Author: wrestlebard

I'm a gay man with an active imagination.

The State of War

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So clearly, Joe at Ringside at Skull Island is determined to keep poking me with a stick. I can be magnanimous and say, “We may have differing opinions.” I can be conciliatory and say “Maybe one day, we’ll see eye to eye.” I rise above the fray and simply encourage readers to judge for themselves. But then today, Joe comes back at it like a dog with a bone, insisting that the was right all along, and that BG East’s Ringwars 19 is the superior new release, over and above what Sunshine Shooters 4 offers.

It’s not that I think anything that Joe says, precisely, is wrong. I just quibble with the calculus that adds up, at the end of the day, with Ringwars on top and Sunshine Shooters an honorable mention. As Joe mentions, like he, I was given the generous opportunity to see for myself what Ringwars 19 has to slap down on the table. It’s awfully meaty and good. Awfully good, damn it. And I’m on the record many times over for having a special kink-reflex in favor of ring action.

The match that Joe commends most for Ringwars 19 is Trent Blayze’s face off with Jayden Mayne. Like Joe, I’m slightly distracted by the extraneous “y’s” flying across this marquee, but aside from that, there’s a ton to commend this match. First of all, I had to watch this match twice, once to soak in the overall action, and once again just to delight in tracking Trent’s sweat stain as it slowly grows across his pink trunks. It starts early, stretching out from his ass crack, and progressively and entertainingly soaks him front and back. Trent’s ink is also astonishingly gorgeous, and he has a highly erotic way of talking out of the side of his mouth (literally) that’s a major turn on. He also manages a very enjoyable reversal partway through this match, after suffering meaningfully between Jayden’s whipcord thighs in an agonizing body scissor. Still trapped between Jayden’s knees, Trent crawls to his knees with Jayden still attached to his mid-section, then his feet, and with impressive strength and balance slaps on a bearhug that leaves the long-n-lean one limp in his arms and screaming.

It may just be because I’m feeling contrary. And I’m the first to admit that I’ve been accused of possessing an oppositional-defiant personality disorder, at least periodically. But I have to say that the boy in the ring here that turns me on the most is actually Jayden. He’s not as beefy as Trent, by any means. The two of them give me the feel of boys just out of college, Trent having been a frat boy and football player, and Jayden having been a frat boy (different frat) and soccer player (explaining the lack of love lost between them). I know that some snarky bastard is going to point out that Jayden is the more classically “pretty” face of the two, as if I should somehow be ashamed of that. But Jayden’s doing it for me in this match more so than the pink-trunked bully. I think Jayden should intern and eventually tag-team with Jonny Firestorm, because he has the potential to be another spitfire, wiry, dangerous, pit bull of a ring wrestler. He tells a hot story, too, going for Trent’s relatively soft core with satisfying boot strikes and an internal-organ-rearranging leg scissor. I’m not typically a blood fetish guy at all, but I have to say that Jayden earns himself a cut elbow that drips blood down his thigh in this bout, and I’m simply, instinctively aroused by it.

Match two for Ringwars 19 has Caleb Brand beating the crap out of Shannon Embry. Caleb has an impressively packed pouch, displayed awfully sweetly as he bridges high in the center of the ring more than once in this tussle. But it just has to be said that it’s Caleb’s ass that steals the show. He sports what looks like a painful wedgie from start to finish, which defies even his occasional attempt to pick it out. Hot, tanned, smooth, spankable glutes are surely value-added to any wrestling match, and Caleb is sporting just that. The action showcases sweet pro skills, telling a compelling story of advantage and reversal teetering on a knife’s edge for the first half of the bout between these two high class professionals. There’s fun pacing, a mix of holds, blows, and joint torture. But the best part, other than Caleb’s already mentioned ass, is Caleb’s use of the ring to heap on insult to injury. He tortures Shannon’s knee, arm and back in the ropes. He leaves his pale opponent hanging vulnerably over the edge of the ring to deliver a nasty looking assault on Shannon’s back, and he further sticks to the back abuse mercilessly working Shannon over in the corner (now that’s what a wrestling ring is for, damn it!). Caleb has hot pro strikes, boots and knees flying and plowing into Shannon at every angle as the catcher suffers admirably.

Match 3 is another highly entertaining piece of wrestling art. Whereas watching the sweat stain growing on Trent Blayze’s trunks was worth a second viewing of match #1, watching the sheen of sweat grow in the valley between Alexi Adamov’s fit young pecs is worth an entire viewing or two (with many pushes of the pause button) over and above the ring action itself in match #3. The ride Alexi gives Nick Naughton as the sexy-one hangs from the rafters would be a sell-out at a homoerotic wrestling kink theme park. I’d wait for hours for a front seat! Nick also spends a whole lot of time camped out on the mat with his head stuck high and tight between Alexi’s long, hard thighs, which would surely also be a feature ride at the homoerotic wrestling kink theme park (if anyone ever opens one, I want creative credit). Alexi packs a pair of square cut trunks awfully nicely, particularly from behind. Nick’s smuggling citrus fruit in the front of his tight, tight blue trunks. They bring some very sexy, intense, acrobatic action. These are two rookies, however (early in Alexi’s career with BG East), and it shows. There are a few odd cuts. There’s a bell off camera to give the action some needed borders (which makes me again long for some homoerotic wrestling with a ref and an audience). Nick forgets to use his finisher, and has to come back from the showers well after Alexi is beaten and done with to tie up his rookie-loose-ends.

So, Joe is so right that Ringwars 19 is extremely high quality homoerotic wrestling action. But I still say Joe goes one step too far when he concludes that this collection puts a schoolboy pin overtop of the action in Sunshine Shooters 4. Like Joe, I don’t think that the Z-Man/Patrick Donovan match is really the goods that shine the most for Sunshine Shooters 4, despite the likely strong appeal for many fans of seeing the Z-Man get the BG East treatment. But the intensity of all three Sunshine matches, including Z-Man’s pecs and abs turning fluorescent red from the pounding that Patrick gives him, the incredibly slippery and non-stop shoot between Cole and Tony, and particularly the exhausting, ferocious face-off and strip down between Mitch Colby (back to #1 contender for my favorite homoerotic wrestling pornboy) and Brook Stetson, still makes this decisively the one purchase to prioritize. Ringwars 19 puts up some awfully nice looking boys in impressive ring action. But if you’re in the mood for big, powerful, relentless men in action (well, apart from Z-Man… he’s still got a boyband feel about him), you’re going to turn to Sunshine Shooters 4 every time.

Fresh Favorite

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Along the lines of models as fighters, Xnotdead: The Fagzine has this photo series of model “Roman,” by Arno Roca. This is my first introduction to Xnotdead, and I have to say, I like it. I like the name. I like the feel. I love every smokin’ hot image of gorgeous, naked and nearly naked men featured on just about every click.

I’m not entirely sure what the scope and point of it all is, and somehow it’s still working for me. Perhaps the quirky, intuitive and nonlinear nature of Xnotdead is itself the point. There’s a distinct and explicit celebration of fetish eroticism, and that can’t be bad. Is this post-post-modern art? Or politics? Or erotics?

Whatever. I like it, and it’s instantly on my shortlist of sites. Now let’s see Roman flexing a double bicep over top of some bloodied, crushed hunk flat on his back. Or perhaps some vanquished piece of meat licking the sweat off of Roman’s brow.

I’m hoping to continue to be shocked and titillated, and if Xnotdead is really, really good, perhaps even scandalized.

Kiss It Some More

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Ace Hanson v Antonio – Thunder’s Arena’s No Holds Barred 5

If there’s one image that put Ace Hanson over the top in winning my homoerotic wrestler of the month title, it’s got to be the image of him flexing his huge bicep in Antonio’s face in No Holds Barred 5. Sweat streams down Ace’s forehead, drops falling from his brow. His freckled back is browned from the Florida sun. He presses the peak of his stunning bicep against Antonio’s nose humiliatingly, surely the scent of Ace’s sweaty body filling Antonio’s nostrils. “Kiss it,” Ace demands. And Antonio kisses it. Good God, that turns me on.

Mitch Colby v Jeremy Burk – BG East’s Motel Madness 8
I just don’t really watch much straight-up wrestling these days, but I have to imagine that this is not a common plot development. One man’s lips planted on the body of another is inherently homoerotic. I suppose even straight-up pro wrestling might dabble in a humiliating bicep kiss as an act of subjugation, sort of a bully’s prank, chuckling at the “degradation” he’s wrought on his loser opponent. Some of you who follow straight-up fare can tell me if this does, indeed, pop up from time to time. Regardless of whether straight-up wrestlers work a forced bicep kiss into their repertoire, I still say there’s something essentially, unmistakably homoerotic about one man’s lips on any part of another man’s body. Mitch Colby, with his massive hand holding Jeremy Burk’s head like a grapefruit, pressed the twink’s mouth against his beautiful bicep in Motel Madness 8. That kiss, along with Mitch shoving Jeremy’s face into his crotch and scissoring the twink’s head while Jeremy copped a completely understandable feel of Mitch’s pecs, decisively turned this motel pick-up match unavoidably down the path that would lead them to end up soaping each other up, tongues down each other’s throats, soon afterward.
Kid Vicious v Lobolito – BG East’s Wet & Wild 4
Reigning BG East sadist-extraordinaire, Kid Vicious, may not have the biggest biceps, but they’re nonetheless beautiful and more importantly, devastating. Every KV wrestling match is a morality tale in mastery. And the moral of the story? Don’t fuck with KV, or more truthfully, get ready to be fucked over by KV. Skill, cunning, and the complete determination to sexually dominate will overcome all challengers, particularly fresh faced newbies who think that because KV isn’t a a massive musclebound stud, he can’t be all that dangerous. The Wet & Wild 4 taming of Lobolito captures the image perfectly. Lobolito’s right hand is stretched, seemingly lovingly, across KV’s lower back, his tongue obediently lapping at KV’s rock hard bicep (KV is looking particularly toned in this bout). It it weren’t for the look of abject anguish on Lobolito’s face, the sneering domination written across KV’s face, and the leather studded belt wrapped around Lobolito’s neck, the better for KV to completely exercise his vicious control.

Kid Vicious v Kieron Knight – BG East’s Bootboy Brawl 5

I haven’t seen them all, but I’m assuming every KV match includes his opponent’s lips pressed against his body. And why not? If you’re as accomplished at the homoerotic arts of physical domination as KV, why wouldn’t you insist that every conquest include some carnal worship? Babyfaced Kieron Knight from Bootboy Brawl 5 is clearly an awed protege of the vicious one, as quick off the dime to kiss his bicep as he is to do his darnedest to show the master the best he’s got. To know when to be tender and to know when to be tough is surely the sign of a zen-homoerotic-wrestling master.

Rusty Stevens v Mitch Colby – BG East’s The Breaking Point: Sexiest [by far]
And just to cover my bases on the topic, I also want to mention that I’m a big, big fan of the self-worshiping homoerotic wrestling hunk. Any self-worship has it’s delights, but particularly the self-worship of a stunningly muscled, accomplished and always dangerous wrestler like Rusty Stevens, pushes the same buttons for me as the forced bicep kiss from an opponent (well, the buttons are at least kink-adjacent). It’s cliche, I know, and yet I’m always a sucker for a hunk with baseball biceps lifting his arm to his face and planting a lingering, adoring, lustful kiss on his own bicep. Any beautiful physique can pull this off satisfyingly for me, but particularly a physique that I’ve seen dominate hunk after hunk, inflicting precisely measures quantities of pain and humiliation, putting every aesthetically perfect muscle to no better possible use than to one overmatched stud after another. The bicep kiss is just giving credit where credit is due – showing some love to what got you there, and to what it is that will bring home victory after sexually dominating victory.

Not Ready to Make Nice, Not Ready to Back Down

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I noticed a “where is he now” piece flit across the internet concerning one of the (many) men who I credit with turning me gay (not really): Greg Louganis. Olympic diving gold medalist wunderkind, whenever Greg competed, I was glued to the television when I was a teenager. Well before he came out, I was nursing fantasies of what that incredibly crafted body of his would be like in some man-on-man action.

There’s a pathos about Greg’s story these days that’s compelling. He didn’t expect to live past the age of 33, so on his 33rd birthday, he celebrated as if it were his last. HIV positive and past the point of being competitive in world class diving, Greg apparently had trouble imagining that he’d still be alive, much less what his life would look like at 50.

There’s a generation that’s gone through that hell, now approaching their “mature years.” Well, to be fair and entirely respectful, there’s a fraction of a generation that went through the hell HIV/AIDS in the 80’s and 90’s, now left to face the arrival of an unimagined future. When we’ve got some well-earned distance from this moment in history, I’m certain that generations will look back in wonder at the toll that HIV/AIDS will have taken out of the population of gay men, and the even greater toll that society’s response had, and the mass of survivors will be seen for what they are (yet unacknowledged today): fierce resistors of a society conspired to destroy them.

Normally, I try to have more of a sense of humor about this blog than I do today. World events seem sobering, but actually that sometimes just drives me that much more into the pleasing distractions that I typically ramble on about here. There’s something about Greg’s story, though, that’s capturing a feeling within me today that’s doesn’t feel very light-hearted. Today, I’m feeling a little bitter about the continuing use of “gay panic” to justify all sorts of heinous acts of interpersonal as well as political assault. I’m feeling resentful of a generationally and racially fractured gay community that often as not seems just as ready to tear itself to pieces before the haters outside of the community ever have a chance to. Then again, I’m also feeling deeply, fiercely determined today to not play nice, to not blend in, to not believe the message that to be gay is to be unproductive, expendable, irrelevant or infectious. Strike that last bit. I’m feeling like I want to be a little infectious right now, as unpopular as that probably sounds. I want to make some bigots sick to their stomaches. I’d even like to make some of the gay apologists, the we-can-be-as-straight-acting-as-you-want-us-to-be crowd feel a little feverish and flushed. I’d like to be the sort of gay today that festers under the skin, no matter how much straight-privilege strives to cover us up with make up. I want to remind everybody I see today that I come from a people that are god-damned resilient enough to endure one of the nastiest, most aggressive viruses to wash across the globe in the past 100 years and still survive as a fiercely strong remnant today, even when society is piling on at the very same time with condemnation, discrimination, and outright lies told to strip us of our humanity.

I’m feeling strong, impatient, unruly and socially unacceptable today. I, for one, think the world needs more of all of those things.

Aces

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We’re almost halfway through the month, and it’s about time I gave some much earned attention to my reigning homoerotic wrestler of the month, Ace Hanson.

Ace’s match against Antonio last month was the performance that sealed Ace’s ascendency, but Ace has a deep, deep catalog of homoerotic wrestling that’s sure to entertain fans of big muscleboys with hugely thick thighs. Ace has simply beautiful, doe-eyes with long lashes that give him almost a tender appearance. So much more the devastation that the doe-eyed beauty unleashes when he beats his opponents into the mat with his stunning strength, tenacity, and taste for dishing out suffering. In his “bonus” interview at ThundersTV, early in his tenure there, Ace revealed that he was a competitive Greco-Roman style wrestler through the ninth grade, but he was disqualified about one out of every four matches for intentionally being a dick. This may explain why he excels so devastatingly in the no-ref venue of Thunder’s Arena, where bad sportsmanship is pretty much an essential qualification.

The definitive interview of Ace can be found over at Ringside at Skull Island. Ace-fans will be able to superimpose Ace’s sexy, deep voice overtop of the text of Ace’s interview. Fans will also probably enjoy Ace’s newest release, just out this month (making him another contender for the first-ever back-to-back homoerotic wrestler of the month title), Mat Wars 26. A long time ago, I made what some believed to be disparaging comments about Thunder’s being just a “side dish” of wrestling, but as if in answer, Ace informs Rocky Brick that he’s in for the “main course” after getting pummeled as an appetizer by Cameron Mathews. Fans of huge, meaty thighs squeezed into cut off jeans (they certainly make me feel nostalgic) will also appreciate that the first half of this match features Ace in just such gear, before he strips down to his grey underwear, because “I am just not able to do what I need to do to you with these jean shorts on!”

I think Ace’s appeal for me is not all that surprising. I mean, in addition to his drop dead gorgeous body and wrestling domination, Ace is delightfully quick-witted. There’s just something that much sexier about a wrestler who rhetorically dances circles around his opponent, heaping on humiliation before the flat-footed meat even realizes what’s happened. How can I put this delicately… let me just say that I think Rocky Brick is aptly named, allowing Ace pretty much unchallenged dominance when it comes to trash talk.

Rocky is nearly defenseless about two-thirds of the way through this match. As Ace shoves him across the room and Rocky slumps to the floor, Ace looks at the camera with his arms out, and challenges, “Where are the men? I need a man!” First of all, I’m delighted to hear it. Second of all, I suddenly had a flash of Ace appearing in an entirely different incarnation, wrestling as Eric Reins for Can-Am against Gauge in Sex Submissions.

Stripped out of gear, Ace/Eric and Gauge wrestled nude, and despite the title of the tape, Ace/Eric refused to give up his ass when Gauge reigned victorious. Seems like Ace’s tune has changed these 9 years later, now that he’s pleading for a man.

I’ll let you look up the details yourself, but I just need to say that Ace’s hard cock is almost as beautiful as are his doe-eyes. While I never anticipate seeing him pull it out for Thunder’s Arena (though I have to imagine their audience would double instantly, should they venture down that path), Ace is packing heat and has the full measure of what it is to “be a man.”

Back to his beat down on the Mr. Brick, though: the end of this match brings something new. After trading back and forth pec claws, after slamming one another repeatedly with clotheslines, both big boys end up knocking one another out cold. The camera lingers longingly over both of their prone bodies before it fades to black. But as for me, I’m wondering why that sadistic, opportunistic badboy with a beautiful bubble butt planted on the couch just “off” camera during this match doesn’t leap into action, yank down Ace’s trunks, and be the crowd pleaser he has the potential to be.

Now that would’ve put someone at the front of the line for next month’s title!

The Money, the Car, the Fame

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I’m always in awe of the serendipity in my ongoing delightful stroll through the libraries of homoerotic wrestling. Case in point: I had a hankering to see Reese Wells naked and suffering cock and ball battering in Ball Bash 2. That highly entertaining match reintroduced me to the particular joys of watching Jonny Firestorm relentlessly on the attack. So I was pleased to enjoy Jonny’s latest release, starring in both matches in Pros in Private 8.

Both of these matches appear to be from a few years back, when Johnny was ripped to shreds and awesomely veiny. In the recurring debate over body types, Jonny often pops up in discussion as having fierce fans of him looking smooth, hard, and sporting zero bodyfat, or, conversely, looking hairy, big and beefy. As with many things, I consider myself blessed to be versatile. I’ll enjoy him either way, and there’s nothing at all wrong with Jonny with veiny, shredded thighs and six pack abs.  I’m also a pushover for a thick, tough guy accent, which Jonny brings with him regardless of his BMI.
Again, serendipity strikes, as I’m loving my introduction to Rudy Cortez. I’ve stumbled across pics of Rudy before, but his pics just don’t capture his sexiness-in-motion. In particular, Rudy possesses an incredible ass that absolutely hypnotizes me as he wrestles. When I can tear my eyes away from his glutes, I’m also appreciative of Rudy’s handsome face and, most of all, his awesome athleticism. Like Jonny, Rudy is clearly an accomplished amateur wrestler who does a fantastic job of translating his skills into a pro ring.
Both Rudy and Jonny are pretty understated characters, by my estimation. They’re both eerily cool and confident, of few words, and emotionally ranging primarily between fierce and suffering. This is Jonny’s match from start to finish, though. Not that this isn’t a fantastically competitive confrontation, but the moment that Jonny strolls in, looking like a souped up version of a 17 year-old skater boy, explaining that he came to BG East for the money, the car, and the fame… from that point on, this story just seems to me to be all about Jonny.
Watching two highly skilled, hot young hardbodies throw, slam, squeeze and fly like this is awesomely entertaining and, what’s more, a major, major turn on for me. This match is one of those that has me frequently gasping in appreciation and wonder and breathless, over and over again. This is also one of those products lawyers should require come with the caution, “Don’t try this at home,” because these boys are nothing if not professional drivers on a closed course.

They both bend and bounce like rubber, putting each other’s bodies on beautiful display. These are classically gorgeous bodies locked in class pro wrestling. Jonny turns on the gas about two-thirds of the way through, relentlessly climbing back on top over and over to beat Rudy further and further into the mat. It reaches that point where I have to ask myself if Jonny will be satisfied with anything less than Rudy’s broken neck. In the end, watching Jonny work so hard for every single inch against Rudy, it leaves me wondering how Jonny feels about “the dream” these days, now that he’s tasted “the money, the car, the fame.”

No One’s a Winner

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My reigning favorite homoerotic wrestling pornboy, Trent Diesel, is wrestling in this week’s Naked Kombat release against Paul Wagner. I’m always thrilled to see Trent’s marble-carved physique slated for combat. There’s something about his shoulders in this match that captivate me. They’re just huge and hard and look like something out of a superhero comic book. Damn, I’m a fan of Trent.

But something goes terribly, terribly wrong in this match. It’s not the inadvertent knee to Paul’s forehead that makes the big, hairy brute look like he could punch a hole in Trent. No, frankly, that injury time out is fantastically hot! When a wrestler really gets popped and you can see the impulse wash over him to unleash the beast in an ugly brawl, that’s extremely arousing for my tastes. Sucks for Paul. Works wonders for me.

What goes wrong in this match is not the travesty of scoring that absolutely rips the rightful victory out of Trent’s grasp. Again, oddly enough, some rigged officiating can add up to extremely erotic tension, with bruised egos and righteous indignation fueling an “oh-no-he-didn’t”plot twist that demands an even more intense battle to right the scales of justice. I mean, even the post-match interviewer agrees with Trent that he thought Trent had the victory sown up decisively at the end of round three.

What goes terribly, terribly wrong in this match is that it ends in a tie. A tie?! Above and beyond the shady scoring that surely owes itself to Paul blowing the ref before the match (just speculating), just the fact that a Naked Kombat match ends in a tie is just wrong. What do you do with “round 4” when round 3 ends in a tie?

It turns out, NK also doesn’t know what to do with round 4 in this scenario. The ref announces the score and then, with a smirk, tells the boys to figure it out. Trent and Paul proceed to make out a lot, and then take turns sucking and fucking each other in the jacuzzi, all equitable and even-steven. In other words, this is not “round 4.” This is every vanilla gay porn scene ever filmed. Now, I’m not saying that I get no value added from watching Trent’s gorgeous body in action. But this is just no “round 4.” It’s not particularly kinky. It’s a pinch-hitter who bunts.

The post-match interviews are as awkward as the disappointing round 4, in my opinion. The boys try to give the no-win scenario a redemptive narrative. “We flip-flopped on the mat,” Paul awkwardly explains, “so we both sort of dominated” in the sex round. Trent works harder, and still more awkwardly, to cast the sex round in a positive light. “It was really hot… all the making out… the lack of power struggle…. We were both in charge. It was beyond compare…. yeah, so hot.”

I love you Trent. You are absolutely my champion. But “the lack of power struggle” is precisely what makes the ending of this match fall out of the category of wrestling kink. The action before the end of round 3 is intense and highly rewarding, but round 4 just goes off the rails entirely, coloring the whole match a shade of beige. To dominate, to tame, to conquer and then claim the rightful spoils of victory is the essence of homoerotic wrestling kink, as far as I’m concerned. Round 4 has never been done better than a victorious Rusty Stevens, snarling humiliation down like a thunderstorm on his loser opponent, taking any pleasure he wants, and then slapping on an elbow snapping armbar, making his crushed opponent jerk-off with his free hand to within a second of climax, and then demanding that he stop, denying the loser’s rising desperation to get off, until Rusty decides he can get off. “No power struggle,” indeed. No winner, more like it, and that’s just not nearly as hot.

Playing Hooky

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Members of the Sidelineland wrestling fiction group will have received a notice by now that I posted a new story there. For newcomers, Sidelineland is site for any original wrestling fiction that you’d like to share. I’ve posted a lot of my own diversions there. Anything that doesn’t really fit in the Producer’s Ring universe, I drop over at Sidelineland. Several other contributors have also posted materials, including a sweet, ballsy challenge from Bearhugs a while back. He started a story featuring young, dumb, hopeful Shane angling to call in a favor from an old high school buddy in order to break into the local pro wrestling scene.
Shane from “Shane’s Big Break”
I want to say again how hot I think it is to get a writing challenge like that. I’d love to see more of that, and not just challenging me. There are a ton of good writers on the Sidelineland list, and many, many more of you have mentioned planning to submit a story than actually have (consider this your Lenten discipline). Anyway, it turns out, Shane’s old “buddy” from high school, Neil, has ulterior motives in mind when he offers to give Shane his big break in the pro wrestling biz.
Neil from “Shane’s Big Break”
Neil unleashes some nasty brutality on his old buddy, working Shane into a slobbering, jelly legged mess. Worse still, Neil hoists Shane over his shoulder after the match is over and hauls the battered boy back to the locker room for more intimate punishment. That’s where Bearhugs handed it off to me. I had a blast writing part 2 a couple of months ago, in which Shane and Neil are signed to make big bucks for some first-class ticket holders who get to stand ringside, once the unwashed masses have left, and call the shots. They get to choreograph their own kinks with, understandably enough, Neil dominating with his body builder physique, getting worshipped, muscling Shane around like so much furniture, and then finally fucking his old buddy in the center of the ring. When all is said and done, Shane has a pocket full of cash and his signature on the line for at least another 3 months in the biz.
Mikey from “Shane’s Big Break – Part 3”

I really have other things I’m supposed to be working on right now, but I’m feeling some resentment about my work obligations. In other words, I’m easily distracted. As a result, I pretended to be working yesterday afternoon when I was, in fact, writing chapter 3 to Shane’s Big Break – “Home Town Hero.” With fear and trembling and a hole burning in his pocket, Shane returns to the wrestling promotion a week later. To his immense relief, promoter Joey has decided that Shane needs some redemption and a lot more legitimacy in the ring if he’s going to be able to milk a storyline for him for 3 months. As a result, Shane is matched up with the former lightweight champ, Mikey, who’s just returned from an injury hiatus. Mikey is a pro, and he’s happy to give the rookie the spotlight and the three count victory. Shane is on cloud-nine. He’s intoxicated with the turn of the crowd to rally behind a cute-if-dumb new babyface. He’s soaking in the fan-worship with hot little hardbody Mikey writhing on the ground beneath him. And then Neil shows up to keep it real.

Full credit where credit is due: Shane and Neil are Bearhugs’ intellectual property (I have no idea where he found the pics for them, so I have no idea whose property those are). I’ve introduced a couple of new characters that I’ve sketched out on my own for chapter 3, including Mikey (pictured above, pic snagged from nameless Fight Planet archives), and a heavyweight veteran who goes by Dino the Greek, which, it turns out, is actually BG East’s intellectual property, as they have a rookie by that name in a new release. I had no idea from where in my subconscious I’d pulled that name, but it turns out, it wasn’t all that deep in my subconscious at all.

Anyhoo… I’m really, really supposed to be working again now. I hope fans of the homoerotic wrestling fiction will enjoy the third chapter in Shane’s Big Break, and I hope to see more ballsy, literary smack down challenges like Bearhugs’ in the future.

Catching Up

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I had an awfully sweet message come across the Producer’s Ring group, just checking in to make sure that I was okay after about two and a half month’s absence from posting new fictional wrestling matches. It’s nice to be missed! Once I’ve got a crazy-ass major project under control for work, I’ll be thrilled to be back to writing more wrestling fiction. Perhaps more relevant to you, I’ll also be happy to share what I write.

On an unrelated note, I thought I’d update you about my hacked email account. I changed all my security settings, but my account was continuing to be used to send spam to my small list of contacts. Worse, my hope that perhaps the spammer was a hot, ripped young punk (picture Johnny Lee Miller via Hackers… I am…) just wanting to stir things up and perhaps grab my attention for an invitation to wrestle, appears to be unfounded (the coward). I’ve killed off that email account in the hopes that a slash and burn approach will kill the invader’s opportunity to annoy my online friends. My email access has migrated, and I feel somewhere in between a full-on resurrection and an enlistment in the witness protection program.

I’ve also noted, as has an eagle-eyed reader, that some of the muses for my homoerotic wrestling fiction has been showing up in the internet spotlight in the past couple of days. Every time there’s a new photo shoot of Andrew Stetson, I get requests to revive his role as a player in the Producer’s Ring secretarial pool. His selection as Socialite Life’s Male Model Monday boy earned him another pitch from a reader wanting to see him in action again. If only Andrew knew the profoundly loyal fans he has among the homoerotic wrestling crowd!

I totally get it. Andrew’s a smoking hot model. I love his ink. I love his eyes. I adore his abs. I’m a little intoxicated with staring at the boa constrictor that appears to be coiled up in the pouch of his underwear.

I’ll have to double check my story line, but I think for there to be any semblance of literary continuity, Andrew will have to be pulled off of duty as Luke’s personal whipping boy in order to find himself front and center, starring in another Producer’s Ring wrestling match. He’s been seriously crushed in body, mind, and spirit, and seeing him again will be nothing short of a resurrection. As is evidenced by my feelings at claiming a new email address, that’s not out of the question. Whether he’s resurrected in the manner of Calvary or more like Pet Sematary, remains to be seen.

I was also pleased to see over at Homotrophy another muse, namely Bernardo Velasco, has momentarily claimed the front page. Bernardo showed up as the model for a fighter in the most recent chapter of my superhero series at Sidelineland. I received a couple of comments adoring his tag team partner in that story, but no one has mentioned being quite as enamored with Bernardo as I am.

And speaking of smuggling astonishing wildlife in the pouch of your underwear… holy shit. Can you develop lower back problems hoisting around that much mass hanging from your crotch? Good lord almighty, if anyone has a pic of Bernardo’s cock, you must send it to me immediately. We’ll negotiate your reward.

In my imagination, Bernardo’s form is transposed onto a character I’ve dubbed “Remote” for his power to manipulate his opponents’ bodies telekinetically. Indeed, he has our protagonist, Nova, in a bad way, beating the living crap out of him from across the arena. He has Nova in a bad way, that is, until Nova remembers that he also has an ability to manipulate his opponents from a distance. In Nova’s case, it’s the ability to ignite his opponent’s libido, and once Nova grabs hold of the initiative, he quickly has Remote gasping defenseless on his knees with precum dripping from the head of his cock “like a leaky faucet.”

If anyone has a picture of Bernardo specifically in that situation, you can pretty much name your price.

In any case, despite my absence from posting new fiction, and despite the death of the email address I’ve had for years, I’m still alive, still obsessed with homoerotic wrestling, and looking forward to more fully engaging my imagination for my (and, by extension, your) entertainment soon.

Tats Named

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No one won the grand prize for perfect marks on yesterday’s quiz. One regular reader came pretty damn close, but he’s only getting a gold star. Here are the answers that would have won someone a pic of one of my tats:
Tat #1 belongs to…
…Rusty Stevens.
This pic was from his delightful clash of the titans with Mitch Colby, wrestling for BG East’s Breaking Point release last summer. Fan-freaking-tastic match, which was one of my all time favorite moments of the year.
Rusty also has those provocative lipstick-tats around his crotch and ass. Damn, I’m still bitter that he’s forsworn porn.
Tat #2 belongs to…
…Derek Da Silva.
There’s a bit of mystery about precisely when this posed pic may have been snapped, but I do believe it was in conjunction with his Jobberpalooza 9 beatdown of Kevin Lee.
All that astonishingly gorgeous ink, that wide, muscled back, that incredible ass, and the delightful pain-play… Derek is a homoerotic wrestling god as far as I’m concerned. And he has entertaining tweets.
Tat #3 belongs to…
…Angel.
Specifically, this is Angel’s 2-on-1 scrap with rookies Jackson and Scooter in Mat Wars 22 for Thunder’s Arena.
In case you missed it, 5’5″, 135 pound Angel is the 1 in this 2-on-1, but that awesome sleeve and the ribcage ink even the score, as far as I’m concerned.
Tat #4 belongs to…
…David Taylor. 
In particular, this is David getting a riding rear choke from the owner of Tat #1 above, Rusty Stevens, for Can-Am’s Wrestle Bait.
I think David’s ink is possibly the most attractive in homoerotic wrestling history (me being the judge, of course). His long-held bearhug, suspending Rusty off his feet, with Rusty sitting across David’s fantastic erection like a fencepost, is also possibly the most arousing homoerotic wrestling image I’ve ever had seared into my memory.
No one ventured a guess at Tat #5, which in fact belongs to…
…Can-Am’s mysteriously named “Derek.”
Linger a while on the slabs of beef that are this man’s pecs, then continue when you’re ready to learn more.
So Derek, or Derek(2) as he’s listed in the by-model search at the Can-Am website, was quite the eye-catching muscle stud when I first caught sight of him in promotions for Ropin’ Ruckus. His pubescent, is-this-guy-legal opponent here is Oliver Swift. Derek was one handsome hunk of beef, who appropriately enough gets roped and ridden by young Master Swift. Derek(2) also appears in Can-Am’s Hotel Hell: Toronto and SuperMatch 25/26 tape for those of you as taken with the sight of him as I’ve always been.
So nicely played, those of you who checked your scores with me privately. Keep studying, and one day, perhaps, you’ll be teacher’s pet.