Author: wrestlebard

I'm a gay man with an active imagination.

The Spice of Life

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Pyschology Today (via Towleroad, to me) has an interesting piece on the racial diversification of gay male porn over the past 3 to 5 years. Psychology Today is sort of like light beer… all packaging and marketing without much really satisfying inside. But I like the connections that the article draws between identifying what gay men find attractive and broader socio-demographic trends in racial politics.

As for me, I’m 100% in favor of more diversity. As a born-and-bred middle class suburban white boy, I was raised with deeply engrained, implicit lessons that chisel-chinned white boys are the physical ideal. Happily, just like other sexual tastes and attentions, I’ve since discovered that beautiful boys of all sorts of complexions offer treasures of objectified lusts.
I don’t really spend much of my time or money in the gay porn world, sans wrestling. It’s one long yawn for me. But even in the wrestling kink corner of homoerotica and porn, I think that we’re seeing more racial diversity and less a need to fetishize racial diversity, at the same time, which I think is a good combination.
Whereas it wasn’t long ago that products were prominently marketed that specifically catered to the tastes of those looking for cross-racial wrestling, these days when opponents reflect different racial-ethnic backgrounds, it most frequently goes uncommented on. In most cases, I think that’s progress. My homoerotic wrestler of the month, Bobby Horton, is a white guy who came into possession of that title on the merits of his smokin’ hot, edge-of-insanity dismantling of bodybeautiful muscle god, Tyrell Tomsen. I’m sure for many people still, a battle like that continues to be first and foremost a morality play in contemporary racial politics. And, true enough, the white boy delivers a beat down and humiliating defeat of the physically dominant black hunk, which stands in a long tradition of white fantasy about subduing and possessing the physical threat from men of color. But as far as I read the text (and I’ve been happy to read and reread that text over and over again to enjoy Bobby’s delightful performance) the story that’s primarily told is really about the battle between the beauty of brawn and the cunning of ring savvy. If anything, Tyrell plays the role of the refined, sculpted, entitled muscle god to Bobby’s crazy-ass, brutish, uncivilized short-cutter. I realize that this doesn’t eliminate the racial politics that play out in the homoerotic wrestling ring, but it screws with expectations and long-held prejudices enough to be at least resistant toward white privilege, if not entirely dismantling of it.
BG East has been promoting a lot of Latinos lately, and that’s 110% just fine with me. If white Eurocentric privilege managed to keep the likes of Rafe Sanchez (mmmm…. Rafe….), Rio Garza and Lobolito off of my shelf, my life would be much less entertaining.
Can-Am has been tossing the likes of Michael Vineland, Max Munoz, and yes, Rio Garza onto the mats, making their typically-happy-ending wrestling formula much more diverse than it may have been at one time.
Naked Kombat frequently puts up men of color, like recent battlers Jack Hammer, Derek Reynolds and Race Cooper. It’s not all one formula for fetishing the racial composition of the match, by any means. Depending on the fighters on any given day, Naked Kombat’s wrestlers of color end up battling each other or white guys, and they end up on top or on bottom with seemingly similar frequencies.
I’m intentionally taking a look at Thunder’s Arena with fresh eyes lately, particularly after reading the very enjoyable interview that Joe did with Mr. Mike and Ace Hanson at Ringside at Skull Island recently. Young stunner rookie AJ looks like another case in point of the expanding pool of skill and beauty to which homoerotically-inclined wrestling is turning.
More is better… variety is the spice of life… the pithy sayings go on and on to explain why it is that all of this is a very good thing. Still, I think we need to keep an eye on the way that racial politics play out even in (especially in) our erotic fantasies. I know, I know. It’s a buzz kill. But it also reveals something about what we believe down deep, how we live, and underneath any socialization or commitments to political correctness, how we picture ourselves in relation to racial difference. I like where things seem to be heading, and I think that we would all do well to remember where we’ve been, and the ways that racism have long played a major role in dominant homo-culture, much less hetero-culture, in the past forty years.

Where It Hurts

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When I was a kid, I’d typically scheme all the time to start a wrestling match with a friend. Inevitably in the fumbling scramble, sooner or later, someone would get “racked,” by which we meant that they took a blow to the groin. It was always unintentional… or, at least, it was always unintentional on my part. Looking back on it, I sort of suspect that some of my wrestling buddies probably threw in a precisely placed knee every so often. I was always such a naive babyface.

The new Arena update at BG East has tickled my fancy once again with some preview pics of an upcoming release featuring the mouth-watering ass of Kid Karisma in action against Len Harder. This looks like it leans more the to homoerotic side than most of what I’ve seen Kid in, including some suck-face and ball claws. Good, good times…
The fact that this catches my eye and tweaks my kink so instantly is a relatively new thing. When I was a kid and would wrestle with my buddies, getting “racked” was an instant time out. The action stopped whenever someone took a blow to the groin. Every boy learns about the bundle of nerve endings in the groin, don’t we? At some point or another, we all experience that near-paralyzing pain of taking a shot to the balls. All the air rushes out of your lungs. Your head feels like it’s about to explode. You instinctively roll up into the fetal position with your hands cupped over your crotch to protect it from further abuse. It’s no fun, and as a kid it was typically a mood-killer for me.
Ball abuse as a mood-maker has been only a pretty recent development for me. I’ve always liked the concept of hands on genitals in my homoerotic wrestling. I just always cringe when I see some convincing bashing, twinges of some of my own greatest hits echoing through my body. I swear, it’s tissue memory more than anything cognitive. I see a blow to the balls, and I have a pre-cognitive cringe reflex. But lately, I find some hot, hard ball claws intensely erotic. I’m writing ball abuse into every fictional wrestling match I write.
I think I attribute my expanding my wrestling kink repertoire to Derek da Silva. He shows up frequently in homoerotic wrestling on the other end of the ball bashing stick. And he clearly LOVES it. I mean, seriously, he gets harder the more he gets bashed. Now, if Derek were naked and just hanging the laundry on the line, I’d be unable to stop myself from masturbating. But Derek grappling, getting ball bashed, and getting off on getting bashed has just turned a key in the back of my mind somewhere.
I still cringe. But the cringe and the pain and the primal domination of ball abuse are somehow doing it for me these days like never before. And it’s not like you can shake a stick and not smack up some ball torture everywhere you turn. Hell, in Naked Kombat you get points for it. It’s absolutely mandatory.
Can-Am has long sprinkled ball torture throughout their products. I remember one particular match that blew my mind when I saw Jimmy Dean shove his hand down the back of Mark Wolff’s trunks, reach between his legs, and claw at his testicles from behind. The boys, the gear, the ring, the bodies… everything about that makes me gasp a little.
BG East has ball claws featured prominently everywhere, in explicitly ball-torture themed products and otherwise. There’s just something stunning about the sight of a bodybeautiful, musclegod/ken doll like Jace Bradley pressed against the ropes and completely at Mr. Joshua’s mercy with his balls firmly in Mr. Joshu’s hand.
So I guess what this post is really about is the evolution of sexual appetite, the refinement of erotic tastes, and the observation that even when it comes to my wrestling kink, I’m not the same person I was even a couple of years ago. What strikes me as erotic, arousing, and captivating is growing and maturing as I march through life, scarfing down homoerotic wrestling every chance I get.

Brothers in Arms

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I finally posted a reader-request superhero short story to the Sidelineland wrestling fiction group. As I mentioned before, this was a remarkably long time coming and a lot more challenging than I’d expected. I finally focused on the concept of the typical superheroes “beginnings” story from the perspective of homoerotic wrestling kink.
What sort of super power would you want to have as a full-time homoerotic wrestling extraordinaire? When push comes to shove, what superhuman ability might count for good wrestling kink drama? Those were the sort of questions that finally brought this wandering ship into port and helped me finish off a short story draft that I felt decent enough about to share.


So what I came up with was a “beginnings” story of two 18 year old adoptive brothers whose shared lifelong dream has been to earn their way into the ranks of “the League” of superheroes. I’ve built in some teasers for potential further chapters, including hinting at a post-apocalyptic context and more characters that might get sketched in. The two brothers find themselves wrestling one another for an audition to join the hero training program.

By the end of the 3-fall audition match, both young hunks are bewildered to discover that this wrestling match was like no other they’d experienced. They both tap into aptitudes previously unrecognized, and victory is balanced on skills that they never knew that they had before. Loyalties are tested, and their world is turned upside down as they both start to get the idea that the life of a superhero is something quite different than what they thought it would be.

This may not be the cup of tea for many folks who’re drawn to homoerotic wrestling chatter. It also may not quite line up with eroticized superhero fanatics. But for the narrow slice of you into a homoerotic wrestling superhero fantasy, check it out. If it strikes your fancy, let me know what works and what you might like to see more of. If it’s a miss for you, send me a sample of your own original wrestling fiction to give me an idea of how it’s done right!

Homoerotic Wrestler of the Month

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Trent Diesel’s reign as my homoerotic wrestler of the month is coming to a close. I’m still rooting for more wrestling action from the prime time porn boy, at which point he might make another -of-the-month appearance, or he could seriously make a run in my favorite homoerotic wrestling pornboy rankings. In the mean time, time marches on. New releases this month have been pretty abundant, particularly for the lean months of summer. BG East released the second half of their catalog 83 new releases, including some notable performances by Rio Garza & Reese Wells, Bobby Horton & Tyrell Tomsen, and an impressive 1-on-2 beatdown by Donnie Drake. Naked Kombat put up 4 contenders, including a pretty damn tasty oil match debut for one hard, compact little bundle of hot muscle, Sami Damo. I’m too confused to track the timing of Can-Am’s to-disc releases, so I’m just going to count their Max subscription releases as new to me, since that’s where I’m getting most of my Can-Am fix lately. As a result, I’m tossing in the first few scenes from Arena 4, Toy Fights, and Jobe Zander vs. Aryz Quinn Director’s Battle as contenders. If you’re keeping count, Aryx Quinn is in all three of these Can-Am releases, which brings to mind my comments about Rio Garza’s overexposure recently. But in the interest of keeping the peace, I’ll just let it pass. Did I miss any new releases?

Well, without further ado… my pick for reigning homoerotic wrestler of the month is Bobby Horton.

A major factor in my selection of Bobby is how he came completely out of the blue to shock me into awed respect. The last time I caught sight of Bobby, Mitch Colby’s balls were wresting on his chin in Backyard Brawls 5. While I was jealous of that position, I really didn’t take much note of Bobby (my eyes were all over Mitch).

Well, Bobby’s come a long way, baby. Storming the ring against muscleboy Tyrell Tomsen in BG East’s Ring Rookies 3: A Heel is Born, Bobby grabbed hold of my attention with both hands, shook me around a bit, slapped my ass and absolutely made me sit up and take notice.
Bobby emerges as an out-and-out freak in this bout with Tyrell. A screw shook loose somewhere along the way (perhaps in getting manhandled by the drop dead gorgeousness of Mitch), and Bobby is wrestling like he just doesn’t care who he hurts any more. Wait, I take that back… Bobby is wrestling like he cares just a little too much about hurting just about anyone. He’s a little maniacal, a lot sadistic, and he moves like a work of pro-style art.
Not to give it all away, but Bobby is the one mentioned in the subtitle of this match. He’s getting some major kicks thwarting the overwhelming power of Tyrell and, in turn, laying some devastating hurt on the big man. He also takes as good as he gives, but it’s the give that really turned me into a Bobby fan this month. Bobby’s in the nonpornboy ranks (so far… I can always dream), but he brings plenty of kink with him to his beatdown on Tyrell. He’s got the moves. He’s got a hot, made-for-pro, rough and tumble body. And now that he’s got a balls-out giant-killer lust to lay down some hurt, I say he’s the total package. Bring on some more Bobby!

It’s the Pits

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I have friends who are as fanatical about armpits as I am about a screaming body scissors (I’m a little fixated lately, I know). Personally, I find armpits about as erotic as the rest of the body, which means I find them very erotic. But they don’t typically stand out for me. On the other hand, the fashion model pose with hands behind head, camera’s gaze centered on the armpit, is absolutely everywhere, so clearly male beauty and armpits are closely linked for a lot of folks.
I know some guys who are into nothing but hairy pits. They scoff and roll their eyes at the sight of shaved pits and make derogatory comments about the man’s gender and masculinity. As for me, sure, I’m all for hairy armpits. Take newest member of my wrestling fiction pantheon, Jared Prudoff.
On second thought, you can’t take him. He’s mine. Instead, take fitness model Hendrik Snyman and his hairy-if-coiffed pits. There’s just nothing wrong with either of these sets armpits, as far as I’m concerned.
I do pose the caveat that I’m not a fan of deodorant caked into hairy armpits. I’m just fine to do some armpit worship as long as everything is tidy and clean, or during and after a wrestling match, as long as there’s nothing but the musky sweet of hard earned sweat. Portuguese bodybeautiful Rodriogo Guilherme, for example, who I posted unattributed a few days ago (shame on me) may be water-soaked or sweat-soaked, but his pits are primed and ready for some worship.
I do have a couple of friends who are exclusively fans of shaved armpits. They turn their nose up at anything more than a 5 o’clock shadow under the arms. As for me, I’m entirely a fan of shaved pits, particularly on well-muscled physiques adorned only in wrestling gear. Take one-named Russian model Anatoli (who I also posted uncited a couple of days ago). With muscles like that, a nice shave does nothing but accentuate the shape and size of those gorgeous pecs and arms.

And speaking of wrestling armpits, wrestlers, like the fashion model boys, frequently appear in stills proudly displaying their pits. Whatever is most comfortable for the battleboys in question is exactly what I’m a fan of. When cleft-chin fratboy extrordinaire Brad Rochelle wrestled with some carefully coiffed pit hair, I was ecstatic. I’d schoolboy that hunk, pin his arm over his head, and lick every inch of him within reach of my tongue morning, noon and night.

Same hunk a few years later wrestling entirely shaved, and nothing at all has changed as far as I’m concerned. Schoolboy…arm pinned overhead… severe tongue lashing… absolute gratification.

I’m a major fan of the post-victory flex-pose of Reese Wells, in no small part because of the remarkable display he offers of his physique, including the pits. I swear he’s a magician. He gives every impression of being a barely-legal, skinny white boy. But when he’s posing with his arms over his head, his shaved armpits stretching up into remarkably defined and solidly massive biceps and triceps are just astounding. There’s just something about Reese that just screams out for him to get dropped gut first across my knee for a severe spanking, followed up immediately by getting dropped back-first across my knee for a screaming OTK backbreaker with a ball-claw chaser. Not sure what it is that makes him seem to me to demand such treatment, but there it is.

So for beautiful model boys and wrestlers alike, and especially for beautiful model boys who wrestle (in real life, or in my imagination) I may not always mention it, but I’m entirely a fan of the pits. The eroticized, objectified male physique seems to be unable to be examined without a close up, centered gaze on the armpits. I’m all for it, whatever grooming regimen you ascribe to (as long as you ascribe to one).

The Morning News

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I’ve seen a lot of chatter about the probably-ill-advised off-handed joke from Brian Williams that his penis is so huge that he can’t wear flat-front pants. Although I have a well-documented newsboy fetish, Brian doesn’t really quite do it for me. Still, I like this whole train of thought. Long before Brian’s interview, I’d already spent a whole lot of time imagining what some of my favorite newsboys might be packing underneath their cinched ties and navy blue suits. Just to tally the stats from my strip-wrestling fantasies, I imagine that Thomas Roberts is notably long; Chris Cuomo is thick with massive balls; Carter Evans is long and keeps everything shaved and tidy; and Rob Marciano is another thick Italian who manscapes only conservatively. Bill Hemmer is short and stubby, but that’s the least of his problems. For the record, I’m a fan of cocks in a variety of shapes and sizes… except for Bill Hemmer. Wouldn’t touch that with a 10-foot pole.
Anyhow… once again I feel the need to call out another ABC news hunk. Jeremy Hubbard caught my eye this morning filling in as the newsreader. He must be around 37 years old, and it looks like he used to carry a bit more weight at one time than he does now. For my purposes, I’m going to call him “fighting trim.” It suits him well.
The perpetual upturn at the innermost point of his right eyebrow is seriously adorable. There’s something boyish at him, with a “who… me?” false innocence permanently plastered on his face. If that doesn’t translate into the wrestling ring, what does!?
And he’s an alpha dog, which exponentiates his hotness. And if I’m not mistaken, that’s a terrier he’s with, which doubles his already exponentiated hotness. His look doesn’t quit grab be by the genitals the way that Chris or fellow rookie, Matt Gutman does. But as we all know, superior looks are far from what counts the most in the ring. Watch out, News Division. Someone’s got a date with a skinny white boy rookie!

Another Side of Wrestling

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I’m a giver. Against my better judgment, I took a dive into Powermen.com. Why against my better judgment? Because this site looks like a one-trick pony. Big, big (big, big, big) boys strip down and stroke for some soft core tease. That seems to sum up most everything I’ve seen at Powermen. Often, you even see the (probably straight) boys throwing down some beers to get a little less inhibited for the camera, which may be a ploy to inspire imagined scenarios that anyone is gay with enough alcohol involved, but for me it isn’t so much a turn on. If you have to be inebriated to entertain the gay guys on this side of the camera, perhaps you should earn your money some other way. Still, Powermen features some wrestling scenarios. So against my better judgment, I signed up for a taste of the goods. It’s all solely in the name of research on your behalf. Like I said, I’m a giver.

First, it was awesome to discover that my very favorite bodybuilder boytoy from MuscleRomania has a strip-down-n-jerk-off scene on this site. Over at MuscleRomania he performs as Andrew, but for Powermen he performs as Dennis Martin. That face makes me melt. His ass makes me salivate. His pecs make my eyes water. Needless to say, there’s a lot of liquid involved.
But the real reason for my foray into this sideline is the wrestling (which tragically, Dennis/Andrew doesn’t do). Those whose kink is strictly wrestling, you’ll want to give this a pass. For the most part, these boys roll around and, at most, grab each other’s asses, rather than actually sell anything that you or I would actually register as wrestling. If massively huge muscle-heads (there appear to be no other body types here) playing around and then jerking off side-by-side in the shower will work for you, then perhaps you might want to dabble in this corner of the internet.
My favorite under the auspices of “wrestling” in Powermen is, ironically, the one with the least amount of wrestling in the genre. Beer buddies Kane Griffen and Jay Brosnan first dabble in some gear play, taking turns stripping and trying on extremely tight and skimpy gear. They pose for each other, and they each take some time admiring their buddy’s gargantuan muscles. One particularly tight club shirt ends up being a favorite of both bruisers, which results in some “wrestling” on the bed.
The “wrestling” lasts about four and a half minutes. These gym bunnies are big enough to do some serious damage to one another, so it’s probably no wonder that they mostly just squeeze and stretch each other pretty carefully, alternating frequently who’s on top. Frankly, I have no idea who is supposed to be “Kane” and who is “Jay,” so I’m going to arbitrarily call my favorite of the two, the blond, tanned muscle hunk, Jay. When Jay muscles out of a bearhug and snaps one of his own on Kane, my wrestling kink is nearly triggered. With some private coaching involving some humbling discipline and a good dose of sexual domination, I think Jay could be a player in homoerotic wrestling circles. Come to mention it, that very scenario (private coaching with humbling discipline and a good dose of sexual domination) is quite a pet fantasy of mine, which explains the entire Major Domos series of matches in my wrestling fiction.
Far too quickly, Jay and Kane quit their romp and retire to nearby chairs for a side-by-side jerk-off session. There’s something a little disorienting about the way Powermen films their duets. My hunch is that they’ve got some straight porn playing off camera to inspire the boys. They’re riveted and glassy-eyed as they stroke themselves, oblivious to the drop dead gorgeous body sitting next to them. This straight-boy for gay-eyes angle is a little less than fully satisfying in my book.
Still, Jay hammering one out is awfully mesmerizing to watch. Kane seems to be the headliner for some reason, commanding a lot more air time in the act of masturbating and in his extended shower scene afterward. But give me Jay any day… in (then out of) that orange thong… mine day and night for private wrestling tutoring… taking turns who’s on top… long, hot showers afterward…
Powermen knows that there’s a market here, and they’ve set up their portable, seasonal shop in the middle of the mall to catch-as-catch can gay wrestling kinksters like you and me. I don’t begrudge that. Be forewarned, though. If you like to see your massive bodybuilders actually wrestle, you’ll only be half satisfied with the Powermen formula. If that’s enough, check out Jay (and Dennis) and let me know if you’re as smitten as I am.

The Whole Package

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Have I gone off on a rant about this before? Probably. It bears repeating (that’s my excuse for forgetting what I’ve said already). Anyway… my thoughts today return to the beauty of men’s legs. I love legs. I love the shape and size of them. I love the concentration of power in them. I’m a big, big fan of powerful legs wrapped around another man’s torso, squeezing so hard that it makes the captured man’s jaw drop.
At moments when I’m particularly obsessing about legs (like now), suddenly I notice how often the objectifying eye cuts them out of images of beautiful hunks.
In the fashion world, pictures of gorgeous men seem much more often than not to slice just below the waist, or at most, just above the knee. What matters to the objectifying, dissecting eye is clearly the territory between (and inclusive of) the crotch and the face. Not that there’s ANYTHING wrong with those bits. Give me a couple of weeks and I’ll be obsessing over pecs or abs or shoulders or noses… you know me. I’m fickle. But when I want to linger on the beauty of hot, hard, muscled male legs, the truncated shot of a male model is so aggravating!
I’m no fashion photographer. I don’t have training in graphic design. But I think it says something about what we look for and what we see, that the beauty of the fit male form is so frequently legless. If we who are consumers of the objectified male form were all about legs all the time, surely the torso shot alone would not be nearly as preferred. What counts, what attracts, what sells is clearly, primarily, above mid-thigh. This must drive full-time foot-fetish guys bonkers. In a leglust moment, I need to search a bit to find the whole, stunning package of muscle and proportion, displaying the professional object-of-lust male form from head to toe.
Perhaps it’s not a coincidence that some of the staple recurring characters in my wrestling fiction show off their gorgeous legs full-on. Ben Godfre, who in my imagination is presently in a hot and sweaty post-match three-way muscle worship scene with Jared Prudoff and Ellis McCreadie, can be found in quite a few pics showing off his tasty, tattooed legs. Wendell Lissimore is a study in muscle and grace, with legs that stretch for days. In his one match so far in my imagination, I wrote a starring role for his fantastic legs, involving Brendan Fraser trapped in the ropes and Wendell hanging from nothing but a figure-4 headlock that just about decapitates George of the Jungle.


Zack Jonathan markets his amazing body all over the place, including in the ring and on the mats, not to mention in pin-up photo shoots. I still think Zack needs a severe, bare-assed spanking over an opponent’s knee to atone for many, many self-conscious wrestling performances (though I’m hoping his improvement on that count continues). But I give him credit. In addition to a beautiful everything else, Zack has fantastic legs and he displays them and uses them skillfully.

You know me. I’m the first to crop out everything but a particular body part that I’m presently obsessing over. I dissect the male form as much as, if not more than, anyone else. I freely participate in the objectification of the male body, turning people into objects, and those objects into disassembled pieces, and those pieces into ends, in and of themselves, for my sexual gratification. But I do appreciate the whole package, from head to toe, with every inch in between part and parcel of a beautiful, graceful, inspiring work of art. And when I’m in the mood to taste some gorgeous, hard, powerful legs, an abridged torso, much less a pretty headshot, will simply not do.

Life Imitating Art Imitating Life…

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It’s like the keen eyes at Towleroad were thinking of me (and you) when they posted this YouTube gem. I don’t speak Spanish, so one of you will have to correct any misconceptions I have about the clip, but from the title and the drama, it appears to me that a Mexican bodybuilder is majorly pissed off with is placing at the end of the day. It looks like he’s disgusted with his, what, second place prize? He rips it up, walks up to the end of the stage and calls out the judges. One hot piece of judge-beef in a polo shirt stands up and invites the sore loser to bring it on.



So Baby Blue leaps from the stage and tackles the hot piece of ass judge. The crowd scatters. Satellite fights break out. Another competitor shows up, pounding a metal chair on the announcer’s table. That’s where the clip ends, but damn… my imagination is just getting started!
The bodybuilding competition as the backdrop to a wrestling match was already dreamed up before Baby Blue ever oiled up those humungous pecs of his. Can-Am was playing up the bodybuilder angle explicitly early on, including Kick-Ass Bodybuilder Feud 1 (it’s a bitter tragedy that Roman Stone didn’t have a longer tenure in homoerotic wrestling). Kick-Ass Bodybuilder Fued 2 doesn’t count, because Billy Vochek can’t pull off the role of bodybuilder. Enough said.
But actually what I was thinking of was Zeus productions Punishment 4, which features the relevant storyline of musclegod extraordinaire, Steve Sterling, getting abducted the night before a bodybuilding competition by Ivan Malek and pro-salesman of the decade, Cliff Conlin. Ivan and Cliff are charged with beating the crap out of Steve in order to spoil him for the bodybeautiful competition the next day. 2-on-1… 1-on-2… in the pro-ring… lots of muscle getting tied up and humiliated in the ropes. Whew! I need turn a fan on…
So I’m all for someone producing the next chapter in the YouTube story, when Baby Blue takes his oiled pecs to the gym the next morning and finds Poloshirt Hunk waiting for him behind a corner. The action simply must find its way into the ring. Baby Blue’s nipples absolutely must be tortured as he squirms, all trussed up in the ropes. The tables must turn… at least twice… and one of these two boys’ muscle-asses needs to get ridden hard in order to determine once and for all which one of them knows quality muscle when he sees it.

The Agony and the Ecstasy

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I don’t mind watching hot guys who can’t wrestle… sometimes. Every so often it can just be about gorgeous guys, minimal gear, and going through the motions of what wrestling sort of looks like. I don’t have to believe it. I’ve got an active imagination, and I can suspend disbelief as necessary for the sake of entertainment. But it’s a treasure when I come across a match that meets me more than halfway. When the boys sell me without me having to squint my eyes and pretend I didn’t see all those pulled punches, I’m a very happy camper indeed.
At face value, Submission 8 makes me skeptical. The boys involved aren’t in the upper echelons of my favorite homoerotic wrestling rankings. Jonny Firestorm is in his beefy, hairy incarnation, and though I’m not nearly as fanatical about it as some of the commentators at the BGE discussion group, I tend to get more of a kick out of Jonny tighter and trimmer. This is my first chance to see Skip Vance in action. He possesses such a boyish look about him that it almost puts me off. His level of fitness is astonishing and speaks to more maturity than shows on his face. And there’s something about his tanlineless ass that’s a bit captivating. But frankly, I tend to objectify wrestlers with more size and a little more mature look about them.
Thirty seconds into the match, I don’t care about any of that crap at all. Skip fesses up that he’s “all about the looks,” and it’s all down hill for him from that point forward. Jonny has fantastic skills. He focuses on the task at hand, and he takes the opportunity to illustrate, using Skip as his helpless sparring dummy, a catalog of holds and maneuvers he’s mastered.

Frankly, even all that sort of fades into the background as this match progresses. What’s absolutely fascinating about this match is that I totally believe that Skip is on the receiving end of a boatload of hurtin’. This works for many reasons, of course. Jonny has the skill and self-confidence to twist, toss, pry and pummel Skip to the very edge of physical tolerances. Jonny obviously understands how far joints can be pulled before they pop… how much tension bones can carry before they snap… how far he can push an über-flexible dancerboy like Skip before he’s done actual, acute damage.
This also works because Skip suffers so sweetly. He’s getting bullied and beaten senseless, and he shows it. Early on, when he still has some shred of dignity left (he’s only submitted three of four times at this point), he gets mad when Jonny refuses to release the hold in which Skip has just gasped out his most recent submission. “All right, all right, all right! I give! Fuck! I said I give!!” he snaps angrily.
Skip’s bruised ego gives way to a tone of fear in his voice as he’s forced to submit over and over again. Jonny keeps toying with him, sometimes letting him breathe a few seconds before renewing the assault, sometimes not. Skip’s last gasp of indignation comes when Jonny makes him count out his own three-count pin. After that, Skip’s voice starts to sound a little desperate as he begins to get the picture that Jonny is playing by his own rules. Stretched out in a backbreaker with Jonny clawing at his balls, Skip sputters and coughs, his voice rising an octave. “Oh, fuck!” he pleads. “I give! I GIVE!!!”
Pleading turns to sobs and screams. Sometimes Skip frantically tries to bat Jonny away, squirming desperately to stay free for a precious few more seconds of relief. At one point, Skip has his head in his hands, desperately gasping, “I want a break. I need a break. Just give me a couple of minutes. Fuck, I’m hurtin’…” Jonny’s definition of “a break” is clearly different than Skip’s, though.
Sometimes, Skip looks like he’s trying to play possum, just desperately hoping that Jonny will let the torture session come to a close. But Jonny is relentless. Skip’s entire body is shaking with sobs as he cries, “Just stop. Just stop….” Like a true sadist, Jonny only stops when the pretty boy physically can’t cry any longer.
I genuinely feel a little anxious for Young Skip in this match. He’s suffering so convincingly, it manages to tweak both my empathy and my wrestling kink at the same time. I’m torn, wanting Jonny to keep teaching that lesson and wanting him to give the completely outmatched kid a break. In the end, I’m happy to say that I got sucked into the moment. Skip and Jonny meet me more than halfway. I’m provoked at multiple levels, and that’s a whole lot deeper than I typically expect from homoerotic wrestling. Nice work, boys.