Author: wrestlebard

I'm a gay man with an active imagination.

Bodies Over Time

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SteelMuscleGod continues to capture my imagination. His latest vid is straight out of my series on Bodies Over Time. SMG briefly documents his transformation from a sexy stud into, well, a Steel Muscle God.

The evolving, maturing body over time continues to fascinate me. This flesh and bone and pulsing blood is such an incredible structure, full of infinite delights and mystery. As SMG illustrates, it can be crafted deliberately, hammered out like steel on an iron, and shaped into a stunning display of strength and will.
Three years bear evidence of serious work molding this hunk’s body. His back, shoulders, biceps and forearms are dramatically larger. I can’t help but imagine his 2008 self encountering his 2005 self and demanding the relatively scrawny muscle-hopeful to fall on his knees.
It’s not only size. His different grooming regimens also fascinate me. His 2008 jock strap pic show’s off his fantastically furry thighs (and shapely ass, and rippled abs, etc.). As for me, I love me some thick, hairy, muscled legs, particularly wrapped around my abdomen and squeezing me dizzy. A year later, though, and SMG has shaved his legs in addition to adding significant mass and incredible definition. He’s one of the genetic freaks who can build thickly draped muscle mass around narrow joints, giving him some superhuman (godlike?) proportions. With his bigger, shaved style, SMG looks like he’s desperate to get someone’s head shoved between those weapons of erotic destruction.
It’s not as if in 2006 he wasn’t worth of my time. That patchy chest hair, the rippled abs, the brooding look… I’d have been happy to toss him around a ring, perhaps tie him into the ropes and wash some laundry across his washboard. But in 2009, his godlike proportions demand some serious attention. My delicates probably couldn’t survive the crystal cut of those shredded abs today, and if he kept tugging at his crotch like that, I’m sure I’d be too distracted to keep up my part of the battle.
Last I imagined, Adam400m had SMG bent over forward with his head squeezed tightly between Adam’s monster quads. Adam was squeezing so hard that SMG was sobbing in pain, uselessly pummeling the slabs of beef that are Adam’s quads. Adam’s taunting of SMG has the musclegod freshly enraged, though, and he’s flushed with a renewed burst of adrenaline. SMG plants his feet wide and hooks his arms around the backs of Adam’s crushing quads. Before Adam realizes what’s happening, SMG has illustrated his superhuman strength by lifting Adam off his feet. Standing fully erect, SMG still feels the crushing vice around his temples, but now Adam is vulnerably stretched down his opponent’s back, hanging on desperately to the musclegod’s head with his legs. Adam is sincerely stunned by the power move, but he remains hopeful as he hangs upside down with his face pressed tightly into SMG’s trunks wedgied high up his crack. Adam wraps his thick arms around the front of SMG’s waist and squeezes. Adam knows he’s vulnerable, but he’s determined to maintain the advantage.

His hopes are crushed when SMG charges backward, slamming his unsuspecting foe hard into the nearest wall. Suddenly, Adam has no air left in his lungs, and his legs and hands momentarily loose their grip. SMG steps away from the wall, and Adam falls limply, just managing to twist his upper body to avoid landing squarely on his head. Instead, he crashes onto his right shoulder, and then his muscled body slumps to the floor as pain lances across his upper body from his shoulder and neck. “You thought you could force a god to worship you?” SMG snarls deeply, looking down at his disoriented opponent with contempt. His chest heaves rapidly as the excess blood slowly drains from his face. He clenches his fists slowly and drops to his knees next to Adam.

Game

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The male model as fighter seems to be a common pose. Particularly the fitness models seem to regularly pop up with fists raised and chins down. Since everything is a commodity, these pics beg the question: what’s being sold here? It’s not the clothes (particularly for those models in-stance not wearing any). I propose that what’s being sold is that package of elements that is essentially at the heart of what I write about all the time.

It’s sex. It isn’t vanilla sex, but it’s the sex that emerges from lust and aggression simultaneously. The gorgeously hard body, tensed and toned, positioned in order to display the narrow waist armored by six-pack abs is intended to tell the story that turns me (and so many of you) on. Designer/director Tom Ford tells the tale with his arms around two sweaty boxers poised for the fight. The kiss on the forehead exposes the fierce-faced hardbody as the object of lust.
I can just smell the fantastic elixir of testosterone and sweat emanating from Bryan Thomas. The male model in a fighting stance taunts the gay male gaze. It promises sex and violence in one sweet image. It draws us in to the erotic combat of hand-to-hand, body-to-body competition, offering us the prize that if we beat him, we own him.
Tattooed stunner Tegan peers over his clenched fists at us, his thick, flexed forearms like the steel bars of a cage. His warm-ups sag below our line of sight (for full frontal trade of bewitching Tegan, aka Jagger, check out ChaosMen), with all the muscled lines of his torso pointing us downward. Perhaps, just perhaps, if we step inside that steel cage and take the beating that Tegan is planning for us, if we fight hard enough and suffer desperately enough, he’ll give us one final workover with his most impressive muscle of all.
Philip Fusco looks more like he wants to put up a fight, but not actually win. He’s too intent on displaying his chiseled face than protecting his vulnerable jaw. He’s planted vulnerably on the backs of his heels, subtly signaling that the battle will be short-lived, but his endurance to be worshiped as the conquered god he is will go on eternally.
I can actually hear the photographer’s voice instructing Philip to arch his back a fraction more here, to stick out that oh-so-round bubble butt just that much more. Once again, Philip is flat on his feet, entirely conscious of his body, ante-ing up a fighter’s pose just to signal that he’s game. This isn’t the form of a savage sadist ready to beat us into submission, but rather the eager bottom secretly begging us to call his bluff and drop him to his hands and knees. He isn’t actually planning on suffering too long, but we can teach him the ecstasy that awaits him (and us) when his endurance is tested, when his cries of submission are ignored, when the pain is unrelenting until he can genuinely stand no more.

Jamie Dominic appears as if in the post-coital position in which we might leave him after beating him senseless with those boxing gloves we placed tauntingly across his exhausted cock. He’s earned that coat of sweat glistening in the crevices of his shredded abs. He’s battled past the point that the gloves came off, past the point that the trunks came off, past the point that the jockstrap came off. In nothing but his sparring boots, he’s been hammered down until he moved too slowly to defend himself any longer. He’s been squeezed and probed, tried and pried until he had nothing left but to submit in body, mind and spirit. Back in the locker room, he struggles with his pride beneath the brim of his cap, our gloves re-enacting the final hold that forced him to give himself entirely for our pleasure. He’s even now reliving the bout, blow by blow, as the memory of the beating washes through him and begins to dislodge the gloves. He’s vowing that next time he’ll do the conquering. Next time, he won’t succumb to his own guilty ecstasy at being owned, used, and put away wet.
So, perhaps not quite all of this narrative is necessarily written into the male model in fighting stance. But you and I know that at least the kernel of that story is undeniably there, calling to us, taunting us, displaying for the world, but particularly us, that aggression and sex are a potent combination.

More Sublime Suffering

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An enthusiastic reader recently, generously offered to stretch me out across his knee in a backbreaker and work over my gut and pecs. That sweet talker. The offer got me thinking once again about one of my favorite wrestling holds: the over the knee backbreaker.

The promise to work over my gut and pecs sent my mind cataloging a few of the delicious possibilities of what can be done with a relatively flexible hardbody folded backward across your knee. Cliff Conlin (the consummate seller) illustrates nicely how grabbing the ankle of your prey gives you some extra leverage in prying your man backward at a breathtaking angle.

There’s an aesthetic to the OTK backbreaker that can make this moment in the ring an awesome work of art. Dirk Shannon from several Can-Am classics relished the OTK, and he clearly appreciated the beautiful form it could take. In Canadian Musclehunk 8, Dirk finishes off Peter Genilli like Michelangelo carving a block of marble. He presses down on Genilli’s thigh and chin with only the balls of his hands, his fingers extended purposively perpendicular to the mat. Dirk’s taut upper body and the fierce flex of his jaw are gorgeous all by themselves, but his presentation of Genilli’s suffering form belongs in the Louvre (or Le Cordon Bleu, perhaps).

BG East’s Kid Brock (who disappeared far too quickly), opts for the left hand clamped tightly across the throat of Eric Moreira. Kid has his opponent bent so far backward that Eric’s head is being smashed to the mat. The fulcrum here, Kid’s massive thigh, is driving directly into the small of Eric’s back. Note the line of sight in Kid’s gaze, though. The OTK, by definition, shine’s a spotlight on the suffering man’s package. The tormentor and the audience share the vision of the broken man’s most intimately vulnerable moment, with his spine being twisted in a way never intended by the human anatomy, and his cock and balls propped tantalizingly at the apex of his arched agony. The drop of sweat hanging from Kid’s nose here is what makes me feel a little faint, though, I must admit.
Confession time: I’ve caught myself more than once snarling at the screen, thrilled by the sight of an OTK, but frustrated that the sadist with his man broken backward across his thigh is seemingly ignoring the prominent pouch of his punk. To have that vulnerability so exposed and presented, but to do nothing with it, should be a crime punishable by (me) cracking the negligent battler’s head into the nearest turnbuckle. Fortunately, BG East’s Kid Vicious never needs my coaching. The world champion sadist never seems to fail to take stock of all of his opponent’s assets as his disposal in an OTK. With rookie Frank Daly cracked across his knee, KV is like a hungry man with a sampler plate. Daly’s cock is uncovered and suffers a blood-pumping, double fisted squeeze. Eventually his nipple’s and cock find their way into KV’s mouth, all the while maintaining the rookie’s vulnerable position across his knee. The work of a master is a beautiful thing to behold.
No one, but no one bends and suffers like Brad Rochelle. I’ve spilt plenty of ink marveling at Brad’s capture across the knee of Jeff Phoenix in the past, but I simply have to include another OTK capture of Brad, displaying another great option for the hold. I can’t sleuth out what match this pic is from, but I think this heel is Sid O’Reilly. He’s illustrating another great use of an OTK, which is to claw the crap out of a muscleboy’s exposed six pack. The heel’s fingertips look seriously dug in there, and Brad is letting us know what it feels like to have someone’s claws rearrange your internal organs from the outside.
Even the pros clearly take carnal delight in the OTK. Whether you’d like to imagine yourself getting broken by Chris Benoit or breaking bodybuilder face, Tommy Zenk, the combination of the two is fantastic. Chris’ ownership of Tommy is savage and complete.
This old pic captures a grimacing blond in the act of bringing Kerry Von Erich’s stunningly muscled back down across his knee. As Wrestling Arsenal points out, for our purposes, the most notable feature here is the blond’s hand indulgently squeezing the very ample handhold of Kerry’s muscled bubblebutt. His wrist and hand are jammed up so tight, Kerry’s cheeks are spread wide and completely vulnerable. Kerry’s mouth is saying no, no, no, but I suspect his prostate was saying yes, yes, yes!
The possibilities are seemingly infinite. The OTK offers a provocative canvas for the work of the true masters. Whether you’d like to crack me across your knee and pound out my pecs and gut, or whether you’d like to be captured and brutalized in this fantastic means of torture, I’m always and forever a fan of the improbable, unmistakably homoerotic over the knee backbreaker.

The Spice of Life

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I think there’s not much in life that wouldn’t be much sweeter for everyone with a little more sprinkling of gay. A little more gay in organized sports and we might have mandatory butt-slapping after every point scored. A little more gay in politics and I think everyone would benefit from the transformation of the proverbial political bitch-slap into a literal political bitch-slap. Happily, we’ve learned that there’ll be still a little more gay in True Blood next season with the addition of a boyfriend for openly gay character, Lafayette. Kevin Alejandro is reportedly joining the cast to make an already homoerotic subtext into, well… homoerotic text.
This announcement comes on the heels of learning that Theo Alexander will also join the cast as a gay vampire companion (hot human boy toy). Of course between Alexander Skarsgård, Ryan Kwanten, Sam Trammell and Stephen Moyer, there’s already been plenty to catch a gay man’s eye. And seriously, it’s all one transparent analogy to the gays (regardless of what Alan Ball says). But giving their gay character a lover and writing in another gay character simply cements True Blood as a gayboy’s fantasy.
Like Theo and Grant, I know little about Kevin Alejandro. Fortunately, there’s an adoring fan who’s been cataloging the rise of Kevin for some time now. I’m liking the playful turn at the corners of his mouth.
He also looks beefy. I see you flashing that sexy bicep while making eyes at me, Kevin!
Some shirtless pics from Ugly Betty give us a glimpse of Kevin’s meaty, entirely claw-able pecs (you see where my mind immediately takes me).
I didn’t see Purgatory Flats, but the stills of Kevin strangling Vincent Ventresca send my twisted mind off in wonderful flights of fantasy. Coincidentally, I’ve thought it would be fun to choke out lovely Vincent, as well (way too pretty not to suffer).

So once again I tip my hat to Alan Ball for sprinkling more gay into True Blood to spice things up. Just like garlic, some people might not like it, but for my tastes, you can never have too much.

The Endless Jobber

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Yesterday’s post sparked some interesting conversation. It also got me to thinking about all the jobbers that have caught my eye as I’ve fed my wrestling kink. Despite my proposition yesterday that every jobber should have his day, it did occur to me that there are, perhaps, a very select few jobbers that I never tire of seeing crushed. It may irk some of you to hear me now say that even I have a pantheon of jobber gods who, perhaps, I might never get bored with. If reconsideration of my argument yesterday irritates you, please refer to my standing opinion on consistency.

Wrestling Arsenal describes Kenny Kendall as “everyone’s favorite jobber.” Somehow I feel less special now. I always came to attention when Kenny climbed into the ring. He possessed a sweet (sweet, sweet, sweet) body, and every time there was the introductory close-up, I was captured by Kenny’s handsome face. I can’t remember ever seeing a match that Kenny won. He wasn’t always squashed, but as far as I remember, he was always beaten nearly unconscious.
Kenny’s trunks were always a distraction to me. He inevitably wore them a size too small and riding up his ass crack. As if his meaty glutes weren’t eye-catching enough, Kenny inevitably ended up on his hands and knees with his ass lifted high off the mat.
As far as I can remember, I never got tired of seeing Kenny get the shit kicked out of him. He suffered sweetly, and frankly I always thought he could probably do a job for days. Sadly, he was often in the ring with significantly out of shape heels who, I have to imagine, get the blame for so manny Kenny jobs being tragically short. As long as Kenny wore those crevice-cradling trunks with the double “K” stitched like grandma’s sampler on his left cheek, then sure… I’m okay with seeing Kenny endlessly job.
Wracking my twisted brain, I can’t say that there are many more jobber gods who could make it into my pantheon of endless jobberhood. Perhap the BG East’s Muscle Mask might qualify, if he had a longer career to consider. As JoshH commented yesterday, there’s something simply mouth-watering about the image of a stunningly muscled man like Muscle Mask being manhandled. The mask may be blurring my objectivity here, though. I’m a sucker for a hardbody in a wrestling mask, any day of the week.
So Kenny Kendall is definitely drinking ambrosia on Mt. Jobber-Olympus. Muscle Mask has yet to fight some more Titans before he can definitely join Kenny in the pantheon of eternal jobber delights. I’ll continue to consider who else might be worthy of jobber-deity status (feel free to help me out).

To Job or Not to Job

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I once suggested to John Savage that one of his wrestling comic series might include the “hero” tasting victory. John’s fantastic art and stories, including the superheroes and the jungle king characters, tell the excellent story of the classic heel who destroys and humiliates the boy scout. I thought it might spice things up to see a muscle hero snatch victory from the jaws of defeat. Perhaps it could be hot to see a boy scout pushed beyond the edge, forced over the line and turned in the heat of battle into a nasty vessel of humiliating punishment for the cocky heel. John gently, but firmly assured me that was not a story I was ever likely to see in his work. A few other fans chimed in to remind me that a jobber is a jobber, and toying with that universal law is not kosher.

Similarly, I posted a fantasy fiction short story a few months back portraying one of the loveliest muscleboys with a devastating cleft chin, Brad Rochelle. I wrote Brad post-heel turn, digging deep and dirty to torture and humiliate Tyrell Tomsen, tying him to a corner and stripping the newbie musclegod naked. A few impassioned fans of seeing Brad’s masterful suffering let me know that it was a “nice” story (ouch), but that Brad would always and forever remain a jobber in their wrestling fantasies.
I think I’m frequently out of sync with the classic pro-wrestling scenario. I’m often one of the naive rubes rooting for the pretty boys who are destined to suffer humiliatingly. Before Paul Roma’s character evolved, he spent several years as the stunning Roman god repeatedly dismantled and destroyed by physically-lesser men. I totally get it, of course. Featuring a main character who uses skill and guile to own a stunning specimen like Paul Roma teaches the fans what type of bad-ass the giant-killer is. The massive, shining muscles of Paul Roma were the backdrop, providing perspective on just how dangerous must be the man who could conquer Roma’s godlike body. But I harbored a lustful desire to get a glimpse of those amazing muscles as devices of torture.
The job-as-career leaves me a little unsatisfied. Don’t get me wrong: I’m first in line to lap up the image of a handsome, confident muscle god brought to his knees in agony and fear. But any Johnny-One-Note loses my interest eventually. If Paul Roma had never scrambled his way into a real story line, even his stunning beauty would have eventually left me uninspired.
Marcus Bagwell was another early-career babyface who dabbled with jobbing. As the Handsome Stranger, Bagwell’s massive, round muscles were obviously the object of fanatic, sexual lust. As such, it’s no wonder he was often scripted for a severe beating. The beating wasn’t “about” Bagwell, really. He was simply the device to push the story of the devious heel who delighted in humiliating the Handsome Stranger in front of his worshipping fans. Bagwell was simply beautiful scenery in front of which the real play was acted out.
Seriously, I get it. But even Bagwell’s beautiful bod would have lost its allure for me if he’d never made his turn. If there’s no arc to a story, if a character is flat and entirely predictable, then my imagination is left flaccid. And no one should be happy with a flaccid imagination.

So, still, I say, mix it up. Tell me a story that keeps me guessing. String along the rubes like me that are lusting for the occasional conquering face, the boy scout delivering a knee the groin, the crisis of conscience for the muscle god who has to decide what to do when he realizes that his dominating power is just not enough. There will always be plenty of room for jobs, but if you plan to keep a jobber on the payroll for any length of time, make them more than a caricature. Give them character. Tease me. Toy with my naive sympathies that every so often want to see a good guy come out on top, perhaps a little tarnished and morally ambiguous, but at least momentarily planting his boot on his opponent’s chest and raising his muscled arms in victory.

The Return of the King

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Once again, I hate myself a little for being so easily manipulated. I want to be Grizzly Adams living off the grid. I want to be the revolutionary. I want to vote third-party. But then I look around me and realize I’m such a tool of capitalist hegemony. My corporate masters clearly string me along, from True Blood to Dexter and, now, to The Tudors, dangling beautiful man-flesh in front of me and sucking money out of my wallet which is now attached permanently to my cable bill.

Anyway… another season (surely the last?) of Jonathan Rhys Meyers smooth shirtlessness starts tonight, and it’s already getting my blood pumping. For an Irishman with no resemblance at all to Henry VIII, he has certainly sucked me in completely to his performance. I’m fascinated to see how he transforms the horrific, bloated, flesh-rotting-on-the-bone historical figure of Henry VIII into a hot and sexy fashion model. Did I mention his frequent shirtlessness?
The ridiculously handsome Henry Cavill is also worth another look, though I’m combing my memory of my English History class in college, feeling a growing certainty that Henry’s character has a bad end. Well, pretty much everyone in Henry VIII’s life met a bad end, didn’t they? I’m confident none of them were quite so delicious to behold as young Henry (Cavill).
For my money (because that’s all I count for in the capitalist hegemony), I was crushed that Kristen Holden-Reid (a guy, a very, very hot guy) was killed off before the end of season 1. It was more Kristen’s gorgeousness in A Touch of Pink that I was rooting for than anything else. Writing a beautiful gay character in King Henry VIII’s court (having a torrid and quite hot, though self-hating, man-on-man love affair), was awesome revisionist history. I like to spend my lifeblood in the capitalist hegemony (my money) on seeing more of Kristen Holden-Reid.
Because real life fiction (?) is never enough to entirely satisfy me, I’ve written an evolving story line in my celebrity wrestling fiction for Henry and Jonathan. An Irishman picked to play Henry VIII over his co-star who’s an Englishman named Henry!? There had to be off-camera drama. So in my imagination, I see some really bitter competition between those boys to determine who really is king, with one hunk being conquered and transformed into an obedient and loyal subject. Frankly, the real Henry VIII produced much more outrageous melodrama than any of us today, but at least my melodrama is rife with homoerotic combat and body worship.

Seriously, Cleaning House

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I’ve had a slow start to my day. It’s taken me a while to recover from an exhausting day yesterday. One of two scenarios played out for me yesterday. I’ll let you decide which is fact and which is fiction:

1) Moments after I posted my plan to clean house, Arthur Napiontek knocked at my front door. Adorable Art was dressed in khakis and a sleeveless t-shirt, and he carried a bucket of soaps and rags with him. I was once again struck by those gorgeous boulders for shoulders he has. He wore a sly grin as he asked, “Where would you like me to start?”
When there was another knock at the door, I was standing in the kitchen with a bourbon, watching Art as he scrubbed the floor on his hands and knees. Watching his khaki-clad ass swing back and forth as he scrubbed, I think it required a another, louder knock at the door to break me out of my reverie. “Keep scrubbing,” I told Art as I padded off.
You guessed it: upon opening the door I was greeted with the stunning form and ridiculously handsome face of Greg Plitt. Greg was in very low-rise jeans squeezed around those tree-trunk thighs and muscle butt. Like Art, he wore a sleeveless t-shirt, showing off his tremendously thick arms. He caught me staring, slack-jawed, at his bulging biceps. With a cocky grin that told me he knew the effect he had on mere mortals, he said, “I heard you could use some help with some heavily lifting.”
As I promised you, dear reader, once both of these cleaning hunks had arrived, my agenda for the day changed dramatically. I called Art over to join us in the living room, and we pulled all the furniture out. I told the boys I’d like to see some arm wrestling with those guns they were both packing. Greg rolled his eyes dismissively as he looked at Art’s model-perfect body. I had both hunks stretch out on their stomachs on the floor. Art was sincere as hell, but when I said, “Go,” Greg just played with him a few seconds. Art’s face turned almost as red as the hair on his head as he strained against Greg’s astonishing power. Greg chuckled, letting Art gain an advantage. Art had the back of the big man’s hand a half an inch from the floor when Greg finally stepped on the gas pedal and slammed Art’s hand hard to the floor as if Art was a child.
Art was embarrassed, but no less enthusiastic when I suggested a two-on-one. Greg looked up at me, sizing me up for several seconds, and then he took another assessment of Art. Finally he shrugged, smiled coyly and accepted the challenge. I stretched out on my stomach shoulder to boulder with Art. Greg planted his elbow on the floor and held open the palm of his hand. I grasped his hand in mine, though truth be told, his hand pretty much swallowed mine whole. Seriously, I had not appreciated how huge his hands are! As he squeezed my hand, I could feel the irresistible power coursing through his arm. Frankly, I’m no slouch, but I was quickly convinced that I’d do no better than Art in a head-to-head. But when Art placed the palm of his hand against the back of mine and wrapped his fingers around Greg and my grasped hands, I could also feel Art’s strength coming to a focus. I thought at that moment that Greg may have bitten off more than he could chew. Through gritted teeth, I grunted, “Go,” and Art and I slowly began to press Greg’s arm backward. The bemused smile on Greg’s face quickly faded, and he pursed his lips in concentration, finally halting the progress of our advantage. Every ounce of strength I had was pouring through my shoulder and arm. My hand felt like every bone was about to be crushed, but when I saw a bead of sweat pop out on Greg’s forehead, I knew we had him. I was sure Art saw it too, because I felt a renewed rush of strength pressing against the back of my hand.
All three of our arms were quivering with exhaustion after several seconds of our stalemate. I was past the point of exhaustion, really, but I was determined to see this muscle god in front of me suffer a humiliating defeat. His arm gave a fraction of an inch suddenly, and we held the back of his hand a mere three inches off the floor. One more burst of energy, and I was certain we had him.
But then, Greg began to growl. His face grew flushed with effort as he continued to clench his teeth. The growl was deep and fierce, and I simply could not believe that he was pressing both Art and my hands backward. It was slow going, but after a few seconds he’d wiped away our advantage completely, and our upper arms were perpendicular to the floor once more. Greg’s sustained growl continued as he forced our hands backward. My wrist was in excruciating pain, and I closed my eyes to concentrate everything I had left into resisting his power. We kept losing ground though. I opened my eyes and stared in awe at Greg’s gargantuan, flexed bicep, bigger than a grapefruit. The back of Art’s hand was finally pressed to the floor with me still staring at Greg’s awesome bicep.

Greg’s face opened up in to a wide, confident smile again. He flashed his pearly whites, as all three of us gasped, our arms numb. “Nice try, boys,” Greg said. He moved to pull his hand away, but I grabbed our grasped hands with my free hand and held tight. Art dove on top of Greg, spinning around and hooking his forearm across the big man’s throat. Greg tried to reach for Art’s arm, but I pinned his forearm to the floor underneath my chest.

It was over quicker than I’d expected. Greg was unconscious in little over a minute. Art and I tied his wrists over his head to the banister of the stairs (reinforced for just such an occasion) a few minutes later, after working hard to hoist his massive hardbody off the ground. Art stripped out of his khakis, then proceeded to strip Greg’s jeans off of him. We waited a few minutes, catching our breath, until finally Greg roused again.
I couldn’t get the image of Prometheus Bound from my head, as I grabbed Greg’s t-shirt by the front of the collar and ripped it off of him. He initially struggled against his bindings, but once he was convinced he was trapped, he just looked into my face with that domineering grin. I took my time, feeling up and down the length of his muscled body, now dressed only in very brief bikini underwear. Typically I’m not really into underarms, but I was irresistibly drawn to lick both his lightly hairy, sweaty pits. His salty taste on my tongue, I stepped back and gave Greg a wink.
Art stepped forward at that point and stripped out of his t-shirt. Like Greg, he was now encumbered only by his white briefs. “Start slowly,” I told him. Art flexed his fists, as he tilted his head, examining Greg’s armored core. Realizing what was on its way, Greg lifted his chin and taunted, “Give it your best shot, kid.”

The rest of the afternoon was spent with Art and I trading turns on our Prometheus punching bag. Impressively, it took over an hour before Greg was really showing the effects of our blows. Another hour after that, his head was hanging low and the once powerful god was whimpering his submission.
Art and I untied Greg. You might imagine there would be hard feelings, but trust me, no one was left unsatisfied by this session. In fact, freshly showered, the three of us were on the couch finishing off a leftover bottle of champagne I had in the fridge from the celebration the night before.


OR….

2) I spent all afternoon cleaning the house, exterminating dust-bunnies, polishing off even the tops of cabinets and picture frames, until the whole place gleamed and smelled lemony fresh.

I’ll let you decide which is fact and which is fiction. I’ll just say that by the end of the day, I was seriously exhausted and thoroughly and totally satisfied with the day’s adventure.
Oh, and Art says to say “hello” to everyone.

Cleaning House

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I’m feeling fresh and hopeful this New Year’s Day. The future is a clean slate, and I’m ready to start writing my story for 2010. So I think I’ll spend the day cleaning house, both literally and figuratively. I’m going to scrub the bathroom, polish the living room, and make the kitchen shine. I’m not often in this mood, so I need to capitalize on it when I am.

I’m hoping for a Cleaning Hunk like Arthur Napiontek or Greg Plitt to show up and lend a hand. If they both come, screw the cleaning. I’m clearing the furniture out of the living room, and there’s going to be a wrestling match. And don’t tell Greg, but Art and I are going to double-team his ass, and someone’s getting tied up for a very long, four-fisted gutpunching session.
Anyway, while I’ve got the cleaning bug, I think I’ll also spend some time freshening up the blog. I’m not planning anything too major; just clean out some pointless labels, perhaps put together a new masthead – just make things look fresh and clean to start the year. So if you click through and things look a little different tomorrow, never fear. It’ll be the same homoerotic, hot hunk, wrestling kink site. It’ll just have a fresh coat of paint, and the furniture may be rearranged just a little.

Year in Review – Favorite Moment #1

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The highlight of my 2009 blogging journey had to be that moment on Monday evening, October 19, when Derek Da Silva twitted the link to this blog and commended it for the nice description of some of his wrestling work. I was star struck. A gorgeous pornboy with an incredible back tattoo commended my blog.

The brush with fame was enough to unseat my prior pornboy wrestling favorite, Mitch Colby, from his throne atop my lustful adoration. I’ve been entranced by Mitch for the past couple of years, but his work lately has grown more explicitly homoerotic and pornographic, and I’ve been totally along for the ride. His first full frontal and liplocks for BG East made me take a double take. His spread eagle pics via Muscle Adonis once again caught my full attention (despite the poor photography), and his head-to-head (claw-to-ball) mat action with Derek in Crotch Crushers 1 sealed the deal in my mind. Just as Mitch conquered Derek in a sweat soaked embrace, so he laid claim to my loyalties and my fan-favorite status.
But then Derek went and twitted, and he grabbed the crown from Mitch’s head. The mention of Derek’s interest in post structuralism in one of his bios put it over the top for me, really. A masochistic, tattooed, muscle-head, pornboy into both sweaty ball abuse and post structuralism? Clearly this was meant to be: me and Derek exchanging bearhugs before I capture him in my body scissors, propped up on one elbow, reading Foucault to him as he groans in pain (a boy can dream!).
As regular readers know, Mitch’s Wrestler Spotlight release from BG East just last month heated up the competition for my fan favorite status once more. Mitch’s match against Peter Stallion was not my cup of tea. His emission-submission from Marc Rion was a delight that definitely earned him serious points. But his sweat soaked grunt-fest with BG East veteran Patrick Donovan was the kicker that made Mitch leap frog over Derek and back into the number one spot in my lustful affections.
Just within the past couple of weeks, Derek’s Christmas video has made me laugh my ass off (he lights his tree using the crank electrodes that have been attached to his testicles), meaning he’s pushing hard at overcoming Mitch once more. A sick sense of humor is an incredible turn on! I’ve written a couple of fantasy matches with Mitch and Derek teamed together to deliver some humiliating abuse to unsuspecting pretty boys. I realize that BG East really doesn’t do re-matches (as far as I can tell), but I’m aching deep, deep down for another bout between Mitch and Derek, in order to give Derek another shot at claiming the title of my favorite homoerotic pornboy wrestler. I’m picturing something in the ring this time, with lots of work in the ropes (like I said, I can dream!).
So here’s my New Year’s toast to Mitch and Derek, grappling together in a sweat-soaked embrace, and here’s to hoping to get another chance to see the two of them battle it out to decide who will end up on top in 2010. More importantly here’s a New Year’s toast to you: may the stroke of midnight find you locked in a sweaty, full contact erotic combat, perhaps having the breath squeezed out of you (or you doing the squeezing, whichever you’re in the mood for), and may all your wrestling fantasies come true in 2010! Happy New Year!