Author: wrestlebard

I'm a gay man with an active imagination.

Earning a Shot, continued

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Adam400m is up again with a new post featuring his behemoth legs. To whomever made that request of him, thank you! Next, can you request to see the same angles in a speedo… then a thong… then a jock strap?
That muscle butt of his is truly incredible, even when viewed only through the contours of his workout shorts. This makes for two video clips from Adam that have uncharacteristically gone unanswered by SteelMuscleGod. Adam is tanned, toned and more massive than ever. I hope that SMG isn’t starting to feel intimidated by the competition. When last we left Adam in the machinations of my imagination, he had ripped poor Yann’s knee and was proceeding to smother the Frenchman in the deep crevice between his rock hard, mountainous pecs.
Yann tries desperately to pry his face away from Adam’s crushing chest. He beats his fists at the Englishman’s massive shoulders, but Adam just smiles, unfazed. Yann begins to sag in Adam’s grasp, but he suddenly rallies, pulling his weight back onto his one good leg and clawing frantically at Adam’s bulging arms. The rally is shortlived, though. Slowly, Yann sags again in Adam’s grasp, until finally he’s hanging limply, arms at his sides, his face smashed against Adam’s chest by the Englishman’s arms wrapped around his head.
With a broad smile still on his face, Adam looks over to SteelMuscleGod, leaning against the wall. Adam’s eyebrows raise, questioningly but silent. SMG purses his lips in thought for a few seconds, the nods at Adam, saying simply, “Make him beg.”

Suddenly, Adam releases his hold on Yann’s head, causing the Frenchman to drop to his knees in a semi-conscious stupor. Adam grabs the back of Yann’s head in both his hands and shoves the Frenchman’s face into Adam’s speedo-clad crotch. He grinds Yann’s face into his package in slow circles for several seconds, until Yann sl0wly comes to his senses with Adam’s balls pressed against his lips. With a panicked start, Yann pulls his head away, only to find Adam powerfully shoving it downward again. Lifting his massive right leg to the side, Adam shoves Yann’s head between his thighs. The Frenchman’s entire head disappears between the girth of the Englishman’s monstrous quads.
Slowly and deliberately, Adam flexes his stunning legs, each muscle group hardening and separating in beautiful detail. Yann’s muffled cries come from deep between his opponent’s legs. Raising his hands to the back of his head, Adam flexes his core muscles and slowly gyrates his hips, applying excruciating pressure to every angle of Yann’s captured head and neck. Yann’s cries rise an octave as fear mixes with pain. Desperately Yann taps submissively at Adam’s rock hard thighs. A broad smile opens up across Adam’s face as he demands, “Beg for it!” Yann continues tapping frantically as sobs make his body quiver. Finally, Yann’s muffled voice comes from between Adam’s legs, pleading. “I beg you, please, please, please….” Adam’s smile turns into a sneer of contempt. He chuckles as he spreads his legs, watching Yann collapse at his feet, cradling his head in his hands.

Yann remains in a fetal position on the floor, cradling his throbbing head in his hands for several minutes. He pointedly keeps his eyes shut, praying for no further humiliation at the hands of his opponent. When he suddenly feels a hand grab a hold of the hair on top of his head, Yann gasps, startled. “Please…” he murmurs.

Opening his eyes, Yann looks up into the face of SteelMuscleGod hovering overhead, twisting Yann’s face toward him by his handful of hair. “Looks like you choked on your hors d’oeuvre,” SteelMuscleGod chuckled. “Now, I think I’ll have you for dessert.”

R Space

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As regular readers will realize, I occasionally have a tough time keeping up with the demands of both work and play. Work sometimes slams me so hard I can’t see straight, impeding on my social life and, more importantly for some of you, my online musings. I’m closing in on completing my contract with myself to write a blog post a day for a year. It sounded like a simple, straight-forward discipline when I set to it about a year ago. It was just intended to get me writing more, putting my thoughts out there, and building up some thick skin when it comes to comments and reviews. But it’s been anything but simple.

I’ve hung onto the daily discipline by the skin of my teeth, frequently having to sacrifice my more intentional fiction writing for weeks at a time. So the idea of also keeping up on a MySpace page, Twitter, Facebook, or whatever is now cool (clearly I’m not), seems laughable. Still, I’ve set up a MySpace page and Twitter account for reasons still unknown to me. I haven’t worked them into my life, really, but they’re there.
Occasionally readers have found me on those sites and hit me up to be “friends.” I’m resisting that word these days. Virtual social networks have cheapened the concept of a friend a bit, I think. Take, for example, the dozens of big breasted women who keep hitting me up to “friend” me. Clearly they have no idea who I am, so the presumption of friendship just seems absurd.
Still, I’m happy to be socially networked with other homoerotic wrestling kinksters, if you’re entirely understanding that my presence is very, very hit-and-miss other than on the pages of this blog. So if you’re wanting to be socially networked further, look me up and let me know in your request that you read this blog, or that you’re a fellow homoerotic wrestling kinkster, or what you’re favorite wrestling hold is… just something that distinguishes you from the phishing, vile army of devious characters hiding behind profile pictures of big breasted women.
See you around…

By Any Other Name

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I haven’t been into soccer/football in quite a while. I think I lost my taste for it when playing intramurals in college, precisely at the point at which I saw a compound fracture result from a nasty tackle (I wasn’t directly involved… just a witness). Even more precisely, I’d say it was at the point at which I heard the compound fracture. It still haunts me a little.
Haunting me in an entirely different way is the U.S. Men’s World Cup team as seen on the pages of Interview magazine. Oguchi Onyewu may be my favorite in this spread. Like all the boys, he’s got the fierce game face that makes me think he’d just as soon corner kick your head as the ball. His sculpted torso all covered in grime is fantastic.
My second favorite soccer boy from the pages of Interview is Carlos Bocanegra. He looks like he could use some help cleaning off. You can’t see it, but I’ve got two hands free at the moment to help lather him up.
Third on my list is goalie Tim Howard. Sweet pecs, shaved head, generous ink… everything except the sullen look and the four spiritual laws (I bet the two are connected) are making me a big fan.
Next up for my tastes is Benny Feilhaber. I’ll forgive him for keeping his shirt on, but only because even in a black and white photo, his eyes are flourescent. When I’m done in the shower with Carlos, I’ll be ready to hose off Benny.

Bringing up the rear in this line up is Jonathan Bornstein. Nothing wrong here at all, but he gets my last place ranking for bad posture. He’s also conspicuously lusting after Megan Fox… that’ll drop a promising hunk into last place most days for me.


I have half an eye on the competition in South Africa. I’m not nearly as into as most of my friends and, I’m sure, many of you. But I’m definitely rooting for the dirty, sweaty hardbodies from the pages of Interview. Of course, then there are the pages of Vanity Fair…

True Skin

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Is there anything to be said that hasn’t already been said eloquently? Squarehippies calls it the best premiere ever. Superhero raves, “Epic and hilarious and damn sexy!” Dlisted says that the season opener of True Blood was produced by his wet dreams.

I say Alan Ball is a genius. Nearly every sweet hunk regular on the show displayed significant amounts of skin. It’s like a hunting ought to be: no wasted flesh. To start with, I need to linger on my favorite scene of the night, and one of my favorite images of all time. 6’4″ Swedish adonis, Alexander Skarsgård, beautifully bare-assed.
The camera was making love to Alexander throughout this episode, which seems appropriate for the 6 hour fuck fest that his character was supposed to have been engaged in. The close ups, the naked rearview, the low-slung leisure wear later on… this man is incredible. The promise of even more explicit scenes to come this season is making me a little numb. He’s also amazing in this character (and not just for the skin). Alexander is skillfully playing both inhumanly cold and calculating with subtle twinges of vulnerability. Alexander has shown up three times in my wrestling fiction, twice in action, but never bare-assed. That must be remedied, and this is just the inspiration to make that happen.
Next, let’s move on to Stephen Moyer and Sam Trammell, co-starring in the homoerotic fantasy of Sam’s character. Pec to pec, this pair is indeed the stuff of fantasies. As Stephen’s character promises that a tandem shower will be a real good time, both Sam and I swoon just a little, entirely convinced. Like Alexander, Stephen and Sam have made an appearance in my wrestling fiction fantasies, appropriately enough in a tag team match taking on werewolf and vampire buddies on Being Human, Russell Tovey and Aidan Turner. There was no tandem shower scene in that fantasy, so True Blood yet again drives my imagination to new heights.
Finally, let’s linger a while on the ridiculously gorgeous bubble butt of Bon Temps favorite muscle slut, played by Ryan Kwanten. In the season premiere, Ryan is unable to get it up for two naked women working him over simultaneously. There’s a whole story line that makes this sensical, but I think a much better story line would be to see Moyer and Trammell show up after their steamy shower and satisfy blueballed Jason like only two big, hard hunks can. And just to round out my homoerotic wrestling fantasy fascination with the golden cast of True Blood, Ryan appears in three of my fictional wrestling matches, starting with losing all self-control as Jamie Bamber bearhugged Ryan into a frot frenzy.
Hell, True Blood is employing the talent so well, the real thing is starting to catch up with my homoerotic imagination! I predict that I will be up to the challenge, though, with more full contact, full frontal wrestling action to come for every single one of the True Blood regulars. And did I mention that Alan Ball is a genius?

Good Use

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Did you catch the story that the U.S. Health and Human Services Department advisory board has once again decided to retain the policy that any man who’s had sex with another man anytime in the last 33 years can’t donate blood? On the day after the debut of the new season of True Blood (more on that tomorrow), it begs the question of what’s the truth about blood?
Those of us who’ve been very, very happy to have had sex with other men since 1977 could find this profoundly insulting, dehumanizing, and humiliating. In a world in which people are literally dying because of a lack of available blood products, our blood is deemed not fit for human consumption. It’s no longer about an inability to test confidently for communicable diseases… we’re well past that problem. It’s not about HIV, regardless of what they say. There’s absolutely nothing prohibiting rampantly promiscuous men and women engaged in outrageously high-risk sexual activity from getting in the donor pool, as long as their high risk behavior was with someone of the opposite gender (which definitely still can transmit HIV). It’s about gay blood being treated as essentially suspect, inferior, and dangerous.

So perhaps the real “fuck you” message here isn’t directed at us. The real “fuck you” message is for all the desperately ill and injured straight people on the edge of survival due to a lack of my universal donor, coveted type O negative. So sorry. This blood ain’t for you. It could save your life, but because of social prejudice, the HHS would rather see you die than for you to possibly receive a transfusion of my blood.
From day to day, my blood seems pretty cheap, frankly. A paper cut here… some tender gums there… spilling a little doesn’t really amount to much. Full contact competition illustrates that blood outside the body even has an entertainment value to it. But blood for life, for the survival of those most in need, the ban on my blood being donated for the health of someone else shouldn’t just infuriate me (and you). It should absolutely appall everyone with a breakable, cut-able, illness prone body who could, through no fault of their own, end up in desperate need of a transfusion. To you, the HHS advisory committee says, “fuck you.” Protecting social bigotry is more important than your life.

With a Friend to Call My Own

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Towleroad has turned me on to a tweet-flirt that makes my mind spin. Aussie rugby boy of my dreams, the tattooed muscle god who graces the pages of gay rags often, Nick Youngquest has been tweeting back and forth with recently out Brit rugby boy beast, Gareth “Alfie” Thomas. Gareth proposed a naked Twister competition between the two of them (at which point my heart skips a beat). Nick has replied with this ADORABLE photo of the two of them shirtless and chumming in the locker room.

There’s just so much right here. Two gorgeous muscle gods clearly enjoying each other behind the scenes… muscle-on-muscle, tat-on-tat embracing… both boys with their hands at their crotches… and the sweet, unselfconscious ribbing of a seriously sexually secure straight man (Nick) hamming around with an openly gay friend.
Frequent collaborator Swito first pointed me in Nick’s direction. Swito also helped me work up one of my favorite homoerotic wrestling fiction storylines including Nick laying some massive, humiliating destruction on Canadian male model, Andrew Stetson.
Nick stars in many of my personal fantasies, and I get the impression that in real life, he wouldn’t mind. That’s a straight man worth knowing. The fact that he’s an incredibly carved, stunningly handsome, athletic bodybeautiful of iconic proportions is just icing.
Gareth is a fantastic muscle beast worthy of worship as well. He’s the sort of fierce, muscled force of nature that I always think is wasted on heterosexuality. And then, low and behold, Gareth comes out!
I’m not a misogynist, at least not self-consciously so. It’s just that I have to imagine such an incredible body like Gareth’s simply can’t be fully appreciated by a woman. My gut tells me that it takes a man to entirely satisfy and be satisfied by the incredible form of a snarling beast of a rugby player like this. The fact that Gareth has a straight muscle buddy to joke around with (and hang out shirtless with in the locker room) just makes me all kinds of happy!

Tease Me Good, Tease Me Bad

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I don’t think of myself as a naive consumer of homoerotic wrestling. I understand that many of the boys who strip to next to nothing and throw each other about for our viewing pleasure aren’t, themselves, gay. I realize that even some of the gay ones aren’t up for the full frontal fun that makes homoerotic wrestling particularly homoerotic. Hell, I suspect some of these boys are probably hater-hypocrites (not that I’m naming names… just statistically speaking it seems likely). But the boys that taunt and tease, shove their packages in our faces and never, ever actually display the goods are just driving me crazy lately.

Driving me crazy in a good way is someone frequently in my crosshairs for being oddly demure for drawing so much attention to his package. BG East’s Mr. Joshua Goodman could seriously poke an eye out with what he’s packing in those trunks (which might be worth it).

Mr. Joshua has built a career on the cock tease. Surely his most reliable move throughout his career has been sticking his hand down his trunks to rearrange the jewels. Contents that big most certainly will have shifted in flight, so it’s no wonder Joshua needs to repack the luggage on a regular basis.
Despite the infuriating tease, Mr. Joshua has other assets to keep me entertained and string me along, holding out hope after hope for a gander at the moneymaker. His roguishly cocky banter, his stunning six pack, and his mastery at telling the story of his awed self-worship keep me coming back over and over, despite my always being disappointed. If anyone is worried that we’ll lose interest in Mr. Joshua once he’s finally relieved our frustrated tension and displayed his bulging manhood, please, please trust me. I’ll personally buy two copies of any product that features Mr. Joshua setting free the dragon that’s always fighting to escape the cage of his trunks

My second case in point is Rio Garza, who, I think, is making me crazy in a bad way. Can-Am’s pay site, Can-Am Max has uploaded an online exclusive clip of about 4 minutes of Rio go-go-dancing and stripping. The stripping ends, though, with sweet Rio tugging at his trunks, but never actually showing the goods.

Now I’m a well-documented Rio convert, despite the risk he runs of being a bit overexposed in an underexposed kind of way. From out of nowhere, it’s hard to shake a homoerotic wrestling stick without smacking Rio in the face in multiple production companies (not that I’m advocating smacking Rio with a stick… unless that’s what he’s into).
When he made the jump into the Can-Am world, I held out hope that his new “exclusive” contract would combine the balls-out eroticism of Can-Am with the effortless Latino sizzle of Rio. I’ve been watching the serial release of Rio’s debut with the Can-Am boys in Arena 3, and I have to say, so far, the combination appears to combine the playing-it-gay modesty of Rio with the sometimes less than stellar wrestling quality of Can-Am.

I’m not turning into a hater here, by any means. I really, really root for Rio to make a boatload of cash on giving his gay fans just enough to make us pull out our credit cards, without compromising his integrity. That said, I’m not in the market for a go-go boy solo show that I could find for just a cover charge at the gay club down the street. I like beautiful boys, clearly. But that certainly isn’t the extent or scope of my kink, by any means. Rio could burn through my good will, I think, if he both continues to tease and fails to develop his wrestling chops. He doesn’t have to do a back flip splash off the top turnbuckle or anything. But absent some more naked flesh, I need Rio to tell me an entertaining homoerotic story to keep me coming back for more.

Am I being too harsh on our boy? I know a couple of you, in particular, will think so. I’m sticking to my guns here, though. Rio could definitely take some tutorials from the cock-tease extraordinaire, Mr. Joshua (I’d pay to see that). Let’s see the full monty, Rio, or invest the time in some serious wrestling training. Preferably, both, but absolutely essentially, at least one of the two. Otherwise, I’ll see you dancing the pole down the street.

Newsboys

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Okay, I know. You don’t have to say it. Two posts in a row on my newest newsboy crush, Matt Gutman, may be a little obsessive. Then again, I haven’t had a newsboy crush to gush about in so long, and it’s my blog, damn it, and if I want to write love letters to Matt and dot my i’s with a heart, then damn it, that’s what I’m going to do.

So, I ♡ Matt. I ♡ him even more after seeing this clip of him getting hassled as he tried to file a report on the gulf coast oil slick. The BP boy off camera needs to get his ass kicked… by Matt… after he rips off his shirt and starts talking serious trash.


When I fantasize about my favorite newsboy crushes wrestling on the beach, I tend to set the scene on the beige sands of southern California, rather than the crude-oil soaked beaches of the devastated gulf coast. Matt staking out his claim and diplomatically but firmly making it clear that he’s not going to be intimidated from moving off his spot gets me just a little hot and bothered. Again, I just need to say, Matt needs to throw the punk ass hassling him off camera to the sand, shove his face in it until the kid chokes, and then slap on a camel clutch while the clean up crew take an on-the-clock break to laugh at him.
And I know that you don’t read this blog for commentary on world politics, but the dumbasses that drilled deep sea oil wells without a means of stopping the oil flow in the event of a catastrophic failure should also be slapped around hard… in prison.
Silver-lining: Matt Gutman hits the national news scene, his shirt unbuttoned far enough to see his sexy, scruffy chest. David Muir must be feeling the heat, as he unbuttons another button.

Newsboys

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I don’t want to toot my own horn. I much prefer someone else tooting my horn… preferably a dark haired, dimpled hot hunk of meat who can talk geopolitics.

Speaking of which, it seems I’m not alone, yet perhaps just a fraction ahead of the curve, in identifying newsboy Matt Gutman as an inevitable object of lust. I love to think of myself as a trendsetter. Hell, I’m going to go out on a limb and be an early adopter of this new-fangled gadget I’ve just heard about called a “cell phone.” I’ll let you know how it goes.
Back to my fingering of Matt Gutman as a newsboy hunk on the rise. Another blogger (3 days later… just sayin’…) suggests that sweet, swarthy Matt “looks like he’s ripped from the cover of Men’s Health or Muscle & Fitness.” Okay, I’ll give you Men’s Health… I’m not sure about Muscle & Fitness. I need to see him stripped down and oiled up (baby, not crude) to make that call. Seriously, I NEED to see him stripped down and oiled up.
Now I’m going to get NO work done for another hour or so with the fantasy of Matt Gutman stripped and oiled, damn it. In for a penny, in for a pound… just try to tell me that Matt and Carter Evans in pro boots and trunks in the ring wouldn’t just about be the sweetest newsboy match up since Carter busted Chris Cuomo’s nose on the beach and made the massive Italian scream (for new readers, note that all of that is fiction). Once Carter and Matt pull out the measuring stick and see who’s bigger, I’m thinking they’d make an absolutely mind-boggling tag team. If I can just find Chris a tag team, this would be a fantastic new chapter in their grudge saga. Maybe David Muir might be a little resentful of Matt’s skyrocketing stock…
So now I’m no good for at least another three hours…

Taking Time to Adjust

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True Blood Season 3 is rapidly approaching, and I’m already getting a little breathless. This interview of Joe Manganiello is pushing me into “swooning” territory. This is one huge, muscled, gorgeously bearded man discussing tackling people wearing only a sock on his cock. Get out of my way, Anna, because if you aren’t up for taking that hit, I am!!

Excuse me while I pick up my jaw and wipe the drool from my chin (and adjust my pants).
Is Alan Ball out there somewhere reading this blog? If not, I think he clearly should be. He’s so obviously one of us, and I mean that in every way possible.
So let’s just assume that Alan Ball is, in fact, reading this. In which case, I have to make a desperate plea for a rip-n-strip fight scene between Joe and Alexander Skarsgård for loser-gets-fucked/winner-gets-worshiped stakes. A 6’5″ bearded Italian American with slabs of muscle taking on a 6’4″ blond Swede oozing sexuality?
Excuse me, I need to adjust myself again.