Author: wrestlebard

I'm a gay man with an active imagination.

A Dish Best Served Cold

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Imagine, if you will, a world in which male models are inexplicably, innately, supremely talented in managing and manipulating people. Then imagine a bodybuilder turned fitness model challenging a fashion model and a fashion-model-turned-actor-turned-fashion-model to a 2 on 1 grappling contest. The fitness model does better than one might expect with two vicious competitors coming at him from all angles at once. But in the end, he’s tagged, bagged, and mounted (so to speak).

I posted pretty much that story line in my celebrity wrestling fiction group about three weeks ago. Hopefully it was a little more graceful and engaging than the cliff notes. To my genuine surprise, although the match received some kind compliments, there were several opinions voiced calling for a rematch. Reading between the lines, some readers expressed their confidence that given another shot, hot hardbody Luke could dismantle and humiliate Andrew and Ashton in devastating fashion.
As for me, I sincerely wasn’t sure that Luke was up for it. But okay, I let him take a shot. I posted yesterday the follow up to Luke’s humiliating defeat. I hate teasers that give too much away, but I realize that I’m no Agatha Christie. So here’s a decisive moment to give you an idea of what I’m talking about:

In a flash, Luke went from rubbing Ashton’s hair affectionately to grabbing a handful of the hair in his fist. With his left hand, Luke grabbed the waistband of Ashton’s underwear and yanked upward. Twisting his powerful torso, Luke jerked Ashton forward, sending the top of his head crashing hard into the nearby wall. The sickening dull thud of Ashton’s skull impacting against the wall echoed around the room. Ashton bounced away from the wall and fell to his ass, his eyes rolling into the top of his head as his torso swayed from side to side. Andrew threw himself off the wall and charged over. “That’s just about enough of that, mother fucker!”

Luke turned and faced Andrew squarely. He pounded his massive pecs with his fists fiercely and snarled, “We’re just getting started!” Andrew stopped in his tracks, suddenly realizing that Luke had planned this confrontation all along. Luke’s muscles were pumped. His body was shining with a layer of sweat. And he looked like he could rip a fire hydrant out of the sidewalk.

“Oh fuck,” Andrew said, suddenly reversing course and taking two quick steps backward. It was too late, though, as Luke launched himself diving across the distance between them. Spearing Andrew’s midsection with his right shoulder, Luke lifted him off his feet and threw him hard to his back.

If text-based wrestling captures your interest, you can check out this wonderful world filled with hot, hard hunks pounding on one another for their bread and butter. Comments are always welcome, including gentle critiques. Story ideas are even better. And the best of all is the fan cocky enough to rip off his shirt and throw himself into the action (as in, submit some wrestling fiction of your own to share)!

Parlez vous français?

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I took one term of French in college. I thought it would be fun. I was wrong. I’m sure it was my professor’s fault. It was all about table etiquette and asking where to find the toilet while sounding like you’re sniffing fine perfume. Now, if I had one of the boys from Wrestlers & Lutteurs tutoring me, I’d be speaking (and probably swearing) in French fluently.

My top choice for a French tutor is the fabulous scrapper Damien. He has a face straight out of the Vienna Boys Choir and an attitude straight out of the Hell’s Angels. I first saw him in the extreme aggro match up with Fabrice. I kick myself for remembering nothing from French class, because these boys are taunting each other perpetually throughout their match. Their bodies speak clearly enough, though. As Damien secures another fall, he struts to the score cards and turns over another victory in his column. Picking up the score, he shows it to Fabrice, pointing at it with a sneer and saying something that’s obviously a testimony to his fierce superiority. I truly believe these boys harbor intense disgust for one another, and that makes this 10 degrees hotter than it already is.
Damien has bulked up over time battling in W&L-land. Like many of the boys in Lyon, he has gorgeously hairy, meaty legs and furry forearms. He’s hell-bent on total domination of every opponent he faces. He doesn’t always come out on top, but he’s ferocious and focused at all times. Without me knowing a word that’s coming out of his mouth, he tells a crystal clear tale of the cocky young stud who’s willing to put his body on the line to humiliate any challenger in dominating victory.
With Damien straddling my hips and screaming down at me, I’m absolutely certain I’d know French in an instant. I suspect it would include a lot of taunting and profanity that I probably shouldn’t use when ordering meals in fine Paris restaurants, but I think the lessons Damien would have to teach me would be much more relevant and useful for my purposes.
My second choice for a French tutor is a blond bombshell named Damiano. Oh la la, indeed! Where Damien looks like the boy next door, Damiano looks like a Hollywood leading man. He’s armored in long, lean muscle, and he’s a relentless grappler. I first saw him team up with Benjamin on the way to getting their (fine) asses handed to them by Geoffrey and Christophe1 (apparently there are so many Christophe’s, they must be numbered). Damiano fights with singular focus, without wasted effort, assembling one move building upon another to systematically immobilize and submit his opponent.
Damiano’s humiliating torture of this opponent, scissored oh-so-high between his legs, is precisely the position in which I would like him to tutor me in French. Seriously, if he were to lock my head up like that, squeezing me cheek-to-cheek and using those stunning legs to discipline me like the naughty pupil I am, I’d be gasping out verb conjugations obediently. I think education is all about motivation, and having my face pressed tight against his muscled ass could motivate me to do absolutely anything Damiano wanted me to do.
To be clear, there’s little overtly homoerotic about W&L beyond the hormone-charged atmosphere you might expect in a fraternity chapter house. But if you’ve been in a fraternity chapter house, you know that means there’s plenty of homoerotic subtext (and text). These boys love their bodies, deservedly. They love the battle. And on deliriously happy occasions (for me, at least), they fight dirty, including some nasty ball claws.
I can’t testify to their product delivery, other than their PPV and DTO services. I had to download some extra software for both the audio and visual components, but once I was up and running, the downloads were fine. The video quality has improved over the history of W&L, with clearer pictures and more close up action from multiple camera angles in the more recent bouts. Gorgeous bodies earn them a high marks. Genuine grappling ability in most cases get them more high marks. Copious sweat and frequent humiliating dominations give them still more high marks. The set and video quality are average, and the straight vibe warrants relatively low marks. But if Damien or Damiano ever hire out for French tutoring, you can get behind me in line, because I am hot for teacher!

Hold Still!

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I’m not the only one seeing this, right? Wrestling as a bondage fantasy is all over the place. Tying up a stunned hunk between the ropes and working them over with both hands (and knees, and boots, and your partner, if applicable…) is directly out a BDSM playbook.
Okay, so obviously I’m not the only one seeing this. Wrestling Arsenal has several galleries devoted to the wonders of a wrestler tied in the ropes. Using the ropes as tools of torture is true artistry. Turning the set into the subject of a battle is the sign of a creative mind. But the creativity is just starting there. Finding new, ingenious ways of capturing and torturing your helpless opponent in the ropes is a many splendored thing. Like the doomed hunk in pink tights suspended helplessly from the ropes and his inverted opponent’s clutches, there are always new ways being invented to suffer with the aid of the ring ropes.
BG East’s Nick Archer takes the direct approach on poor Jason Zamora. Just position your man prone and step on the bottom rope, choking the sucker. Nick uses the top rope for balance. Personally, I’d like to see the top rope taut in the opposite direction, with Nick using it for extra leverage to apply more force across the poor chump’s throat. But that’s just me.


Lot’s of guys can lace a man’s arms between the top two ropes and hang him helpless inside the ring, but Sting here flipped the scenario outside the ring, leaving the gorgeous body of Rick Rude on stunning display, literally suspended off the ground. That bastard official looks like he’s going to ruin this scenario well before some serious discipline could be applied to Rick’s helplessly hunky body.

Early in Brad Rochelle’s BG East career, he won “Rookie of the Year” at the end of his systematic, sadistic dismantling of a young Patrick Donovan. Brad finished Patrick off with this truly inspired use of the ropes, immobilizing Patrick’s shoulders in the bottom two ropes and then lifting his body off the mat in a nicely suspended Boston crab variation. The cherry on top in this scenario was the standing ovation of the wrestlers watching outside the ring, who sealed Patrick’s humiliation by taking turns slapping him in the face as he remained trapped just this way in the ropes.
Karma is a bitch, though. Years later, after Brad’s suffering has propelled him to the heights of jobberhood, the Enforcer had him suffering miserably, his neck being pried painfully over the very same ropes with which he’s once humiliated young Patrick. The hunter quickly became the hunted, and our hopeless hero in white (specifically his trunks, though he’s awfully pale as well), is now the mounted trophy for Enforcer to examine and feel every inch of Brad’s tortured physique.
And speaking of tortured physique, did you catch the mega talent packed into a slender, tight package (aka Reese Wells) trapped in the ropes and having his balls crushed by Johnny Firestorm!? Johnny clearly is right there with me in recognizing the rope work as BDSM in the ring. Johnny actually uses the ropes from various angles to assault Reese’s balls and cock every which way. Our brave little scrapper with the literal target across his crotch screams and suffers valiantly, completing the cast of characters of the sadist and his hard working masochist.
The hunk who is twisted and tied, pummeled and pried in the ring ropes is nothing if not the object of homoerotic lust. His massive muscles immobilized outline the one-to-one connection between his suffering and our sexual fantasies. To be bound and disciplined on your way to humiliating defeat is absolutely the kink I’m talking about.

What Turned Me Gay (again, not really)

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I’d thought that, perhaps, I had plumbed the depths of what turned me gay. I’ve already identified 24 independent variables that clearly contributed to producing the gay wrestling kinkster that you see before you today. Looking over the long list, I have to wonder, how could I have not turned out gay!? Surely I’ve exhausted the chain of cause and effect that inevitably turned a young, eagerly impressionable boy gay.
But when capped posted captures of Jeff Bridges from Against All Odds earlier this week, I had a flood of warm, hard, breathless memories wash over me. I didn’t actually see the movie Against All Odds (I wasn’t the target audience at the time). But it came out right there in the middle of my teenage years, when I was frequently surfing through MTV to try to stay hip on pop culture. When Phil Collins’ title song from the movie came out on MTV, I distinctly and clearly remember the brief clips from the film included in the video featuring Jeff Bridges‘ tanned, sexy torso. Like a light-switch being turned on, I was gay.
Much more targeting my demographic, Starman came out around the same time, and I did see it. There wasn’t a ton of Jeff’s beautiful body on display in Starman, but enough to get my motor running. So when he showed up in Phil Collins’ music video soon afterward, I was already primed for lust.
What was Against All Odds about, exactly? I still don’t know. In my mind, it was a gay sexual awakening film that included lots of scenes of some studly sadist-master ripping Jeff’s clothes off him and throwing him around by fists full of his long, bleach-blond hair. That wasn’t the plot of the movie? Don’t tell me. I’m 100% certain I like my version better.
Bridges has been a skilled and prolific actor, and I always enjoy seeing is work. That said, he hasn’t actually done anything “for me” since the 80’s. From seeing him squeezed into a skin tight body suit in Tron (holy hell, the fantasies of Bruce Boxleitner and Jeff Bridges in a NHB smackdown still make me swoon), to his childlike, yet hardbody appearance as Starman, to his tanned, glorious shirtlessness in Against All Odds, he had quite a run of making me stand up and take notice. These days he’s all daddy, and that can be entirely hot and heavy. But he just isn’t my daddy. So I remember him more as the older kid down the block, pulling me into the woods to unbotton his shirt, invite my gaze, place my hand on his smooth chest, and teach me that a hot, hard, hunk of a man is a thing of beauty.

If You Just Smile

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I’m in a mood. There’s too much bad news and too many scowling faces right now. I’m feeling sour and cynical and ready to snap at someone who probably doesn’t deserve it. I need a mood-lightener.
Gorgeous hunks who snarl and scowl while pounding on other gorgeous hunks invariably make me hard. When those same hunks, like beautifully beasty Mikey Vee, are captured in a moment of spontaneous happiness, it gives me a special kind of joy. Mikey is much more typically on camera in a perpetual state of being pissed off. So a full on near-laughter smile across his face is quite a treasure.
It’s probably urban legend, but I’ve heard it said that smiling actually has a physiological effect that alters our mood. To smile, regardless of how you feel, makes you happier (so I’ve heard). Jimmy Dean with a smile on his face and a twinkle in his eye on the shoot of his double team match with two poundable beauties makes me smile and, true enough, I feel my mood lighten (that’s just anecdotal evidence, though… results may vary).
Three of the Von Erichs side-by-side (well, if you count Lance), can always make my mouth water. But the juxtaposition of their overcompensatingly massive championship belts, their sweaty, sexy bodies, and the “can I take a photo?”-nearly- genuine smiles leave me breathing a little deeper and feeling a little more at peace.

Tyrell Tomsen invariably makes me breathe a little faster and my heart start to pound. The heft of that package he’s toting around is a little dizzying. But he has such a sweet smile that I can almost manage to tear my eyes away from his stunning musculature to get a little lost in his face.

A smile is more than the contortion of the lips. The cocky smile is a good example of what I mean. Josh Goodman here is smiling with his mouth. The corners of his lips are upturned and he’s flashing some teeth. But he isn’t smiling with the rest of his face. He’s displaying his truly incredible body, probably concentrating a little on maintaining that beautiful flex, and communicating cocky self-confidence, not happiness.
But catch Mr. Joshua’s cheerful smile on set in his battle with Troy Baker. Both Troy and Joshua are captured here in a moment of genuine light-heartedness. Not just their mouths are smiling, but also their eyes. The fact that moments later the match was likely rejoined and they were taunting and punishing each other makes this stolen moment of genuine happiness that much more of a mood-lifter for me today.

So perhaps it’s urban legend, but I’m already feeling a little lighter for having reflected on some smiling, gorgeous faces this morning. I realize that light-heartedness isn’t always necessarily socially appropriate, but I think I’ve established pretty conclusively that I am often outside the bounds of social appropriateness. When things are seeming particularly heavy, I’m a little happier thanks to the sight of beautiful men with hard bodies cracking a delighted, unguarded smile.

Where My Sympathies Lie

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With news of natural disasters and at least tens of thousands of casualties, it seems a little strange to just keep blogging about the gorgeous men I’d like to slap in a camel clutch until they scream. Then again, I’m deeply cynical about all the attention and outpouring of concern that happens after a natural disaster, particularly in an impoverished country. The people who feel their heart strings tugged when an earthquake hits Haiti are usually the same people who couldn’t locate Haiti on a map and have been blissfully uninterested in the abject poverty, crippling political corruption, and rampant spread of devastating disease in that country for decades.
So the cynical bastard I am, I’m going to reflect on a tragedy that’s much more relevant to the spirit of what I write about day in and day out. I’ve gone on and on, I realize, about my unrequited lust with Michael C. Hall’s ass. He was adorably hunky in Six Feet Under, but as Dexter he’s beefed up even more.
When in season, I’m regularly watching each new episode of Dexter desperate for a shot of his amazingly round ass. There’s never enough skin in Dexter, but I lap up every little crumb. Just a glimpse of Michael’s gorgeous melons squeezed inside his strategically tight khakis makes me salivate like Pavlov’s dog. I’ve well-established my lustful adoration of the most sympathetic serial killer ever.
So the news that Michael C. Hall is completing a round of treatment for Hodgkin’s Lymphoma is quite a shock. I thought he looked sickly in his post-season 4 commentary on the finale with John Lithgow. I assumed perhaps he was just getting into character for a new project. But apparently, no, he’s been undergoing treatment for the typically curable cancer for several months.
Between you and me, I find cancer a major buzz kill. It’s capricious and devastating, and despite plenty of public knowledge that it isn’t communicable, so many people still today stigmatize people with cancer. Cancer sucks and causes so much suffering, and not the hot and erotic kind of suffering unfortunately.
Still, if anyone can make cancer sexy, I think it’s Michael C. Hall. Coping with the secondary devastation of chemo or not, I’d still tap that in a heartbeat. Hell, if he was game, I’d still slap on that camel clutch and deliver a heaping dose of the sort of suffering that makes life worth living in my book. I predict that Michael will kick lymphoma’s ass and continue to make me swoon every step of the way. I’m just hoping that this brush with mortality inspires him to stop his teasing ways and let it all hang out. I’m praying for him to have a new lease on life that fills him with the spirit of generosity, moving him to share a glimpse of the entire gorgeous body that he was so gifted with. Truly and sincerely, I’m wishing him a speedy recovery and many more years of Michael C. Hall lustful worship ahead for us all.

Words and Silences

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An online collaborator on a writing project recently mentioned to me that he doesn’t always “get” dialogue in wrestling. As for me, I’m always writing in taunting bravado, snarling verbal domination, or humiliating tirades. The dialogue makes it as much a head game as a battle of bodies, and both together are a bigger turn on for me than either one separately.

Similarly, I also recently replied to a reader’s comment by saying that the Enforcer’s epic beatdown on already beaten down Brad Rochelle in BG East’s Contract 4 left me desperately wanting to hear the big baddy say something. He’s creepily quiet as he tosses, slams, pries and pummels sweetly suffering Brad. Brad cries and whimpers, “why…?” as he’s twisted into astonishing angles, but the Enforcer’s silence is somehow even more dominating. He refuses to explain himself, to answer any question, to justify his devastating mugging. Still… if he just once whispered, “‘Cause I want to see you beg…” I’d have spontaneously exploded at the very instant.
Still again, I realize that the topic of dialogue came up in my review on Monday of Rock Hard Wrestling’s latest release. The first match between Cameron and Tommy is technically nice grappling. Two big, gorgeous bodies working up a sweat (perhaps enhanced, nevertheless), is art worth standing up and taking note of in my book. But they’re so eerily silent as they fight. It’s a little more like watching a chemistry experiment than the battle of two cocky studs both believing that they are fated to prevail. Words could tell me that this isn’t just about muscles and skill, but it’s also about balls (and cocks, for that matter), as two big boys play the game that boys have always played throughout time: whose is bigger; who’s badder; who will be the conqueror and who will be conquered.
The dialogue is one of the things that makes BG East’s new Fantasymen match debuting Lon Dumont such a turn on for me. Lon is barking at Eddy throughout the match, demanding that he flex for him. “I’ve seen that one!” he shouts when Eddy pumps out another double bicep in submission. Lon carries off cocky taunting convincingly, wrapping the physical action into a through-story based on Lon’s scene-opening challenge that he doesn’t give away poses of his hot body for free. Lon never accepts a whimpering submission from Eddy without snapping at him, “That’s not good enough!” and demanding a new, stunning flex of Eddy’s sweat-soaked, bulging body. Hell yes, that’s what I’m talking about!
One more example of what’s working for me: Can-Am is unfolding a new product called the Arena in their premium pay site, Can-Am Max,. It stars BG East bad boy, Aryx Quinn, new face Brian Bodine, and g—orgeous Rusty Stevens. After the first match up, Rusty has Brian beaten, fucked, and lying on his stomach in humiliation. Before Rusty can leave in undisputed victory, Aryx charges in, challenging Rusty to an East Coast vs. West Coast battle. They circle Brian’s beaten body, trading insults. Rusty is post-match naked and hard as a board, with that massive muscled bubblebutt bouncing with each stride. Aryx is in shiny gear and boots. Aryx says that if Rusty thinks Brian was competition, then perhaps he should walk across the street to the grade school to find more opponents he could beat up. Aryx is supposed to be the fast talking challenger, but Rusty has a very quick wit and sharp tongue that manages to best Aryx in the head-game of improv taunts, in my opinion. The constant circling of naked Brian, Rusty’s stunning, huge body aroused and on display, and the playground choreography of the taunt, the challenge, and the challenge accepted is by far the most erotic part of this match thus far (including the fuck scene).
I probably write too much dialogue in my wrestling fiction for some. The quotation marks probably serve as little more than a distraction to many fellow kinksters out there groaning to just get on with it, start the tussle, slam some bodies together. But for me, the taunts, tantrums, screams and submissions are absolutely delightful icing on the cake of hardbodies, sweat, and suffering. The talk tells the story of not just physical domination, but the domination of one man’s will over another. It’s about the ante up, the smack down, and the claim at the end of the day when one stud is helpless on his back and the other is reminding him, “I told you so.”

A Love/Hate Thing

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I’m feeling fiercely ambivalent. On the one hand, I’m bitter that BBC Three has premiered season 2 of Being Human without any definite plans yet to air it in the US. I know, I know. US shows almost always have a delayed release outside the US. Still, these captures of Russell Tovey stark naked, coated in mud, and holding his bits are making me raging jealous of the Brits.

On the other hand, the sight of beautiful Russell Tovey naked makes melt some things (my heart, for instance) and hardens others (come on, you know what I’m talking about!). Just between you and me (don’t tell Russell), I’m so much more into vampires than werewolves. Aidan Turner and Alexander Skarsgård can bite and suck pretty much any part of me that they’d like… preferably together… absolutely essentially, with all three of us naked. There are so many hot vampires to fantasize about: Aiden, Alexander, Brad Pitt, Stuart Townsend, Antonio Banderas, Tom Cruise. Well, alright, the only fantasy that I’ve had involving Tom Cruise lately has been a fictional bout in which Will Smith beats Tom Cruise naked and leaves him hogtied (good times).

But I really like the insider-outsider, provocatively philosophical story of Being Human, and Russell Tovey frequently naked pre- or post- getting furry makes the whole thing awfully sexy. Russell plays the antithesis of his primal, animal-like alter-ego. He’s insecure, indecisive, easily whipped and burning with angst. What better character is there to see fall to his hands and knees, screaming and snarling, as he becomes an animal insatiable for sex, food and violent conquest. The story isn’t really so much about a werewolf, a vampire and a ghost, but much more about their humanity (thus, the title).

Perhaps another thing about vampires is that they seem to usually be quite clean. I’m just itching to take a wash cloth to sweet Russell when he’s all coated in mud like this. There’s nothing here that a whole lot of scrubbing (and perhaps a little spanking… I’m just saying…) couldn’t make all better. I hate the Brits. I love the Brits. I’m so jealous. I’m so turned on.

Grace and Promise

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I had a brief, cordial exchange with Bob at Rock Hard Wrestling. Responding to some of the low scores I gave them in my review, Bob indicated that the RHW had also seen room for improvement for themselves after shooting their first few matches. He promised me that the hot guys and the excellent video quality would remain the same, but that they would be refining some of the other elements that I thought could be strengthened.

Seriously, is that a gracious way to take a review, or what? Frankly, I was a little nervous that he’d think I was too harsh on RHW. It seems like there’s a classy operation behind the new kids on the homoerotic wrestling block. So I was more than happy to give their third product a try.
Things are looking up for RHW, as far as I’m concerned. The new video is a double header. Cameron, who obviously had skills as evidenced by his first match manhandling Ray, is up against Tommy. Cameron and Tommy do some great work tossing one another around for eight and a half minutes. They both clearly have some grappling background (the website promotes Tommy as a competitive MMA fighter). They’re sincerely working on one another in nice back and forth, sweaty, barefoot action. This bit qualifies as homoerotic solely for the kink I bring to it. Tommy and Cameron are straight up grapplers without much attitude, swagger, or implied carnal joy in their body-on-body battle. For fans of more groping or dominating ownership, this match may not do it for you. There’s not much talk, but mix sweat, a couple barefoot studs, some grunting and grinding, and I’m fairly satisfied.
The second half of the double header is Brody taking on Ray for seven and a half minutes. Ray, bless his heart, is once again in over his head. He’s selling some swagger a little better than his first match, and Brody keeps the pace interesting. Just as Brody had to wipe the cocky sneer off of Zack’s face in his first match, he (literally) tackles much bigger and stronger Ray with gusto. Brody’s presence is once again the highlight of the match, and he does an even better job selling the tough little bruiser routine this time around. For the story that they’re trying to tell, they’d benefit from some more lingering, gloating victory from the giant killer. Still, Brody’s massive bicep popping up out of nowhere (seriously, where does he hide those ceps on that skinny body!?), in his now “signature” victory pose, is quite the turn on for me.
A scrapper with presence, salesmanship, and readiness to do some more edgy homoerotic themes like ball bashing, Brody Hancock (aka Reese Wells) could be some company’s bread and butter someday if he keeps it up. Once again, RHW’s production quality if superior to most anything else I’ve seen. As promised, the boys are drop-dead gorgeous. Cameron and Tommy’s match is satisfying competition, if not particularly great character development. Brody and Ray tell a decent story, if still the wrestling is a little weak (not as much as Ray’s last match, though). RHW still has my attention, and I look forward to seeing what a fresh wave of filming offers after their initial pilots.

Prince of Pecs

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Imagine, if you will, a video game featuring a young, acrobatic hero who can climb sheer walls, dodge flying swords and reverse the flow of time in his battle against the forces of supernatural evil. Now picture our young hero progressively loosing items of clothing over the course of his journey, while he simultaneously grows beefier and studlier with each herculean task he conquers. What sort of game designer comes up with a scenario like that?

My kind of game designer comes up with a scenario like that! And thank God that there are my kind of puppet-masters in Hollywood ready to take the obviously erotic text of the video game, Prince of Persia, and translate it onto the big screen. On Memorial day weekend, we’ll have the opportunity to finally see the long-hyped film, Prince of Persia: Sands of Time starring the beefiest we’ll ever see Jake Gyllenhaal.
Pics from the set have been “leaked” periodically, displaying fine, fine (fine) young Jake back in the day when he was still holding hands with Reese Witherspoon (and in my imagination, that’s as far as it ever went). Sweaty, hairy chested, long-haired Jake is quite the sight to behold.
Now that production stills are trickling out, the hits just keep on coming! The detail is poor, but I get the impression that those pants are painted on. The hair on this chest and abdomen are, frankly, perfection in my book. And the hair on his head is built to order for grabbing a handhold to toss the stunning specimen across the ring. If his extensions pop out, they’d have to get stuffed humiliatingly in his mouth… it’s just what would have to happen…
The story of Jake getting into this amazing shape has been newsworthy all on its own. His sword-work in the park (and haven’t we’ve all been there!?), his intense work out regimen, the diet that slices a man down to no body fat… I was astonished to find that there’s an entire supporting cast in this movie. I wonder if I’ll notice them when I actually see the flick.
Jake has cautioned that he’s not going to stay in this shape, so we should soak it in deeply while we can. There’s nothing wrong with pre-Prince Jake in the least. I get the impression he’s always been pretty pleased with his own body. But the iconic status of Brokeback Jake is momentarily enhanced by the demigod status of the Prince of Persia, at least in my mind. Transport that body back to that tent in the Montana high country, with Ennis and Jack’s homoerotic/self-hating mix of violence and sex, and my fantasy life is fueled for some time to come. Can’t wait till Memorial Day!