Author: wrestlebard

I'm a gay man with an active imagination.

More Leg Lust

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It’s still August, but where I am, summer is starting to sputter. One of the finest side-effects of hot summer weather is the excuse it offers hunks who’ve been working on their hard bodies all year to show some skin. In particular, I’m already feeling some anticipatory grief about losing sight of sweetly muscled legs once cooler weather lures those gorgeous thighs under wraps. There’s nothing about well-worked legs I don’t like. From the front, the back, the lead-in to hard, muscled asses… At this very moment, though, I’m feeling particularly randy for some low-slung, mounded, muscle thighs.
It’s been way, way too long since I took anatomy and physiology to really appreciate the technicalities of how muscles are attached so beautifully to joints. What I do recognize is that our bodies are wonderfully diverse, and even men who share precisely the same diet and workout routine develop muscle shape and size differently. When quads are huge, separated, and encasing the knee like plate armor (like classic muscle jobber Ed Harte) I’m breathless.
And speaking of fine muscle jobbers, huge legs, and me being breathless… Troy Baker was a work of art who absolutely adored his own massive, powerful thighs. It’s not like there was any inch to that blond bombshell that didn’t deserve complete worship, but he seriously got off on scissoring his opponent until they were gasping. His mat battle with Nick Archer in Undergear 9 remains a favorite go-to for me when I’m desperate for some freakish thighs put to good use in a match (and some blond muscleboy humiliation thrown in at the end).


With a catalog a mile deep, Mike Columbo at BG East is also exactly what the doctor ordered for a bad case of leg lust. Honestly, it’s hard for me to take my eyes away from his ass, even when I try…
But when I can manage it, I’m awed by his astonishingly massive thighs (not to mention his gorgeous upper body and sweet, sweet babyface). Derek D’Amore (no slouch himself) thinking he could stand side-by-side with Mike in a pre-match posedown for Fantasymen 21 is just a little sad. Mike is in a league of his own, and it isn’t the last time he humiliated Derek that day.
Aesthetics are as important as size for me. In fact, some beautiful muscle trumps a side of beef in my book. Fortunately, there are plenty of gorgeous wrestlers like Can-Am’s classic battler, Troy Lucas, who had both. As I’ve mentioned before, I think that Troy was one of the most handsome musclemen to dip his toe in the homoerotic wrestling pool, and I’d have paid money to feel those legs squeezing the breath of out me. Just watching him do it to someone else still makes me gasp.
When Tyrell Tomsen is in his competition-ready shape, he can give Troy Baker a run for his money when it comes to worship-ready muscle, inch for inch. Tyrell simply needs to put someone on their knees and mesmerize them with his sculpted physique. Then he needs to shove an awestruck face between those tree trunks and squeeze until the lucky bastard cries.
The hot hunks at the park will be putting their long pants back on soon enough, damn them. Fortunately, the finely crafted physiques of homoerotic wrestling are ever at the read to display the goods and put huge thighs to the very best possible use they could be: making one another suffer in a hot, hard fought, power vs. power wrestling match.

Drama

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The first wrestling fiction matches I wrote featured newsmen going at it in an elimination tournament. I do enjoy imagining news personalities ripping off their suits and ties and getting down and dirty in no-holds-barred battles. My latest upload to the Producer’s Ring is my take on a pro-style battle between ABC news hunks, Matt Gutman and David Muir.
These two beautiful boys made catastrophic oil spills seem somehow sexy this summer. I’m not sure who sexed up man-made environmental disaster more. For that reason alone, I tossed the two of them into the ring in my imagination to battle down until one of them comes out on top.
Because ABC News seems to be out front in maintaining a stable of lustworthy newsboys, Matt and David each arrive with a cornerman to watch their backs. Matt’s hitched up with my perpetual newsboy object-of-lust, Chris Cuomo. You knew Chris would be making another appearance in my wrestling fantasies. Don’t act surprised.

David shows up with giant man, Bill Weir as his mentor. I get the hit that Bill isn’t a simpleton news reader, and smarts are sexy, if you ask me. So in my imagination, he’s a master tactician and brains-behind-brawn, coaching young David with masterful skill.

And, as always, Carter Evans is your host with the absolute most. I’ve noticed that in real life Carter looks like he’s been putting on a few pounds lately, which could force some character adjustments (still sexy as hell… just with the beef outweighing the pretty… that could reshuffle his potential in one way or another). Carter takes advantage of his monopoly of the microphone to continue his psychological assault on the man he humiliated for the pilot tournament championship, Cuomo. Drama, drama, drama… as seems entirely appropriate for a homoerotic pro-style wrestling fantasy.

Novel Ideas

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My last post concerning superheroes and “masculine behaviors” brought to mind for me a reader request. It’s been about a year since a reader of my homoerotic wrestling fiction put out a request for a superhero wrestling story. I’ve taken several starts at this task, and I find it daunting. I put in some serious time in on a superhero angle this spring. I even shopped it around to a collaborator, but I set it aside when I found it still lacking some motivation.
What is there to be done with superheroes that hasn’t already been done and isn’t currently under way? Superheroes are paradigmatically graphic comic based, and that homoerotic angle is handled much more effectively over at Rants Roids n Rasslin than I ever could with primarily text-based fiction. Projecting major heartthrob Hollywood hunks (as populates the Producer’s Ring) with superhero alter-egos seems downright redundant with the steady stream of beautiful men hitting the big and small screens as classic superheroes.
So I’ve been in search of an angle. I’ve been aiming for something along the lines of a Gregory Maquire treatment of a classic fairy tale. Just provoking a reader’s imagination with text, what sort of warped, engaging reality might be crafted that can strike a different angle on superheroes? And in particular, how might a superhero angle in text-form center on wrestling kink, which is really what I’m primarily about?
I think I have some renewed energy and inspiration to dust off the match I’d begun many months ago. It’s certainly a sideline, so I’ll be dropping it into the Sidelineland wrestling fiction group (which is also wanting for some contributions from others). I’m sure there will be some familiar themes that regular readers will recognize from other works of mine, including power and the erotic, high stakes competition, and beautiful men wrestling for fortune and glory. Hopefully there will be something novel as well, and hopefully there’s still an audience interested in my take on superheroes.

Wish me luck. Share your ideas. Keep reading, writing, and imagining.

Masculine Behaviors

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I’ve mentioned before that I consider superheroes kink-adjacent to wrestling. There’s a lot of overlap, including full-time attention from the fine folks at Rants, Roids, & Rasslin’ and Eye of the Cyclone. There are also sideline overlappers from the wrestling side of things, including the Superhero Heels series from BG East and the Hard Heroes line of videos from Can-Am. Of course, much of masked wrestling in general draws on the rules of superherodom, turning straight-up pros into icons in the battle of good versus evil, imbuing them with an aura of invincibility when in costume, and portraying their collapse into mortal vulnerability upon unmasking.
Some psychologists reportedly have recently done “research” into the impact of superheroes on children. I’m highly skeptical about the gendered and morality-laden ruler with which they seem to have measured their data. Regardless, though, their findings are that the classic superheroes of the first half of the 20th century had a positive influence on children because they were morally upright, unflinchingly sincere, restrained in their use of force and violence, and explicitly promoting the virtue of humanitarianism. On the other hand, the researchers suggest that more recent superheroes are overly aggressive, sarcastic, self-absorbed, and eagerly embracing of violence and domination as testimony to their masculinity.
I’m just going to set aside the child-rearing aspects of this topic for the moment, which is actually the point of the research study. Those of you rearing children can take from this what you will. But from an adult perspective (and many of the offending superheroes cited are really comics for adults) I’m fascinated with the notion that society should be invested in promoting superhero role-models that “promote kinder, less stereotypical male behaviors.” Some of us, present company certainly included, think that there’s something entirely entertaining and attractive about many of these very same “male behaviors.”
It seems to me that the division identified in this research is the divide between the classic face and the classic heel. Moral masculinity appears to be tied to the rule-abiding, humble, self-restrained humanitarian hero who the masses are sure to cheer as savior, protector, and defender of the weak. Immoral masculinity is characterized as the opportunistic, cocky, hedonistic bully who takes hold of victory with both hands, taking whatever short-cut is necessary, reveling in the exercise of power and domination as ends in-and-of themselves.
I’m not the most versed comic-head in the kink-corner of the internet, but it seems to me that the more recent superheroes reflect a postmodern bent that argues that, just like real life, the world of superheroes is comprised of complex and conflicted characters who sometimes do the right thing for the wrong reasons, or the wrong thing for the right reasons. Postmodern superheroes travel back and forth between turning heel and turning back to face, sometimes doing the humbling and sometimes getting humbled, and inevitably, as always, pitting strength against strength, muscle against muscle, will against will, until one man is proven the dominator and the other forced into submission. It seems to me to be precisely a story about masculinity, and a more complicated, realistic version of masculinity is not one that is unflinchingly moral, non-violent, selfless and humanitarian, but one that is conflicted, as is every exercise of power over another being.
I, for one, would much rather my role models and proxy protagonists be flawed, inconsistent, considerate of their own self-interests, and possessing well-deserved pride in their mastery of themselves, their bodies, and their foes (and their foes’ bodies). I couldn’t live up to a 1950’s rendition of Superman, but I could see some potential for self-improvement by identifying with a postmodern warrior who gets it right sometimes, gets it wrong sometimes, and struggles to sort out the right formula of self-confidence, self-interest, and self-restraint to craft for myself a life that I can feel good about. Again, I have no idea what goes into good child-rearing, but as for me, a vacillating superhero who blurs the line of hero and villain, who occasionally smacks down an opponent and occasionally gets smacked down in the constant struggle to determine whose idea of virtue will win the day seems a lot more… meaningful.
And, frankly, it’s a lot hotter. Which is what tends to turn my crank, and I just bet it will continue to turn the crank of generations of gay (and probably straight) boys to come.

Flexing Our Muscles

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Regular readers are aware that I’m a big, big booster of the erotic imagination. Frankly, I think the distinction between “the erotic” and “the erotic imagination” is almost nil. Bodies are mostly just sacks of fluid wrapped up in skin-packages. If you absolutely remove the imagination, even the most gorgeous naked body is… well, mundane. So sex-for-sale airbrushes and pumps and primps real bodies to turn them into imaginary objects of lust. Sex-for-sale writes provocative, impossible stories to allow mundane bodies to inhabit our erotic imaginations, turning them into gorgeous hunks that ignite fantasies of what we would think, feel, and do with said fantasyman right in front of us. Even right in front of us, the bodies we adore, wrestle, fuck and make love to inhabit our imaginations much more evocatively than just our literal senses. Even the most stunningly hot, mouthwatering hunk of muscled physical perfection is – without our imaginations – just a body, with aches and intolerances and acne and skin tags and weird birthmarks and pigeon toes and bow-legs and… well, the inevitableaccumulation of mundane human existence.
But then we imagine. We put a story together. We mentally remove the clothing. We blur out the wonky bits. We apply our tunnel vision to the nice parts. We mute the cringeworthy laugh or the habitual, gross clearing of the sinuses. We freeze-frame on the particularly flattering angles and overlook the odd divots . In short, we lust because we imagine.
The cover of Rolling Stone is popping up everywhere, featuring three of the main characters of True Blood in a 3-way naked, blood-bathed embrace. This is, in itself, an exercise in the lustful imagination. This scene is out of context. It doesn’t appear in True Blood. It’s full of implication and allusion, but it relies entirely on the imagination to give it a story. It’s been meticulously posed in order to make it PG-13-ish, carefully and barely obstructing any glimpse of pubic hair, penis, testicle, or female nipple. But, obviously, those parts are implied and inevitably imagined. Personally, my eyes continue to be drawn down the long stretch of Alexander Skarsgård’s tight, hard abs and into my imagination of his beautiful cock hiding demurely and just barely behind Anna Paquin’s leg. I’ve imagined that fantastic, gorgeous naked body many times, most fondly in fictional wrestling scenarios. Stephen Moyer, while not asmuch an object of my lust, also has made an appearance in my wrestling fiction. Nothing at all against her, but Anna Paquin has never appeared in an erotic fantasy of mine.

Pretty On the Outside has done a sweet mash-up for you and me to blur the lines some more in service of our erotic imaginations. Rather than an Anna Paquin sandwich between two slices of Alexander Skarsård and Stephen Moyer, it’s now a Stephen Moyer sandwich between naked titans Skarsgård and Joe Manganiello. And isn’t this precisely the work of the erotic imagination? To disassemble and reassemble? To recast and and reconfigure. Now, remove Stephen Moyer from the second mash-up and insert me (or you). And then set the scene in motion.

My point, friends, is that a kink is simply a variation on a human theme. Our capacities for the erotic are an extension of our facility in exercising our imaginations. I suspect that you and I probably possess more vivid and well-exercised imaginations than the general population, but the mechanics are basically the same. If anything, perhaps we’re just the finely toned athletes of the erotic, because we flex those muscles more often.

Value Added

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Several recent comments here have sent me thinking more deeply about what it is that a wrestling kinkster gets in explicitly homoerotic wrestling that he doesn’t in basic cable pro. “The gay” has had a longstanding presence in straight-up pro wrestling for… well, forever, hasn’t it? The classic flaming pro-wrestler with his feather boa, dancing on the balls of his feet, have been a not-so latent element in the scene for at least as long as pro wrestling has been televised, it seems to me. I made a break with regularly following straight-up pro scenes about a decade ago, but when I’m flipping through the channels, I get the impression that “the gay” continues to creep more and more into that scene. Hasn’t there been and openly gay wrestler or two? Isn’t the erotic sub-text getting more and more main-text, as the modern audience is catching on to what so many of us have understood for a long time… that two hardbodied, barely clothed hunks grinding and squeezing their bodies together can’t help but be about sexual prowess, if not outright sex.


But I’m so far out of the straight-up pro loop, I’ll have to rely on those many of you who keep up with it to correct me. Feel free, in fact. I’m blindly wandering into a subject that I know, at most, only 50% about: what is it that we gay wrestling kinksters get in our homoerotic wrestling that we don’t get in straight-up basic cable pro? (Indie fanatics can tell me if this applies to that scene as well)…. In no particular order:
Tear-away crotch gear. And for that matter, full-on centering of the gorgeous male erection. If these elements were popping up in straight-up pro, it would seriously make me consider diving back into that scene. As it is, I’m thinking that, despite a diversity of gear and gear-related stories in straight-up pro, the tear-away crotch and the aroused cock are entirely in the domain of the homoerotic side of wrestling. Please, tell me I’m wrong.
Hand-to-bare-crotch ball abuse. Before I washed my hands of straight-up pro entirely, crotch abuse was on the rise. But as far as I know (and you will correct me), wrestlers actually stuffing their hands down each other’s trunks and clawing each other’s balls for all it’s worth (or even better, entirely naked, prolonged cock and ball bashing), marks a dividing line between wrestling packaged for us as opposed to wrestling packaged for them.
Passionate, full on, tongues-down-throats kissing. I can remember at least a couple of instances where a straight-up pro story used a man-on-man kiss as the excuse for violence (not hard to read the homosexual panic storyline here), but never as the mutual climax of the physical competition. Hard fought, sweaty, pounding, tooth-and-nail wrestling should lead to some intense respect and mutual gratification, I think. If the buff bigboys on basic cable occasionally lost themselves in passion at the end of a particularly close fought match, again, I’d absolutely have to tune back in.
Naked bearhugs. Well, naked everything, really. So we’ve been led to believe that the ancient Greeks battled it out this way, but as far as I know, other than the occasional bare-ass moment (treated as a moment of ego-crushing humiliation), the straight-up pros keep their gear on their bodies. A bearhug or a boston crab or a head scissors may be technically identical between the two genres, but the innovation of losing the gear first completely retranslates everything into a language I’m much more fluent in, and whose tones I find much more pleasing.
Oil wrestling. Especially naked oil wrestling, but seriously, any kind of oil wrestling seems like it’s this side of the neutral zone between straight-up pro and full-on homoerotic wrestling. Lubricating bodies can’t help but make everything more arousing, both in the action and on this side of my television screen. I suspect I could be on thin ice on this one, and I’ll be very pleased to be corrected to learn that the straight-up pros are breaking out the babyoil for one another… but I’m doubtful.
Toe-sucking. Okay, I can’t remember seeing this in a wrestling match before my current favorite homoerotic wrestling pornboy, Rusty Stevens, pulled it out as a defensive move against Mitch Colby this summer. So it isn’t exactly a staple of homoerotic wrestling. But somehow, I can’t see this innovation showing up in prime-time. Both genres have overlapping standard toolkits for distraction and diversion in a match, but I, for one, am really pleased when I see some erotic worship as a strategic move.
The naked pony ride. Or, really, the loser-gets-used scenario in general, involving any element of nakedness. The pony ride itself seems to be a signature primarily at Naked Kombat, though I’d love to see this gimmick show-up elsewhere. Somehow, I could imagine seeing it cross-pollinate through other homoerotic wrestling companies about a century before it would show up in straight-up pro… though Joe at Ringside at Skull Island continues to feature some fantastic indie boys I’d pay good money to see ride or get ridden… naked, of course.
The jack-off. Either post-match or, as Aryx Quinn illustrates here with Braden Charron (and KL on Chris from yesterday’s post), locked in a classic wrestling move, a forced to cum show of domination/voyeurism/humiliation. This falls under the same theme as the any-straight-up-pro hold that turns naked idea, but add to that some masturbation, and, well, this just isn’t going to show up on basic cable anytime soon… or a pay-per-view extravaganza… or, well, anywhere other than the homoerotic specialists.
Oral. The spoils of victory never tasted so sweet on any, any, any straight-up pro match as it does when a homoerotic wrestler lays his loser out and sucks his cock like there’s no tomorrow. Depending on the angle, the loser-gets-forced-to-suck story (see every Naked Kombat match, for example), also works only on this side of the line. Just as an aside, I’m more a fan of the taste of victory than I am of the loser-gets-face-fucked plot. Ironically, there’s something almost “straight” feeling about the latter to me…
Anal. Most of the same comments apply here. This just isn’t going to show up for the straight-up pro boys, though how sweet would that be to see some of those fine, muscle-asses on the line and plowed in the center of the ring when they lose? But that’s precisely what leads me (and many of us, I’m sure) to homoerotic wrestling products. Straight-up pro only takes us so far. Our imaginations can complete the scene, but there’s something awfully satisfying and, in some ways, validating about seeing the scenario play out exactly the way you and I would imagine. I don’t think that a match needs to end in a forced-fuck to be homoerotic, by any means. In fact, I get a little tired when it seems to be obligatory, and I get the impression that the creativity and competition of a wrestling match sometimes turn into clock-punching routine as the boys go through the familiar motions. But a victory fuck closes the circuit in my mind. From the anticipation, promise, and implications of straight-up pro, homoerotic wrestling fills in the silences and opens up the possibilities that turn me on like no baggy-shorts prime-timer has ever done.

I know I’ve missed a lot. I’m sure I’ve overstated my case… because that’s just what happens when I have a whole blog to myself to rant and ramble. But seriously… sincerely… I’ll be pleased no end to hear what I’ve managed to get completely wrong here.

Now That’s Entertainment

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Kid Leopard stands in the center of the ring, wearing trunks, a sleeveless t-shirt, and a towel wrapped around his neck. “All right, look,” he says, “I just want to make sure we’ve got the terms straight here, so there’s no confusion. The deal is that the loser does whatever the winner says. Am I right?” The voice behind the camera confirms it. “Okay,” Kid Leopard continues to clarify, “so that means that each time – I’m not talking about the whole match – we’re talking about each time that I make this pretty boy submit that he’s got to do whatever I tell him to do?”
The voice behind the camera agrees, “That’s correct. But on the other hand, he may make you submit.” Kid Leopard smiles broadly. “That’s what I like about you, BG,” he replies. “Hope springs eternal. You haven’t found a guy to do that yet, and it sure ain’t going to be this pretty boy.”
This is a fantastic start to the extremely hot second match on X-Fights 2. This is a classic wrestling kink clinic. Kid Leopard is cocky as hell, horny as hell, and hell-bent on getting off on dominating, destroying, and owning the gorgeous Latino hunk, Chris Stone. This match has the seeds of multiple genre sub-themes that have become classic in homoerotic wrestling. There’s a gear-fetish angle. There’s S&M. There’s hunkbashing. Seven excruciatingly hot submissions would be enough to make my head swim, but it’s what occurs after the submissions that makes this match gaspingly erotic.
After a figure-4 leglock variation makes Chris submit for fall #1, KL maintains the hold long enough to stroke Chris’ truly major league ass. “Now it’s your turn to entertain me,” KL explains. “Now take something out of that bag and put it on… and entertain me.” Chris pulls out classic period-piece shredded, acid washed jeans from his gym bag in the corner. KL insists that the young stud take off his posing trunks first, giving us our first of many shots of Chris’ stunning naked ass and gorgeous tan lines, which has to be acknowledged as the award-caliber supporting role in this drama (right behind leading man, KL).
Fall #2 is the culmination of an incredible wrestling clinic. Bearhug transitions to over-the-knee backbreaker to full nelson to headlock to hangman. The bronze Latino is bewildered and beaten, suffering sweetly until he can’t take it any longer and cries out his second submission. KL peels the jeans off of his opponent, leaving him naked, sweaty, and pouting on his back in the middle of the ring. “Show me something pretty,” KL insists as he instructs Chris to change gear again. A pink thong can barely contain the beautiful young muscleboy, who stretches it to its limit when he’s caught in a Boston Crab and submits a third time. KL doesn’t let go until he’s indulgently stroked his opponent’s ass crack and grabbed his balls. KL’s treat for himself for this fall is to squeeze out a 4th submission, after which he forcefully embraces the battered hunk, kissing him passionately. This is the point at which Chris is done with the match. He sighs in resignation like a puppy put on his back. He’s ready to obey the better man. He’s done. But KL is far from done.
A ball-clawing rack makes the hopeless hunk scream submission #5. Ripping off the pink thong, KL demands submission #6 in a naked figure-4 leglock. KL demands Chris stroke himself before he’ll release him from the torturous hold. “Let’s see you suffer, pretty boy…” KL mutters to himself. “Entertain me…” he says, watching the pain on his opponent’s face, examining Chris’ tense, rippled torso, fascinated to watch Chris stroke his thick cock in humiliating obedience. Another leglock forces lucky number 7 from Chris Stone, for which KL climbs on his opponent’s back and manages an impassioned hands free frot orgasm between Chris’ stunning ass cheeks.
This is pretty nearly my definition of homoerotic wrestling. I know many of you don’t care for a squash, but this match is never about the drama of competition (though Chris manages some respectable reversals very early on in this bout). This works as fine art, telling the fantastic tale of domination and ownership, with a master storyteller entertaining himself, and us, with the humiliating destruction of a stunning bronze hunk. It just about doesn’t get much better than this for me.

Not a Numbers Game

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About a year ago, I started checking the stats on this blog. I was feeling insecure, wondering if I was blathering on to an empty house. The exercise of writing daily was an end to itself, but the thought of putting time into posting a public blog that no one read was a possibility that was going to defeat me. I needed to know that at least it was being read. I didn’t worry so much that people enjoyed it or agreed with it. But just that its existence was noted.

Initially I had a few dozen hits a day, representing about as many viewers. That was enough to beat down my feelings of insecurity and futility.
Over the past year, I’ve checked in periodically to see how the numbers are going. I no longer feel the pangs of insecurity that no one is reading. Enough of you comment, critique and encourage to keep me thinking out loud. I remember when the blog consistently began breaking 100 views per day. It felt legitimating, somehow.
When the stats indicated about 100 people a day (I’ve learned it’s far from an exact science) accounted for about 500 views, I began to feel a little insecure that perhaps too many people were reading. I worried for a while that someone would complain about copyright infringement (I try to track down my pic owners when I can, but I admit to reposting liberally), or that haters would stumble upon me and try to get nasty. I don’t go looking for sour energy in my life, and the thought that a reader would get pissy with me for one reason or another made rising hit numbers seem a little ominous.
In the past couple of months, hits are regularly topping a thousand a day with about 400 or so viewers. I’m confident a lot of these represent people who stumble into the room looking for an entirely different party, and who exit just as quickly. But I’m also aware that many of you are regular readers who share a kink, a sense of humor, and a lust for beautiful men wrestling with one another. Other than a lot of spammers trying to comment with trojan horse links, almost no one has tried to be nasty (1 snarky killjoy tried to get up in my face about 6 months ago about copyright infringement for my reposts of Rock Hard Wrestling pics, which fortunately I had written permission for… so there…). The numbers themselves don’t add up to much of anything to me anymore. The comments on the blog, and the beautiful messages I frequently get when people sign up for one of the wrestling fiction groups mean a whole lot more to me.
But I just have to ask, what happened yesterday!? Nearly 600 people accounted for about 1,500 hits. Sure, my post on the most recent Naked Kombat match was profoundly insightful and existentially provocative, but the dramatic uptick is a little astonishing.
I realize that for most internet publishers, the numbers game means something other than what it means to me. I’ve heard from a couple of producers of homoerotic wrestling that this blog accounts for a good number of click-throughs to their retail sites, which can account for cash flow and financial viability in hard times for these fine companies. All the better, if you ask me. I’m thrilled to have a lot of wrestling kink companies out there making enough profit to keep them producing, creative, and innovating (please, keep being creative and innovating). I don’t advertise here, though, and I don’t take donations. So for me, the numbers are more a curiosity. It’s what they represent that means a lot more to me. They represent a lot of us who share a common interest, an eye for hot guys and wrestling, and a desire to be connected in one way or another. So thanks for reading, and keep the comments coming. An encouraging word, a common interest, a different perspective, or a piece of original fiction to share is worth infinitely more to me than a stat counter. In response to the message I hear over and over again, let me just say one again to everyone: no, you are most certainly not alone.

By the way, the photos complimenting todays post are a theme set. I won’t give it away, but I know that you all are an astonishingly clever lot who will have figured out the common theme anyway. If not, enjoy the puzzle.

The Importance of Audio

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Scanning the promo pics for the latest match uploaded to NakedKombat, I thought to myself, “This isn’t going to do it for me.” I love it when I’m wrong. The match pits Brenn Wyson, 185 pounds, 6′ tall, with a record of 3-0 with NK, against 175 pound, 5’6″ beefy Marine, Jack Hammer (1-0). The unoriginal porn name “Jack Hammer” nearly puts me off this bout entirely before it ever starts. But I’m glad I stuck with it and discovered the secret element that makes this match incredibly, erotically entertaining.

Brenn mutters, whispers, and provides ongoing self-commentary on the match throughout. Despite Brenn having a bit of a stoner look about him (which tends to turn me off), his compunction to talk throughout the bout makes this match at least 20 times hotter than it would otherwise be. Not to give too much away, but this is a complete squash (okay, that pretty much gives it all away… you’d pick up on it 3 minutes into the match anyway). In NK points and in simple domination, Brenn owns this from start to finish. He explains his determination to dominate Jack relentlessly. He’s terrified of having to take Jack’s humungous cock in the the sex round. Before the match begins, Brenn states the facts: “My strategy is: he has a big fucking dick, and there’s no way I’m losing to that!”
Very early on Brenn puts Jack on his back, pressing his hips between Jack’s legs. Whispering into Jack’s ear, Brenn explains in his raspy, breathless voice, “I like that. That’s my favorite.” When jock straps are ripped off in round 2, Brenn again has Jack struggling vainly on his back. He asks, “Who’s your daddy?” When Jack gasps, “It’s not you!” Brenn persists. “I’m daddy. Call me daddy Wyson!” he demands. “Call me fucking daddy Wyson!” In the naked round, Brenn has Jack locked up (needless to say). Looking down at his own erection, he marvels, “Oh, yeah! I’m going to fuck you with that dick.”
Brenn is here to show off, no question, and something about that takes me by surprise and works for me. About eight and a half minutes in, Brenn has Jack at his mercy in a front chancery. Jack’s squirming and fighting it without getting anywhere (are you starting to get the picture?). Brenn looks into the close-up camera with a big grin, then wags his tongue at the audience in a show of cocky control and humiliation. He frequently looks up to the ref and grins, like a kid looking to his pappa for approval for each immobilizing, dominating hold he applies.
So despite a lot of things not adding up here for me, I’m just a bit taken with this match. Neither of these boys are classically “pretty,” (and I’ve been in a “pretty” mood lately). It’s a little boring to watch one man so constantly thwarted and owned at every turn. Brenn’s stoned-edge and tweaky laugh leaves me a little uninterested. But the self-commentary turns… me… on. I like that sort of surprise.

Stunned

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My, oh my, oh my! Go tell it on the mountain! I’ve been stunned. I just keep staring at the physical perfection of male model Deepak Kataria. He’s making me seriously consider a sooner-than-expected return to some writing in the Secretarial Pool in my wrestling fiction.
Just gorgeous. The photographs I’ve found thus far appear to all be by the same Indian photographer, so I don’t know how extensive Deepak’s modeling career is just yet. With those cheekbones and that astonishingly hot body, I should hope we’d see much, much more of him.

Deepak has come out of the blue for me, so despite immediately wanting to deploy him in the world of my wrestling fiction, I haven’t yet come up with a plot for him to fit within (and you know I think a plot is essential). Perhaps he could be one of the handful of secretarial pool members that I’ve alluded to without identifying yet. On the other hand, he could be some other producer’s executive assistant who finds himself throwing down with one of Eli’s boys.
One way or another, I strongly suspect that this devastating beauty will be starring in a wrestling match in my imagination soon.