Author: wrestlebard

I'm a gay man with an active imagination.

Words and Silences

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It doesn’t take long reading this blog to realize that I am a big fan of dialogue. It’s one of the texts that makes a homoerotic wrestling scene sparkle. I’m not a fan of a wrestling scene filled with silence broken by only the occasional grunt or gasp, even when the combatants are doing everything else that I love (yes, Enforcer, I’m talking about you!). Some sweet, snarling, domineering dialogue makes the contest more than just about the bodies. It should be about heart and soul and ego and will, and that story can get a major assist with letting the boys say something about what it all means. I’ve been fishing through my collection of inspiration lately, and a couple of snazzy talkers have made me smile (and swoon) all over again.

In Gear Wars 1, Kid Karisma shows that he’s all about dialogue-as-humiliation as he and Rocco go for broke to be the first to strip the other wrestler’s gear off of him. From start to finish in his match, Karisma offers a running commentary that’s every bit as arousing as the visuals (and that’s saying a lot!). For example, at one point Karisma is, for the moment, having his way with Rocco, claiming his back at will and choking him to submission with Rocco’s own shoulder strap. Karisma is loving the moment. He’s loving himself. He’s loving being in total command of Rocco’s body. He flings him to the wall and stands up, flexing and admiring himself (get in line, Kid K!). Rocco coughs and gasps, clutching his throat, causing Karisma to laugh derisively. “Oh, you don’t want to get choked any more? Cute… cute. How’s that look, huh?” Kid turns his back on Rocco and peels his singlet down, leaving his world class muscle ass bare in his jock strap. “Yeah, oh, I think you want to get choked by something else, don’t you?” Turning around to face Rocco, he pulls the front of his singlet down and bounces the pouch of his packed jock-strap in the palm of his hand.

It’s poetry, I tell you! It’s nothing that I expect to find in straight up wrestling, and it’s everything and more that I look for in full-on, no apologies homoerotic wrestling. It’s like performance art mashed up with poetry slam mashed up with my fondest locker room fantasy.

Rusty Stevens still holds possession of the title as my favorite homoerotic wrestling pornboy these days, in no small part do to his lightening fast, razor sharp, verbal wit on the mats. One of the many  moments that Rusty has Mitch Colby on his back, schoolboy pinned in the Breaking Point, Mitch is squirming and gasping for air as Rusty sits on his chest and slides forward, shoving the pouch of his sweat-soaked jock-strap onto Mitch’s face. Mitch’s muffled gasps are cut short by Rusty’s package pressed against his lips, “I… I can’t….”

“What!? You can’t what?” Rusty delights, looking down. “You can’t breathe? Losers don’t get to breathe!” Rusty snarls, slapping Mitch’s face with his cock and pulling up on Mitch’s head, shoving it harder into his crotch in complete humiliation.

Again, I say: it’s poetry. Sweaty, muscled bodies clutching, squeezing, grinding and controlling one another to the beat poetry of verbal domination. Fantastic. Simply fantastic.

Brutally Cautious

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Raging Stallion has released new promotional pics for the much anticipated release of Brutal. It’s available for pre-order, but I’m not seeing when the actual release date is. According to the extensive product description, “Thrust in the face of total domination some men submit, some men fight back and some men champion!”

Brutal appears to be primarily alumni week for veterans of Naked Kombat. The cast includes NK battleboys Brenn Wyson, Phenix Saint, Race Cooper, Tommy Defendi, and my #1 favorite homoerotic wrestling pornboy, Rusty Stevens as well a my July homoerotic wrestler of the month (and rising stock in my favorite rankings… watch your ass, Mitch) Trent Diesel.

The promotional pics are fantastic! Very high quality photography, with the boys telling a dozen stories with each frame. Glossy, sweaty, stylized, and ready for hanging on the wall, the pics alone are a wrestling/fight fetish fantasy.

The movies themselves (two, two disc features apparently being released simultaneously… who should have to wait for a sequel?), on the other hand, are leaving me just a little cautious. My read of the description makes me suspect that “part 2” is a little more pitched toward my tastes, with perhaps a little more of a nod to the heat of competition rather than a rush to a quick beat ’em and rape ’em motif. I’ve been sold before by Rusty, Trent, Phenix, and Race, and it looks like “part 2” is also where that constellation of the cast seems to concentrate. It’s entirely possible that both parts may shortchange the actual eroticism of wrestling as they speed on by to linger over the standard fuck and suck scenes from every camera angle. That’s sort of what I’ve come to expect from the porn-tries-wrestling approach, which has served only to remind me that’s it’s the wrestling-as-homoeroticism that’s actually what occupies my fantasies.

In any case, Trent in particular is looking astonishingly fine in his promo pics. In part 2, he’s reportedly throwing down with Hugo Milano as coach Race Cooper watches. In porn-style, the scene apparently morphs into Race’s imagination of how hot the two fighters would look having sex. This is just the sort of element that makes me cautious. The stills of Trent and Hugo in competition make me all sorts of excited, but if that too quickly turns to a boom-chick-a-boom close up of Hugo’s cock sliding in and out of Trent’s ass, then I’m going to be bitter. Not that I have a problem with cocks and ass in action, but a fade out away from the wrestling domination scenario to cut straight to the sex is not pitched toward and audience of me.

There’s a description of what’s sold as an MMA competition scenario between Rusty (whose website is back up… hooray!), and Angelo Marconi. If the actual action is as short-lived as the description makes it sound, then, again I say, the porn-dabble into wrestling fetish will leave me disappointed (what about the pony ride?). A dominating, sneering, crushing Rusty is just wasted on truck-stop bathroom cruise scene, for my tastes.

I don’t know all of these boys, and clearly I haven’t seen the product. The stills are instantly cherished images, and the potential continues to give me hope. The description, though, suggests that this may look more like the standard porn script that uses a scenario, any scenario, as the context for the same, well-worn porn-sex extravaganza that we can find wrapped up in just about any packaging we might like. You know me, though. I’m a sucker for a promise and a fantasy, so I’ll probably check out at least part 2. I’ll let you know what I find.

Gasp!

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*Gasp!* AllHotMen drew my attention to the cover of DNA, and coverboy extraordinaire, Todd Sanfield. It’s moments like this that I just have to sit back in awe that there is something this beautiful in the world.

This almost hurts, he’s so hot. Frankly, I’m finding some prior work of Todd’s that illustrates that he has been quite hot for a while, but these DNA pics are just from another planet! Everything about him is just a little bigger, harder, rounder, more defined. Hell, I’d even say there’s something even more handsome about his face, which just doesn’t make any sense to me (I am looking at the same guy, aren’t I?).

And then, there’s that ass! Good grief! A hot, huge, gorgeously muscled hardbody who’s this generous on camera is making it hard for me to keep my mind on my work today. In this upward dog pic, he’s illustrating just how much he’s aching to get tortured in a camel clutch wearing only his tube socks.

Oh………. mygod. I’ve got to get back to writing in the Secretarial Pool. I think Todd could give Luke Guldan a run for his money in my fitness model muscleboy wrestling imagination.
*Gasp!*

Under the Big Top

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Towleroad’s plug for the PBS series “Circus” caught my eye last week. Well, okay, it was the photo of the hottie twin jugglers appearing in the PBS series that caught my eye. It instantly inspired me to Google them, which took me to their website. Like any reasonable gay man on the hunt, I immediately went to the galleries, where there were dozens of pics of the handsome, hard circus hunks.

Going back for a return visit yesterday, I discovered that the boys’ website is now “suspended.” I’m guessing that a horde of lustful gay boys like me swamped their server. Thus is the price of fame… and being identically gorgeous, young, blond, tightly muscled, scantily clad pretty boys.

Who among us hasn’t had a fantasy starring acrobatic, abercrombie-esque blond sexpots? Ever since the Brewer twins, many of us have been haunted with the perplexing, multiple-taboo-confronting fantasies of twins that like to strip down, show off their bodies, and look amorously at one another. While Jake and Marty LaSalle don’t actually fill this bill (no real amorous looks that I can find), they don’t seem to have any problem posing shirtless, arms around each other, and if they’re smart (and they appear to be), I bet that they know they’re marketability as performers can’t help but be enhanced by the homoerotic subtext that I’m reading into their story (to be clear, it’s not there… I’m reading it into their story).

On the tragic  news that Jake is breaking up the act to go to medical school (that selfish bastard), I’m reminded of the very first, full-on, gay fiction I ever read. It was also a circus story, penned by Marion Zimmer Bradley, entitled The Catch Trap. I haven’t read it for over a decade now, but as I remember it, The Catch Trap explored the growing romantic relationship between two young trapeze artists in the 1940s, helpfully rendered on the cover as gorgeous, muscled hunks with bulging pecs, wearing skin-tight leotards.

The juxtaposition of the real-life prettyboy circus performers, the LaSalle brothers, and the fictional homoerotic romantic romp of The Catch Trap, makes me ponder the role of performance and imagination in homoeroticism in general. Heirs of centuries of suppressed and repressed “real” stories of men who love men, many of us are still left with only our imaginations to fill in the blanks of how our kind lived and loved throughout history. The performance of hardbody, hunky, circus straight boys today and the entirely fictional creation of hardbody, hunky, circus gay boys fifty years ago both appeal to the same eroticized imagination, I think. I’ve often been dismissive of stereotypes of the “creative gay man,” destined to be an interior designer or a tortured artist (or both), but perhaps there is something not-quite-hard-wired about many gay men, engineered upon this foundation of suppressed lives and loves. We read between the lines, read into otherwise unrelated text, and imagine out of thin air our homoerotic motifs because we don’t have the benefit, even today, of seeing romance and sex and normative relationships of ourselves in 99.99% of films, television, books, poems, etc., etc. Perhaps the muscles of our creative imaginations are, indeed, more defined, toned, and sturdily built than others, because that’s the way we’ve had to cope with rejection of all things homoerotic in mainstream culture.

In any case, I’m finding myself lusting for some big-top boys in tights these days.

Tag-Team Torture

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I’ve been getting more requests lately to collaborate on new wrestling fiction. Teaming up is one of my favorite genres in homoerotic wrestling, so this just seems to have all sorts of great potential.
I’ve been told by someone who should know that tag-team wrestling in the homoerotic genre is pretty difficult to manage. I don’t know if it’s coordinating schedules, having enough time to generate some entertaining chemistry, managing four bodies flying through the ring without any permanent damage… I could imagine any and all of these things could be obstacles to more tag-team homoerotic wrestling products.

And I suppose that some of the same potential pitfalls and obstacles to getting 4 hunks in the ring to tell one story may also have parallels in the work of co-authoring original fiction. Schedules, working chemistry, making sure no one gets a permanently injured ego… the give and take and intrinsic balance required to collaborate and co-author requires finesse. I firmly believe that not everyone can partner up with just anyone. And even when words get on the page, there’s that hard to define element of chemistry that just has to be there or else it isn’t…  All the moving parts might work, but if partners just aren’t in sync, it may just fall flat.

But when it works, teaming up can open up a lot of possibilities that are closed to me when I’m devoted to my singles career (so to speak). Teaming up to take on a big, big project that would probably defeat either one of us alone is a good example. Wrapping our minds and creative juices around a complex, yet hot property to double-team it into groaning submission can be a sweet, sweet victory. Of course the opposite is true as well. When you partner up to tackle the behemoth project and find that both your asses are handed to you in defeat, it can be just that much more humiliating.

Fortunately, my experiences with tag-teaming on writing projects has been pretty fun and, I think, successful. I like to think that I carry my end of the work load and that I’m pretty easy to work with. And so far, the partners I’ve stepped into the imagined ring with have been delightful to team with. When a new collaborator pushes me in a new direction, introduces me to new characters, and brings their own arsenal of innovation and creativity to a project, well frankly, that’s hot. Watch for some of these projects to get polished off with a double-teaming three-count and published to the Sidelineland wrestling fiction site in the coming weeks.

Reduce, reuse…

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I’m not going to harp on this long, because you’ve heard it before, and I sort of suspect I may be the only one that really gives a damn. But I notice with Rock Hard Wrestling’s newest release that BG East’s Skip Vance has entered the ranks of the recycled homoerotic wrestlers, showing up for RHW as Jeff Hollister.
 

One promoter has suggested to me privately that there really is a relatively small pool of fit, hard hunks willing to strip to nothing (or next to nothing) and wrestle for a primarily gay wrestling fetish audience. Can this really be true? Of course, not everyone has what it takes to make a go of it in homoerotic wrestling, and I’m sure if you’re just looking to moonlight, being immortalized in digital recording in a scenario with at least a nod to eroticism could very well have implications for any other career.

But on the other hand, I have a hard time entirely believing that the pool of young, randy hard bodies itching to capitalize on their six pack abs is quite so tiny. I’m not trying to imply anything at all against the hardworking hunks who’re signing on the dotted line for multiple wrestling fetish operations. Cameron Mathews, Rio Garza, Zack Johnathan, and more recently Donnie Drake, Paul Hudson… the list goes on and on. Ride the horse as far as it’ll take you boys, and more power to you.

But personally, I definitely have a preference for two other personnel management strategies over the promotion of the same boys, often fighting the same boys, often released around the same time. First, I’m a fan of character development. The erotic potential of tracking a homoerotic wrestling character over time is what can transform a wrestling fetish product from a quick top off into actual entertainment. I like it when a homoerotic wrestler has a good working relationship with a given promotion such that he can stick around for multiple products over time, and his aptitudes can be understood, appreciated, evolved and built into a story. My dollar and cents will tend to get invested there.

Second, when I catch a hot, fresh face showing me something new, I’m often eager to jump on that train as well. I hope that I’m not alone when I invest in the end product of good, old fashioned talent recruitment and development. If I am alone, perhaps that explains the penchant these days to reduce, reuse and recycle a few boys from company to company.

Much farther down my list of what I’m looking for in new releases are familiar faces only slightly retooled and packaged with a new return address label. All this chatter from me, I realize, is probably overkill for a product I haven’t even seen yet. In fact, Jeff/Skip’s opponent for RHW, Max Powers, looks like he may be exactly the fresh, hot new element that I’m talking about. And I’m not even going to bother dissecting whether Skip/Jeff compromises the promise of exclusively handsome, rock hard Abercrombie boys populating the RHW world. I’m just feeling the need to grouse a little. That’s for cutting me a little slack.

Boundary Crossing

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I’m a fan of good grooming. That said, good grooming does not always mean the same thing to all men in all circumstances, as far as I’m concerned. For example, a shaved head can be one of the hottest looks in the world. Give me Lon Dumont’s head trapped in my face-to-crotch scissor hold with me rubbing the palms of my hands all over his baby-smooth pate any day (no, seriously, gimme!). But the sight of Lanny Love getting literally thrown across the ring by nothing but his long locks makes me gasp with pleasure. I know that there are strong opinions on shaving body hair out there, but again, for me, there’s no one right way to groom a gorgeous hunk. Gil Barrios and Skip Vance smooth from chin to toe as they wrestle has an undeniable erotic charm for me. Then again, Derek da Silva with a delicious winter coat and hairy legs will entertain me for hours and hours.

I’ve been noticing that lately a particular thrill I’m getting at the pube tease pose that seems to be “a thing.” The hot, hard hunk tugging at his trunks/underwear, giving just a glimpse of his dark curls, is just sending me into fits these days. Don’t get me wrong, I love the full monty as much as the next guy (more!), but there’s something playful, seductive, and intensely erotic about the playful tease shot, as if BGE classic wrestling hunk, Greg Leary, is just begging you to help him out of those barely on briefs.

Male models seem to be all over the pube tease these days. Photographer Rick Day in particular seems to get a ton of traction from the boundary crossing pose that just dares the censors to put up a fight. A helpful reader of this blog recently pointed out Rick Day blondboy, Cobus Jonker, illustrating just the good grooming that’s taking my breath away.

Another Rick Day boytoy delight, Karl Wehle looks like he’s been crushed in the ring, thrown around by that fantastic rats nest on top of his head, and is finally stripping down to shower off the sweat and humiliation sticking to him. The stop-action aspect of this pose just sucks me right in. I’m desperate to lend a hand, to help the story move from where he’s just come from to where he’s clearly heading. Anyday, anytime, Karl, I’ve got that hand free for you (two, in fact).

Researching this theme, I was delighted to stumble across this gorgeous shot of Dane Tarsen, another BGE classic wrestling god. The tan line, the dark patch peeking out over this thumb hooked and pulling at the front of his yellow trunks… everything is so fantastically proportioned that his crotch just seems like a bulls eye. I love me some Dane tying up some unsuspecting punk.

Header boy, Jared Prudoff and this tasty low-slung pic of model boy Sean Sullivan illustrate what it is that catches my eye and makes me desperate to write images like these into my wrestling fiction. It’s a boundary crossing, both literally and figuratively, from PG-rated to NSFW, from the erotic to erotica. It’s the hint of things to come, the tease challenging you and me to see if we can throw these taunting punks to the floor and rip their useless trunks the rest of the way off. It’s a small thing. It’s coy and demure. But it’s also a power switch sending volts of electricity charging through my erotic imagination.

Homoerotic Wrestler of the Month

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After nearly drowning in new releases in September, the crop of October homoerotic wrestling releases from which to pick a homoerotic wrestler of the month is relatively sparse. BG East had an unusual between-catalog release of Donnie Drake’s wrestler spotlight, pitting Donnie against Jobe Zander, Paul Hudson, and Rio Garza. The only real contender for my votes from Naked Kombat this month is Phillip Aubrey’s obliterating squash of Matthew Singer. I think Thunder’s Arena had two October releases, including Z-Man going up against Rambo, and then again in their newest Halloween Havoc release, Z-Man wrestles Big Sexy and Uno wrestles Cage. I’m going to go ahead and toss into the hat Can-Am’s newest releases of newcomer Landon Mycles against Michael Vineland, and yet another Can-Am recycle job of Donnie Drake’s Double Play with fellow BGE alums, Chris Bruce and Rio Garza, even though these two are out only in subscription services so far.

Were there others I should have considered? Let me know (nicely). In the meantime, my personal pick for homoerotic wrestler of the month simply has to be…

Landon Mycles.

So let me be clear that I have more than a little ambivalence about this pick for just one reason: Can-Am TV. That’s the only format that this match has been released in yet. And I hate this format. Of course I love it because it gives me instant gratification, but I hate it because it’s a completely unsustainable pricing scheme (and I do mean scheme). So while I was lured into ponying up 46 cents per minute to watch this match just once, I’m reluctant to promote the release because at this point, I’m also promoting the format. Per minute pay-per-view is not geared toward those of us seriously into our wrestling kink. If I had to pay 46 cents for every minute I’ve watched Brad Rochelle get cracked in half over Jeff Phoenix’ knee, I’d be flat broke. I suppose if you want to browse merchandise that you might be interested in buying outright, the format makes some sense (and I WILL be purchasing this if ever it’s available to buy for real). But I warn you, the minutes fly by and this stuff turns into a nasty, expensive, impulsive habit way too fast for an addictive personality like mine.

That said, Landon Mycles breakout performance against Michael Vineland takes my breath away. He’s a work of art, to start with. Landon’s body is incredibly fit, and his muscles are just perfectly proportioned and toned. He quickly breaks out into a sweet, slick coat of sweat, which always makes swoon. He’s handsome as hell, with a shit-eating grin that makes my knees weak. And he’s all in here, working hard, tossing and getting tossed, and showing some clear evidence of an amateur wrestling background here and there. He moves smoothly, he delights in his moments of owning Michael, and he completely takes me by surprise by selling me his pleasure in getting owned and occasionally worshipped by Michael as well. One particularly haunting scenario (it comes up twice and works both times for me), features Michael snapping up Landon’s leg in a single-leg crab and immediately going to work massaging Landon’s cock. This goes on and on, as Landon teeters on the edge of crying out in pain and groaning with pleasure.

I have to say that Landon does tend to fall into a pattern of what I think of as over/under selling. That is, he may oversell his suffering just a tad (but nothing I can’t live with), and then when he escapes, he suddenly undersells having just moments earlier been on the brink of an excruciating submission. Instead, he pops up with that big, shit-eating grin on his face with 100% suddenly back in his tank, as if he wasn’t just screaming in pain for the past 3 minutes. I think it’s a minor criticism, but it caught my eye repeatedly. Still, this is a breakout performance that’s tailor made to the “grab-ass” sub-fetish I’ve been crazy for lately. These boys are both delighting in each other’s bodies, capturing and being captured, stroking and squeezing, from start to finish. And Landon in particular convinces me that the post-match sex is a sincere climax to the incredibly arousing ring action, which frankly just doesn’t often happen for me (more often it seems to me like the post-match fuck is phoned in). And this is a pro-ring, pro-style erotic wrestling match with an excellent proportion of wrestling kink and final scene sex. So much is going right here, and Landon continues to pop up happily in my dreams ever since I caught this match.

And for that, he’s got to be my pick for October’s homoerotic wrestler of the month.

Short and Sweet

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Yesterday was supposed to be about short, so today I’ll spend a brief moment reflecting on sweet, which seems appropriate for those into the “treat” side of trick-or-treating.

Tommy Zenk (the original Z-Man) figured prominently in the development of my wrestling kink in my adolescence. As the inspiring figure across the banner of this blog illustrates, he was gorgeous and athletic, and he could make me deliriously aroused just by jogging up to ringside. He also had a long career with feet firmly planted in the babyface-people’s-hero role, with an unwavering earnestness that was, for the purposes of today’s blog, simply “sweet.” He was an adolescent gay boy’s knight in shining armor, frequently clad in ass-hugging white trunks and boots (and what… an… ass!).  As I look back, I think how naive I was as a kid, lusting and pulling for the Z-Man to conquer the bad guys. There was something almost saccharine about Z-Man’s character that today would make me long just as hard for a completely obliterating humiliation of him.

So, sweet today, like then, is something hot in the wrestling ring, but for entirely different reasons. Still, I like the earnest babyface in my homoerotic wrestling (as in, I like him crushed). In fact, I think the homoerotic wrestling scene could use some more sweet ingredients (to destroy, humiliate, and corrupt). Every so often, I get a little sugar high off of some of the boys here and there. “Tarzan” Tyler Reese was doing this for me bigtime for his brief incarnation in a loincloth. Tyler worked the feral, great white hope like a champion, if you ask me. His character was delightfully over the top. He wasn’t a narcissist. He was no snarling corner-cutter, either. And the peek-a-boo gear was fantastically erotic and completely impractical. He was selling a primal, law of the jungle sense of justice, all-in. It always made me laugh just a little, and it made me crazy to see someone pummel him mercilessly, rip the loincloth off of him, and choke him with it. Now that would’ve been sweet in an entirely different sense of the word.

Watching Tommy Tara was like sucking on a Butterfinger for me. That handsome face FULL of teeth and that smokin’, classic muscleboy body was the perfect container for a naive kid eager to pit his strength and skill against all comers as he charts his course into the chapter of his life where he figures out who he is as a full grown man. Tommy sold me on his bright-eyed, babyface confidence that right will win out. And when he wrestled Justin Pierce both in the ring and in Tommy Hilfiger tighty-whities AND boots… sweet Jesus he owned me hard just about as decisively as he laid out Justin’s playgirl musclebod. Now, if only the exhilaration of dominating Justin could have just gone to his head a little… if he could have just grown a little drunk on the intoxicating buzz of first hurting, then knocking out cold his stunningly gorgeous opponent… if he’d have lost himself gazing down at Justin’s helpless body, and then rolled him over to his stomach, yanked off Justin’s underwear, and enthusiastically owned Justin’s beautiful ass… well, the story of sweetness in the ring would have been entirely and fully consummated for me.

All right, damn it. This was supposed to be short and sweet. And I’m already completely distracted from the rest of my work, fantasizing about some sweet humiliation, sweet destruction, and sweet corruption. I really, really have to get back to work.

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Short and Sweet

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My nose remains to the grindstone this weekend, so I’m just coming up for air long enough to post another something short and sweet.

My very favorite example of short and sweet these days is Denny Cartier. The way that Denny wrestles, I don’t really think of him being as short as 5’5″. When he was paired up with Joe Robbins in Catch Weight 2 as the one climbing uphill, it actually sort of caught me by surprise. Of course nearly anyone would look small standing next to 6’2″, 240 pound bruiser Joe. Frankly, though, there’s just something about Denny’s presence that makes him seem on a level playing field even climbing into the ring with the likes of Joe. Denny moves like water, has a polished command of the mats, and has a beautiful authenticity that I find extremely sexy (and very tasty-sweet).

Another hot little morsel is Jonny Firestorm. Unlike Denny, somehow I’m always aware that Jonny is a modest 5’5″ and 145 pounds (when he’s shredded). And that’s precisely what makes the quality of his wrestling so enjoyable. Stand him up next to 6′, 175 pound TJ Tanner, and from a distance, this looks like it could get ugly. With a weight and reach advantage like that, knowing nothing else, smart money has to be on TJ to manhandle his little opponent.

But Jonny is all business, with an attitude that dwarfs TJ.  The story of the underestimated giant killer, particularly when he’s tight, shredded, and loaded for bear, is a major turn on for me.

Myke Mars in another one that I’ve seen in action, and somehow didn’t quite register the notable fact that he’s just 5’5″ and 150 pounds. My strong suspicion is that I’m not likely to notice anything other than that extremely aesthetically pleasing, round ass of his, particularly once he gets stripped to a thong. 
Gabriel Ross measures in at perhaps the shortest recurring character in the homoerotic wrestling biz, standing a reportedly 5’4″ and 135 pounds. Gabriel has the face of a perpetually juvenile angel to match his modest stature. That’s where the angelic comparison ends, though. He’s tenacious and perpetually looking to sexually dominate. I’ve only seen one of his matches, which devolves too quickly from wrestling into pillow play for my tastes, but it’s hard to argue that Gabriel is a prime example of short-and-sweet.
Finally, I think Rob Chandler will definitely qualify for my short and sweet rankings, though I haven’t seen him in action to know just how sweet. I love his look, including the tats and the shredded physique built for destruction. At 5’5″ and 143 pounds, he packs a whole lot of domination story into a compact container. Once I save my pennies and own him in motion, I suspect Rob will be sweet indeed.