Author: wrestlebard

I'm a gay man with an active imagination.

Playing with Fire

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The final season of the Tudors is finally running. Katherine Howard is burning bright and sprinting swiftly toward headlessness. Henry is finally looking a little less like an Abercrombie and Fitch model. JRM looks like he put on a little (just a little) weight. They’ve filled out his face with more facial hair. And they’re showing close-ups of his horrifically oozing leg wound (nice FX, boys!) that probably made him the bitter, fevered, stinky, foul creature he became as his megalomania consumed him.

Enter hot young thing to play the part of Thomas Culpepper. Torrance Coombs’ eyes are astonishing. It’s hard to look away whenever he’s on screen. This smoldering young hottie is going places, undoubtedly.
I can find no one capping The Tudors, so I can’t find any of the shirtless shots of Torrance from episode 1. So let me paint the picture for you: pale skinny white boy. What, you say? That doesn’t turn you on? Excellent. More lovin’ for me, then.
Not all pale skinny white boys do it for me, but a healthy subset of them light a fire in my crotch. Torrance is most definitely a case in point. The nerd, the geek, the underestimated vicious heel… there are a lot of roles for a skinny white boy that I find plenty erotic. When they have absolutely riveting faces like young Torrance, he gets a pass to the front of the line in my affections. I don’t think it’s just me, though. Thomas Culpepper doesn’t have long to live (unless they once again seriously screw with history), but Torrance is one skinny white boy heading somewhere.

Sex in the Morning

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I haven’t found much to obsess about among the newsmen lately. The morning news time slot is skimpy on hot hunks these days, and that’s a crying shame. Matt Lauer continues to fail to satisfy my lust for news hunks. Harry Smith from The Early Show on CBS possesses both a forgettable name and face. So despite my promise to punish ABC for denying me my daily dose of Chris Cuomo, I’ve occasionally flipped through Good Morning America in search of a new newsman crush.

Perhaps, just perhaps, the GMA substitute weatherman, Jeff Smith, could qualify for a new newsman crush. He has a “president of his fraternity” look about him, which can go either way for me. He has a quick wit, which makes him definitely sexier. And it’s probably just me, but I think he looks like a cleaned-up version of Andy Roddick (which can’t be bad). Yeah, it’s probably just me, but they could at least be brothers. Jeff:
Andy:
Clearly, Jeff is the object of more than just my affections. He has NYC girls pining over him on the boards. If I could find more looks at him, I think he’d find himself in the cue for a debut in some wrestling fiction. Perhaps Jeff and Andy (who has already made his Producer’s Ring debut) might need to throw down for a frat house chapter room romp. More likely, I could see our hunky meteorologist going toe to toe with Mr. Abercrombie himself, David Muir, for the title of champion news hunk on the rise. David made a seriously strong debut in his first wrestling fiction match, and I think that David has the sort of character that I’ll particularly enjoy writing more of. Hold onto your dimples, Jeff, because I think David will be fiercely intent on rearranging that pretty face of yours.
Personally, I think the morning news seriously needs to take some cues from the Producer’s Ring. No one, and I mean NO ONE is tuning into television news in order to be informed these days. We get information a thousand times faster elsewhere. But we still tune in, because we’re interested in the packaging. We’re looking for some sugar with our coffee (or, in my case, tea), to sweeten the otherwise bitter taste. If we’re going to have to ingest earthquakes and legislative hearings and the daily tally of who is killing whom and how many, then at least titillate us with a groin stirring hunk of a weatherman or newsreader.

…In My Hands

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Having returned to a fixation on asses, here’s yet another ode to the wonders of the wrestling muscle butt. I’ve mentioned before the particular joys and plot of the ass slap. A slightly different story captivating me lately is the ass grab.

Fine distinction, perhaps, but we’d hardly say a forearm to the side of the head is the same as a excruciatingly long side-headlock, would we? No, (to answer my own question), we would not. The slap is a humiliating strike, the playful sting that delivers the message of pain on command. The grab, on the other hand, is the more sexualized sign of ownership.
My favorite wrestling pornboys are most sympathetic to me when squeezing their opponent’s cheeks. Hands down, that’s the moment through which I’m most intimately living vicariously in the homoerotic wrestling scenario. When Sebastian Rios finds himself on his knees in front of a thonged, oiled Rafe Sanchez, he does precisely what I would do… what simply has to be done in that moment (well, at least one of the things that must be done). He slides the palms of his hands up Rafe’s gorgeous cheeks and underneath his thong. Any opponent that fails to take an adoring squeeze at Rafe’s ass is a little unbelievable to me.
I surprise myself just a little at how much I get into Bruno Sinclair and Ricardo Dias’ cub training session. Ricardo’s lingering squeeze on Bruno’s muscled glute just looks so right. That’s an authentic moment that sucks me right into the scene. Whatever else I may not quite believe about homoerotic wrestling products, I’m utterly convinced by the slow, solid squeeze of a hard ass cheek.
When it happens in the heat of battle, all the better. I totally get it when Michael Wood finds his head captured in Ross Davidson’s arm, squeezed against Davidson’s ribs and inches away from his muscled ass, and Michael grabs two, open-fingered handfuls of muscle. Sure, it doesn’t do anything to counter Davidson’s advantage. Okay, so perhaps Michael will suffer that much more for his distraction. But that’s so very much, precisely, absolutely what I’d have to do, were I in his position.
The victory squeeze isn’t bad, either. After the story is told and one man has been owned, the appreciative cup of the cheek, once again, makes complete sense to me. I believe that my libido and Kid Vicious’ hands are, in fact, psychically linked, considering he always grabs, pounds, and squeezes exactly what I’m thinking. After delightfully owning Niku Samir in every humiliating position possible, Kid takes a feel of Niku’s ass appreciatively. The drive to dominate and humiliate, paired with the lustful adoration of a loser’s physique, is just genuine in my mind.
Truth be told, I’m a softy at heart. The mutual ass squeeze, naked and sweaty, at the end of a balls out battle is just about the most satisfying denouement for my money. I don’t care for watching a lot of pulled punches, or at least not a lot of poorly sold punches, but I completely buy it when ferocity to dominate turns into mutual worship. Cock pressed to cock, hands squeezing each other’s glutes, the wet heat shared as hearts pound, chest to chest… that’s what it’s all about for me.

Another Blast from the Past

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Joe at Ringside at Skull Island got me obsessing about Kevin Von Erich again. It doesn’t take much to get me obsessing about Kevin. He’s starred in so many of my personal erotic wrestling fantasies. I remember watching him in a match, had to be late 80’s, where he was apparently fighting with one bad arm. As a result, the entire match was a series of drop kicks and body scissors in which Kevin proved that he could, indeed, beat his opponent with one hand tied behind his back.

This photo of Kevin in his youth, squeezing a sack of grain between his ripped thighs, takes my breath away. I’m not a wealthy man, but I’d put it all on the table to exchange places with that sack of grain for fifteen minutes. Kevin’s physical development was at least 10 years ahead of the rest of the pro-field, and even then, I’d take Kevin then over a room full of WWE roidheads today.

As far as I remember (someone will correct me, I’m sure), Kevin always played the the sincere farmboy white knight. He was always indignant at the presence of evil heels anywhere and everywhere. He battled to prove the superiority of skill and hard-earned muscle over the machinations of guile and underhandedness. He was always a little pissed off, never content, even with his arms raised and screaming fans pawing at him in desperately lustful adoration.
Kevin never had a classically handsome face, but who the hell would ever notice with a body like that? His legs, the eroticism of his bare feet, his ripped torso, massive pecs, thick shoulders and veiny, muscular arms… it was ostensibly all about the hard-honed warrior, but no one, not even the straightest Texas straightboy, could have missed that Kevin was an object of mindless, hormonal, sexual lust. His ass… my, oh my.. his ass… Every drop kick and scissor hold required him to flex and squeeze those muscled cheeks, and without fail I continue to be slack-jawed and 100% aroused at the sight of Kevin (particularly from behind).

I don’t think there’s ever been a pro-pro who’s done it for me quite like Kevin. These days, I simply have to turn to the pro-pornboys to capture the homoerotic text that Kevin dictated so commandingly 25 years ago. Like Joe, I long for the days when the pros actually battled, body to body, with long held, punishing holds squeezing the strength out of one another until one barefoot muscle adonis outlasted his opponent, leaving the poor loser helpless on his back, looking up at the fierce young musclegod having his arms raised to the shrieking approval of all of us desperate to touch, feel, and be captured by our hard hero.

Giveth and Taketh Away

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BG East has some seriously sadistic sickos working for them, and I’m not sure whether I mean that in a good way. Here’s the story: I woke up this morning, and when it occurred to me that today’s is the 15th of the month, I eagerly checked for the BG East Arena update. Truth be told, I look forward to the Arena updates probably a little too much, each 1st and 15th of the month. I get a little disregulated if the updates are late. Today, though, I was thrilled to see that the update was already posted early in the morning.

I felt a little light-headed with excitement when I saw posted an advance peek at catalog 82’s Tag Team Torture 12, because my most recent wrestling boy crush, Lon Dumont, was there. Lon is clad in brief, shiny orange trunks that match his gorgeous tag partner. If anything, Lon looks even more shredded than in his BG debut in Fantasymen 32. I am instantly enraptured at the sight of Lon’s swagger, his polished pro strikes, his timing and tight, shredded body. I checked out a couple of the photos, and then decided I needed some morning caffeine to truly appreciate the beauty of this wonderful find.
When I came back to my computer several minutes later with tea in hand, Lon’s tag match was gone. True, nearly as exciting, Tyrell Tomsen is now up in another tag match, apparently from the same tape. Tyrell is in his competition bodybuilder shape. He’s gorgeous. I’m thrilled to see more of him. But what… the… hell… happened… to… Lon!?!?
You cruel, cruel bastards! Don’t get me wrong. I love your work. I love the quality and quantity of your work. I love your excellent customer service and quick ships. I feel like we’re old friends, considering how much correspondence has gone back and forth between us over the years of me buying your products. But this cut is so deep! What did I do to you? How did I offend you so, to deserve this horrific treatment!? Tag Team Torture, indeed. Is this because I said I’d like to see the behind-the-scenes match-ups that surely resulted from short-tempers as a result of your recent overtime coping with the flooding? Is it because I pointed out that you had some typos in the description of Lon’s products? Why?
My desperate hope is that your webmaster just hit “replace” rather than “add,” and that I will have the opportunity to drool over fresh, hard picks of Lon soon. Please. Please? My pre-order is in hand. I’ll shine your shoes (or whatever else requires me to be on my knees in front of you). I’ll probably hate you just a little for some time to come over this cruel, sadistic move to torment me. But we can make this right. I don’t mind some sweetly erotic suffering from time to time, but this is just vicious!

I Need a Hero

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This piece of bizarre from the New York Post grabbed my attention. The story reads, “NYC’s own superheroes.” Apparently, there are actual costume donning hero-types who walk around seeking to intervene on behalf of the forces of good. I’m a little unclear on a few points… for example, how does anyone in a superhero costume in NYC attempting to intervene in ANYTHING avoid getting a major ass-kicking?
Well, okay, this guy probably avoids a major ass-kicking because he’s a sexy piece of meat. “Dark Guardian,” as he calls himself, reportedly surveils Washington Square Park drug traffic. Being extra-conspicuous, both by wearing a superhero costume and by being a sexy little hunk of dark and handsome, probably helps to keep plenty of eyes on him, which in turn makes him less likely to be assaulted. I don’t have the research on that theory, but it makes sense to me.

I suspect DG bewilders his evil foes with the combination of crazy-mother-fucker and sexy-piece-of-ass personas. Apparently he’s all about doing good pro bono, but I think he could make it worth his time to hire himself out for some masked beatdowns in the ring. Not that I’m naming names, but I can think of at least one internet wrestling kinkster who writes homoerotic wrestling fiction who wouldn’t mind being DG’s arch-enemy. Let’s just call this supervillain “The Bard-inator,” and then picture the comic book panel with our villain’s arms locked across DG’s abdomen, lifting him off his feet in an excruciating rear bear hug.
There are apparently other masked hereos prowling the streets of New York who the Bard-inator would have in sights. Once Dark Guardian has been conquered and turned into his arch-enemy’s slave-toy, the two of them would almost certainly have to ambush the Camerman and Life in a dark, steamy alley. The Bard-inator would lay claim to personally destroy Life, piledriving the top of his head to the pavement, ripping off his mask, and similarly turning another white knight into a minion of the Bard-inator’s sexual conquest of all cocky do-gooders everywhere. Life… fiction… life.. fiction… whatever. Bring it on!

Beautiful Body Faux Pas

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I have some bitter friends right now with painfully twisted panties. Personally, I was planning on giving a pass on the remake of Clash of the Titans after I saw the trailers. It looks like unrealized potential from start to finish. My panty-twisted buddies who paid ridiculous amounts of money for a theater ticket to see it tell me that my prognostication was on target.

Worse than just mediocre technical translation of an iconic cult classic, there are a lot of disappointed gay boys running around with crumpled up ticket stubs. The original Clash of the Titans, with its laughable special effects, was still this gay boy’s fun and games for the beautiful, shirtless, sweaty displays of a young Harry Hamlin. I know for a fact that there were plenty of other gay boys who had the same thing in the back of their minds when they sat their asses in the seats to watch the Sam Worthington version. Those are the bitterest friends I have these days.
No shirtlessness at all!? Oh… my… God. Sam, Sam, Sam… this can’t help but do serious damage to the trajectory of your rising star. Share the eye candy or your will have some crying, nasty, vengeful boys with long, long memories to contend with. We know Sam has a body that we’d all like to see more of. This is precisely the sort of serious faux pas that would end up as a major geopolitical disaster in the world of my wrestling fiction. We don’t need all the pretty boys in Hollywood to actually be gay, but they’d better damn well show their appreciation for our lustful adorations, which means that untested chiseled chins like Sam Worthington need to put up or get shut up.
In Eli Brody’s world, I know of one overachieving Australian who’s due for a world of hurtin’. The only question is who gets to kick some ass, and how will they teach the lesson that a certain Aussie clearly needs to learn.

Devastating Dimples

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If he were five years older (or I was five years younger), I have no doubt Antonio Sabato, Jr. would get major credit for turning me gay. As it is, he just made me very, very happy to be a gay young adult, when I consumed his gorgeous image as an underwear model, aspiring actor, and it-boy in the early 90’s.
Undeniably, Antonio’s body was (and remains) ridiculously hot. He oozes sex, and I have always been eager to lap up what he’s oozing…. wow, that ended up much more graphic than I intended. Nevertheless…

I kid you not when I say it was always his dimples that were the most erotic thing about Antonio, in my mind. There’s something almost obscene about those dimples. They instantly transform him from smoldering sex stud into the shy, hunky, boy-next-door. Somewhere in the middle, he exists in that priceless place of the smoldering, shy, hunky, sex stud, boy-next-door. Of course, if I had a next door neighbor that looked like that, I’d be much, much closer with my neighbors.

So when Superherofan, God bless him, posted some caps from a recent release featuring Antonio in a loin cloth, I was instantly reliving some pleasant memories of young adulthood, stunned and enraptured with the image of a certain hunky, young Italian.
When I scrolled down to find that Antonio is in a shirtless wrestling match in this flick, holy hell… I sent up some prayers of gratitude for the gifts that Superherofan brings. The image of Antonio’s muscles bulging as he slaps on a sleeper hold are a homoerotic fantasy of mine come true. Of course, in my fantasy, Antonio’s opponent isn’t a tusked alien creature. Photoshop out the alien and insert me, and you’ll have a closer facsimile of my fantasy. Don’t forget in your photoshop work to include my raging erection, as I work to press my hips backward to work up some friction on Antonio’s manhood.

Since this is my fantasy, you’ll have to tolerate my stunning counter, as I drop to my ass and bring Antonio’s chiseled chin crashing hard into the top of my head. Yes, gentlemen, I break out of Antonio’s apparent sleeper finisher, and open up a can of whoop-ass on his pecs, dripping with sweat in the hot sunshine. Antonio finds himself screaming out his submission, but I don’t give him even a moment’s rest before I slap on a new, humiliating hold. Exhausted, on his back, with me mounted across his abdomen and clawing savagely at his thick pecs, you’ll understand, I’m sure, when I tell you that Antonio looks up at me and smiles broadly, flashing those big white teeth and those devastating dimples. Because, dear reader, in my fantasy, Antonio is a total masochistic pain slut, and he loves every minute of his torturous humiliation.

But that’s just me.

Earning a Shot, continued

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I see that Joe11NJ has taken the challenge directly to SteelMuscleGod himself, suggesting that French YouTube bodybuilder, Yann S., might have what it takes to turn the god into a jobberboy. Hopefully, SMG won’t smite Joe11NJ for his impertinence. Or, perhaps, Joe11NJ might like a good smiting. Hell, I wouldn’t mind a smiting from SMG, particularly if it involved my face smashed against his pec as he punishes me severely in a brutal side headlock.

Speaking of brutality, Yann S. poses a seriously brutal challenge to SMG’s #1 contender, Adam. It has to be said, though, that Adam has a distinct PR advantage over Yann, considering Adam continues to post new, updated evidence of his beautiful body regularly, and he’s growing seriously huge! Last we checked in with the three YouTube posers, Adam laid down the gauntlet, displaying is gargantuan thighs and taunting the Frenchman by calling his shanks “chicken legs.” Yann delivered the message loud and clear that this bout would be about more than just sheer muscle mass, though, with a savage kick to Adam’s face that dropped the English muscleboy to one knee.
Adam is dazed, his eyes blinking rapidly as he cradles his throbbing jaw in his hands. Before the room has stopped spinning for him, Yann has pivoted once more, lifting his left knee and driving it cracking loudly into Adam’s right cheek. The English bodybuilder drops to his side on the floor, wincing in pain and groaning. Leaning against a wall on the opposite side of the room, SMG watches, his arms folded, his face impassive.
Yann is all about headhunting. As Adam slowly pulls himself up to his hands and knees, Yann is dancing on the balls of his feet, calculating carefully. At just the right moment, as Adam lifts his head still perched on all fours, Yann plants his left foot and soccer-kicks the Englishmen in the chin. Adam’s head whips backward violently, as he’s lifted off his hands and thrown flat on his back. “We have a word for what you are,” Yann says, strutting and preening as he slowly circles Adam. “We call you an hors d’oeuvre.”
Yann glances at SMG, flexing and posing proudly for the champion. “You,” Yann says, finally relaxing and squaring his shoulders toward the SMG, “will be my entree.” Yann winks at SMG before turning his back to face his opponent. Adam remains flat on his back, his right hand lifted to his face, rubbing his eyes. “Now, we need to deal with those legs that you are so proud of,” Yann says, dropping to his knees and grabbing Adam’s ankles.
In one smooth motion, Yann falls to his ass while lacing his legs round Adam’s legs. Bending Adam’s left leg at 90 degrees, he places Adam’s left ankle over top of his right knee. Locking his own legs on top of Adam’s, Yann leans back on his elbows and looks down the length of his long, muscled body, proudly examining the secure figure-four leg lock. With a sudden surge, Yann flexes his legs, causing Adam’s right knee to hyperextend dangerously. Adam’s shoulders levitate off the floor as a panicked cry comes from his mouth. “Oh god, no!” Adam shouts, pleading with his opponent.
“That’s right,” Yann replies with a broad smile. “From now on, I’ll be your new god for you to worship, beg, and service.” Yann looks over his shoulder at SMG and winks at the champion, even as Adam continues to cry out in pain.

At His Age

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This post could qualify for any number of my regular themed series… Bodies Over Time; What Turned Me Gay (again, not really); Guys I Want to Lick. Okay, that last one isn’t actually a series I’ve posted… but we all know it easily could be, don’t we?

Anyhow… I was getting my daily allowance of beautiful men on the net when I ran across a post at Groopii (a new obsession). Groopii has posted some recent caps of Don Diamont from the soap opera, The Bold and the Beautiful. Gorgeous Don meets both requirements for this show: bold… beautiful.
What strikes me, though, is Groopii’s assessment that Don, here, looks hot and his body is amazing “at his age.” I’m bad at math, but from Don’s bio at IMDB, it appears to me that he is 47 years old. So… let me see, where do I start? … Okay, so, what do we expect a 47 year old television hunk to look like? Is someone (particularly a television personality) who is 47 years old somehow surprising if he has a fit, hard body that turns us on? 47 years old? Really?
In the interest of full disclosure, I should say that I’m getting closer to 40 than to 30. Hell, I’m getting closer to 40 than I am to 35. So perhaps my reaction here is a bit defensive. But I don’t think so. I think that Don’s body today is one that I’d have jumped on and rode hard at pretty much any point in my adult life (and earlier). Strap on some sparring gloves and let me watch this hunk of a man work up a sweat on that punching bag, and “for his age” is not a phrase that comes to mind as I wipe the drool from the corner of my mouth.
I am old enough to remember lusting after Don back in the dark ages, when he was not yet bold and beautiful, but merely “Young and Restless.” I can remember some fevered moments of adolescence finding myself irresistibly compelled to work myself into a frenzy with the image of his lean, muscular body imprinted on my brain. Yes, indeed, Don has to get a little credit for turning me gay.
And it’s obvious that his body has changed in the past 25 years. He isn’t as lean as he was when I was first firing warning shots over the bow, my eyes shut tightly, picturing his gorgeous form. But at 47 he has a rocking, gorgeous body that isn’t just hot “for his age.” It’s just hot. The “for his age” bit says much more about those of us judging him than it says about him. I think I prefer, and find it much more accurate, to say that he was stunning 25 years ago, and he’s absolutely a worship-worthy muscle stud today. And he will be appearing in an erotic fantasy of mine soon, and I don’t mind telling you that he’ll be showing up beefy, sweat soaked, with sparring gloves and that messed up evil villain, overly-cropped, facial hair.
“At his age,” indeed….