Author: wrestlebard

I'm a gay man with an active imagination.

Message Received

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I got the message. I’ve been told in no uncertain terms lately that I should buckle down, get my work done, and finally finish the next match for the Secretarial Pool auditions.

Everyone has been genuinely respectful, not to mention patient, but there’s a little bit of a “tone” in the messages I’m getting lately.
A little less time on the blog, someone has suggested, in order to make time to finish my work and get back to the fiction. Time management… buckle down… nose to the grindstone, Bard.
My take away is that it’s great that people are anxious to see the next chapter in the auditions. When I started sharing my fiction about a year ago, I wasn’t sure anyone would be all that interested. So having people smack me around a little and remind me that they’ve been patiently waiting for the next match is a good news/bad news sort of scenario.

The good news is that you’re getting a kick out of my writing. The bad news is that when I’m swamped at work, you’re left waiting. But do understand: I get the message. I’m working my ass off, and looking forward to the much more enjoyable work of exercising my homoerotic wrestling kink imagination (and looking forward to more of your contributions to Sidelineland!).

Labors and Love

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I’ve finally had an opportunity to put some writing time in on the next Secretarial Pool audition match. You all have been both patient and gracious with my excuses for not posting in a more timely fashion. The primary excuse is that the work I do to pay the bills has swamped me lately. This blog and my wrestling fiction are entirely a labor of love (note, no ads, no donations accepted, just me and you having some fun considering what turns us on). Fortunately, I’m having a little more time for labors of love very recently. So I’ve been back to being immersed in considering every angle, muscle, and movement of the next two competitors for the Secretarial Pool audition: Sean Sullivan and Rafael Verga.

In the non-fiction world (if you can call the world of male modeling non-fiction), Sean Sullivan has been photographed both in huge, muscleboy fitness mode and in a somewhat slimmer, more artsy fashion mode. He’s worship-worthy in any case, particularly with those shiny gray eyes and his locks left long and curly. For the purposes of the Producer’s Ring, though, Sean is in his beefiest condition, massively muscled, pounding pecs, vascular cobra arms and traps nearly up to his ears.
Sean sees this competition as coming down to him and fellow fitness musclegod, Nick Auger. The rest of the fashion boys are just speed bumps in his way to the inevitable clash of the titans. Rafael, on the other hand, is determined to be no one’s speed bump.
A particular full frontal of Rafael has set my imagination on fire in the last couple of days, and I’m 100% certain that it will show up in the text of the match itself. Where Sean’s dominating strength is self-evident, Rafael’s capoeira could show up as the wild card in this match. Where do rhythm, balance and speed stack up against overwhelming power?
The more time I spend with Rafael (in my imagination), the more I’m struck by how ridiculously handsome he is. I don’t count either of these boys as pretty, and in particular I find Rafael’s face almost hyper-masculine.
I think that these are two hunks accustomed to being on top, in the saddle, and taking charge. Rafael, no less than Sean, is certain of the inevitability of his victory. Unlike the beginning of Nick and Jakub’s match, when you could sort of taste Jakub’s desperation in the air, both Rafael and Sean are unfailingly confident that they have something up their sleeves (and down their pants) that simply cannot be denied. Unstoppable force… immovable object… the only certainty here is that someone will be tamed, forced to submit, and if things are heading where I think they’re heading, surrendering in mind, body, and spirit.

What’s Mine is Mine

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I’m a glutton for punishment (like you didn’t know that). So despite feeling consistently disappointed (in decreasing amounts, though), I went to the well again with Rock Hard Wrestling. It was an impulse buy. Others who produce wrestling for you and me should take note. Instant downloads will totally score with people with poor impulse control. And there are plenty of us with poor impulse control and a credit card.

RHW’s most recent match stars Brody Hancock (aka Reese Wells in BGE world). Brody is the class in this operation. He has the moves and the salesmanship to tell a story, where many of the RHW boys have fallen a little flat. Brody faces off in this latest match with “teen bodybuilder” Troy Nelson.
They did not grow teenagers like this when I was a teenager. Sweet mother of God, Troy’s legs are awesome! I mean, literally, I’m awed! Massive quads, powerful calves, a muscle ass for days… this was simply not in the distribution of teenage bodies when I was too young to drink legally.
Troy is touted as the little brother of Cody, who appeared in the last release from RHW. I gave Cody and his opponent a pretty rough time of things when it comes to polish. With Brody in the ring, though, that is not a problem. Troy isn’t nearly as smooth and coordinated as Brody, but Brody makes this match work, regardless. That said, Troy does have some good timing. His repeated corner work on Brody is actually quite nice. Troy’s leg scissors on the skinny veteran are the appropriate climax of Troy’s offensive throughout. Watching Brody squirm, grunt, and thrash, captured between those tree trunks is seriously, seriously pleasing. Troy also entirely sells me at around 13:15 when he swoops in to position himself for a camel clutch. I swear I think he’s just fucking the whole sweet moment up like a dumb rookie, when out of the blue, he skillfully transitions to a rather wicked looking full nelson, prying Brody’s torso backward savagely. Also to his credit, when Troy is dropped for the second time (hell yes!) in an over-the-knee backbreaker across Brody’s thigh, either Troy seriously tapped into a new depth of salesmanship, or those gasps were some legitimate pain he was suffering (either way, kudos, rookie!).
The story line is sweet. Troy has apparently “borrowed” one of Brody’s singlets for the match, and Brody is therefore intent on punishing the thief and retrieving his belongings (for my version of this story line, you might try my Brad Rochelle v Tyrell Tomsen fictional short story in Sidelineland). Troy owns his role as the ring rookie nicely. He doesn’t pretend to be packing anything more than he’s got, and he works well with Brody who keeps the pace for both of them skillfully. I think Brody could use a wardrobe consultant. The redundant trunks puffing out underneath his skin tight blue trunks just look odd. The editing of this match is a little less crystal perfect than most of what I’ve consumed from RHW, but that’s shades of gray when you consider their production quality is way over the top in comparison to most. And, as always (and as advertised), the shot of Brody’s victory double bicep makes my eyes pop just a little. Where the hell does he hide those massive guns when he’s not posing in victory!? At just around 17 mintues of action, this match is one I’m happy to own (instantly).

Imagination Required

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I’m not sure why we needed an “American” version of the movie Death at a Funeral. The British version is just 3 years old. It was hilarious and quirky and… well, very British. Most importantly for my tastes, it starred Alan Tudyk (an American, by the way), getting involuntarily tweaked out on drugs and running naked on the rooftop. That, my friends, is a formula for a movie wanting to earn it’s way into my collection.
Sweet, ginger Alan is exactly what I want to see naked, soaked in a drug-induced sweat, and swinging his ass everywhere. There’s something about that man that makes him the stuff of homoerotic fantasy for me. The face and body are completely attackable (in the good way), but it’s the intelligence behind the eyes that turns him into an object of lust for me. I imagine him to be the sort of guy that, after wrestling him to a screaming submission, I’d like to just chat with about current events (both of us sweat-soaked, naked, and his head still captured in my figure-4 headlock).

The American version appears to be just about a screen-by-screen remake of the oh-so-recently made movie. James Marsden is the one ending up sweat-soaked and drug addled on the roof. By no means would I suggest that I wouldn’t like to see James stripped and shiny. Personally, I’d have preferred his nakedness to appear side-by-side with Hugh Jackman in an X-Men chapter, but whatever… James is a little obscenely cute-faced and beautifully shaped. Sure, I’ll be happy to see him naked on the roof.

But don’t expect me to be able to resist comparing him unfavorably to the joys that are Alan’s appearance in the original. Line the two of them up (on a roof, naked, sweat-soaked), and I’d have to say I’d kick James’ ass to the gutter for a chance at some full-contact throw down with Alan.

Is there so little imagination left in Hollywood that we have to “remake” widely available, already abundantly entertaining independent movies from elsewhere moments after they’re produced? Someone needs an injection of fresh imagination. For example, I can think of dozens of scenarios involving James Marsden sweat-soaked and naked that don’t require him appearing in a film originally produced just three years ago. For that matter, I’ve already cast Alan Tudyk in a homoerotic wrestling scenario, where he teams up with Nathan Fillion for some particularly sadistic action against the househubands, James Denton and Doug Savant. I need a producer…

Classic Tales

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The double bicep pose: a prerequisite for homoerotic domination hotness. Deconstructing (as is my way), the double bicep is an interesting statement. The explicit point, of course, is to call attention to the size of a man’s biceps. Sweet muscleboy Gary Myers, for example, sported stunning, double-peaked biceps bigger around than his neck. There’s a simple, primal aesthetic to the double bicep. When a hard hunk has the guns and proportions, there’s an amazing, powerful symmetry that’s simply beautiful. These are muscles that have been crafted and carved with insane amounts of sweat and tears and self-worship. A classic double bicep can simply say: stand back and be awed.
Making a run to strip Rusty Stevens of the title of my favorite homoerotic wrestling pornboy, Mitch Colby frequently illustrates that a double bicep can communicate much more than just aesthetics. Not that Mitch’s body shouldn’t be under glass, but with his cock planted across his opponent’s chin and his knees pinning his opponent’s arms to the ground, Mitch lifts his arms and crunches out a double bicep to make a statement: I’m your superior. Mitch’s softballs attached high on his upper arm drive home the point of his scrap with his young challengers. His gorgeously tanned, fantastically toned muscles will, without fail, put a lesser man on his back. The gloating look on Mitch’s face in this pic is priceless. You’re owned, kid, he’s saying. And these are the muscles that broke you and made you mine.

Unlike the victory double bi, the buddy double bi seems like it’s frequently the last moment of dignity for a couple of hardbody faces heading into a world of hurt. Freakishly stunning Tyrell Tomsen and his short-lived partnership with Jimmy Gee is a recent case in point. We don’t have to even know who their opponents are to take a look at this pre-match pose and predict that these boys are going to be humiliated. The double bis telegraph the approaching story line. Massive mountain of muscle, Tyrell, is demigod anchor to this tag team. Jimmy, who’s a bit softer and sporting decidedly less impressive guns than in prior outings, is destined to be the weakest link. The double biceps are ostensibly the display of power and confidence here, but the whole text tells a different story, including vulnerability and an inevitable date with humiliated destruction.
I’ve been enjoying the forced flex in more and more recent products out of BGE. Lon Dumont, who must be worshiped in more matches to come, made an over-the-top homoerotic masterpiece with his psychic humiliation of Eddy Rey, forcing the bigger man to flex on-command in submission. Brooklyn Bodywrecker had the same tool in his arsenal of destruction, when he broke cocky hardbody Mr. Joshua Goodman to pieces. The double bicep here is no longer about victory or confidence, but about humiliated defeat. Joshua stepped into the ring banking on his muscles to power down on BBW (the silly, silly fool), so in victory, BBW forces a decimated Joshua to flex. Behind the nearly unconscious loser (and I mean that lovingly, Mr. Joshua), BBW crunches out his own double bi, illustrating that despite not having quite as smooth, ripped, or classically pretty a muscle body, he has exactly what it takes to hammer down on a muscleboy, strip him naked, and heartlessly taunt us by refusing to let us see Mr. Joshua’s owned goods.

Ultimately, the double bicep is always a complicated story of strength and vulnerability. It’s a primal display of power to intimidate would-be challengers. At the same time, the class double bicep pose stretches out and exposes the rest of the muscled body. This isn’t a defensive position by any means. As repeated maneuvers in the homoerotic ring illustrate, a strutting double bicep leaves a cocky stud vulnerable to a strike to the crotch, a surprise full nelson from behind, or an attack on the exposed core. So in the end, the musclegod who pulls off the double bicep tells a fantastically woven tale of power and vulnerability, beauty and savagery, the promise of victory and the haunting foreshadowing of potentially being owned and displayed like a tantalizing piece of meat.

Newsboys

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I’ve been sorely missing a newsboy crush to obsess over ever since Chris Cuomo got booted off of GMA and sent to virtual-Siberia to work on 20/20. I’m still bitter, but I’ve given up on my boycott of Good Morning America. None of the morning news programs are giving me any real eye candy I want to ogle, so I’m surfing them all most mornings, waiting for the breakout hunk destined to make it onto my morning news menu. I still get my daily dose of Carter Evans. His savagely deviated septum, puppy dog eyes, yankable hair and badboy smirk still send tingles in all the right places. For all the above reasons, it’s no wonder that Carter has appeared in more of my homoerotic wrestling fiction than any other character. I’m hot for my newsboy crushes.
Which is why I’ve been so disappointed with the scarcity of hot hunks telling me all about the world as they think I should believe it to be. Imagine my ecstasy, therefore, in stumbling across Matt Gutman of ABC news, most recently reporting regularly on the oil spill in the Gulf of Mexico. Say hello to my newest newsboy crush!

Hello, Matt! Breathtakingly gorgeous, Matt makes my heart skip a beat every time I see him. Smooth, sexy, dark curly hair, dimples, angelic little badboy eyes… this is a man destined to appear in a fictional homoerotic wrestling match near you.
Mmmmm… I’m seriously jonesin’ for more Matt. He’s been a utility player for ABC for a while. At appears that they plucked him from the Jerusalem Post and made him their mid-East correspondent. Somehow, they translated that expertise to covering the Gulf of Mexico oil spill (I suppose it’s the “oil” angle).

Whatever act of God brought this handsome stunner into my living room, I’m smitten. If he has half a brain, he’ll surely be skyrocketing in the consumer-based news world. I’ll buy whatever he’s selling.

Battles

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Happy Memorial Day! It’s a little obligatory these days to “support our troops,” but honestly, I’m awed and humbled by the memory of all those who have fought and died in service to their country.

Still, the thought of eager young men dying in the meat grinder of perpetual geopolitical pissing contests seems like such a waste. Bright-eyed 18 year old studs convinced of their invincibility shouldn’t be dressed up in scratchy uniforms and propped up in front of approaching bullets. They should be stripped and thrown into full-contact match-ups in order to do what the young bucks of most mammals do: compete against one another to prove their virility.
Seriously, I think the first to the front lines in any war should be the policy makers that decide that we have no option but to take up arms. The people who vote to authorize force, perhaps in the sincere belief that we have no option, should be sincere enough to be first in line to face the consequences. This would mean, pretty much by definition, that our front lines would be populated by a crowd of mostly middle-aged, pot-bellied white guys. In turn, this would leave our strapping young, naive, hormone-charged hardbodies for the battle that they were hardwired to engage in: non-lethal tests of strength and domination in order to bear evidence of the size of their genitals, their likelihood to contribute good breeding stock, and their ability to defend hearth and home from predators.

Classic AMG images of just this story never fail to please me. AMG always told the tale of boys being boys, engaging in naked/nearly naked combat with one another. Two young bucks puff up their chests, their eyes roaming up and down their opponents assessing the scope of the challenge in front of them. They strip out of their clothes to free themselves for the full range of motion that they may need to secure victory. Both brash, bold, gorgeous young hunks circle one another, both battlers sincerely convinced that they will overcome their challenger and prove themselves stronger, fiercer, more clever and more determined. Before the first touch of skin-on-skin, in the fraction of the second before they collide, grasping and twisting, in that instant before the battle is actually consummated, they are primal: youthful males announcing their entry into adult mating rituals.
Some hair pulling, bodyscissoring, and humiliating grinding of face to crotch, and one man has proven his mettle, dominating his opponent until he submits in body and spirit. That’s the battle of the ages for which hard, blustering, invincible young studs should be reserved.

Ranging Tastes

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Despite what you may have concluded, I am not a body fascist. True enough, I wear out the keys on my keyboard that spell “m-u-s-c-l-e-g-o-d.” It’s also true that nine times out of ten the men who appear (naked) in my erotic fantasies are ripped and toned, with huge shoulders, mounding pecs, narrow waists, muscled asses and thick, powerful thighs. There’s absolutely nothing wrong with that formula.

But it’s not like anything less is mincemeat. In fact, there are a lot of beautiful male bodies that can rev my engine in a heartbeat that have nothing to do with bouncing pecs. Russell Tovey is a case in point. I’ve gushed about tasty morsel Russell before. Superherofan just capped some tasty pics of my favorite werewolf. This is not a gym bunny body. He’s not shredded or vascular. And he’s spot-on erotic-fantasy gold, exactly as he is (well, particularly when he is naked).
The boyish face on a hot, manly body is particularly hot. There’s a sense of superficial vulnerability that makes me imagine him a pretty boy battler with a wicked sadistic streak. I enjoyed tossing Russell and his co-star Aidan Turner into a pro-ring to settle a score with a couple of the boys from True Blood in my homoerotic celebrity wrestling fiction. It’s a match-up to determine who’s got the goods to sell another werewolf and vampire production in a world crowded with them these days. It’s an ugly fight in which Russell’s fantastically prominent ears are put to good use on several occasions.
True enough. I love some thick, pumped meat bulging in all the right places. But musclegods are far from the only men who populate my erotic fantasies. A big eared, boyishly dimpled Britboy can buy and sell me just about any day, particularly in union jack wrestling trunks getting double-teamed in the corner with a dirty ref not paying attention.

Too Much of a Fantastic Thing

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I’m in major holiday-weekend barbecue zone right now. I’m not sure that I’ll even be able to manage to maintain my once a day posting. I’ll do my best for those of you who need a break from the beers, backyards, and poppies this Memorial Day weekend.

My brief posting for today is mostly just an opportunity to drool over my reigning favorite homoerotic wrestling pornboy, Rusty Stevens. Some of you may have noted that yesterday’s post won’t allow comments. That’s because the persistent, vile phisher who keeps trying to post malware links in comments to this blog is at it again. When I went to delete the comment, I mistakenly hit “publish.” Now I don’t know how to delete a published comment. Rather than risk someone stumbling across it, I just closed down comments entirely for that post and hid what was mistakenly posted.
In case you’re dying to get in your 2 cents on the wonders that are Rusty Stevens, I thought I’d just post a few more tantalizing images and leave the comments open. I also wanted to pass along this bizarrely fantastic story (at least from my point of view) that Rusty had to be rushed to the hospital with priapism from the set of a production he was starring in outside of Miami earlier this year. I’m desperate to hear that this whole thing happened when he and Mitch Colby met on the mats in Florida, and Rusty found himself so aroused by his #1 contender that his erection raged on with a mind of its own.
Hell, that fictional backstory alone earns Mitch some momentum in dethroning Rusty. Rusty better watch his back, and apparently he might want to lay off the viagra next time he’s finding himself scissored between Mitch’s powerful thighs.