I’m often late to the party, but I proudly assert that I was an early adopter when it comes to my infatuation with Steel Muscle God. I caught him on YouTube in the really early days and fell instantly in lust with a brief clip (that I frustratingly can’t find any longer) of SMG flexing for a private cam show, in a super tight singlet and glasses, and groaning, grunting, and monologuing in that sensational eastern European accented baritone. I wrote a fictional series of posts about him and another YouTube object of muscle worship battling it out to determine who is, indeed, the more muscle godly.
I also lobbied early on for someone to pick up this independent muscle worship star and bring him into the fold of a major underground homoerotic wrestling producer. A few years later, to my surprise and pleasure, MDW begin publishing wrestling matches. To be clear, SMG is a homoerotic wrestling fantasy man. His wrestling is not technically outstanding. His command of a mat is a shade better than his command of the ring, but neither are remarkable in and of themselves. But he keeps grabbing my attention and possessing my erotic imagination because of two things: his lovely, pumped, tasty muscles and his rich, engaging, often self-deprecating, always fully committed on camera personality. When I got a brief interview with him a couple of years ago, I was smitten because he’s pretty fucking iconic in connecting the dots between the muscle worship and homoerotic wrestling sides of my kinks.
So how….. the fuck…. does Charlie Evans enjoy the luck of getting to be dominated and “forced” into groaning, grunting, fully hands on muscle worship SMG in Oil Hunks 8!? I mean, Charlie had to be 12 or something when SMG first hit the scene. I was gushing and gasping and promoting SMG’s unique stylings when Charlie was probably attending his junior prom. But timing appears to be everything, because Charlie showed up at MDW right around the same time that SMG made his first stateside appearance on the site. And one fateful day, as SMG was stretching out (aka, flexing and posing and monologuing about his well deserved self-love) post-workout, he turned around to find this hot little red-headed fire cracker shoving SMG’s discarded t-shirt into his face and breathing in the musk of the icon.
“Woah, woah, woah!” SMG snarls angrily. “What the hell are you doing with my t-shirt!?”
“I was just trying to help clean the ring, and I saw your t-shirt there,” Charlie stutters defensively. Totally caught red-handed.
“And my shirt just happened to be around your nose?” SMG snarls in that fantastic, fluent-yet-slightly-awkward English as a second language that somehow makes him about 3 times as arousing to me.
“I’m… I’m a fan,” Charlie finally admits. “I’ma huge fan.”
Bitch. Get the fuck in the back of the line, Charlie! Seriously, I’m just a little pissed at the hot little originator of the Ginger Snap, despite how charmed I have been by his homoerotic wrestling debut with both MDW and BG East in the past 12 months. His Boston accent and sensational, shapely skinny boy ass get me off so hard. I love his simmering ferocity bubbling just beneath the surface of his super light weight body, which is getting bullied and squashed about 90% of the time I’ve seen him in action. He’s so fucking upright. He’s got this Jimmy Olson earnestness and unblinking assertiveness, even when he’s getting trampled and, even more often, spun overhead of some lucky baton twirling opponent. I like Charlie, mind you. But when he’s instructed by SMG to climb into the ring and make himself useful, based on nothing more than Charlie’s fawning confession of being a huge fan, I’m sorting of hating the lottery-winning mother fucker right now.
“I have a match soon, and I need to warm up,” SMG explains about 3/4 of a second before snatching the ginger babyface up into a rib-rearranging bearhug. Charlie is hoisted way off his feet. SMG’s big, bulging biceps flair as he grinds his forearms into the kid’s ribcage. Charlie chokes and grunts, struggling for air, suffering, but right at home.
“You know what, I’m kind of feeling in the mood for a nice worship time before my match begins. So make yourself useful,” SMG growls, throwing Charlie to the mat and tossing him a bottle of baby oil.
“You… you want me to oil you down!?” Charlie asks incredulously. If you grew up on the (let’s face it, racist) Uncle Remus children’s stories like I did, you’ll understand what I mean when I say Charlie’s voice conveys the heart and soul of Br’er Rabbit pleading not to be thrown into the briar patch.
“I want you to oil and show these muscle a lot of love,” SMG proclaims with a sneer. Have I mentioned how much I’m hating the hot little ginger right now? I have to sympathize when Charlie starts slapping on the baby oil and rubbing his hands all over SMG’s outstretched right arm. It’s a little frenetic, overly eager. “Slowly!” SMG has to instruct. Charlie obediently restrains himself, slowing down. “I’ll do anything you say, sir,” Charlie assures him. That fucking suck up.
The oil down is shiny and super hot. SMG’s fans will probably have seen this before, frankly. If you’re familiar with one of his long-time favorite buddies, Wimpy Boy, then the mechanics of this scene will ring a bell. But despite my surprising crush on Wimpy Boy, he does not enjoy this work even half as much as Charlie clearly does. Charlie’s lips purse un-self-consciously. He groans quietly, with a non-verbal communication of approval, awe, and perhaps just a little unspoken prayer of gratitude to the homoerotic wrestling gods. When SMG demands to know if Charlie is enjoying this, the ginger worshipper cracks a huge, broad smile. “It’s pretty amazing!,” the eager tenor confesses as he strokes and gently squeezes SMG’s massively peaked left bicep. “I haven’t seen anything like this!”
The baby oil application is slow and seductive, because SMG insists on it. He repeatedly has to demand Charlie bump it down into a lower gear, because he keeps letting adrenaline get the best of him. “Do you know how many guys would kill to be in your place,” SMG asks, “worshipping the muscle god?” I admit I feel a fleeting deathwish for the adorable red-head, so… truer words never spoken. Suddenly he shoves Charlie’s face into his flexed bicep. There’s a quick instant of pain that washes across Charlie’s face that makes me think he was not expecting that, and that it hurt getting face planted into a granite boulder like that. When SMG grabs the back of his head and shoves his face into his chest, pec smothering the kid, Charlie is grunting and groaning, instinctively pleading for oxygen, but his hands keep stroking, exploring, palming every inch of the bulging muscle god within reach.
SMG announces that his upper body has been sufficiently oiled and instructs Charlie to do the same to every single inch of his magnificently muscled legs. I cry foul. Because, like so fucking many muscle worship scenarios I’ve seen, the stars have completely forgotten the back. My sneaking suspicion is that this is a straight boy thing. I don’t actually know SMG’s sexual orientation, but I have this working hypothesis that straight boys starring as objects of homoerotic lust don’t really get how much we may be turned on to see some attention paid to them from behind. I don’t just mean their asses. Though, yeah. But I think since straight physique stars can’t really see and admire their own backsides so much, they don’t quite “get” what an object of lust it can be for a gay audience to see them lovingly studied from behind. They assume it’s all about the front view of their double biceps, their most muscular pecs, their six-pack abs. I fault SMG exclusively for this party foul, because Charlie is a devoted, obedient, slack jawed follower at this point, the lucky son of a bitch.
But fuckohfuckohfuck, I do respond well to seeing Charlie rubbing baby oil into those huge, glistening quads of SMG. SMG laughs, observing that his upper thigh is significantly bigger around that Charlie’s head, which is hovering right around cock-sucking height as he applies the first coat of oil.
I first think the money shot happens when SMG abruptly shoves Charlie’s head down and steps over the back of his neck, clinching tight and locking in standing headscissors. The architecture here is just mind blowing. Charlie keeps stroking those massive quads grinding into his temples. The heads of SMG’s quads are cut like crystal as he flexes, bearing down, groaning and cooing with pleasure.
That’s one of the things that I think has always set SMG apart. He fucking loves this. He may trash talk his worshippers now and then, but the overall narrative is that he fucking loves this. “That’s what I like,” he comes right out and says it, his deep voice grumbling from somewhere down around his sternum. “Probably when you finish with this, you’ll go home and tell all about it to your friends,” he says, all the words spoken just right, but in that English as a second language way of using unconventional sequencing. “Tell them you had the chance of a lifetime to meet the one and only muscle god! You had the chance to feel those rock hard muscles. I am the epitome of amazing,” he closes his eyes and groans with pleasure, mispronouncing epitome. “Words can’t even describe me. Yeeeeaaaahhhhh…,” his monologue fades into a deep bass grinding of stone against stone.
Although my first thought was that those initial standing headscissors were the money shot, I’m proven wrong. After a brief interlude of more pec smothering and muscle kissing, SMG shoves Charlie’s head back down, this time facing upward, as he snaps his quads back together for a standing face-to-crotch headscissors finisher. “Got a nice view there boy? The best view ever?” SMG asks. “Yes!” Charlie’s gasping response is muffled by the quads crushing his face.
Charlie’s hands never stop stroking this entire 20 minutes, bless his soul. I sort of don’t hate him so much by the end, because he’s doing us long-time SMG fanatics proud sucking down every opportunity shoved in his face to worship the icon. When his eyes flutter shut in ecstasy, SMG growls, “Look at me!” Charlie’s eyes snap open, staring up, over the bulging crotch in his face, up the rippled ridges of SMG’s abs, up the mountainous pecs in the distance, to stare obediently into the steel muscle god’s eyes. “You going to be back for more?” he asks. He wants to be worshipped. He’s pleased with the quality of attention Charlie has given him. He can feel the erotic subservience Charlie places like a sacrifice at the altar of his divinity. “Yes,” Charlie gasps.
“You going to tell your friends,” SMG demands. He wants more worshipers. He wants to shock and awe. He wants more hands on him, more eyes soaking in his splendor, more obedient followers on their knees, treasuring any and every gift of grace he showers down upon them by way of flexing, flaunting, and force feeding his muscled splendor. “Yes!” Charlie grunts again.
“Good boy,” SMG smiles down as he abruptly releases the hold. Charlie tumbles to his back, hard. “You’d better be here next time,” he warns him. “I just love this kind of attention.”
This is such a sweet, sweet antidote to the muscle worship scenarios starring objects of worship who seem to hold their adoring mortals in contempt. It’s also many times as erotic to watch a worshipper who really, really, really enjoys the feel of the magnificent muscles he’s required to touch, caress, and polish. Charlie brings an authenticity to this that, damn it all, I have to admit makes me seriously admire him. And if the next time his muscle god calls him, telling him to bring some of those friends of his along with him, if Charlie gives me a ring, perhaps I will officially bury the hatchet.
Looking for wrestling? A bearhug and some super long scissors are all you’re getting here. This is very tasty blend of MDW muscle domination and classic SMG muscle worship, with the nod to the wrestling fetishists among us by setting it in the pro ring. Next time, when Charlie’s brought me along, I’ll make sure you get to witness some oily adoration for the flip side of this fantasy man.