Have you voted for this month’s homoerotic wrestler of the month yet? If not, pick your wrestler of choice at the top right of this page. The poll closes tomorrow, and as of my writing of this post, it’s a barnburner battle between the Can-Am boys so far. I’m fascinated to see how the final numbers play out!
|Tyrell Tomsen large and in charge against Patrick Donovan|
In the mean time, I’ve been enjoying (and I do mean enjoying!) some wrestling that earned nominations for homoerotic wrestler of the month two months ago. BG East’s Wrestler Spotlight on Patrick Donovan is profoundly pleasing to me. Patrick and Tyrell Tomsen’s sun room mat match is hot as hell, and I do believe Patrick brings out the sexiest wrestling performance from muscle hunk Tyrell that I’ve seen so far (and I’ve loved Tyrell in everything that I’ve seen!). Their bodies present a stunning contrast, with Tyrell’s thick, bodybuilder muscles and dark brown skin in as tight an embrace as physically possible with Patrick’s pale, long and lean (but muscled) physique. Patrick has become the king of pec punching, as far as I can tell, and big, meaty pecs like Tyrell’s are an incredible target for Patrick’s solid, concentrated, sadistically thrilling, drilling poundings.
|Mr. Joshua and his grapefruit|
It should come as no surprise, however, that my greatest infatuation is with Patrick’s ring bout against former favorite homoerotic wrestler – nonpornboy, Joshua Goodman (that’s Mr. Joshua to you!). Sweet mother of God, Mr. Joshua is driving me insane with lust! The attitude, the ass, those fucking amazing legs, the ripped abs, gorgeous pecs, and sculpted arms, combined with that coverboy handsome face works me with an intensity that makes me seriously consider whether Kid K should get demoted back out of the standings of my top ranked homoerotic wrestlers – nonpornboy division.
|Mr. Joshua pins Patrick with his #1 asset|
While not as stunning a visual contrast as Patrick’s pairing with Tyrell, Mr. Joshua and Patrick are well-formed, distinct wrestling characters that so many of us have come to know and lust after. The latest incarnation of Patrick is that of a serious, dangerous heel who has learned from years in the business the finer arts of physical punishment. Patrick is a viper. His lip curls in concentration and practiced focus as he dominates Mr. Joshua’s incredible body. He clearly enjoys his work, but he’s not at all light-hearted. He’s deadly serious, even as he slaps down thick sarcasm and taunting. Everything from Patrick is in the service of conquering his opponent. An early flurry of offense catches Mr. Joshua flat-footed, and Patrick puts him on his back folds his legs up to his ears and slides his crotch forward to shove his balls into Mr. Joshua’s face humiliatingly.
|Patrick introduces Mr. J to teabagging|
“Mr. Donovan!” Joshua gasps and sputters. “You know I don’t like being teabagged!” And there, you can see that Mr. Joshua has an entirely different ring demeanor. Even on his back with his sweet, sweet ass splayed vulnerably in his opponent’s control, Mr. Joshua is a smart ass. I mean that with complete love and respect, mind you. Mr. Joshua is through-and-through a smart ass. He loves the one-liners. He clearly, intensely loves to dominate. I’m captured in this match by his laughter. He laughs domineeringly, of course, but there are more than a couple of moments when he’s got Patrick in a really, really bad way, completely in his control and squirming in agony, and Mr. Joshua chuckles long and sincerely. Mr. Donovan may be all about getting down to business, but Mr. Joshua wants to stop and smell the roses (and the humiliation) along the way. He wants to have some fun (in the nastiest, meanest, most dominating and humiliating way possible) as he does what he does best: turn me on!
|Patrick, channeling Bard, with more than a handful of Mr. J’s pride and joy|
Mr. J’s cocky clowning seems to get under Patrick’s skin, and the lean veteran appears to work fixedly on the task of pounding the shit-eating grin off his opponent’s gorgeous face. A nasty slap to Mr. J’s hot pecs seems to do the trick. Mr. J clearly takes offense, and his smile fades in a mix of anger and pain. He retaliates with a sweet, loud crack across Patrick’s ass that even hurts just watching it. Patrick doesn’t manage to beat the smart ass out of him, but he effectively puts Mr. J on notice that any lapse, any loss of focus in order to showboat and monologue will earn him swift and painful punishment.
|Patrick & Mr. Joshua make me a believer in spandex|
I’m generally not a fan of spandex leggings on my wrestlers, but both of these boys do absolute wonders squeezed so tightly into their mid-level gear. The shiny fabric sculpted to Mr. J’s glutes like a layer of paint is completely hypnotizing. After a couple of minutes, I’ve decided that Patrick and Mr. J are already making me fire on all cylinders even with so much of their beautiful legs covered. That does not, however, make me any less exultant at the rip and strip angle of this match. When Patrick pulls off Mr. J’s training pants, my heart skips a beat. “Fine,” Mr. J. concedes without appearing too concerned or surprised by Patrick’s determination to strip him. “Take them off. I know thats what you’ve beeen wanting to do anyways.” And for that, Patrick is nothing short of my own personal avatar in his bout.
|Mr. J is more than eager to do some stripping of his own|
Mr. J’s smart mouth and all of those other components of his alchemy over me are in full force in this match. Every time he shoves his hand down the front of his trunks and adjusts the ballast therein, my familiar lust/hate relationship with Mr. J comes to the foreground. Either he’s smuggling a porterhouse steak down there, or he’s got mammoth balls that I’m desperate to get a gander at. When he bodysplashes on top of Patrick, followed up by repeatedly pounding himself, cock-to-cock into his agonized opponent, yet again my identification with Patrick is almost desperate.
|Nowhere else in the world I’d rather be!|
The tables turn repeatedly in this match in such a way that I genuinely didn’t know which way the wind would finally blow, which is a plot that I appreciate A LOT in wrestling. I like a little suspense. I enjoy being surprised. I appreciate it when I find my loyalties, loves and lusts toyed with by the ebb and flow of a match back and forth, as I find myself torn between wanting more of both sides of the battle. But when Mr. J turns on the afterburner and eventually begins to pick Patrick apart with glee in his voice and an extra bounce in his chuckle, he has me as completely at his mercy as he eventually has Patrick. The figure-4, face-to-crotch head scissors that Mr. J treats Patrick to goes on for days and transports me body and soul into Patrick in that moment.
|Since trunks can’t quite contain him, why, oh why,
does he continue to wear them?!
Once Patrick can’t peel himself off the mat, Mr. J does his customary shoving his hand down the front of his trunks. This time, however, he takes some time to gently massage his testicles, recovering from some particularly vicious assaults by his opponent. Mr. J marvels that, “When you’ve got balls as big as grapefruits, that hurts!” As Mr. J stands in the center of the ring, staring at the defeated body of his unconscious opponent, he once again digs around in his trunks. And in what I believe might be the first real glance we’ve ever had, his right testicle slides out of his trunks and hangs there for a while before he realizes it and manages to shove it back into its pouch. While possibly not literally of grapefruit proportions (or bowling ball proportions that I’ve suggested in the past), it’s obvious that Mr. J has no need to stuff his trunks with a porterhouse. He’s got major league beef all his own down there.
|Mr. J enjoys bondage play and humiliating spitting on poor, pretty Patrick|
The end of this match continues to push the fantasy that Mr. J has inspired in me for his entire career. His decision to tie Patrick’s wrists to the middle ropes and his ankles to the top ropes in the corner nearly makes me lose consciousness from the violent redirection of blood flow in my circulatory system. Then, Mr. J’s choice to grab a bottle of water to spit on his opponent’s helpless, hunky, conquered and splayed body is over the top erotic. But then, when Mr. J turns out the lights and angrily demands that the camera crew get the hell out as he climbs back into the ring to continue the story with Patrick off camera… well, I’ll just say that I’ve got at least three bodily fluids escaping simultaneously and spontaneously.
|No…… where….. else!!!|
Most of Mr. J’s matches leave me powerfully satisfied (and completely exhausted), and this one is no exception. The pairing of two pros with such extensive resumes is genius. More to the point, it’s a beautiful example of allowing homoerotic wrestling genius to tell its own story, to prod and provoke, to erotically inspire with literalism and fantasy, to know its fans, respect them, and tell a story ripped from our (or at least my) fondest imaginings.
Now, let’s see Mr. J drop the trunks entirely… and keep the camera rolling for the post-victory celebration!