Author: wrestlebard

I'm a gay man with an active imagination.

Delightful Conundrum

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BG East’s Joshua Goodman (that’s Mr. Joshua to you) remains a conundrum to me. On the one hand, he’s a heartless tease. His wrestling career is all about his mammoth package (at least as far as I’m concerned, that’s what it’s about), but despite being all about genitals, we’ve only barely glimpsed his bare essentials unleashed. His gear, his balls-in-face victory poses, his frequent mid-match hand down his trunks to rearrange the goods… he’s practically screaming, “Marvel at my gargantuan balls!” And yet he coyly, demurely (well, sort of) seems to have a non-nudity clause in his contract. This should make me hate him with a bitter resentment I reserve for few.
On the other hand, when I think of the line dividing straight-up wrestling from homoerotic fare, I can’t imagine thinking of Mr. Joshua as anything but flag-firmly-planted well on the homoerotic side. I’m the first (though I’m sure not the last) to point out that my opinions here may reveal me to be inconsistent, fickle, and potentially even hypocritical. None of those things really bother me so much. But on the topic of grab-ass in homoerotic wrestling, which I’ve been musing about lately, for all Mr. Joshua’s carefully covered assets, he frequently takes matters firmly in hand.
Perhaps not so frequently is the literal grab-ass in a Mr. Joshua bash, but particularly in his more recent appearances, someone’s balls are almost always getting grabbed. When Mr Joshua shoves his own mitt down the front of his trunks, honestly, I cheer (outloud… really). His fascination with his own balls is delightful to watch. It’s as if he just can’t keep from grabbing and tugging at himself (and honestly, haven’t we all been there?). But what connects the dots for me is that Mr. Joshua clearly has an irresistible need to grab hold precisely at the moment that he’s laid an opponent out commandingly. Something has shifted in his trunks simultaneous with his moment of humiliating domination over the punk who had the temerity to step into the ring/on the mat with the power and guile of Mr. Joshua. Even if he doesn’t whip it out and pop off on camera, he at least sells the story that he’s aroused by the act of hammering a barely clothed man down and climbing on top.
I’ve been particularly pleased with the development of his story to include the fact that his opponents can’t help but notice Mr. Joshua’s package and his own fascination with it. They frequently mock him with a crotch-to-face pin (which is an obligatory element in any Mr. Joshua victory), and shove their hand down their own trunks. Nearly no one has the package to compete with Mr. Joshua, though, so even on the bottom, his massive balls somehow manage to come out on top.
Early in his career, the focus on Mr. Joshua’s package was more implied. It was context in which the wrestling took place, as far as I can tell. But lately, both Mr. Joshua and his opponent’s have been taking matters more directly in hand. One of the sweetest Mr. Joshua matches, I think, was the summer’s release of the man himself going up against a much smaller Austin Raines. Mr. Joshua grabs hold of Austin’s throat and balls early and hard, and he gets it back in spades. Austin’s choke and throttle on Mr. Joshua comes in a very close second place to the “teabagging” moment as my very favorite moment in this match.

Perhaps Mr. Joshua’s career left turn can be dated to his utter humiliation in the right hand of Brooklyn Bodywrecker in Mr. Joshua’s own Wrestler Spotlight DVD. It was this match that made me finally tear my eyes away from his package to admire the hard, powerful ass on Mr. Joshua. It was also the match that came closest to consummating the love affair that Mr. Joshua’s crotch has been nursing with the camera, including Mr. Joshua stripped naked and tossed over BBW’s shoulder. As I’ve complained bitterly about prior, though, don’t get your hopes up here. You’ll get a tasty, lingering look at Mr. Joshua’s bare and vulnerable cheeks, but BBW taunts us by refusing to show us the real moneymaker.

The hits and, more delightfully, the squeezes just keep coming in match after match. Giving…

…and taking, the main character in any Mr. Joshua match has got be acknowledged to be the crotch, and sooner or later it’s Mr. Joshua’s crotch that steals the spotlight, crowding everyone else off the stage.

So, while it’s true he unfortunately does not qualify to compete in my pornboy division, as a non-pornboy Mr. Joshua’s wrestling is still all about sex and the wonders that a hard, hot body like his can’t help but bring to mind. On a purely abstract level, I completely respect his decision to just barely/not quite keep his modesty in tact. Much more viscerally, though, I remain locked in a love/hate conundrum when I think about Mr. Joshua… and I frequently do.

He’s come such a long way since he debuted against the emerging legend of chisel-chinned Brad Rochelle as a musclehead with perhaps more brawn than brains underneath his frosted locks. A legend in his own right, as far as I’m concerned, looking back at Mr. Joshua’s debut makes me marvel. Who could predict what hot, productive homoerotic wrestling careers would be represented on the mat that day?

With wisdom born of experience and, I’d argue, an even hotter body today, Mr. Joshua makes me often possessed with the desire to trade places with any single opponent who’s had the privilege of experiencing a Mr. Joshua beatdown. Though, if I found myself in the enviable position of just a handful of those opponents (with Mr. Joshua’s balls resting on my lips), I almost certainly would be unable to honor his contract rider.

Formula 1

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I haven’t been genuinely excited about a Can-Am release in a while. I think Rusty Stevens’ performance in the Arena 1 and 2 were the last to make my heart flutter. But Can-Am Max has put up teaser pics for a to-be-released product entitled Pro Sex Fight 1. Catching sight of blond, blue-eyed bodybeautiful Landon Mycles in the pro ring made me do a double take. All I can say is, “Wow.”

Okay, you knew that wouldn’t be all I could say. You also probably know all about Landon. I hadn’t heard of him, but he’s a pornboy with a growing body of work built on his tight, hard body, square jawed baby face, and blond blue-eyed dream boat looks along with an apparent happiness to screw and be screwed by just about anyone.

I’m really pleased to see Can-Am returning to the formula that I think they do particularly well. Eager, young pornboys giving it their all in a pro ring is just classic Can-Am. Taking a break from recycling wrestlers from other companies in “underground” mat scenarios, the teasers of Landon in the ring with Michael Vineland are raising my hopes for a return of what I’ve traditionally turned to Can-Am to provide. I think Can-Am is firing on all cylinders when they put astonishingly gorgeous, porn quality bodies in a wrestling ring, inevitably heading toward sex with prolonged, straight-faced wrestling foreplay. This is what I’m hoping Pro Sex Fight 1 might be about. From Landon’s Twitter pics, I can already see that the typical Can-Am formula of featuring a performer in a wrestling-first scenario and then putting him into a second product at the same time with a superheroes-first scenario appears to be in the making.

What I’m seeing in the teasers for Pro Sex Fight 1 includes some classic pro wrestling moves, corner abuse, and the delightful line-crossing of pro-holds that you and I know make for a perfect transition into more homoerotic fare. A leg-lock appears to set the stage for a gleeful, sweaty Landon to begin to strip Michael out of his gear. Another shot shows Landon spread-eagled, suspended in the ropes in a corner, with Michael standing on the turnbuckle outside the ring to reign down a barrage of blows on the babyface rookie. So far, soooo good.
An up close and deeply personal head scissors appears to provide the opportunity both for Michael to cop a feel of those incredibly toned pecs on wonder boy Landon, as well as an opportunity for Landon to reach behind him and begin to work over Michael’s cock. The teasers suggest that the ring action charges headlong into full on naked bodyworship, mutual cock sucking, and one star’s ankles in the air getting the enthusiastic treatment for which only a couple of pornboys will do.
All the elements of what Can-Am does well appear to be here. And I’ve been longing for a pro ring turned sex scenario for quite a while. I’ve been concerned that Can-Am is stuck chasing BG East’s tail lately, trying to out-BGE BGE (which I think was always going to be a lost cause for Can-Am, frankly).  What’s raising my hopes and tormenting me with delayed gratification here is not the expectation that Landon will have the spot-on wrestling chops of Jonny Firestorm or the exquisite salesmanship of Lon Dumont. I shop at a different store entirely when I’m looking for full-on wrestling kink homoerotic wrestling, with an emphasis on repeating the words “wrestling.” But if Landon and Michael can hold my attention and convincingly build the sexual tension with straight-faced, all-in (even if not completely polished and accomplished) wrestling performances, then this product could easily be a go-to feature in my library for hot domination porn with enough satisfying wrestling foreplay and context to get my adrenalin pumping for everyone’s happy ending. I’m keeping my fingers crossed!

Nowhere to Run

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Speaking of full on grab-ass, Phillip Aubrey is back at it over at Naked Kombat, facing off with doe-in-the-headlights, baby (baby, baby, baby) faced Matthew Singer. For those of you who aren’t into a squash (and I know you’re out there), this will likely NOT be for you. This is just about as much of a squash as I’ve seen on NK. It’s not like it isn’t obvious how this will play out, even as Matthew gives his pre-match testimonial with a little quiver in his voice. He’s not only in over his head, he’s 20,000 leagues under and wearing cement shoes.
Phillip is one of the NK repeaters that clearly, authentically has some combat training. He has amazing balance and body awareness. He’s irrepressible. He absolutely bubbles up with delight in dominating and humiliating. And dangling wide-eyed Matthew in front of him is almost too much for even me, a certified fan of a delightful squash, to watch. Phillip literally and figuratively spanks Matthew’s skinny ass all over the mat in round after round. The ref reports that after three rounds, Matthew managed to just barely break into double digits on the scorecard (Phillip had around 40 or 50, but I’m guaranteeing you that they just stopped counting at that point). I think they were ridiculously generous in pumping up Matthew to even that low score. He brought absolutely nothing to this match, other than a sweet gasp of painful resignation and a sense of bitter futility about him.
Phillip, on the other hand, has been building momentum since he just barely lost to John Magnum by the skin of his teeth in his debut. If he could nearly take down the mountain of muscle that is John Magnum, Matthew Singer was fated for a painful lesson.
While the technical side of the competition/performance will leave many disappointed, those of us who do harbor some joys in watching a babyface obliteration have much to fascinate us here. Matthew has no place to go, no way to escape, and watching Phillip chuckle with delight in wrapping him up, bending him backward, sitting on his face, and paralyzing the kid with what must be hands of magic stroking at Matthew’s cock… it’s made to order for fans of an authentic squash. And don’t doubt it: Matthew works hard. He’s sweating like a marathon runner halfway through round one. He is NOT just jobbing. He’s just getting smacked down hard with every gambit he tries to throw.
Finally, I’d just like to say once again that I’m a fan of the pony ride. It seems a little too obligatory at times in NK… perhaps a bit too scripted and canned. But watching Phillip ride Matthew (forcing him to bray like a donkey along the way) does something to me that makes me smile. No one rides the pony quite like my favorite homoerotic wrestling pornboy, Rusty Stevens, of course. But having seen Phillip have to pack around the mat the behemoth of John Magnum (weighted down significantly by that massive cock of his), there’s a pretty sweet through-story to watching Phillip exact the same humiliation with such aroused delight on the practicing dummy who is baby (baby, baby, baby) faced Matthew Singer.

Collapsing the Metaphor

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A little while back a reader interrogated me offline about my deprecating straight-up wrestling and fixating, instead, on more explicitly homoerotic fare. If it’s just about “grab-ass,” as he put it, doesn’t it lose the aggro, the potential ferocity? In short, he wondered, in my fixation on the homoerotic, don’t I lose some of what’s essential to an authentic wrestling kink?

First, I want to say that the occasional, seemingly inadvertant (yet literal) grab-ass in a match has quite an allure, even in the context of a match that’s light on the homo or the explicitly erotic. Dom the Dominator and the seventh wonder of the world known as his physique are profoundly arousing for me in most any context. But when he scoops up a young, eager Brad Rochelle to drop him across his knee, digging his fingertips into the gorgeous, round, hard ass of boy wonder… well, I know I’m not alone in wearing out the VCR tape at that precise moment to catch that delightful moment of grab-ass in freeze frame (and later, slow motion). I like to think even the more straight-up performers throw in some gratuitous moments like this. And I adore them for it.
But back to my original point… there are plenty of moments when watching two beautiful men pound the hell out of each other and sell some convincing aggression will be all I need to completely exhaust myself. But there are some periods, such as the one I’m in now, where I absolutely crave the homoerotic component of my homoerotic wrestling. A literal, lingering grab of the ass can catapult me into a deeply satisfying, body-affirming, gay-affirming, passionate place that without it, can leave me feeling a little desperate. The BGE classic, Tommy Lopez, in a mutual, tender ass grab in the midst of a sweaty, snarling smack down is the value-added that I’ve got a major lust for these days.
It’s not just the literal grab-ass I’m talking about, of course. Grab most anything and hold on appreciatively, and it can definitely count in my book. Of course, a cock-grab or a ball-grab (or for those with large enough hands, a cock-and-ball-grab) connects all the dots for the elements that I’m talking about. But frankly, a commanding, appraising hold on your opponent’s chin can leap-frog well you beyond a play-it-straight tussle. An appreciative squeeze of a meaty pec (I’m not talking a claw here, but a grab), sends my brain firing on all cylinders in moods like I’m in right now.
But I love a collapsed metaphor, and a commanding, solid handful of glute seals the deal for me whenever I’m treated to the sight. Another BGE classic, Brian Baxter, had an ass for days himself, so his thumping of Tim Anderson’s juicy melons is just asking for it, begging for it, making me start talking at the screen pleading for a return of that awesome, satisfying favor on Brian. Grab that ass! I’m looking for the element of grab-ass in my wrestling right at the moment.
You know me. You know I can go on and on about the role of imagination, and you know I can fill in the gaps in just about any story to make it suit my particular kinky tastes. But even I, sometimes, find myself feeling like a literalist. So to the reader who complained that I’m too much into the “grab-ass” scene, I do, truly, get your point. And sometimes, nothing else but some grab-ass will do.

I’m Hardly One to Talk

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I’ve been happy to field requests lately from folks who let me know that English isn’t their first language. Several recent additions to my wrestling fiction groups have let me know that their primary language isn’t English. The more, the merrier, as far as I’m concerned. In fact, some of the sexiest people I know aren’t native English speakers.

Okay, let me be frank: a thick accent and the occasional grammatical error are actually quite a turn-on, all on their own. More than once I’ve fallen for some consonant confusion (I’m particularly a sucker for someone with a “y” that sounds like a “j”) offering to take me to the home. I’m dead-on serious here. I’m not making fun, not one little bit. Throw in a twisted idiom, and I’m putty in your hands.

And don’t bother apologizing for your lack of confidence with the irrational minefield that is English grammar paired with American idiom. We who call this language home should be the ones apologizing to all of you who have to pick it up after the age of 5. And I’ve personally butchered several languages quite offensively. I remember distinctly being asked by the waitress in Hamburg if my lunch “geschmekt,” which I mistakenly thought was her asking if I wanted dessert. When I confidently answered, “Nein,” her puzzled look was my first clue to my cluelessness (to the contrary, the food did, indeed, taste delicious). So, please, don’t apologize for your English. I’m the last person to be critical of you for operating in a language that isn’t your first.

And just to disclose fully, I constantly toy with the idea of emigrating, so I’d hope that wherever I might eventually land would be gentle and generous with me as I made myself at home in someone else’s language. We’ve got prominent candidates for powerful, national office here who want to outlaw all religions other than their own, who think the gays should have to register as a public menace, and who believe that creationism has more scientific proof than evolution. If morons like these ever run this country… again… I’m planning on throwing myself at the mercy of a relatively progressive, sane nation that will have me. With the news coming from the German Chancellor this week, I don’t think I’ll need dust off my deutsch textbooks. I’m still hopeful that I could manage svenska well enough, with time, though… possibly français.

So, no, please don’t apologize to me for not being a native English speaker. I just hope that you get enough out of my own particular way of writing to make this blog and my fiction enjoyable. And if you have your own wrestling fiction short story to share auf deutsch, en français, eller i svenska, I’d be incredibly honored if you’d send it along for me to post over at Sidelineland and practice up on my own, deeply flawed language skills.

They’re All Men

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The New York Times is noting an evolution of the it-boy male model from waif-ish twink skate-rat into someone “who feels like he’s a man.” I’m fully on board with this trend, though not, I believe, for the reasons that the NYT author supposes is behind the circle-of-life return to square-jawed handsomeness. I seriously am not longing for a mythical past when “men were men.” I just tend to like my hunks in the barrel long enough to soak up some oaky tannins. A fresh off the vine, cork-and-uncork-it youth is like a Rosé: sweet, innocent, and always trending on the way in or on the way out.  More maturity, a fuller body, and deeper complexity is a lot more tasty, year-after-year.

I’m not an all or nothing kind of guy, though. The skate-rat brawler can tell a sweet story that a big pec muscleboy can’t tell (and vice versa, of course). And a skate-rat slamfest with a big muscle boy can be pure ecstasy, particularly if the muscleboy is seriously taken by surprise by the skate-rat’s ferocity, skill, and determination to bash a hunk.
Of course, talking about a mature body on a male model requires putting pencil to paper to make some counter-intuitive calculations. Counting years on a male model is a little like figuring up “dog years.” The ridiculous pressure to be superhumanly and eternally beautiful (by commercial standards, at least) can skew the numbers, making 30 year old model David Gandy, above, seem grandfatherly next to 18 year old fence rail, Jordan Coulter. For the record, David would bring me to my knees with a come-hither look in an instant, whereas Jordan would require evidence of a sense of humor, cocky self-assurance, and last but not least, a valid driver’s license as proof of age. David facing off with Jordan, with Jordan managing to jump onto “grandpa’s” back and bring the muscle man to his knees with a vicious rear choke, however, would be a delight to suit me in most any mood.
So whether the skate-rats are on their way out, or already returning as chic retro days after being pronounced so-last-year (as seems usually the pace of trendiness), I’m a supporter of diverse bodies, as long as they’re sweaty, locked in combat, and ready to order. But when pressed (squeezed, pounded, or slammed), I’m a sucker for beefy, thoughtful maturity over impulsive, waif-ish twinkiness, nine times out of ten.

The Boy Needs Hand

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Making the rounds is this slice of pouty hotness named Andreas Orihuela. His ModelMayhem profile indicates that he’s 18 years old, at least at the time of his joining up there back in May. Barely legal doesn’t tend to float my boat, but Andreas has a look that belies his apparent age. And, I’m aching to get my fingers in that curly hair and toss him around a ring by it…

Speaking of which, his extremely succinct bio on ModelMayhem tantalizes you and me with the mysterious, singular detail that he’s a wrestler looking to break into modeling. What the hell does that mean, exactly? Why the hell do I care?! I’m a big, big fan of a curly haired, made-for-the-runway, proud-to-be-a wrestler who’s ready to sell his body to sell me a pair of underwear (or whatever he’s selling… fireplace mantels? candles? I’ll buy a dozen of whatever it is…).

The teaser/dropped-reference to being a wrestler (in high school? in an indy pro circuit? in an upcoming homoerotic release coming soon to my library?!) could make me turn bitter without some evidence to back it up, babyface boy! A singlet, pro trunks and boots… (even better) pro trunks sans boots… hell, I’d even take a hot shot in a jock strap to make me truly into a believer (particularly if it’s a shot from behind). You can’t just say, “I’m a wrestler,” and then give me nothing but my imagination to paint some very low rise, shrink wrapped, navy blue boytoy trunks on you as you stretch out your tight, whipcord muscles by hanging from the ring ropes before a brutal, no-ref, fight-for-tops strip match.

My imagination will take me far, no doubt, but let’s see some wrestling credentials to turn the average 500 or so daily readers of this blog into your biggest, most vociferous fan base! If you need a hand with anything, anything at all, we’re here to help, Andreas.

Facing Reality

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Clearly, I don’t live in the Real World. Frankly, I’m a little surprised to learn that the reality television show, The Real World, is still airing new seasons. Hell, I don’t think I could find MTV on my television without considerable effort these days. But stumbling across Scott Herman on YouTube, and then in every other corner of the internet, I now know what I’ve been missing.

Just between you and me, I’m a little sick of reality television. I feel like I don’t want to reward people who attain notoriety from reality television appearances. So my first instinct is to look away from personal trainer/fitness model Scott Herman. Then I see more shots of his scrumptious body, and I just can’t tear myself away.

Some shots on his Facebook page reveal that Scott grew up wrestling, and I for one am terribly happy to see that he can still “squeeze into” his high school singlet. My wrestling kinked imagination is now firing on all cylinders.

It appears that Scott is quite an ally, promoting the gays on many fronts. He’s handsome. He’s hot. He seems sweet. And he’s all for the gays!? My prejudice against reality television star-lets may need a reassessment.

If he puts up some more shots in wrestling gear, I’ll turn into a full blown Scott Herman fan. As it is, he’s definitely now on my radar and firmly planted in my homoerotic wrestling imagination!

Mmmmmm….

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Rafe Sanchez (mmmm… Rafe) entertains me. He’s beautifully proportioned. Every move, every look, every sound from him makes me think “sex.” He can’t peel his eyes away from his own image when a mirror is nearby. The sight of himself flexing overtop of his helpless opponent clearly gets Rafe off. And he’s not alone.


I’ve recently had the opportunity to watch Rafe’s very, very sexy match with Billy Lodi. At first glance, I wasn’t sure that Billy could sell this for me. He’s got the look of a skinny kid with a bad haircut, and that’s seldom a look I’ve got a particular taste for. Happily, Rafe is entirely capable of bringing all the sex needed to make a match entertaining. But even more happily, there’s a combustible chemistry between Rafe and Billy that’s fantastically arousing. At times, Rafe can rightly be accused of not paying his opponents their due. The same narcissistic self-lust in Rafe that hypnotizes me can also be a little irritating when things seem to devolve into being all about posing and preening and less about wrestling. However, this match is a finely balanced combination of the two, and I completely buy Rafe’s pleasure in dominating Billy. When the skinny kid gets some scrappy licks and kicks in on Rafe, Rafe sells the suffering more convincingly than I’ve noticed from him before.

When things turn from punishment to reward, and Billy strokes Rafe’s gorgeous ass, this whole delightful story turns to perfection for me. Billy earned some major, surprise points in my book in this match. And Rafe (mmmm… Rafe) made a powerful play to be considered as a serious contender for my favorite homoerotic wrestling pornboy.

Can You Lend a Hand?

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My post yesterday omitted what is for many, perhaps, the most important sexual behavior of all: masturbating. I’ve heard rumor that there are guys out there that don’t even participate in this mode of orgasm, but no one has actually ever admitted it to me. When it comes to porn in general and in particular homoerotic wrestling kink (whether we want to characterize our favorite matches as “porn” is still entirely another conversation), I suppose the most common mode of consumption is isolated self-stimulating with just the recorded images, the viewer, and his imagination (and, of course, his hand). There’s an element of voyeuristic kink here. To watch, not to directly participate, as an end in and of itself, clearly relieves tension for (nearly?) all of us, and for some of us, it’s the exclusive means of carnal delights.

I’m a big fan of taking care of my own business on a routine basis. And 19 times out of 20, homoerotic wrestling is precisely the means for that private end. To watch two beautiful men wrestle hard is entirely arousing to me, even when I’m watching it remotely. I know my own body better than any one else does, so a private session with just me and a DVD can be profoundly satisfying. I know the right pace and pressure, the right amount of friction, to make the pleasure profoundly satisfying. I can anticipate the images, the sounds, the scenarios that will put me over the top, and with that knowledge I can stretch the duration of play much longer than any other partner has ever managed. 

Perhaps it’s the act of solitary masturbating, focused on images of male bodies, that is the quintessential “behavior” of gay sex, ironically. But I have to commend diversifying the portfolio for those of you who find yourself sticking to this formula exclusively. First, finding a partner who can enjoy the kink of watching homoerotic wrestling with you is such an intensely erotic joy. So many of us have spent so much time nurturing our kink with the curtains drawn, at least half-ashamed, drawn within ourselves. But clearly there are plenty of others out there, and sharing the joy of watching what gets you off with someone else who gets off that way too is powerful. Some of my most enthusiastic moments with a partner have a grunting, groaning, trash talking BGE soundtrack playing in the background, multiplying what’s going right for me in that moment many times over. Getting inspired by the action on screen can also segue into a fantastic translation in real time. Sliding a lover between your legs and squeezing him in a gasp-inspiring body scissors at the same time that your homoerotic wrestling hero does the same thing up on the wall is just all sorts of right. The intimacy is simply unmatched when you’ve got a partner to share everything that turns you both on.

Even if other items on the menu don’t seal the deal for you, I think there’s something more fulfilling and lasting about jerking off with (or in the hands of) a partner than by yourself. There’s just something centering and grounding in our own humanity about an orgasm witnessed and an orgasm shared. Now, you know what a major fan I am of the erotic imagination, but I’m a little skeptical of the completely inwardly drawn imagination that can end up entirely isolating us as sexual performers. I simply love that physical presence, the adoring stroke, that wonderful moment that never loses its novelty for me when I find myself feeling incredibly awed to be naked and vulnerable and powerful and intimately present with another man. And there’s just nothing as intimately personal as seeing another man’s cum-face.

So these last two posts make me feel a little like I’m playing Dr. Ruth. It’s not my intention to sound like the sexpert or to cast another marginalizing net around what should be considered “normal.” I’m all for your sexual satisfaction, at least as far as it comes from an act of mutual, consenting pleasures. I just think it’s worth saying that what defines the crowd that tends to read this blog shouldn’t be something that removes us from pleasures shared. We don’t all have to live up to the physical standards or peak performances of our homoerotic wrestling heroes, by any means. But we can take a cue from them that there’s a whole world of erotic pleasures and beautiful men to share them with.