Author: wrestlebard

I'm a gay man with an active imagination.

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.

Let’s Talk About Sex

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I had my toes sucked for the very first time recently. It wasn’t too bad. I don’t really think about my own feet as erogenous zones, but it kept my engine revving. I don’t mind giving a little foot worship, by any means. It’s not exactly my fetish, but for a guy who’s into it, and who I want to please, sure, I’ll suck toe for a while. But despite not being too bad, having my own toes sucked was still not at the top of my list of the hottest things I enjoy. Now, if my reigning favorite homoerotic wrestling pornboy, Rusty Stevens, had a thing for my toes (as he seems to in his match with Mitch), he could have at mine anytime. And I suppose that’s part of it: what’s hot can depend on who I’m with, what about them turns me one, what about me turns them on, and what spontaneously makes the blood pump faster in the heat of the moment.

This raises for me a point I’ve been thinking about broaching here for a while, but haven’t yet: sex. Okay, so it’s not as if I’ve never mused about sex here before. But quite literally, specifically speaking, I’m not sure I really have. I receive messages pretty frequently from readers who completely identify with one thing or another that I describe that turns me on, but who, very tactfully and demurely, let me know that there are some things that the pro-boys do that they just aren’t into. Now, I’m no sexpert by any means. I haven’t done the research. I’m just speaking anecdotally here. But it seems to me that not all of us are exactly into the same thing when we talk about gay sex, even within the relatively specific context of wrestling kink. Let me continue to use my reigning champ, Rusty, to illustrate my point. In the pic above, he’s going to town with the cock of tattooed muscle god, David Taylor, tickling his tonsils. I know plenty of gay guys who consider it absolutely universal that sucking cock is fundamentally an essential component of gay sex. Yet, I’ve heard from quite a number of you who’ve let me know that basting a cock in your mouth just isn’t arousing for you.  I have to say I’m more a fan of giving than receiving in this particular formula, but I have to report that there are plenty among us for whom neither end of the stick is a particular turn on. Clearly, among those of us who enjoy some homoerotic wrestling kink, giving/getting head is not common to us all.

Here Rusty illustrates another case in point. Taking an ass to the face seems to be even less on the menu for many of us. I’ve lost count (not that I really started) of the number of times that someone has qualified their agreement with some wrestling kink opinion of mine by noting that they really don’t find rimming something that they enjoy or want to try. I’m of the opinion that if it was Rusty’s magical muscled ass planted across your face, he could tantalize just about anyone to give it a go. Personally, when the ass is right (his or mine), I’m all for it. But again, clearly, among our very insider crowd, face sitting, sucking ass, a rim job, or so called “analingus” is not our common denominator.

At one point in my life I would have sworn that we could all agree that anal intercourse is simply an essential component of gay sex. As ably illustrated after losing his “prison” wrestling match to aforementioned tattooed muscle god, David Taylor, Rusty here takes it up the ass. But on closer inspection, I know plenty of guys who only want to catch, and I know more than a handful who exclusively want to pitch. And then a number of you have dropped into an email conversation that neither fucking nor getting fucked is really your thing at all. I’ve mentioned before that I think sexual tastes evolve over time, and perhaps this is just a matter of evolving tastes. I have a buddy who’s quite convinced that every guy, sooner or later, really wants to get fucked. But I’m not so convinced. I don’t think that you are somehow lacking in self-actualization if you just don’t want any ass play. I think that it’s simply not the one thing that draws a line around us, such that all of us who are gay are inside the circle and everyone else is outside.

It’s not toe sucking. It’s not cock sucking. It’s definitely not rimming. Hell, it isn’t even fucking that unites us all when it comes to the sexual behavior of all of us wrestling kinked gay men (or, I would propose, of any sort of gay man). It’s here that I think the anti-gay distinction of “behavior” versus “orientation” falls flat. Because just like the human condition itself, sexual tastes and behaviors among gay men vary. We recognize one another as like-minded, not because of any one behavior. I think there’s something much deeper, something much more akin the word “orientation” that draws us inside one circle. It’s much more about where our attention is drawn, where our thoughts and imaginations linger, than about a monolithic understanding of “gay sex.” It’s about proximity, intimacy, taste, touch, smell, sight and sound much more than it is about “a behavior.” Whatever it is that turns you on, or more precisely, what you do once you’ve been turned on, a whole lot of us share something in common that makes life exciting, arousing, and erotically delightful.

…In Love and War

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I’m facing some stiff competition in my life these days, and not the good kind. This competition is more the stab-you-in-the-back and step-on-you-as-you-lay-bleeding type. I’m accustomed to this brand of competition, frankly, but that doesn’t mean that I like it. I keep thinking that if someone is so intent on fucking me over, shouldn’t I at least get a kiss first?

Which brings me back to a topic I’m fond of bringing up repeatedly. I’m a fan of a liberal use of lips in a homoerotic wrestling match. I know some guys who think of a kiss as an unwelcome, tender diversion in the heat of battle, but I am not in that camp at all. There’s something fantastically dominating about an intense, tongue down the throat lip lock. To lay an opponent out so vulnerably that you can literally taste victory works for me as an entirely appropriate element of homoerotic combat. Along the lines of the “spoils of war,” a kiss can be a hot moment to revel in the delights of owning what you’ve conquered.

Another angle that I’m already on the record in support of is the kiss as a benevolent gift from a stern master. This is the end of the match lip action, after a decisive victory is secured. Particularly after it’s been hot and painful, merciless and brutal, when the loser has conceded that he’s got nothing to put up any longer and he’s completely at the mercy of the better man, when there’s nothing left to gain by withholding mercy any longer, a generous, passionate kiss is icing on my very favorite cake.

As a fan of lip action, I’ve been awfully happy with a number of recent matches from BGE lately. Patrick Donovan’s stern disciplining of his weak-link partner, Steven Thomas, turns to benevolent reward once Patrick’s pounded his point home (so to speak).

I haven’t seen Kid Karisma and Len Harder’s “Sexy Showdown” yet, but I for one am thrilled to see KidK sucking face. A big, beautiful muscle stud taking delight in shoving his tongue down a skinny kid’s throat is fantastic melodrama, in my opinion. Pop me some corn and let me settle in for the long-haul. That’s entertainment.

I like to think of Mitch Colby’s end of the match lip lock on Rusty Stevens in Breaking Point as a symbolic passing of the torch. That match-of-my-dreams sealed the deal that Rusty was in sole and undisputed possession of my personal favorite homoerotic wrestling pornboy title. That kiss, with Rusty planted on his back with his knees in the air, just made me all sorts of happy. After a snarling, sniping, low-blow-laced, insult-laden, sweat-soaked back and forth battle, Mitch’s mouth planted on Rusty’s made me believe for a moment that it isn’t just about the victory, that it’s not just about the paycheck, that it’s not just a het-anxiety-laden battle tPublish Posto avoid feeling “emasculated” by submitting to another man. For just that completely fictitious, but wonderful moment, I bought that it was about the intimate, lusting, carnal delights of two beautiful men celebrating a hard fought battle.

I know it’s a fiction, just like I know the nasty backstabbers in my own life aren’t about to give any love. But I can always dream.