Author: wrestlebard

I'm a gay man with an active imagination.

I’ve Got It Hard for BBC

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Once again, I curse the fates that landed me on this side of the Atlantic when BBC is premiering the third season of Being Human on the other side. I like this show… a lot. I know, this isn’t news to regular readers. But seeing caps of the 3rd season premier at superherofan reminds me once again. I need to move to the UK for 1) first run enjoyment of Being Human (and other superior shows), and 2) a crack at attending Ashley Ryder’s Grapple 101 in London.

Via superherofan, we see that Being Human 3 delivers precisely the goods that have made me such a loyal fanatic: namely, Russell Tovey’s naked ass. Russell haunts my dreams and fantasies (particularly the wrestling ones) in a way that’s completely out of proportion to his objective stats, I’ll admit. He’s not a hard, Hollywood muscle hunk. In fact, he’s pretty soft around the middle. He’s just so ridiculously adorable in a way that runs counter to characterizing him as “handsome.” And those ears were, undoubtedly, a source of teasing at least at some point in his life. And I think he’s one sexy-as-hell mother fucker (to put a fine point on it).

Being Human SyFy-style isn’t measuring up so far. I’ll say more later, but for now I’m busy skimming through job postings for American ex-pats in Great Britain. How long would my dogs have to be in quarantine?

The Classics

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There’s little that can warm up the chill of winter better than a tight, hot homoerotic wrestler with an unbelievable ass. Jimmy Royce is made to order for sub-zero temperatures, as far as I’m concerned. At 5’10, 180 pounds, blond and blue-eyed, Jimmy wrestled in 7 of the prototypical Can-Am franchise products, Canadian Musclehunk Wrestling (both in and out of oil). I’m warming up just thinking about him.

Jimmy surely gets major credit for enticing me to purchase my first homoerotic wrestling product, Canadian Musclehunk Oil Wrestling 3. More to the point, Jimmy’s ass gets the credit. I still don’t think I’ve seen anything quite like it since. I’m not sure what physical activity a young 20-something pretty boy has to engage in to develop glutes like that. Dancing, perhaps, though I think his legs were relatively underdeveloped in comparison to the astonishing development of those massive, muscled ass cheeks of his.

Wedgies were simply impossible for Jimmy to avoid when he climbed into the ring or oil pit. In fact, before any physical contact, he’d often have at least one of those gorgeous glutes squeezing free from the ridiculously inadequate dimensions of his speedo.

His backside was so eye catching, one could be excused for taking a little while to appreciate the stuffed basket he sported up front. Jimmy was next to none in managing to just barely wear his gear, his cock and balls appearing at any instant ready to pop out of his trunks. Particularly in oil, with his trunks nearly disappeared between his lightly hairy, epic ass cheeks, his speedo stretched so tightly across his crotch that every contour, bulge and crevice was outlined as if with a highlighter.

My hunch is that Jimmy had some legitimate amateur wrestling in his background. He frequently seemed to be working points by exposing his opponent’s back to the mat or mentally keeping count of his riding time, which is obviously nearly pointless in homoerotic wrestling (unless we’re talking about an entirely different type of “riding time”). He was also frequently undone by distinctly non-amateur tactics, such as the inevitable position Jimmy seemed to always find himself in, with his ankles trapped in his opponent’s hands while his opponent shoved his foot high and hard up his ass.

A reader recently asked me if I’d thought about posting more about the aural aspects of homoerotic wrestling, the grunts and slaps and thumps and groans. Of the abundance of delights in Jimmy’s match with Beau Hopkins in Canadian Musclehunk Oil Wrestling 3, the most erotic for me by far was when Beau had Jimmy caught for the umpteenth time on his stomach, both arms wrenched painfully behind his back and pried nearly up to the base of his neck. He was helpless against this move from Beau, and the smirking baby heel milked it relentlessly. Straddling that world class ass, Beau held onto Jimmy’s wrists and bounced his weight up and down over and over, driving Jimmy’s face repeatedly into the oil soaked mat and threatening to pop Jimmy’s shoulders entirely out of joint. Jimmy’s grunts of pain were squeezed out of him in rhythm with Beau’s sadistic bouncing. At first, the air came rushing out of Jimmy’s lungs in low, strained gasps. After about half dozen or so bounces, though, Jimmy’s voice suddenly rose an octave and a half with what had to be genuine pain and a twinge of panic. The last two guttural gasps were more like a primal pleading for mercy, as if signaling to Beau that he just pushed the fun and games a fraction too far. The nasty heel planted on Jimmy’s wedgied ass did, indeed relent, but only with a cocky smirk and sneering chuckle as he reveled in his precise control of Jimmy’s beautiful body’s tolerances.

Jimmy wasn’t the biggest homoerotic wrestler. He wasn’t the most muscular, or even the prettiest (though pretty he was). He might qualify to be in the running for the best ass in homoerotic wrestling, but even there he’d have stiff competition. But Jimmy was a hard working classic, and he can turn me on today every bit as instantly as he did 14 years ago.

It Boy

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It appears that when I was scouting for visual inspiration for character development in my superhero series a few months ago, I unknowingly stumbled across a rising star. Just Jared is reporting that Alex Pettyfer is being touted as “the  new ‘It’ boy.” For my purposes, Alex became the physical template for the character of the benevolent coach of team Trident known simply as Arthur.

By my count, everyone within this fictional universe of mine has tipped his hand with regard to the possession of a superpower, except for Arthur. As opposed to the coach of the Chargers, Barry, Arthur has a soft touch with his team and seems to inspire an easy camaraderie shared between main character, Brett and his teammates.

What attracted me to Alex as a model for Arthur’s character is, ironically, the hit of both maturity and youthfulness in his appearance. I say its ironic because he is, in fact, just 20 years old. I think he has “old” eyes, though, eyes that make me think he holds secrets.

Oh, and of course, he’s pretty. As I’ve defensively pointed out in the past, it isn’t just the pretty boys that turn my crank. But I’ve stuck with the pretty boys as models for my wrestling characters. Genuine babyface characters that inhabit the models of pretty boys seem obvious enough, and for that matter, pretty boys as templates for nasty, vicious heels make for a delightful reminder about books and their covers.

Alex is apparently starring in a couple of relatively big release films and generating all sorts of buzz for what might be in store for the pretty Brit. In the mean time, you may see him in a homoerotic wrestling story near you.

Wrestling Ink

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I think it’s been a while since last I took the time to marvel at the particular pleasures of wrestling ink. While I’m awfully entertained by many of my favorite wrestlers who manage to be a work of art and a blank canvas simultaneouslyl, I continue to nurse a visceral infatuation with tattooed wrestlers.
True, it isn’t Thunder’s Arena wrestler Big Sexy’s tattoos that make me marvel the most. It takes a lot for his extensive and colorful body art to fail to be the most eye catching feature on his fantastic physique. But there’s pretty much nothing that could beat that ass of his, though I, for one, would like to get in line for just that task. As his ass is true to his name, his expansive and gorgeous ink is also both big and sexy. His most recent scrap after calling out devasting muscle hunk, Ace Hanson, is just about the sexiest pairing of wrestling bodies I’ve ever seen.

Another recent Thunder’s match, Mat Wars 22, also has me appreciating some more wrestling ink. Perennial battler Angel is simply stunning for both his beautiful body and the delightful artwork. I’m also intrigued by the sizable crucifix tattooed on the ribcage of new wrestler, fratboy-deluxe, Jackson. Is it sacrilegious of me to note that the crucifix makes me hot to see Jackson suffer even more? Probably. Nevertheless…

Recent BG East matches have also been well-populated with ink lately. Newcomer Hoyt Riley already has a massive quantity  of body art, and it looks like he’s in the middle of getting more. Some outlines ready for shading make me wonder if his beatdown at the hands of Mitch Colby may have provided the down payment for another trip to his artist.

Far less expansive, but still sexy as hell are Jonny Firestorm’s armband and shoulder characters. I’d love to see Jonny both continue to heel and take more ink. Send the pretty, pretty boy rookies to Jonny and the legitimate wrestler rookies to Denny to break in. Denny and Jonny can fight over who gets to welcome the pretty, pretty boy legitimate wrestlers to BGE.

Last, but certainly not least, I’ve appreciated the gorgeous art on Can-Am’s Michael Vineland lately. I’m still a little giddy over his fantastic performance with rookie homoerotic wrestling pornboy, Landon Mycles in Pro Sex Fight 1. I’ve gone heavy on the appreciation of Landon’s performance, including making the pornboy turned “pro wrestler” last October’s homoerotic wrestler of the month for the effort. But credit where credit’s due, Michael accounts for at least 50% of the excellent salesmanship in this match, and he’s bigger and harder than I’ve ever seen him. He’s also got a lot of ink adorning those incredibly sexy, massive muscles of his.

Center for Kids Who Can’t Read Good

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Model David Gandy says that male models are “the lowest of the low.” He bemoans the portrayal of male models from the perspective of Zoolander, as narcissistic, dull, vapid and expandable bottom dwellers. To be a male model is inherently damaging to one’s pride and dignity, because in a world in which men are supposed to be active, conquerors, doers and producers of tangible goods, to be a model is presumed to be the last refuge of the profoundly incompetent, emasculated, and impotent of men.

I’m tempted to be bitterly catty, but frankly, I’m just not going to be. I will say that I enjoyed Zoolander on multiple levels, including the introduction of Alexander Skarsgård into my life, and I still don’t actually assume that male models all borderline profoundly retarded (in the diagnostic sense).

But I’m totally willing to allow that a 6’2″ tall, blue-eyed, granite-chinned pretty boy with a 32″ waist and 38″ chest can suffer. Life may not be effortless even for a genetic megamillions lottery winner like David. To be so abundantly blessed with physical perfection certainly does not suggest that one will be taken seriously, respected, listened to or loved.

David may not appreciate exactly how I imagine male models, but in my own homoerotic wrestling alternate universe, I actually conceptualize them as highly skilled students of human nature and non-verbal communication. In some sense, male models rule the post-apocalyptic world I paint, as insightful, level-headed, brutally calculating masterminds. They are both figuratively and literally “producers,” highly masculine and interventive. They are distinctly not Derek Zoolander.

To have a male model-quality appearance likely does not equate to eternal happiness and adoration, just like to have something other than a male model-quality appearance does not equate with misery and failure. I, for one, am entirely ready to give David Gandy a second look, to conceive of him in terms other than silent, dull-eyed beauty. So perhaps there’s a slight whining twinge to his recent comments (I suspect I live for a year on what he’s paid for a single photo shoot… at best…). But for his troubles, I’m going to make it a priority to write him a highly respected, powerful role in my own fictional universe.

There’s a lesson here for us all, though, not just the world class male models among us. We are more than any one dimension of ourselves. We are more complex than anyone else ever recognizes. We are more beautiful in more ways than we are ever appreciated for by any one person. We are more thoughtful, more insightful, more potent than we are likely to ever be seen as. The trick is not to believe in the simplified versions of ourselves that are constructed around us all the time. Our task is to continue to break down those constricting mirages that are foisted on us, and to continue to live as authentic selves with sincerity and humility.

But Is It Art?

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What counts as porn? I realize far greater (and frankly, far lesser) minds than ours have debated this very question in excruciating detail. There’s always the I-know-it-when-I-see-it approach that only complicates the postmodern dilemma of conflicting subjective realities. Personally, I tend to toss things into my “porn drawer” that primarily and dependably get me off. This means that there are items in my porn drawer that include no nudity, no sex, no cum, but those typically feature a particular quality of wrestling that will turn my crank whenever needed. There’s plenty of nudity, sex and cum shots in the drawer as well, mind you. And then I’ve established (admittedly, somewhat arbitrarily), that to qualify for my homoerotic wrestling pornboy rankings I need to have seen a wrestler cum on camera. But we probably all have slightly different criteria for what merits the designation of our “porn,” and what doesn’t.

More to the point, what does Rusty Stevens consider porn? I’m just catching up with Rusty’s poorly populated blog, where, last October 17, he announced concisely that he retired from porn the week before and has moved to Hawaii. He goes on to post on his blog that he’s go-go dancing, and that he’s a rentboy (damn, where’s $2,500 for a weekend’s entertainment when I need it!?). He’s apparently taking requests for what to post on his pay-site, such as a wrestling match with Spencer Reed.

But of crucial importance in my mind, is whether his “retirement from porn” means that we’ll never see him again working in the homoerotic wrestling industry. Is his mat wrestling performance with Mitch Colby that culminated in Mitch jacking Rusty off in victory considered “porn?” It most certainly resides in my porn drawer, but is it “porn” for Rusty?

Is his string of undefeated matches for Naked Kombat porn? True enough, there’s nudity, sex, and cum in abundance in every match, but it’s hardly boom-chicka-boom-boom, syntho music and bad acting as foreplay for close up shots of anal penetration (okay, there is a little of the typical close up in the last round of NK matches, but that’s so not that part that puts me over the edge).

In short, is Rusty’s retirement tantamount to his hanging up his jockstrap and foregoing any further homoerotic wrestling? Because having owned the title of my favorite homoerotic wrestler for the past nine months, this would appear to leave him completely vulnerable to some hard worker still actively vying for our attention. If Rusty is retiring his title belt, this would just seem to throw my whole favorite homoerotic wrestler rankings up in the air entirely.

Of course Trent Diesel, as the top contender behind Rusty, is well-positioned to kick Rusty’s retired ass to the curb and rip the belt from Rusty’s gorgeously muscled, tight, hard little waist. But I’ll have to let this quandry sit with me a while as I ponder the existential meaning of what “is” is. I’m not entirely sure at all who may populate my top two favorite homoerotic wrestling pornboys once the dust settles. I’m adrift in philosophical malaise. I’m questioning everything and taken for granted nothing.  From his retirement in Hawaii (though he’s for hire in Manhattan through Saturday, take note), Rusty has left me feeling undone and unsettled.

Miles Ahead

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Today I’m offering another dish of sloppy seconds from Joe over at Ringside at Skull Island. Joe’s been on the ball and out of the gates so fast that I haven’t kept up with the fantastic materials he’s been reviewing lately. By my count, I’ve already mixed at least three metaphors in the first two sentences of this post, so no more beating around the bush. Let’s talk about the wonders that are Cody Nelson’s performance against Chris Cox over at Rock Hard Wrestling.

Again, see Joe for the definitive review. I’ll just linger around the edges here. To start with, haven’t I seen that long, lanky tall drink of water that is Chris Cox before? Why yes, indeed. BG East’s Christian Taylor is riding the gravy train of cross-promotional competition now. And speaking of riding, the juxtaposition of Cody’s absolutely fantastic muscle ass and Chris’ impressively stuffed crotch is highly provocative. The fact that both boys keep tugging at their trunks throughout the match makes me want to give the head costumer at RHW an award.

It seems worth noting that BG East has never put Christian’s talents in the ring before, so at the very least, we’re seeing him in a new context. It also seems worth noting that RHW has never, ever appeared to be about to show us the skin and the explicit homoeroticism of, say, Christian’s self-titled appearance against Billy Lodi in Taylor’s Twinks. In a world of more and more recycling, I’m willing to give some slack when the talent is getting repackaged in such a way that we actually see something new.

And frankly, 9 times out of 10 my kink is tweaked more by wrestling in the ring than in any other setting (which probably accounts for me only slowing warming to Thunder’s Arena and yet wearing rose-colored glasses and full of hope and promise for the development of RHW). So Christian Taylor as Chris Cox climbing into the high definition ring for RHW is already revving my engine in a new way.

Cody Nelson once again awes. As Joe points out, Cody is starting to look like a seasoned wrestler. He takes possession of this match immediately, launching an ominous assault that leaves Chris not quite clear on what end is up. Again, I’m just a weak echo of Joe’s point that Cody is selling a strike better and better all the time. Now, if he’d just wrap those gargantuan thighs of his around some poor hunk’s skull and squeeze long and hard, for, let’s say, a good 60 seconds of skull crushing torture, he’d be golden. Cody goes to the stomps and punches a little too often for me. Chris has some better pacing and variety of holds and blows here to keep things fresh. A pummeling has it’s delights, but surely it’s called Rock Hard Wrestling for a reason.

I’m fascinated to know the backstory behind Cody’s determined taunts. “How’s that feel, huh?” he demands as he nearly snaps Chris in half in a Boston Crab. “How’s that feel, getting beat!? You’re buddy’s not here. You’re buddy’s not here to help you out this time… come on, Chris, where’s your buddy!?… Come on, twig!” So the “twig” taunt is obvious. Surely one of Cody’s upper thighs is as thick as Chris’ waist. But who’s the buddy? I haven’t seen Chris’ first RHW match, and clearly I’ve missed some key elements of the drama, damn it. You KNOW that I love the drama!

Fans of musclemen armpits will delight in some of the early punishment Chris dishes out to Cody, as will fans of hair pulling, as Chris persistently throughout the bout drags the big man to his feet by a fist full. I also give Chris extra credit for working in a couple of subtle gropes of Cody’s powerful glutes.

Finally, I’ll just offer an example of the point that Joe makes so well. Cody’s salesmanship is simply hot. He’s taunting and humiliating Chris relentlessly. When he takes the second fall with an abdominal stretch as he beats his fist into Chris’ gut, he finally drops Chris in a heap and steps on him with disgust. Then he looks up to the camera with a sigh and subtle smirk, pumping out a single bicep. It’s as if he’s checking off his list of chores for the day. Make the bed. Feed the dog. Take out the trash. Beat Chris into a blithering, helpless heap. Check.

Cody, like RHW, has come  along way in the past year or so, and I for one am pleased to have been on the journey with him. He still hasn’t figured out what all he can do with those gorgeous, big muscles of his, but he’s learning. He’s learning…

Being Being Human

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The “American version” of Being Human debuts tonight on the SyFy channel. I’m of two minds about this. On the one hand, it really is a clever story that explicitly interrogates what it is that is essentially human about humanity. On that same hand, let me also count the delightful excuse that this premise offers for plenty of skin, including the requirement that the werewolf character wake up naked the morning after each full moon. I’m a big fan of the BBC original, so it’s entirely possible that I may become a big fan of the American knock-off (this has happened before… definitely not with Queer as Folk, but yes to both versions of The Office).

On the other hand, I’m a big fan of the BBC original, and, let’s face it, most American knock-offs suck. And as for the opportunities for fine male skin, I think it may be a close call as to whether the Americans can titillate me to the extent that BBC does. Case in point, the explicitly sexy, seductive vampire character, known in the BBC series as Mitchell and apparently called Aidan for the American version (which is the name of the BBC actor who plays the character, getting me all confused). BBC features the fine, fine Irish beauty of Aidan Turner, with a shaggy head and a carpet of hair across his chest that would mislead one to guess he’s the werewolf in the bunch.

The Americans have cast the perky pecs and cleft chin of Sam Witwer for the part. I’ll just have to see this to say definitively, but my initial take is that the Brits (or, more accurately in this case, the Irish) have put up the sexier, self-tormented vampire. Sam has a harder body, no doubt. He may even have a more classically handsome face. But Aidan Turner oozes effortless sexuality. In a head-to-head competition (and you know where my mind jumps), Aidan embodies the dark, violent, primal lust of a self-denying vampire better than the casting of Sam. I will happily correct the record should I be proven wrong.

Turning to the aforementioned werewolf, it’s no secret that I have a major crush on Russell Tovey of the BBC production. Russell (who has the most entertaining Twitter feed of all time) has shown up in two of my fictional wrestling matches, not to mention hundreds more private fantasies that play through my imagination. He’s got a fantastic ass that gets featured often in Being Human as he wakes, dazed and confused, naked from a night of werewolfing in the woods. Russell is not a muscleboy. He’s more adorable than classically handsome. But he turns… me… on… period. He has an incredible timing and wit that comes through in his acting. True, sometimes I just want to smack “George” upside the head for yet another bout of self-pitying whining. But as soon as I’ve smacked him (and perhaps after a body slam and a head scissor), I want nothing more than to climb into that S&M cage in his bedroom with him and do it doggie style.

The Americans have cast Sam Huntington for this role. George is now Josh, and they’ve clearly played up the “unlikely wild man” angle in casting Sam here. I vaguely remember him as Jimmy Olsen in the last Superman flick. He’s doing very little for me so far. He’s “cute,” not so much handsome to my tastes. He’s in no better physical shape than Russell. And he’ll have to seriously turn on the charm and acting chops to put him anywhere in the same ballpark, and he’ll have the added disadvantage of more prudish censorship of cracks and crevices on American television.

I will be watching tonight, and I’m preparing myself to be disappointed and bitter (just telling the truth). I’m suspicious that this imitation will sink like the Titanic, in which case all that may be left to compare will be these boys relative wrestling prowess in my imagination (you knew that’s where this was headed). Russell and Aidan fought hard and only had their fine asses handed to them in their debut tag team match in my imagination thanks to a dirty (sexy beast) ref on the take. I could see why the American knock-offs might think that they have a shot at bullying their way to success by stepping on the faces of their English/Irish counterparts. I strongly suspect that Sam-squared will run into a brutally rude awakening.

Art Imitating Art Imitating Art

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Did you see that there’s a Denny Cartier sale going on until next Friday!? Run, don’t walk, I say! Someone on the news update list for BG East forwarded me their coverage of my coverage of Denny as homoerotic wrestler of the month. It’s all a delightful, vicious circle, now that I’m documenting their coverage of my coverage of their wrestler, all over again.

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This suddenly all feels like much more of an ego trip for me than I ever realized. My infatuation with Denny triggers this domino effect that turns into a sale on Denny products? I don’t know if there really is a direct cause and effect relationship between my words and your homoerotic wrestling purchases, but in case anyone who wasn’t tuned into Denny’s delights before gives him a closer look, I think it’s excellent to have been part of the chain of events leading to Denny’s introduction to a wider audience. I think he represents something particularly important in the industry that transcends hard cocks and pornstar bodies (not that there’s anything wrong with them!). Denny’s a wrestler, and these days I just don’t think we can take that for granted.

from “Jonny Firestorm in Montreal”

It wasn’t long ago that I was calling out the BG East boys for grossly underreporting the impressive stature of one-hit-wonder Duncan Thomas. I was intentionally provocative, mind you. Frankly I was hoping to get a rise out of them. And my remedy, you may recall, for poking at the BG East boys with a stick, was that Denny Cartier should show up on my doorstep to teach me a lesson in manners. I’m sad to report that this has not happened. No Denny. No doorstep. No overnight bag.

Backyard Brawls 6

Despite Denny not making house calls, I still say he’s definitely worth a second look for those of you who like a strong dose of wrestling in your wrestling kink brew. And if nothing else, perhaps a little extra attention paid to Denny by you and me will pique the curiosity of other hunks in the BG East stable looking for whose face to step on next as they climb the ladder. I can think of no better star for a sequel to Alexi Adamov’s sweat-inducing outdoor wrestling clinic, Who’s Next, than Denny.

Backyard Brawls 7

So I suppose all there is for me to do is to keep being “prolific” in my writing and reviews (I’ll choose to interpret that as compliment). I could grow a little drunk on the ego stroke of inspiring a Denny Cartier sale, but my commitment will continue to be to call them like I see them. If, on occasion, I provoke or offend the fine workers of BG East by my prolific comments, I trust they will forgive me… or send Denny to set the record straight.

A New Chris in Town

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Someone who keeps me (relatively) honest recently pointed out to me that I’m awfully predictable. For example, wave Mitch Colby in front of me, despite his fall from the top two spots in my favorite homoerotic wrestler pornboy rankings, and I salivate like Pavlov’s dog. Or, for that matter, dangle a 6’3″ prettyboy with big hands in front of me as I’m waking up with a cup of tea and my dog napping beside me, and without fail, somehow, I can face the world a little more confidently. 
Ever since those bastards at ABC News passed over the option of promoting Chris Cuomo to the anchor desk of Good Morning, America, I’ve been having a crisis of morning confidence. That is, I’ve been having a crisis until the geniuses at CBS News swept out yesterday’s news and restocked the Early Show with Chris Wragge and Jeff Glor (with regular reports from the field by nerd-o’licious Ben Tracy).

For the past two weeks, it’s been Chris Wragge who is typically the shiny, bright face smiling back at me first that makes my heart beat a little faster amid the morning doldrums. In my intimate morning ritual with Chris, I’ve learned a few things. He has an infectious smile. He has really big hands. He possesses a handsomeness that’s not entirely “pretty,” which surprises and intrigues me. He has a temperament perfectly tuned to the frequency of morning national “news,” which means that he can pull off a little gravitas, but he’s really there for the sexy charm, self-deprecating folksy humor, and a willingness to sell whatever “entertainment” crap that they insist on populating those shows with.

Case in point: Chris won the “comfort food cook-off” competition against his other on-air cast members. Big, thick muscles, a 6’3″ frame, sexy charm, AND he can cook?! What’s wrong with this picture?

Okay, so let me be blunt in answering my own question. In my two, intimate weeks of getting to know him in the morning, it’s not all been dimples and winks. I’ve also noticed that he gets unattractively pursed lips when he’s thinking too hard (there’s an easy solution to that problem, prettyboy). I’m not sure if the Early Show make-up people have a grudge against him, but they consistently apply the bronzer inconsistently, leaving him with a Bozo the Clown air about him (olive-skinned Cuomo just doesn’t face this problem ever, I’d wager!). And while his cocky, sexy charm makes me think naughty thoughts, he also borders on perhaps loving himself just a little too much. I really don’t know his story (despite the gratuitous “get-to-know-us” testimonials the new Early Show team presented the first week), but he has the swagger of a big, sexy white boy who’s accustomed to having the world handed to him the moment he flashes his superwhite teeth and unbuttons his shirts down to his sternum.

Back to my naughty thoughts, though, I’m as predictable as a rainy day in Seattle when I report that everything about Chris screams out for a starring role in a fictional wrestling match in my imagination. The boys of ABC have been sole proprietors of the spotlight for too long, and I’m picturing Chris leading the CBS charge to smack down some opponents and slap down their dicks in laying claim to be the new big boys in the News Division in my homoerotic wrestling universe. With Mr. Blue Steel, Jeff Glor on his right, and aforementioned nerd-‘olicious Ben Tracey on his left, I think all the studs who’ve been driving the drama in the News Division had better watch their backs. There’s a new Chris in town, and he’s ready to flex those pecs with the best.