At any one time, I’m typically nursing a throbbing crush on around half a dozen wrestlers. All it takes is a glimpse of one of them, and my heart pounds and my cock grows hard. It’s a rotating stock of sexy studs commanding my infatuation, but there are just a few wrestlers who show up on my shortlist and stick around long and hard.

One of the first homoerotic wrestlers to instantly be elevated to crush status is BG East’s Scott Williams. I’ve written about my infatuation with Scott in the past, so I’ll just point out that if I were stranded on desert island and could only have 3 hunks with me for an endless round-robin of homoerotic wrestling, Scott is now, and almost always is, on that island.

My homoerotic wrestling imagination has really been the theme of this blog for over 10 years. My musings have flitted from pro wrestlers, to wrestling-for-gay, to Hollywood hunks and beefcake journalists I’d like to see wrestle. But the real subject is always how my erotic imagination possesses my thoughts and inspires my cock. It’s just a thought-exercise that you’re invited to join me along, exploring my homoerotic wrestling fantasies that, for the most part, are solely playing out in my mind’s eye. But then again, there was that time I obsessed relentlessly for months about my fierce ambivalence between settling on Mitch Colby or Rusty Stevens as my reigning favorite wrestler, only to discover Kid Leopard had made my fantasy come true by pitting them against one another in The Breaking Point: The Sexiest.

I’ll keep nursing my regression to magical thinking and silently hope that I, just wishing it and naming it out loud, can make a fantasy match-up come true. I have some fantasy matches in mind, but I want to carve out what I intend to be a recurring series here, namely picturing tasty twinks for man-of-my-dreams Scott Williams to devour.

Scott has commented in the pages of this blog that he likes getting his hands on new crops of young wrestling twinks. That acknowledgment alone sent me pouring through the catalogs of new releases to decide who it is Scott should get his hands on first, at least in my imagination. For the record, Scott has not endorsed this series, nor has he approved any of the opponents I have in mind for him. If Scott wants a rewrite, or even a retraction, of absolutely anything I write about him, I’m his to command. Like, literally, Scott. Anything I can do for you, let me know.

The first twink I’m picturing that Scott should demolish is stunningly pretty, doe-eyed sexy boy, winner of the Debut of the Year of 2018, Kenny Starr. Just sizing the two of them up turns me on, because numbers are sexy. At 6’2″ and 190 pounds, Scott would tower over little Kenny, who stands at 5’9″ and 175 pounds. Kenny wears a playful smirk on his boyish face at the start of every match, like he’s just here for the fun and games and the free drinks and ready sex that come with being a young, ripped, erotic wrestling starr.

So just picture Scott squaring off against Kenny in the BG East matroom, Kenny grinning and chuckling about “beating up grandpa,” and Scott staring back, deadly serious. Fuck, I love Scott’s game face. Glaring almost half a foot down at Kenny, his stone cold, humorless stare would  visibly unnerve the cocky twink.

Kenny would take the initiative with a lightning quick lunge, taking a leg with a self-satisfied grin. Kenny’s plan would be to shock and awe the veteran with youthful speed and aggression. Scott would just watch, appraisingly. Even when Kenny sweeps the leg and slams the veteran to his back, I picture Scott just holding his hands out to his side, calmly, cooly studying the ankle biter quickly mounting his lightly hairy chest and sliding into a schoolboy pin. Kenny’s crotch dangling just over Scott’s face, the young stud would break out into that adorably exuberant shit-eating grin, flashing his baseball biceps and basically just waiting for Scott to admit that he’s outmatched.

I think Scott would indulge the moment a while, because he enjoys the view and he knows he’s winding up the kid’s flawed sense of invincibility. But mid-chuckle, little Kenny would get bucked off and tossed across the matroom. Kenny’s certainty in his own superior speed would be shattered when Scott beats him to his feet, and then just flat out beats him. Scott likes long, strength-sucking endurance holds, so he’d start with a vice-like side headlock, dragging the twink around a couple laps of the matroom while crushing Kenny’s skull between a bulging bicep and his ribcage. Dropping to one knee, I can see Scott turning the crank in that magnificent way he has, pumping the headlock like he’s working to pry the stubborn lid off of a jam jar. Kenny would whimper and wilt sagging lower and lower until Scott takes him all the way to the mat, still crushing his skull relentlessly.

Seriously, I can see Kenny tapping out to the patiently tantric headlock in the first 3 minutes of the match. It wouldn’t exactly surprise Scott, but it would sort of piss him off. The veteran relishes a test, and a cocky bro rolling over right out of the gate would inspire some serious punishment. Sure, he’d let go of the “submission” hold, but he’d give the kid exactly 1.5 seconds before sliding him into crotch-pillow headscissors and clamping down with his lovely, long, hairy legs. Little Kenny would writhe and whimper louder, struggling to pry the thighs away from his throbbing head.

Scott would slowly transition to a figure-4 choke, then an armbar, then a tautly strung bow-and-arrow, patiently milking each crush and stretch. The matwork would be masterful, burying the increasingly desperate kid under joint wrenching torture from head to toe. A weak-ass 2nd submission would squeak out of the pretty boy to an incidental half nelson that Scott was using to set up a camel clutch. Scott would throw him down in disgust, exasperated by the would-be tough guy crumbling before him. As little Kenny whimpers petulantly, nursing his battered ego, Scott would call him a crybaby, all talk and no substance. He’d spank the kid’s ass with loud, cracking slaps that would make Kenny spasm and cry out.

Scott’s patience would run out, waiting for his opponent to get up and fight like a man. Dragging him up by the back of his straining trunks, Scott would hook an arm between Kenny’s legs from behind, hoist him off is feet, and pound the gasping kid down in a gutbuster across his knee. You’d hear the air violently rush out of Kenny’s lungs, even as Scott would hoist him back up and slam him back down, again and again. When the kid doesn’t even squirm on the line, folded humiliatingly across Scott’s bent knee, the veteran would peel the back of Kenny’s sweat-soaked trunks down, exposing that lily white, perfectly round ass. I can see Scott squeeze the produce appreciatively for a while. It’s not like Kenny has any fight in him to complain. Until, that is, Scott starts spanking the naughty boy hard. Screams would punctuate the wet slaps, as the veteran hungrily studies the red palm prints he leaves behind. “Cry for me, crybaby,” Scott would growl. Kenny would weep in frustration.

Kenny’s pleading submissions would fall on deaf ears. Hell, I’d bet Scott would crack some senior citizen joke about needing new batteries for his hearing aids, and not being able to hear this wailing twink. Of course, the truth is that the veteran would be tickled by every yelp, savoring every tear. He’d drag the kid up, demanding that the weak-kneed punk leave his ass cheeks hanging out. When petulant Kenny stubbornly pulls his short pants back over his red hot glutes, Scott would violently shove him into the wall face-first, pinning his head to the wall with one hand while using the other to yank his opponent’s trunks halfway down his quivering legs. You could just hear the twink’s impotent sobs grow more frustrated, then more desperate, as Scott pins the kid’s wrists to the wall overhead and grinds his crotch into Kenny’s ass.

Kenny wouldn’t disobey when Scott demands, again, that he leave his trunks where they are. Even as the veteran throws him wall to wall and then body slams the kid to the mat, Kenny would leave his trunks awkwardly hanging mid-thigh. Scott would sit low and mean in the saddle across the kid’s bare butt in a Camel Clutch demanding that the kid cry, which he would. Loudly. Scott’s Boston Crab would be a little more work to cinch in place with Kenny’s trunks sliding most of the way to his knees, but all the easier for the veteran to transition to a single leg and reach down and squeeze the boy’s hanging balls.

Kenny would submit again. And again. And again. With his tormenter’s claws ripping apart his perky lean pecs, Kenny would give. In an abdominal stretch hanging like a cut of tenderized beef on the hook, he’d cry out in submission again. Twisted, tossed, and tortured, the twink’s trunks would slide lower and lower, until he’d be swaying, barely standing unassisted, his pale white beauty marked all over with red welts turning angry purple, and his prettyboy designer trunks mid-calf. Panting, heavy-lidded, half out of it, Kenny would self-conciously start to bend forward when his gear finally drops to his ankles. Scott would just have to “tut-tut,” and the demolished twink would jerk back to attention obediently, swaying on his feet, eyes on the floor in humiliated subjugation.

Scott would take one last stroll around his tamed trophy, offering light praise for the kid’s quick obedience, and promising to make a man out of him. Little Kenny wouldn’t say anything, because, really, what would there be to say? He’d just grunt in resignation when Scott shoves an arm between his thighs from behind and hoists the kid across his gorgeously muscled shoulders. If he pulled down on Kenny’s neck and legs, he’d wring more screams and tears out with a torture rack, but there’d really be no point to that any longer. Scott would just be wearing the kid like a wrap now, taking in the sight of himself in the mirror, soaked in sweat and in full possession of the adorable little muscle bro who’d been so filled with cocky overconfidence 20 minutes ago. With his conquest balanced across his wide shoulders, Scott would flex a little. He’d have earned the right to indulge in the self-congratulations, giving credit where it’s due, namely to his phenomenal physique and mat experience. Finally, he’d stride to the door and side-step through it, carrying his naked prize with him.

At least, that’s how I see it. It’s a lot more lopsided a match than we’ve seen Scott wrestle, but seriously, have you seen those huge, corded arms of his with veins popping out in his recent guest appearances at Wrestling with Pride? With the shape he’s in, and company he keeps, and boatload of experience to draw from, I just see tasty little Kenny demolished by the man-of-my-dreams!