The Best Muscle Money Can Buy

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No smile?!

So I’ve been biting my tongue about the 2nd three-way match in BG East’s recent Three-Way Thrash 4 release (there sure are a lot of numbers in this sentence). On the one hand, I think I’d like Alex and Joe’s reviews to percolate a while. There can be a pile-on effect when we’re all reviewing the same match at the same time, and sometimes the uniqueness of three different sets of eyes gets blurred in the sum total all at once. On the other hand, this match stars three wrestlers who I’m never at a loss for words about.

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Trophy Boy in the house.

So fuck it.  I’m on the case. First of all, can someone start a GoFundMe page for Ty and Drake to get a room?  Because they are back at it again, tearing the fuck into each other in that way that only the best of friends and/or jilted lovers can. I’m a little bitter that Three-Way Thrash 4 starts with the toy boys already mid-match. While I understand that we’ve already seen them rip each other apart on the mat, and then battle to a double cum explosion in a bed, I’m still irritated at catching the boys in the ring already in progress. It irritates me on one level because I can tend toward the OCD side of things, and half-started or unfinished business festers under my skin. It also irritates me because I want to know the story of how two of my favorite jobbers yet again got geared up and on a terror brutalizing each other once again. Didn’t they settle that shit in Babyface Brawl X?  You know, Drake won on the mat, which had to be such in intense relief and shock for the Cheshire Cat. On the other hand, I’ve seen Ty talking shit about claiming victory in the final tally, because Drake came first. So, yeah, I could see how this whole jobber rivalry could easily have erupted once again. And between you and me, I think they’re probably secretly gagging to fuck each other senseless.

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That grin instantly gets me hard.

Consult the match description for the official backstory. Whatever the case, I’m already turned on with just the 2 minutes or so we get to see of their back and forth punishment. Drake rides some momentum, that shit eating grin stretched across his handsome face as he crushes hard on face-to-crotch headscissors on the Trophy Boy. He’s all triumph and gloating, with that unfamiliar feeling of being in control settling in. Watching him pitching, it makes me want to just reach out and pat him on the head, it’s so adorable. But then, of course, Ty claws the fuck out of his balls and starts to beat his way back into a revenge bruising.

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Someone’s getting face fucked before this is all said and done.

Now, I love me some Damien Rush. I especially love him massively muscled and hairy, like he is when he strolls in and interrupts my boybanders beating the shit out of each other. I love Damien’s thick, meaty thighs as the muscle bounces and quivers, and that sweet, round ass packed so deliciously into leopard print trunks. I’ll typically stand up and cheer when daddy’s favorite little richboy strips down and stomps onto the scene. But fuck, what about the boybander grudge match!?

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“The Best Muscle Money Can Buy!”

We will likely never know, damn it, because Damien climbs on board and takes total control of the scene. I’m totally on board with both Alex and Joe when both of them (all three of us independently of one another) bemoaned the lost opportunities of this instantly turning into a 1 on 2 squash. I’d go so far as to argue it defies the Three-Way Thrash genre a bit, because other than seeing those fleeting seconds of Drake and Ty barreling into one another before Damien arrived, the drama is entirely about daddy’s little rich boy running rough shod over the tasty jobbers. In my homoerotic geography classes, we always learned that was something other than a “3-way” battle.

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Jobbers suck on the humiliation

But like Alex, I enjoy the Damien Rush show for what it is.  He’s fucking impressive, and I would not always have counted on Damien being able to control pace and be entirely in the driver’s seat telling a story like this.  He’s come a long way, and that includes his massive muscular development as well as his growing capacity to work offense, transition from hold to hold, and ride a wave of momentum all the way to me pounding one out right around the time that he’s simulating face fucking both Drake and Ty simultaneously, because he’s just that fucking big and bad.

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Ty takes the spanking hard

Ty takes the coitus interruptus the hardest, because he was the one on top when Damien barged in. So there’s something particularly poignant about Ty’s debasing destruction. Maybe, just maybe, he could have settled the score and made Drake his bitch once and for all (of course, he’d have to time share him with me and the dozen or so other guys who’ve owned him in the ring). But the boy band intramural battle is swatted away with one massive, blue blood back hand from Damien. So when Ty is draped over the top rope and spanked way, way hard, those aren’t just tears dripping off Ty’s face. Those are dreams of revenge getting washed away.

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Drake turns tail and tries to run away.

Alex and Joe both point out that Drake seems like little more than a deer in the headlights in this thrashing. I can see it, of course. He’s flat on his back (again!?) and trying to recover from Ty’s schoolboy cock pin before he even realizes Damien has climbed into the ring and opened up a can of whoop ass on them both. The scene is dripping with pathos when the Cheshire Cat repeatedly tries to slink away, crawling on all fours, dragging his hot carcass across the mat and trying to beat a hasty retreat from the ring room entirely on those occasions when Damien is paying full attention to Ty. The sheer terror as Drake tries to run away like a coward might make someone crasser than I am call him a pussy then and there, but then again, he happily embraces the moniker of the Cheshire Cat of Homoerotic Wrestling.

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“…more animal than man.”

But as much as I enjoy my boy banders, this is, indeed, Damien’s story. And he tells it well. His two-fer bearhug, pulling both jobber studs off their feet in one huge, massively muscled, bulging bicep bearhug is, no shit, fucking impressive. At times in Damien’s past I’ve sensed he’s trying to run away from the legacy of being born with a silver spoon in his mouth, mixing it up in pro wrestling as a way of balancing out the emasculating side-effect of living without consequences or accountability and turning into a whining bitch daddy’s boy. So I sit up and take notice when suddenly Damien starts crowing, calling himself “the best muscle money can buy.” Rumors have been around all along that he’s got a personal trainer and a private pro wrestling coach to propel his career to the heights that all of daddy’s riches can manage, and I for one sort of love Damien a little more for finally owning it and throwing it in his victims’ faces. And whatever the fuck his personal trainer is doing, I say keep fucking doing it, because Damien is gorgeous! He refers to himself as “the new and improved Damien Rush. Better, bigger, stronger, more animal than man.” I say if you’ve grown up a bored little rich boy with a sadomasochistic fascination with pro wrestling, there is no better evidence than Damien Rush that you should NOT run for president. You should write that highrise-size check and get yourself the best hairy, hunky, bulging, beefy, proportional, balanced, beautiful brawn that your daddy’s checkbook can buy.

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Drake and Ty are not having fun.

Ty and Drake do not enjoy this match nearly enough for my taste, mind you. Getting pec smothered in Damien’s hairy chest absolutely deserves some Trophy Boy and Chesire Cat erections, as far as I’m concerned. I know, I know, they were terrified, which I’m sure is a buzz kill for some. But the more sweaty sheen Damien works up underneath his furry coat, and the more humiliation he heaps onto the doomed duo, the more I just wish for my boys to be unable to restrain themselves from pulling out their cocks and truly paying homage to the best muscle money can buy.

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Suffering piled high

And, sure, like both Alex and Joe, I’m a little bitter that my boy banders were completely and utterly impotent in the wrestling drama. They do not lay a hand on Damien. They suffer like only two of the top jobbers on the scene can suffer. They make me laugh. They tug at my heart strings. They make me enormously hard. But this would all have been a Mars shot of a match if only they’d been able to pull together, say, 4 minutes of richboy beatdown here and there. Knowing how seriously dangerous both of them are, it actually stretches plausibility for me to the extreme to believe that they didn’t pull off some tandem muscle hunting take downs, even if only to be upended.

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Oh, well, fuck. Forgiven.

But then Damien stacks the boys like cordwood, on top of each other, unconscious, involuntarily 69-ing each other, and he sits down on Drake’s back and slaps the Cheshire Cat’s already beet red ass. “I know how much you both like this position,” Damien smirks, flexing for the mirror, bordering on a homophobic bully tact that would piss me off if he kept it up. But, no, we all know that Drake and Ty play for our team. And we know that, based on the raging feud they’ve been nursing for a couple of years now, neither one of them would have been satisfied when they climbed into the ring together unless someone wasn’t sucking someone else’s cock before all was said and done. Instead, Damien slapped them both down into Loserville and, simultaneously, made them both winners with their rival’s face shoved helplessly into their crotches. And Damien flexes those HUGE arms one more time and smirks. And despite myself, kicking myself for crushing on another squash match, all is forgiven.

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Wasted.

I will adamantly insist, however, that this was a waste of Ty and Drake, even if it was a sensational push for daddy’s little rich boy. Sexy as fuck? Undeniably. Left me covered in sweat and cum?  Absolutely. But even 50% of the hotness it could have been? Not even.

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