m confident an economist could run some figures that would illustrate that SMG would have more worshippers contributing to the offering plate at a more competitive per-hour price.
Still, SMG certainly has an eye for the niche that you and I comprise. He has some wrestling submission videos ready for download-to-own. I don’t know who the lucky, extremely tall worshiper is who’s taunted, tormented, choked, squeezed, lifted and humiliated over and over by SMG, but I’m filled with bitter jealousy of him. I’m also impressed with SMG’s commitment to sell a sweet motel room squash. He milks his body scissors delightfully. He illustrates complete command and ownership of his resident “wimp,” flipping and flinging him every which way in a delightfully solid head scissors. And, true to form, SMG loves himself every step of the way. He loves his domination of the “wimp.” And the delight on his face is enjoyable, adorable, and arousing to see.
Still, I’ve only watched the previews. His sweat soaked godliness looks priceless, but there is, in fact, a price on it. I’m still hoping that someone with deeper pockets than I have will tell me how the download is, whether you get the goods that are promised, and whether 15 minutes of even SteelMuscleGod muscle domination is actually worth $50. Someone in professional homoerotic wrestling needs to buy this boy a plane ticket, set up a few matches (in the ring, PLEASE!!!), and truly send this sex-on-a-stick into the stratosphere. I think I’m finding myself compelled to get back to writing some wrestling fiction featuring a given, Eastern European phenom pitting his muscles and snarling attitude against some ring veterans in, let’s say, Boston…

Damn, I hate that “wimp” who gets to feel up SMG as he’s getting pummeled.

Bard in the Ring

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Sometimes, my wrestling kink is entirely voyeuristic. I’m fired up into a frenzy from the position at ringside. I’m stoked by watching two beautiful wrestlers entirely focused on dominating one another, pitting muscle and wit against one another in a brutal competition to determine who ends up on top. But there are some wrestlers who, I must admit, I simply can’t help but mentally transport myself into the ring. It’s not the sight of them hammering down on someone else that I’m thrilled by, but the imagination of me face-to-face, pec-to-pec, nose-to-nose.

I can watch the Enforcer lay down the law on anyone, and for me, I’m the one in the ring with this muscle stud. He’s coming up in a new BG East release, with the first preview pics hitting the Arena today. Masked Mayhem 7 looks incredible, and the opportunity to see Enforcer, or, more precisely, to be transported once again into the ring with him, is making me feel all tingly in anticipation.
Specifically, there are few situations that send me over the moon when the Enforcer if facing me (substitute any opponent’s name he’s faced). When I’ve got him cinched into a nice, tight full nelson, pulling his stunning back against my torso, taking a little liberties in grinding my crotch into his ass, when he grunts, growls, and muscles his way out of my control…. sweet mother of God….
The preview pics of the Enforcer’s upcoming battle with Marauder indicates I’ll soon be finding myself in another favorite Enforcer-on-Bard scenario. His thighs are works of art and, at the same time, works of fantastic pain delivery. Many a times have I (in the form any of his opponents) found myself on my knees in front of this muscled behemoth with my head caught helplessly squeezed between those tree trunks. My ears buzz. My face burns. My skull feels like it’s ready to explode. Yes. Yes. Yes.
It’s not all me pulling the job, my friends. What strokes my choke includes some knocks in on the big man. When I (you might remember it as Blueboy) had Enforcer reeling in the corner, weakened by some choice blows, I made the big man gasp and groan with a knee-weakening tongue lashing on his tasty, gorgeous nipples. Okay, so, true enough…. I got a little distracted by the sight, feel, taste, smell, and sound of the captured moment when he couldn’t help but show that I was getting to him. But it was worth it. Trust me.
After getting a beatdown from the Enforcer in his debut, once again in Masked Mayhem 1, I redisovered the wonders of suffering in this battleboy’s massive arms. Whenever he bearhugs me (and it happens in every match), I’m breathless even before he squeezes the air out of my lungs. As he’s pulling me tighter and tighter, our pecs squeezed together, my crotch bumping into his thick thighs and his awesome bulge, I make myself open my eyes just a little, even though the pain makes me wince. The glimpse of his face, inches from mine, glaring down with that look of ecstatic domination over me… well, I may not be able to stand up straight for a few hours, but it’s completely worth it.

Can’t wait for our upcoming rematch!
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Another Side of Wrestling

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Lately, I’ve been recommitted to following my mother’s advice: if you don’t have anything good to say about someone, don’t say anything at all. But it’s not as if I have nothing at all good to say about Powermen.com’s Tagteam. For some bigger-than-can-be-believed muscleboys in ever-so-brief briefs, rolling around in a makeshift ring on their way toward some side-by-side jerk off scenes in the locker room, Tagteam is 100% on the money. It has the elements of big, big, big muscles, generous sharing, and simulated eroticism in the form of simulated grappling.

That’s not trash talk, I swear. That alone can pass the time for me three days out of ten. It’s at least twice the eroticism as a “solo” video of a hot harbody stripping naked and working one out all by himself. And I’m seriously a fan of the guy on top of this schoolboy pin. He’s got a look that makes me feel compelled to do things to him that I’m normally way too much of a prude to think twice about.

So I think all that credit-where-credit’s-due above now entitles me to point out the obvious. This just isn’t wrestling. It isn’t tag team wrestling. It isn’t pitched to wrestling kink really at all. It’s mostly a photo shoot of these four muscleboys posing in “wrestling-inspired” positions. Frankly, it’s a little odd in video format for that very reason. It’s all about striking a provocative pose, which most of the time is mildly entertaining with a 3 times out of 10 return value for the aesthetics, not the kink. And in my HUMBLE opinion, four guys leaning against a wall, eyes closed, oblivious to one another as they all masturbate, isn’t particularly erotic. Whatever is turning these guys on, it isn’t each other, and that’s just disappointing and anti-climactic, regardless of the four climaxes on tape. I was willing to cut my blond bombshell, Jay from Powermen’s Kane vs. Jay some slack on this count. But the Tagteam boys just can’t drag me down that road like Jay can.

Still, I think it says something encouraging for those of us into the wrestling kink side of things. Just like the “solo” strip-n-jerk sort of serves as something somewhere between light beer and non-alcoholic beer, the wrestle-like work of Powermen.com’s Tagteam suggests that there are markets for less hardcore wrestling (and less hardcore porn). Perhaps some guys are topped off by the mere suggestion of wrestling, but I also suspect that there are guys who might cut their teeth on this sort of paddycake grappling as a gateway into more well-rounded erotic wrestling kink wonders. So it’s NOT all bad. It’s hardly a full-course meal for me, but as a side dish, it’s likely a tasty treat for others.

On the Edge

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An email exchange with a reader recently brought to mind an early pro-wrestling crush I had in the mid-90’s. Bring on the hot, hard, 6’3″, proud mulleteer, the Missouri Tiger himself: Jeff Gaylord.
Gaylord wrestled in World Class Championship Wrestling and the United States Wrestling Association, and when I was watching him, he was frequently tag teaming with Jeff Jarrett (which fueled many a sexual fantasy of mine).
He teetered on the knife’s edge of good and evil, which was a particularly erotic role to play, I think. At times he played it straight up the middle, relying on his atypical size and strength advantage to lay the hurt on most anyone he faced. At times, he edged over into the bully territory, taking unnecessary shortcuts and perhaps reveling just a tad too much in the joy of inflicting pain and humiliation.
I never saw him actually turn heel, though he may have done that at some point in his wrestling career (probably did, I bet). But there was always something of barely contained danger about him that was hot, hot, hot. Dancing on the tightrope between good guy and bad guy, he managed to toy with my emotions, test my loyalties, and leave me feeling that much more at his mercy as he climbed into the ring, keeping me guessing up the last possible moment whether he’d be the hard-toned sportsman or spitting with cocky contempt.

I haven’t thought about Jeff Gaylord and his fantasy pecs for years now. Being reminded of him, I looked up what I could find, only to discover that he’s serving/recently served prison time for several bank robberies. I suppose that’s one answer to the question of which side of the knife’s edge of good guy/bad guy he finally fell on in real life, at least. As much as I’m a sucker for a beefy, muscle stud bad boy, Jeff’s rap sheet doesn’t really enhance his appeal at all. I think I prefer to hold him in my imagination as that ambivalent, big-time bruiser, flexing his mountainous pecs, towering over his opponents, and satisfyingly kicking ass, whatever his motivation might have been.

Imagining My Way Out of Hell

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You don’t need to know the details, but suffice it to say that I am, at this very moment, stuck in my own little version of hell. I’m far from home, stuck in a motel room, with nothing but basic cable and an internet connection to keep me relatively sane.
Suddenly, I’m a HUGE fan of HGTV. Of my limited entertainment choices at this moment, I’ve settled on some mindless home improvement television. I know that I have HGTV at home, but I’m not sure where it is on the dial. A glimpse of Lynn Kegan on Designed to Sell convinces me I need to reprogram my Tevo.

Damn, this red-headed carpenter is stunning! And he’s built like a fratboy porn star. In fact, I swear he could wrestle as Andrew Lane’s brother, and I’d buy that in a second… particularly if it involved some forced stripping and muscle worship. My, oh my… Andrew…

and Lynn….
Hell, yes.

So another hour of HGTV goes by, and I discover Chip Wade on Curb Appeal. This bald headed muscle stud carpenter is way, way, way up my alley!
Damn, look at those arms! Chip needs to make a tag team appearance with Lon Dumont as shaved-headed, no-mercy, muscle partners. I can just see him wrap those guns around some chumps skull and crush him to tears in a side headlock.

Paired up with the giant killer himself, the master of execution and my #1 homoerotic wrestler – non-pornboy, Lon, and I’d be in heaven, rather than the temporary hell in which I currently find myself.
While we’re at it, let’s toss these two tag teams in the ring together! Lynn and Andrew facing down Chip and Lon… someone’s going to get beat like a red-headed stepchild, that’s for certain!

Fascinating

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StayPuft, a regular reader and commenter here, predicts that the likes of Thunder’s Arena’s Johnny Bravo and Frank the Tank wouldn’t make the Neverland cut. Specifically in reference to my post on the beauty of a flexible wrestling body a few days ago, I complained about bodybuilders so developed that their muscles actually impede the natural motion of their joints, much less the delights of a particularly flexible body that can stretch beyond natural tolerances in a wrestling match. Frankly, StayPuft is on the money here (as usual). I’m fascinated by bodies like Johnny Bravo and Frank the Tank, but if I close my eyes and picture what will make my engine rev, these two don’t do it.

It’s not that I write them off entirely, though. I find them fascinating to watch. The sheer mass of muscle they pack around makes me scratch my head in wonder. The marvels they can perform in a wrestling bout with someone of mere mortal stature are also simply fascinating to me. Watching Johnny lift, twist, slam, and contort Z-Man like a pipe cleaner is quite entertaining. Hell, it’s even wrestling kink-provocative for me. But what’s drawing my wrestling kink eye is Z-Man’s sweet proportions being crushed. What’s fueling my fantasy isn’t Johnny’s muscles or size, per se, but his domination and humiliation of his plaything, ever-smirky sex kitten, Z-Man (my thanks to Mr. Mike for permission to repost Thunder’s Arena pics here).
Some of my early sexual fantasies were fueled by photographs in such magazines as Muscle & Fitness and MuscleMag. Guiltily purchasing those periodicals was the setting for a great deal of my sexual self-recognition. Superhumanly muscled competition bodybuilders were the objects of my lustful desires. But even then, the heavy weight Olympic class boys were not the pages most well-worn. Lee Haney, Dorian Yates… I would pass them up in a second for a sweet shot of Bob Paris, Francis Benefatto, or Berry Demey. There was some line that I had hardwired into my head that made the likes of the biggest of the big boys fascinating, but the likes of the massive-yet-aesthetically proportioned boys super-erotic.
More to the point, as StayPuft notes, “hooray for diversity!” I’m a fan of you embracing your kink and owning what it is that makes the blood pump faster. And, for the record, I could put my ankles behind my head not so long ago, and now that my commitment to my yoga is renewed, perhaps one day again, soon.

I Saw Him First

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I’m hopelessly behind the curve. You’d never say it, because you’re very generous, but my friends on this side of the computer screen are quick to point out that I’m notoriously late to ever spot a worthwhile trend. For example, I usually wait until a new TV show hits its second season before I decide to commit any serious time into checking it out (other than anything on HBO). I finally figure out who’s hot well after they’ve become passé.

That’s why seeing Christopher Gorham get a lot of attention for the hot little, nerdy hunk he is just makes me need to say: I was into Christopher Gorham way before you were. It was his gig on Popular around the turn of the century that made me think naughty thoughts about a fully mature actor who happened to play a high school kid.
Before he was in Ugly Betty, and ages before Covert Affairs, I was feeling some fantasy lust for Christopher. He earned his way into a fantasy wrestling match I wrote a while back, playing the surprise sadist determined to physically tame and sexually dominate Jerry O’Connell. Jerry had no idea what was in store for him, or what the stakes were.
I’ll probably jump ahead of a trend around the turn of the next century. In the meantime, don’t tell me that you were lusting after Christopher when he was a walk-on in Buffy. Just give me this one moment. Please.

The Flex

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Lately, I’ve been drawn to strength. What’s getting my engine running is the powerful squeeze that makes a captured man gasp, or the brutal slam that even makes my head rattle just watching it. That said, I’ve also been reminded lately that I’m not a fan of musclebound bodies that are so massively developed that a bodybuilder can’t scratch his own nose because his biceps keep getting in the way. That just seems maladaptive and, frankly, not so sexy.
Flexibility is a grosslyundervalued aspect of physical health in general, and in wrestling, it’s even more important. Tolerances for pain and prying, twisting and turning are calibrated precisely to the hard-achieved flexibility of a wrestler. The same guillotine that makes one man scream a frantic submission may be endured, at least for a time, by a more flexible body not so easily pressed to the breaking point.
When I think of flexibility and the homoerotic wrestler, Paul Perris inevitably pops into my brain first. Paul always managed to work the splits into his matches, and really, why not? It’s like a dog licking his own balls… if you or I could physically manage that feat, wouldn’t we be caught doing it ALL the time, wouldn’t we? Anyway, back to Paul… his splits provided a means of delivering punishment to Paul and receiving punishment from Paul. He frequently seemed to enjoy sliding down into splits, particularly in his oil matches, as he tortured his opponent in, say, a full nelson. I don’t see how the splits really added anything to the wrestling, but they were stunning, nonetheless, and they offered fascinating angles to view his muscleboy bubblebutt. Frequently, Paul would be ruthlessly captured by his opponents who would manage to spread his legs freakishly wide as Paul sold some sweet suffering. On those rare occasions he was matched with an equally flexible musclegod like Roman Stone (which he did 3 times), Paul seemed to relish throwing in some split-torture of his own.

Once I’ve managed to stop fixating on an oiled Paul Perris in the splits, my second fondest wrestling contortionist is Brad Rochelle.

Brad’s flexibility is probably easy to overlook. You aren’t alone in being completely intoxicated by the stunning beauty of his muscled physique. His proportions and power are what can sell a still of Brad any day. And speaking of selling, his salesmanship is second to no one’s as far as I’m concerned. But in appreciating Brad matches, it has to be acknowledged, he was one twist-tie of a man.

This is probably why Brad-as-jobber commands such a fanatical following full 2 years after the last match was released with Brad. His flexibility made his capture and torture astonishing to behold. He could be pried so far past the point of normal flexibility, that you couldn’t help but be amazed and fully on board with the notion that he was suffering well beyond the pale.

All this to say that flexibility has got to be the motor oil lubricating my wrestling kink engine. I like ’em big and powerful, no doubt. But I need to see them bend, too. Clearly, I need to get back into yoga.

Labors and Love

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Labor Day weekend is coming to a close in the US, and a nation that’s forgotten its roots in valorizing hard working, working class heroes once again has no idea what to do with itself. Since we really no longer celebrate labor as a nation, and really now model our national success stories after lottery winners and corporate captains of “industry” (who’ve never broken a sweat in their lives), I’m feeling nostalgic today for some hard, hot guys who get dirty.
So this Labor Day, I’m saying bring on the firefighters. Particularly the hunky, hot bodied, gym toned, chisel chinned, runway-ready ones that show up in the calendars, but I’m really a fan of all of them. They work hard doing dangerous work on all sorts of crazy-ass schedules. And they save lives. True story, when I was a small kid our house caught fire and I hid in a closet (the literal one, not the metaphorical one). I was rescued by a firefighter, and the house wasn’t a total loss. Enter my lifelong lust for a hero in rubber boots with a two-handed grasp on his massive hose. It’s not a competition, of course. But I have to say I’m awful partial to the boys that Seattle puts up each year as they raise money for burn prevention and research. And whatever they feed them in Seattle, their firefighters seem to have sliced to shreds abs, year in and year out.
I tend to harbor a grudge against most things New York, because New Yorkers seem to consider themselves the center of gravitational pull for the entire universe (admit it, New Yorkers… you do…). They do hire some sweet, hardbodied hotties to whip out their hoses, though. And the proceeds benefit the Staten Island Burn Center. Win-win.

I haven’t actually seen a South Florida Firefighters Calendar, but these tall, dark and handsome hardbodies make me think I’m due for a trip to Miami Beach. I’m not as compelled by the generic charities they seem to raise money for, but if they oiled this pair up and let me watch them wrestle, I’d sign over most of everything I own for… whatever it is they want my money for.

Some more honorable mentions… Colorado has been putting up beautiful, shaved, massive, bare pecs for a while now. They’re working for your dollars and cents to support Children’s Hospital Burn Center.
And finally, a couple of delightful contenders (though it’s still NOT a competition) who only get honorable mentions because they aren’t celebrating Labor Day where the come from. This tatooed, axe-weilding, babyface hero is from a Toronto firefighter calendar, where they show their big and beautiful bare chests for cancer research. Burn research seems more an intuitive connection with firefighters to me, but there’s nothing wrong with cancer research, by any means.

Finally, this slice of beef is indicative of the quality meat exploited in the UK to get you to donate for services for fire and burn victims in the UK. So, in my recovered memory from being a small child trapped in my closet, this is what it looked like when the firefighter came in and rescued me. Exactly like this.

Happy Labor Day.