Author: wrestlebard

I'm a gay man with an active imagination.

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.

Sting

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This weekend I put in some time on my two current wrestling fiction projects. The werewolf match is coming along, and I’ve heard from several folks looking forward to it. I also enjoyed my time invested in chapter 3 of the superhero series over at Sidelineland. I spent quite a bit of time mining the net for inspiration for some new characters that I’m introducing. Chapter 3 follows main character Hank as he’s introduced to his new team of fellow recruits, the Chargers. Hank’s experience of being introduced to the superhero recruit training program is turning out starkly different from his brother’s. In particular, one of his new teammates seems to be as intent on intimidating his own teammates and beating them into submission as he is for facing off with challengers from opposing teams. And he seems to have taken a particular love/hate approach to breaking in the new rookie, Hank.

Crafting an engaging antagonist is delicate work. It’s tempting to make a superhero story line simply black and white, with heroes and villains cleanly delineated. The distinctly postmodern twist to comic book stories over the past 20 years or more, though, has taught us that shades of gray make for more powerful and provocative stories that keep us guessing. That’s more of the bent that I’m hoping to take here. 
The visual inspiration I’ve taken for my new antagonist called Sting, is Brazilian model and sex puppy, Carlos Freire. First of all, excellent last name. Second, Carlos seems like a nice enough guy, but third, he’s got a mouth watering body and an occasional blue steel that makes him look like he could rip your nuts off. I am thus inspired. Sting is born.

There are also a few additional new characters getting introduced in chapter 3, but so far my dreams keep centering on Carlos/Sting and his incredible pecs. Hank is going to have his hands full if he’s going to survive to see chapter 4.

Make New Friends

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Thanks for “friending” me over on YouTube, Evander! I get the impression that you have more than a passing familiarity with my tastes. Indeed, the competition bodybuilder-turned-entrepreneur/muscle domination and wrestling tease seems to be a growing genre that fascinates me.

You are, indeed, a handsome hunk of a man. Your thighs alone are enough to make me push the pause button and take a long, lingering look. You are 5’7″ and 185 pounds of sweetly crafted muscle, and there’s something intensely provocative for me about a relatively short, massively muscled man with a need to dominate. And I hope you don’t mind me saying that you hang out with some fantastically hot friends. The gorgeous guy next to you in the pic above, for example, brings a smile to my face,

But it’s the long, cool drink of water here that sending me into fits. Next to you, of course, he’s could pass as “skinny.” At 5’11” and 175 pounds, he’s certainly proportional and fit. And frankly, he’s got a tasty, pasty physique that sorely tempts me to pay up for some more viewing of you muscling him around, squeezing him until he cries, and tossing him over your shoulder as you retire to a back room.

Your mauling of the very skinny guy in a ski mask is impressive, though frankly, I just have to say that I’d need to see more skin for this to fully engage my kink. Your jobber boy can keep his mask on. But both of you need to put those bodies on display in order for us to truly appreciate the impressive muscle domination work you’ve got going on there.

And back to you and your other two friends, I’m a big fan of the games you play. Three buddies stripping down to posing trunks, flexing, mutually appreciating, some friendly lifts and displays of power, all leading into lightly competitive wrestling makes for some happy foreplay in my book. Now, if you can promise me that things get a bit more competitive, with perhaps the hint of some muscle-taming double-teaming, then you’re moving from foreplay into full on arousal.

Lastly, since we’re now YouTube friends, can I trade places with your buddy in the middle of this incredible muscle sandwich you’ve got going here? Full disclosure: you’ll have to deal with a quite a bit of extra room (if I do say so myself) that’s going to get squeezed between your abdomen and mine if you’re man enough to maintain this position for very long. And I’m going to insist that the long drink of water on my back needs to squeeze me real hard between his legs. In my book, that’s just what friends are for.
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Bodies Over Time

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I’m on the record many times over as a holding a fascination for the maturing of bodies over time. I do like them young and flush with the recent flood of post-adolescent testosterone, no doubt. But I also like them as they mature, like a fine wine growing more complex, well-rounded, and smooth going down (so to speak). So the recent dust-up at the BG East Headquarters yahoo group over whether Brad Rochelle stayed in the homoerotic wrestling biz too long is a no brainer for me. Of course not.

I’m happy to remember that it was Brad as cover-boy on the BG East website years and years ago that made me a BGE devotee instantly. Young, hard, with a baby-face despite the cleft chin… Brad looked like the stunningly handsome fratboy of my dreams. There was just something instantly classic about Brad in stills, the captured moment of hard, hot youth dripping with eager, effortless sensuality. The stills and description of Brad on the website were what made me purchase my first BG East video, and Brad’s amazing performance cemented the deal. I’m now hooked, and I suspect I’ll never have “enough” BG East products to keep me from jonesin’ for the latest tempting treat that they continue to produce.

Kid Leopard, fielding some critiques aimed at Brad’s physique in more recent career appearances, rhetorically pointed out that he’d love to be 20 years old again, but none of us really have that option, so how is it valid to fault a 30-something (?) year old Brad for not looking exactly like he did when he first appeared in a wrestling video around 1993 or so. I, for one, would not love to be 20 years old again. Not just because I was so anxious and uncertain about my own sexuality, but frankly, I wasn’t in nearly the physical shape I am now as I rapidly approach 40. To tell the truth, if I met my 20 year old self today, I could kick his ass in a heartbeat. And if I’m being truthful, I think I’d find it cathartic to beat the crap out of my anxiety-wracked, skinny, 20 year-old self. Hell, there’s even something sort of hot about the idea. Okay, now I’ve probably gone and said too much…

Back to Brad: then, now… whatever. His most recent BGE appearance, I believe, was released in 2006. And true enough, in a side by side comparison, he’s not quite as rock hard as he was when he was 20 or so. He isn’t as tanned, which is something that comes with the wisdom of age. His pecs aren’t filled out to quite the extent they were in 1993. His shoulders are surely not quite as wide. But come on! His most recent incarnation includes a six pack, bulging biceps, astonishingly low body-fat, and gorgeous, strong legs. He’s not a twin of his younger self, but he’s hardly someone that would fail to grab my attention and make my heart race were I to see him out at a bar. More importantly, as far as I’m concerned, his most recent incarnation continues to be one in which he pounds and gets pounded, squeezes and gets squeezed, and weaves together a smoking hot story of a snarling will to dominate and a chip on his heart-of-a-jobber shoulder that he’ll never quite shake, no matter how many young challengers he decimates. Those are all the elements that keep me happily entertained by homoerotic wrestling today and a decade ago, and from start to finish, Brad was always a sure-fire go-to guy to make my fantasies come to life.