Author: wrestlebard

I'm a gay man with an active imagination.

Rare Beef

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I’m pretty sure that Mr. Mike at Thunders Arena believes me when I say that I meant no harm in prior comments about Thunders seeming like a side dish of wrestling (rather than a main course). At least, Mr. Mike tells me that I have permission to post Thunders Arena pics on my blog, and that seems friendly enough to me. And frankly, after Joe’s interview with Mr. Mike and wrestler Ace Hanson over at Ringside at Skull Island, I’ve been taking a fresh look at Thunders after a couple years away from them. Since the last time I really took a look, Thunders Arena has been setting a much more well-rounded table. And there’s a particular beef entree that’s making my mouth water.
I like this. I like this a whole, whole lot. There’s no turn of phrase that’s going to communicate quite authentically how much I like this, so let me just repeat myself for emphasis: I like this.
This is Coupe. You know that I’m frequently going on about muscleboys, muscleheads, musclebutts, etc. But Coupe is a different animal entirely. Coupe is a muscle freak. Not all muscle freaks are guaranteed golden in my book. There’s a point at which too much vascularity, too little body fat, and a physique that essentially has GNC tattooed across the ass crosses over into curiosity-rather-than-sexy territory for me. Coupe, however, is millimeters shy of that line, meaning that I’m simply captivated by every image and every clip I find of him.
He’s done some adorable behind-the-scenes clips on Thunders TV, several hamming it up and gratuitously throwing down with Cameron Mathews. Coupe has a self-possession, sense of humor, and humility about him that makes me completely at his mercy. And, of course, there’s that phyique…  speaking of being at Coupe’s mercy, he’s lately been launching a barrage of arousing wrestling fantasies in my imagination that involve me getting squeezed, tossed, pummeled and squeezed (I know I said that twice…) by every limb of that muscle freak physique. Take me for a ride, Coupe!
I could chew on that for days.
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O Captain, My Captain

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Pics from the set of Captain America, starring superhero everyman, Chris Evans, are popping up to make us ache. Chris’ body is so stunning that it makes me gasp just a little even when he’s fully clothed.

A cynic (not me) might wonder if there are prosthetics involved in these pics. Clearly, he’s wearing some fake feet, which is just weird. But my vote is that those astonishingly massive shoulders and bulging biceps are all Chris.

A paparazzi pic from a year ago caught Chris in a similar shrink-wrap shirt, and although his shoulders and pecs may not be quite as ponderous, I’m willing to believe that a year of knowing you’re about to portray Captain America in a multi-million dollar film could account for the distance it would take to get from a year ago to the set pics from just a few days ago (which clearly isn’t far, in any case).

Chris and his slapstick-hottie-twin-separated-at-birth, Ryan Reynolds are both eating up superhero parts left and right with pecs so sweet that they deserve to be in a comic book. I can’t help but picture these two as covering so much of the same ground that their paths must cross and they must find themselves pec to pec, wondering if there are enough parts for smart ass funnymen with achingly gorgeous bodies. That idea forced me (forced me, I tell you!) to write a high stakes fictional wrestling match for the two of them. If I absolutely had to pick which one of these two would win a nasty, balls out pit battle, I think the tale of the tape would be extremely close. That’s the way I wrote it, though I did come down with one definite winner in the end. I can’t say that anyone (especially me) really lost out in this wrestling fantasy, though. With both of them continuing to strut their pecs in superhero flicks, I could imagine a rematch could be required at some point.

Rookie Delight

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I’ve been harping on the notion that homoerotic wrestling may be going to the same well too many times, putting it in danger of growing stale and uninteresting. I can be such a nagging bitch sometimes, can’t I? Just one more blogger who’s ass is firmly planted in the back seat and still trying to drive. Someone needs to give me a knee to the gut, then a headscissors until I just about pass out, followed by a commanding, hard drop across the knee into a prolonged over-the-knee backbreaker (can I suggest Rafe Sanchez would make a good disciplinarian for me?). Sitting here, all smug and certain of myself, it dawns on me that there are actually a lot of new faces showing up in homoerotic wrestling in the past few weeks. I’m not above retracing my steps and giving credit where credit is due. So today, I just want to celebrate a whole lot of new faces that are instantly making my blood pump faster. 

First, and possibly most promising in my book, is Angelo Blanco from BG East’s just released Masked Mayhem 7. So perhaps we can’t call him a new “face,” since he’s masked, but I swear I’ve never seen that long, lithe, sweet and sweaty body before… and I’d remember it. Masks are inherently erotic to me, so Angelo Blanco’s debut in a mask would already be a sweet centering of homoeroticism even if his nicely packed crotch didn’t keep getting in the way in his hard, nasty mat tussle with Skull. His cock seems to be nearly as distracting (and impressive) to him as Joshua Goodman’s is to Mr. Joshua. Angelo Blanco is not exactly a muscleboy, but he’s fantastically fit, oozing sex, clearly turned on by the match, and I’d beg on my knees for the opportunity to get squeezed between those legs and run my hands across that sweaty chest.

I’ve already composed a gushing ode to the new face at Rock Hard Wrestling, Travis Storm, so I won’t belabor the point too much here. In this batch of rookies, Travis runs a close second in my hopes to see him in many, many more matches. He’s a good ol’ Southern boy with great timing, sweet salesmanship on both ends of the stick, and an ass in need of a lingering spanking (and I have two hands free as soon as I finish this post).

I’ve only recently been taking a fresh look at Thunders Arena, so I’m not always clear who are the new faces and who are the faces who are just unfamiliar because I haven’t been keeping track. But I think #3 on my list of new faces I’m lusting after in the current homoerotic wrestling line up is Thunder’s muscleboy, Edge. Cam Mathews is once again the high class hottie pushing another hunky rookie into muscle dominating stardom. I’ve just watched a preview, but his bull dog on Cam, smacking the top of the jobber’s head hard onto the mat, makes my head hurt a little and my crotch tingle a lot. If this battle took place in the ring, I’d pop a blood vessel.
Again, in order of who I’m hoping to see more of or fantasize about facing off with myself is BG East’s Gino Gotti in Gazebo Grapplers 11. It seems a little dangerous to beat the crap out of someone named Gotti, but I’m with Kieran Dunne here when it comes to a focus on  laying this hot Italian stud out and making him cry out in pain. It sounds like Kieran is way to up is own ass to be bothered noticing the astonishing rookie specimen that he’s picking to pieces, which is a crying shame. I’m rooting for someone with better taste to make their introductions to Gotti next.

Again, you’ll forgive me if I’ve got the wrong end on this, but I believe Thunders Arena’s gargantuan muscleboy, STL, is another rookie bringing something new to homoerotic wrestling. There’s something both stunningly handsome and fresh-out-of-diapers about STL’s face that makes its placement on top of that thick, astonishingly powerful body deceptive. I’m captured by the image of me in an STL bearhug, squinting through my tearing eyes directly into his kid-next-door face, and being crushed between his hydraulic arms and those hot, sweaty, beefy pecs.

The last in this current line up of rookies who deserve credit (and their producers who deserve my apologies for overgeneralizing about the unimaginative state of the industry) is the enigmatically named D Fuller, appearing in BG East’s just released Big and Beefy 6. At six feet tall and listed at 215 pounds, this is another massively packed babyface. I’m not sure which gods D should be cursing for being fated to make his ring debut (hooray for fresh ring meat!) again Bulldog Barzini. Even a rookie the size of D would have to be the underdog against the beatdown alpha dog, Barzini. The preview pics of this match ignite a recurring fantasy in my mind of me at ringside, watching the big boy rookie beatdown in person, and at the moment that D is battered, subdued, and and stretched vulnerably and helplessly in Barzini’s clutches, the Bulldog gives me a nod and invites me into the ring for a closer look. D is bitter at the added humiliation, but he’s defenseless as Barzini immobilizes him as I appreciately kick the tires, stroke the upholstery, and take a long, deep whiff of that new rookie smell.

So I’m duly corrected by the evidence at hand. There are some delightful, inspiring, sexy new faces keeping me aroused and my imagination fully engaged in the current options in homoerotic wrestling. Full disclosure, I’ve only seen Angelo Blanco’s match and Travis Storm’s match in its entirety of the rookies mentioned above (which probably accounts for why I rank them #1 and #2 in my lusts and fantasies… I recommend them both). But if the rest of these new boys stick around long enough for my wallet to catch up to them, I’ll be happy to tell you more about what I find.

Oppositional-Defiant

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I hate conformity. Not to say that I don’t do my share of cow-towing conforming, but I hate it. Squeezing everything and everyone into the same package just makes me feel so… closeted somehow. What brings this existential thought on at this moment is Google. Google has just told me that I have to use the new, “better” Blogger editor. And suddenly I can’t find the font size that I want anymore. The text is either too small or WAY TOO BIG!!!! The font size I liked in the old editor just isn’t an option anymore. I must conform to Blogger’s interpretation of progress. I hate conformity.

I had a social worker boyfriend once who told me that I was oppositional-defiant. Apparently, I was supposed to feel some shame about that. It’s apparently the clinical diagnosis that they give kids who are on their way to being officially labeled sociopaths once they’re adults. But “oppositional-defiant” has a ring to it that I like, somehow. Whatever it means clinically, I like to think of it as a highbrow way of saying that I march to the beat of my own drummer.

And so when I must conform, I’m resentful. The brilliant minds at Google not only have recently told me that I must conform to use the new, “improved” Blogger editor, but I also have been using Google Groups all wrong for the past year. Despite them having a web address, I’ve been informed that the two wrestling fiction group sites I administer are not, in fact, “websites.” I must migrate all my wrestling fiction and graphics somewhere else, because they will delete my pages and files soon. I’ll be happier, they tell me, following the directions and conforming. Straighten my tie, they tell me. Part my hair down the side, they say. Don’t be too outrageous or “alternative.” Be happy with the choices that they’ve given me and forget about what I was already quite happy with that I can’t have any longer.

So clearly, I’m working through some issues with all of these directives from Google. I’ll be bitter for a while. I’ll resent Google and their evil genius minds systematically taking over the world and turning us all into obedient capitalist consumers (okay, so I’ve also been told I’m paranoid). But eventually, I’ll get over it. And frankly, in the mean time, I’ll conform despite myself. I’ll send out instructions on where the wrestling fiction migrates to. And if this damn font size makes you squint, don’t complain to me. Take it up with the evil geniuses who are making me conform, subdue, restrain and tolerate the choices that they think I should have.

Teeth for Days

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I’m so easily manipulated. I know this about myself. You know it about me. And, more to the point, homoerotic wrestling companies know it. Not me, personally, of course. I’m not quite that much of a narcissist to believe that Rock Hard Wrestling is targeting me, personally, when they dangle a fresh,, blond, blue-eyed, teeth for days, muscleboy with a Southern accent in their newest match. But still, I see the likes of Travis Storm ready to go pec-to-pec with Wyoming farmboy Cody Nelson (I made up the Wyoming farmboy bit… it works for me), and I’m helpless. I watch my hand instantly start to stretch around to my back pocket. I swear, it has a mind of its own, as it grabs my wallet and pulls out my credit card. “Stop it,” I say to my hand. “I need to stick to my budget,” I tell it.

Two hellish download minutes later, and I’m still pleading with my possessed hand. “No!” I say. “I can’t afford it now that RHW has inflated their download prices to $14.95,” I argue. “Stop it!” I insist. Then I see Travis and Cody in a sweet little verbal sparring session that morphs into a posedown and physique comparison. “Stop… I mean, don’t stop,” I find myself wavering. The boys start a shoving match that quickly turns into an opening salvo of hot muscle beatdown from my Wyoming farmboy. Cody hooks his arm between Travis’ legs and scoops the hot young thing up in his arms, his hand cupping the astonishingly fine, tight little ass of the Southern boy in white. Don’t stop, I find myself pleading.

Am I the only one who talks to my hand? Anyway… I realize that one reason I so frequently find myself helpless against the wiles of RHW is that they specialize in ring action. I’m growing into more and more of a specifically ring fetish fan, I think. Another reason I keep taking the plunge with RHW is because in the past nine months or so, while their production quality has remained astonishingly high (multiple HD cameras, excellent angles, extremely skilled editing and packaging), the quality of the wrestling performances has been steadily on the rise. This Cody vs. Travis bout is no exception. Whereas I wanted to personally drop kick Cody’s gorgeous ass out of the ring in his first bout, due to some seriously weak salesmanship at several points, Cody is making undeniable progress. He still has a handful of moments that stretch even my ability to suspend disbelief. A delightful schoolboy pin turns disappointing when Cody proposes to pound the rookie’s pecs with obviously, literally, pulled punches. But overall, Cody has grown quick on his feet, delivering hot verbal humiliation, and showing a command of his opponent’s body that’s easily tripping my homoerotic wrestling kink tastes. I’d still love to see Cody seriously sell his own suffering. On more than one occasion, he’s on the short end of the stick, breathless and writhing on his back, seemingly barely able to move as Travis struts and taunts, and Cody suddenly snaps a quick, measured comeback without any hint of pain in his voice. This is subtle, I know, but it snags my attention.

While Cody appears to be working up a badboy character, including a sweet, pleased-with-himself low blow, I can’t take my eyes off of Travis (which is saying something, considering my well-documented lust for Cody’s ass and nipples). Travis isn’t as big as Cody, despite his early verbal volleys to the contrary. He’s clearly not as strong. He’s not quite as classically handsome. And still, he grabs hold of my attention with both hands and strokes my kink like a seasoned pro. First of all, he has a mouthful of teeth. I know that most of us, literally, have a mouthful of teeth, but just take a look at this boy, and you’ll know what I mean. When he’s strutting and when he’s suffering, he’s got teeth for days and there’s something absolutely gorgeous about that.  He also has a nice command and control of his own body that’s highly entertaining to watch. He has a green edge to him, by all means, but he sells his grunting stomps and kicks even better than Cody. At the point that Cody has Travis legs under his arms and moves to slip him to his stomach to apply one of several Boston Crabs in this match, Travis convincingly fights it for a moment, defying his muscleboy opponent. Finally, Cody twists a fraction harder, and Travis stunningly levitates, flips, and lands with a grunt in a way that makes this potentially throw away moment slick, professional, and absolutely believable. I’ll buy this Travis is a rookie, but only if I also get the backstory that he’s a freaking pro-wrestling prodigy who takes to this like Mozart on the piano.

Cody has two precious moments in this match that are going to continue to haunt my dreams. First, he applies two Boston Crabs over the course of the 20 minutes it takes these boys to settle who’s on top. Here’s where Cody seriously transforms what could be a relatively amateur version of a pro moment into a profoundly arousing homoerotic thrill. He squats low, with Cody’s ankles locked tightly under his arms. Then, with beautiful self-possession, he sticks his chest out, pulls his shoulders back, and pries the muscleboy hips off the canvas beneath him. I just about can’t take my eyes off Travis’ ass in this moment.  Whoever came up with the idea that this stud should go commando underneath his white trunks deserves a major raise (I hope it was Travis). But wait, it’s just a little better than that, even. The second time he snaps on a Boston Crab, squatting in that ass-tastic position, Travis rocks forward and back, over and over, cranking the pressure on Cody’s lower back and relishing every second of his dominance.
Competing for the most hauntingly hot image of this match is Travis snapping on a figure-4 body scissors on Cody that makes the farmboy grunt hard. Completely controlling his opponent’s back, Travis is thrilled with himself, alternating choking with his arms and squeezing the air out of Cody’s lungs with his legs. Another nearly throw away moment has Travis lace his fingers behind his head, leaning back, and doing some quick crunches with Cody squirming and struggling between his legs. My… oh… my….
Travis clearly went to the same wrestling school Cody did, at least so far as he learned that head-scratching version of a schoolboy pec pounding that looks like nothing other than some weak-ass back-handed tapping on Cody’s thick pecs (claw those massive handfuls of meat!!!). But all in all, I’m officially apologizing to my hand right here and now. Hand, you were right all along. This was a match that I’m very happy I didn’t pass up.
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Here we go again. A month and a half after BGE releases a Donnie Drake 1 on 2 squash, Can-Am is pre releasing pics from a Donnie Drake 1 on 2 bout.  I think there could be a place for this type of copycat production (see Rio v Jobe and Rio v Aryx for more examples), really I do. I think that Can-Am’s specialty in pornboy porn wrestling could make a hot Rio v Jobe ring battle resurrect into a very nice trunks off, hands on mat tussle that I’d pay double for. Other than the translation to mats, that’s not the formula that Can-Am appears to be applying to their second place finishes.

Still, I am liking the hint that I’m getting from the Can-Am boss’s Twitter pics, though. Donnie’s 1 on 2 battle for Can-Am is a scrap with Chris Bruce and Rio. While true, this is yet another reunion of BG East boys, Sexton has a provocative pic of Donnie double teamed with his face in Chris’ crotch while Rio applies a boston crab to the bad boy. I’m not going to hold my breath to finally, finally, finally see Chris (or either of the others) really sex it up, but I am a fan of some of these straight up homoerotic wrestling boys working a little more of the homoerotic side of the coin with faces to crotch. I still think that a loser-cums scenario (one way or another) would make this seem less like a BGE re-run and more like something I’ve come to appreciate Can-Am for.

Another sneak peak pic from Sexton shows what appears to be a tag team line up for an in-the-ring match starring still another combination of BG East alums, Aryx & Donnie teaming up against Rio and Cameron Matthews. I tend to prefer ring matches. I like tag teams. Frankly, I’m still taking cold showers waiting for a another seriously hot lovers on lovers tag team match. Something tells me the Aryx/Donnie Rio/Cameron combinations won’t be sparing me another cold shower, though. But otherwise, this is pretty solidly in my wrestling kink niche, and I’m anxious to see it.

I’m going to hammer on my old saw, now, though (note that despite the mixed metaphor, everything stays in the tool shed). You simply can’t tell me that there are only a dozen or so quality performers out there who can sell homoerotic wrestling. I don’t believe it for a second. Now, I don’t begrudge the boys themselves their dues. Someone offering a paycheck isn’t to be taken for granted, particular in the present economic environment. Wrestle for whomever treats you right and gives you checks that clear. But higher up the food chain, I just want to say again, don’t phone it in. Spot the smokin’ hot new talent and blow me away with something I’ve never seen before. Or even take the tried and true golden boys and make them tell me an entirely new story. Keep the homo and the erotic up front, even though I understand that you’re often going to work with straight boys. But one way or another, keep it fresh, make my blood pump faster, and introduce me to a new obsession, a new story, a new spark to make me believe that there’s something more out there to be had that I haven’t already bought and paid for.

Shaken, Not Stirred

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I’m fully aware that homoerotic wrestlers are not born… they’re made. Indeed, it’s hardly a stretch to realize that the name “Brooklyn Bodywrecker” doesn’t appear on anyone’s birth certificate. And, for that matter, if there is a birth certificate with the name “Steve Shannon” on it (which there probably is), the probability that such a birth certificate belongs to this guy is infinitesimal.
No, homoerotic wrestlers are crafted, shaped, branded and packaged to optimize the full-on fantasy that we sign up for. Sometimes the construction of the name is a little more obvious. Beau Nasty, for example, simply can’t have emerged from the womb with that surname. The name is clearly meant to communicate something more than just a handle. It’s a nod to a persona. It’s the poured concrete foundation upon which a successful homoerotic wrestler can build a character, embody a new person, and live in a world in which camel clutches and over the knee backbreakers are everyday currency.
Cody Nelson from Rock Hard Wrestling would be hard not to notice in any setting. Cody’s body speaks volumes before he ever needs to open his mouth. Personally, I’m enthralled with Cody’s ass and his nipples (in that order), but honestly he’s a smorgasbord of muscle worship fantasies for nearly every niche and corner of the wrestling kink market (if muscleboys are you’re thing). I’m not entirely sure yet what the name Cody Nelson communicates… it has a whiteboy next door ring to it, and that may be the point. There’s a “just folks” hit from the name Cody Nelson that makes him seem to me to be a little less celestial and unreachable than if I just saw him in a tight shirt standing at the bar. Cody gives me a mountain west feel, like a Wyoming farm kid who grew up bench pressing livestock until he woke up one day and realized that he had a body to die for that could translate into cash in hand in the big city… let’s say, Miami. Cody Nelson is someone who got tired of beating the crap out of every upstart punk in a thousand mile radius and moved on to prove that he can beat the crap out of every upstart punk in a ten thousand mile radius. As a straight-up homoerotic wrestling name, Cody Nelson carries some water, I think. I don’t know that Cody’s entirely lived into his name, nor has he yet entirely embodied a wrestling character for me to hate/love/lust for/all the above. He’s still mostly a stunningly muscled, massive, ass of granite, dollar coin nippled, rippled-abbed, wet dream in a still shot, hot bundle of homoerotic wrestling potential.
Over at Vista Video and also at All American Guys, the same face, the same smirk, the same nipples, ass, abs and perhaps just a little bit bigger of biceps… it’s all squeezed into a different wrapper known simply as Ray.

I haven’t dropped coin in Vista Video or All American Guys, so I only know these companies from the front stoop. But by definition, a company called “All American Guys” is promoting the boy next door dreamboat, right? These guys look like the whitebread version of the football player kid around the corner who keeps pumping iron long after the season is over. Over there, “Cody Nelson” is just “Ray…” (you fill in the last name of whatever neighborhood kid you grew up lusting after).

Over there, Raymond always has a little bit of a sheepish grin when he peels off his skin tight shirt to flex for the camera. He’s in some “real” context, outside or in the gym, as if he was just walking through his day and some persuasive person with a video camera convinced him to start talking, flexing, showing off a little in public. He’s asking you what you think of his body, making an appeal for your praise, as if he needs you to validate him. Whereas Cody, in the ring, is cocked and loaded, supremely confident in his opponent’s inevitable destruction, Raymond, on the other hand, is almost shy, embarrassed of the attention and, at the same time, proud of the hard work that went into shaping his body.

The up close, “real,” boy next door with chiseled pecs just chattin’ me up in the gym, giving me a little self-conscious show, smiling slyly because he knows what I’m thinking and he doesn’t mind… that’s hot. I see ads for Vista EVERYWHERE, so I assume this is a strategy that sells.
What I realize, though, is that what’s much, much hotter for me is that other guy, the side-of-beef bench pressing farmboy who migrated to deeper waters when he found he could kick the ass of everyone he knew, so now he climbs into the wrestling ring to stand pec to glorious pec with some other invincible local boy cocksure that he’s the shit and no Wyoming farmboy could stand a chance against him. That’s the backstory that sucks me in. That’s the chemistry that makes my blood pump harder. That’s the foundational eroticism that claims me and my wallet like no solo shot, boy next door muscle showcase ever could.

But that’s just me.

Gods and Men

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True story: I was at a random strip show in Chicago several years back and saw who, I believe today, was Jason Adonis. It was just a few months before I caught sight of Jason at Jet Set, and so when he appeared larger than life in a porn DVD near me, I was so excited to have seen him in person. I’m 98% sure it was him. He was as stunning person as on screen, and there was something a little unreal about a man this ridiculously gorgeous and massive stripping for tips.

Even if it was a trick of my imagination (entirely possible… you know me and my imagination), Jason Adonis has remained a sentimental favorite. When he wrestled in the Jet Set/Can-Am joint ventures, it was almost too good for me to believe: the physique of a Greek god and the face of a cherub wrestling for sucks and fucks.
Both in his strip show and in everything I’ve seen of him, it’s Jason’s legs that make me tear up a little. Those massive, massive, tree trunk quads are like crack to me. And speaking of crack, that muscle butt of his ought to be on display in the Louvre. When those legs are wrapped around some dumbass muscle head who doesn’t realize that he’s just about to scream, I’m in ecstasy.
My July homoerotic wrestler of the month, Trent Diesel, recently blogged about an upcoming Raging Stallion production called “Brutal,” that appears to be a fight club scenario. Trent, Race Cooper, and my #1 favorite homoerotic wrestling pornboy, Rusty Stevens, are all leading men in this production. Apparently, Jason Adonis is making a “comeback” of sorts in the same product, though it doesn’t appear that he’s in the initial cast photo up on Trent’s blog. I’m not sure about the wrestling/fight kink legits of Raging Stallion, and I’m just saying for the record right now that 2 minutes of play fighting and 45 minutes of fucking does not wrestling-kink make. You and I both know that I’m going to be helpless against the need to see this thing, regardless.
This YouTube interview with Jason is sweet, if a little dated now that he’s over at Raging Stallion and all his chatter about loyalty to JetSet seems a little weak. His heart-searching confessional about whether 30 is too old for gay porn is a sad commentary on gay eroticism (even though Jason apparently concludes that it’s not too old, which is good for all of us who are happy to see a 30 year old Jason back on camera).
The whole thing tugs at my conscience. The commodification of bodies for voyeuristic erotic pleasure has long been severely critiqued as dehumanizing and ultimately destructive, particularly to those on Jason’s side of the camera. In his interview, he alludes to the pressure to take “supplements,” and to bottom as a sign of desperation, and the lack of health insurance, and going broke. It doesn’t require that one be a porn star to face those very same struggles, of course. But I do just hold out hope that the boys of porn, and particularly my favorite homoerotic wrestlers, have some dignity, health, hope and self-esteem. It’s a buzz kill to worry about it too long, but at least for me, I appreciate the moments of self-reflective questioning about what it means to consume, produce, perform and obsess over the homoerotic wrestling industry.
Until I come up with some more definitive answer, I’ll let you know what I think of Brutal as soon as I get my hands on it.

Reading the Contract

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I just posted my latest flight of fancy over at the Sidelineland group. It’s a sequel to my resurrection/homage to BG East’s “The Contract” series which featured muscle jobber extraordinaire, Brad Rochelle, being made everyone’s bitch until he finally had enough, turned heel, and started laying out fresh face after fresh face. Like so many, I miss Brad, and it’s not hard to detect my nostalgia for some sweet Brad performances in this new piece of wrestling fiction.
In fact, Brad plays a role in the unfolding story of James Dawson Martin’s forced face down with the terms of the contract he signed with BGE boss Kid Leopard. In real life, Martin is a YouTube phenom, Britboy transplant to LA who’s been trying to work up traction as a fitness model, actor, personal trainer to the stars… whatever a smoking hard physique on a 6’3″ flawless body coupled with an English accent will get you (in my book, it’ll get you far).
Brad is a supporting character in this bout, leaving the head-to-head rookie slamfest to one of my rising favorites currently at BGE, Joe Robbins. Joe delivers the action, but I must admit that this story is merely foreplay for one of my fondest recurring fantasies, that being Brad moving into an explicitly homoerotic sex wrestling direction. I’m a big proponent of the argument that wrestling most certainly doesn’t need to involve fucking or sucking to qualify as homoerotic. That said, even the more conventional wrestling motif in homoerotic wrestling typically fires me up most when I can’t help but picture a post-match scenario that turns physical into sexual conquest. It’s a little like unrequited love that Brad never took a turn in the more explicit niche of homoerotic wrestling. That never stopped me from imagining it, though… fondly.
BG East has been generous in giving me their permission to post pics here, and they seem to tolerate the license I take with their hot characters as I write them into my own homoerotic wrestling scenarios. BG East and the fantastic performances of folks like Kid Leopard, Kid Vicious, Brad Rochelle, and Joe Robbins have given me a lot of satisfying entertainment for a long time. My hope is that writing them into fantasy matches of my own making is as respectful, humble contribution to promoting the BG East and larger homoerotic wrestling universe.
And writing them turns me on.

"Real Big.. and Real Hard"

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In a recent video posting, SteelMuscleGod teases us: “Hey there, what’s up? Here’s a quickie for all my fans out there. Yeah? Someone’s been growing real big… and real hard.”

I think this is a fantastic form of erotic poetry and performance art. There are multiple layers of meaning here. Indeed, SMG has been adding muscle mass over the past couple of years and, true enough, growing real big and hard. And of course, SMG intends to communicate the double entendre. As we watch him flex and boast and tease and taunt, we, too, grow big and hard.
I remain a little bitter that SteelMuscleGod continues to exist on a celestial plane that’s outside of my price range. I understand that godliness is a valuable commodity. But I have to believe that $50 per 15 minutes is not exactly priced to sell. At least, it’s not priced to sell in the circles I run in. I’m confident an economist could run some figures that would illustrate that SMG would have more worshippers contributing to the offering plate at a more competitive per-hour price.
Still, SMG certainly has an eye for the niche that you and I comprise. He has some wrestling submission videos ready for download-to-own. I don’t know who the lucky, extremely tall worshiper is who’s taunted, tormented, choked, squeezed, lifted and humiliated over and over by SMG, but I’m filled with bitter jealousy of him. I’m also impressed with SMG’s commitment to sell a sweet motel room squash. He milks his body scissors delightfully. He illustrates complete command and ownership of his resident “wimp,” flipping and flinging him every which way in a delightfully solid head scissors. And, true to form, SMG loves himself every step of the way. He loves his domination of the “wimp.” And the delight on his face is enjoyable, adorable, and arousing to see.
Still, I’ve only watched the previews. His sweat soaked godliness looks priceless, but there is, in fact, a price on it. I’m still hoping that someone with deeper pockets than I have will tell me how the download is, whether you get the goods that are promised, and whether 15 minutes of even SteelMuscleGod muscle domination is actually worth $50. Someone in professional homoerotic wrestling needs to buy this boy a plane ticket, set up a few matches (in the ring, PLEASE!!!), and truly send this sex-on-a-stick into the stratosphere. I think I’m finding myself compelled to get back to writing some wrestling fiction featuring a given, Eastern European phenom pitting his muscles and snarling attitude against some ring veterans in, let’s say, Boston…

Damn, I hate that “wimp” who gets to feel up SMG as he’s getting pummeled.