Author: wrestlebard

I'm a gay man with an active imagination.

Battle of the Gods, continued

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I’m sure it’s just me, but once again I notice that just days after SteelMuscleGod posts a muscle worship video, Adam400m puts one up. They probably don’t realize it, but they’re engaged in some fierce body-on-body competition in my imagination, and the tide may be turning once more.
SteelMuscleGod has posted a bald-face appeal for worshippers to bid on a private show somewhere in Europe. Snarling his pitch, SMG strips off his body-hugging top and gives a brief preview of what could be yours (to lease) in person. With his stunning upper body, the last time I had pictured it, I imagined SMG barely enduring a long, tortuous body scissor from Adam400m, relying on those rippled abs to prevent him from suffering serious internal injuries. Then SMG clamped on a dizzying headlock, followed by a bearhug, before finally wearing Adam down to his knees and commanding the Brit to worship him.

Taking a look at Adam400m’s post of a leg workout and posing session (complete with unabashed body worship by the cameraman), has made me reconsider if these two warriors are, in fact, done with their battle. I’m imagining that just as Adam is tracing his tongue across SMG’s washboard abs in seeming surrender, his eyes flicker open, finally catching his breath and coming back to his senses. Continuing to worship SMG into his own distracted reverie, Adam licks his way up to the crevice between SMG’s thunderous pecs. Just as SMG’s deep, husky voice fades into indistinct moans of pleasure, Adam knees him in the crotch, doubling his opponent forward.

With SMG clutching his assaulted balls, Adam shoves his opponent’s head between his gargantuan quads and squeezes. His legs flash hard and striated, the veins rising to the surface, as SMG’s screams of anguish are muffled between Adam’s upper legs, each one as thick as SMG’s waist. SMG’s body is shaking and convulsing in muffled sobs as he slowly drops to his knees, frantically trying to pull his opponent’s legs apart enough to pop free his head.
Adam slowly grinds his hips in tight rotations, his abdominals constricting in waves like a python. The irrepresible, cocky confidence of the SteelMuscleGod is reduced to sobs of pain as he tries punching his fists into the slabs of beef crushing his skull. The punches have no effect other than to bruise SMG’s knuckles. “When gods are brought to their knees, it’s time for them to do some worshipping,” Adam says, a light chuckle in his voice.
Again, I’m just saying…

What Turned Me Gay (again, not really)

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When I was a teenager, I remember Tommy Zenk coming through the local wrestling operation for a year or two. He was a knight in shining armor. Tommy was over-the-top good guy, rule follower, gracious interview, full of gratitude for his screaming fans desperate to worship him. I saw his confident, innocent smile. Then I saw those freaktastic huge shoulders. Then I saw that broad, sexy chest and the skinny waist. Then I saw his incredibly muscular ass squeezed into those brief trunks, and then… boiing!… I was gay.

I saw him in various incarnations across his career (Tom Zenk, the Z-Man, half of Can-Am Connection). But seared in my personal development as a gay man with a wrestling kink is that early chapter in his career when he blew into town and was unstoppable. In a daring storyline, Tommy was the boyscout face who tore through the bad guys like a buzz saw. He was undefeated week after week as the girls screamed near hysteria when he climbed on top of man after man, pinning them to their backs. When this sweaty, heavily muscled man pumped his fist in the air victoriously, I was ready to pop.
I’m certain that the first moment I noticed a pro-wrestler with shaved armpits was in the middle of lustfully worshipping Tommy as the ref lifted his arm in victory. I certainly don’t mind hairy pits, but for a while there, I wanted nothing but smooth skin stretched across bulging muscles, a la Tommy.
My favorite Tommy match came much later, but it remains a cherished memory. After Flyin’ Brian Pillman finally cracked under the pressure of trying to uphold his end of the saccharine sweet tag team with the Z-Man, he turned heel. Tommy and Brian developed a brutal rivalry. When they met in the ring, it was a tit-for-tat show. The storyline, though, argued that Tommy was the superior wrestler, while Pillman held his own with his new found guile and rule-breaking. The match ended with a draw when the clock ran out, but the boys kept battling as the screen faded to commercial.
Wiki tells us that Tommy is now working for a hedge fund (seriously? people still do that?). Flyin’ Brian has long since died tragically, as have so many pro-wrestler who made me the gay wrestling fetishist I am today. In my memory and imagination, though, they all continue to do battle, strutting and flexing and slamming and squeezing, reminding me why it is two hardbodies in trunks make me so happy to be gay.

Shaved for Your Pleasure

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So let’s get this straight: I do not believe consistency is, necessarily, a virtue. I’m unashamed by self-contradiction. Take, for example, my obsession with hair pulling. Love it. Totally into it. Write it into just about every wrestling match I write. A nice, thick head of hair waiting to get yanked around is sweet in my book.

Then I go and find myself obsessing about wrestlers with shaved heads. Lon Dumont (I keep wanting to call him Lou, for some reason), got me careening down this path. I just saw him in his debut match for BG East, and I’m instantly a fan. He tells an awesome story, with a lot of smart banter. He sports genuine swagger. He has a fantastic whimper when he’s suffering. And when he’s in control, he’s brutal. But it’s that sweat-soaked scalp that’s sending me over the top. I must see more of this savage warrior!

Finding myself obsessing about Lon’s shaved head makes me take stock. I’m a fan of a lot of shaved heads in the ring, when I think about it. Kid Vicious has been looking beefier and balder in every new product he puts out for BG East. My desperate hope is that KV’s giving Lon some sadistic heel training behind the scenes, and someday we’ll see the both of them destroying and dominating helpless hunks side-by-side.
Can-Am classic, John Thor was a hairless musclegod built for worship. With a metabolism of a tit-mouse, he always worked up a dripping sweat instantly in the ring. And he was very generous with letting us admire every corner and crevice of his astonishing anatomy.
Mikey Vee was a handsome bastard with a full head of hair. Now that he’s shaving it, he’s metamorphosed into a fantastically sexy beast. Mikey will surely merit his own edition of “Bodies Over Time.” It doesn’t hurt, in my book, that his bold and beautiful ink has also been growing. But I’m sure it does hurt (a lot) to have that massive man clamp his python arms around your neck from behind and smile Zen-like as you pass out.
There are plenty of pros that could always capture me with their perfect pates. Tyson Tomko and Bobby Lashley pull off the shaved head masterfully.
So as much as I’m enamored with the moment when a hunk gets hoisted up by his long locks, I’m also entirely into shaved-heads as well these days. Life is a paradox. That’s what makes it interesting.

Serial Skin

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The Dexter season finale shocked and awed this past Sunday. Indicative of any good season finale, I’m desperately anticipating the start of the next season. I’m so easily manipulated.

As I’ve mentioned (frequently), my one criticism of Dexter is the bizarre lack of hunk skin. Other than the corpses, not even a lot of shirtless goes on, which seems odd for a series set in balmy Miami. Worst of all, we’ve seen very little uncovered of Michael C. Hall’s title character. Clearly, Michael’s got the goods. He’s just not sharing his loveliness with the rest of us.
Thank God for superherofan and the find of some hot captures of Michael from the movie Gamer. Didn’t see it; will likely own it now that I learn there are some fight scenes featuring Gerard Butler, Milo Ventimiglia, and the man whose ass could launch a thousand ships: Michael.
I have a fictional wrestling match written featuring Michael that, understandably, digresses into body worship. Of the sparse views of Michael’s body I’ve seen, I’ve never seen an angle that doesn’t turn my crank.
And speaking of angles and crank turning, the glimpse of Michael’s gorgeous round cheeks poking out over the top of his pants here is such a cock-tease. That fantastically shaped ass can’t help but spark the imagination to run wild. My imagination is certainly sparked. I’m predicting Michael will be back in the wrestling ring in my imagination soon.

Art and Legibility

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A very generous reader recently commented that he enjoyed my poetry. I think that the last time that I self-consciously composed a poem was when my third grade English teacher assigned me the task. So I assume that the reference is a nod to my writing here. At times, I think what I write here is nearly unintelligible when I look back and pick through the typos. Perhaps that might lend it an air of artistry to some. Perhaps it’s nearly so unintelligible as to be mistaken for art.

In any case, I’m flattered because I’m a complete sucker for a compliment (take note, in case you ever need to ask me for anything). That said, I have a massive task of writing prose today that makes me have to cut short my daily composition here. Sadly, my writing task for the day has nothing to do with the joys of beautiful men or wrestling.
So I’m simply posting some pics of model Josh Wald, whose gorgeously tattooed body speaks volumes all on its own. Enjoy, and talk amongst yourselves.

The Title Changes Hands

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BG East Catalog 80 has been posted, and I’ve had my first look at Mitch Colby’s Wrestler Spotlight and Fantasymen 32. I’m blown away by new fantasyman Lon Dumont: gorgeous body, fantastic ring presence, and captivating persona that tells me this guy is no rookie. But the performances I’ve been most anticipating come from the newly re-crowned homoerotic wrestling pornboy champion: Mitch Colby.
Yes, Mitch has narrowly unseated Derek da Silva for my “affections.” It was not Mitch’s match with pornboy-pornboy Peter Stallion that made him recapture my loyalties. That match was, as I was concerned it might be, a little disappointing. It’s primarily a series of leg scissors and preening schoolboy pins. Mitch ups the heat with some nice ass grabs and some decent intensity, but Peter lacks ferocity. I think the director realizes that this just isn’t quite selling, because the match is over very quickly.
Mitch’s match with newcomer Marc Rion definitely did contribute to Mitch’s successful challenge of Derek da Silva for the title of my favorite homoerotic wrestler. BG East’s description of this product is right on the money. Marc looks star struck and gives every impression that he’s just stunned by his luck in having a chance to worship Mitch. I feel like I’ve been peeping in the window, catching Mitch bringing a date home. Marc shows up ready to worship, but Mitch demands some mat action first. The wrestling only fires up these boys more, with stolen kisses and stroked cocks showing up from go. The wrestling isn’t much more creative than Mitch’s match with Peter Stallion, frankly, but unlike Peter, Marc is intensely present and committed to adoring Mitch’s body. Marc and Mitch and Mitch on Marc are pleasing.
But honestly, it’s Mitch’s match with BG East veteran, Patrick Donovan, that forced me to remove the crown from Derek’s head and replace it atop Mitch’s 6’2″ frame. Patrick is clearly in league with Satan, since he does not age. He sells himself and Mitch throughout this match. He suffers. He snarls with contempt. The boys sell this match as a closely fought competition: competition of bodies, competition of wrestling, competition of bearhugs. Sweat pours off both of them in streams, and the longer the competition goes, the fiercer and nastier they get. This match offers even portions of the homoerotic and the wrestling, and I’m thrilled with that recipe.
Derek remains the top contender for another chance at the crown that goes to my favorite homoerotic wrestling pornboy. But it needs to be said, Lon Dumont could get a title shot very early in his career if he’s ready to take that humiliating domination a little more to the homo side of things.

Model Wrestling

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I like to pretend that I’m unaffected by the social control mechanisms of advertising. I “never” click on click-through ads. I don’t even look at direct mailers before I toss them. But it’s such a superficial self-deception. Put a gorgeous male model in a wrestling singlet, and I’m captured by capitalism and unthinkingly signing over my self-determination and credit card number.

Fashion models in wrestling gear are like a car accident on the highway. I can’t tear my eyes away, and I hate myself a little for it. Dress up Jonathan Jesensky in gear, give him a nice coat of fashion-shoot sweat, and my jaw drops open a little as I stare helplessly, occasionally wiping the drool that escapes the corner of my mouth.
Strip Chad White to his underwear and tell him to lift another hardbody upside down as if he’s about to slam him mercilessly to the ground, and I’m stopped in my tracks.
Taunt me with the suggestion that a male model in gear is, in fact, an actual wrestler, and I become a mindless puppet on a string. Shoot aforementioned Chad White grappling with former high school wrestler-turned-model, Kerry Degman, and I get entirely lost in marveling at the provocative spiral of art imitating life.
Craft your advertisement around another wrestler-turned-model, Brock Harris, and I’m mindlessly clicking-through, a helpless captive of the evil geniuses of advertising. Put young Brock in a singlet underneath a dress shirt and tie, and a new star is born in the continuous wrestling scenarios running through my imagination. The overlapping boundaries of the tamed corporate male, the primal gladiator armed only with his stunning body, and the sexual warrior in the act of stripping off the clothes that disguise his underlying beast… I have no self-control. I am bought and sold at the will of ruthless ad men. I am both consumer and product in a world in which life and art and life imitating art and art imitating life dig the channels of consumption that I sail so obediently.
I’m captured and aroused by the model as wrestler, and I hate myself a little for it.

I Apologize, Tahmoh

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I’m not pulling my weight. I feel bad about it. I haven’t seen even one episode of Dollhouse, despite being a loyal Joss Whedon fan, a sci-fi nerd, and madly in love with Tahmoh Penikett. Now that the show is being cancelled, I feel like I’ve squandered my market citizenship by failing to reward Dollhouse with my viewership. I’m sorry, and I’m prepared to make it up to Tahmoh in ANY way that he might like (I have ideas in mind in case he’s needs them).

One of my first wrestling fiction matches pitted Tahmoh and his stunningly square jaw against muscleboy Jamie Bamber. I wondered which one of them might win a pro-style match if they were battling for a role in the next big series following the end of Battlestar Gallactica. In the spirit of pro-wrestling’s penchant for turning singles adversaries into tag team partners, I’ve been contemplating teaming the two of them up for a return appearance in the Producer’s Ring. I’m still trying to decide who they might battle (any suggestions?).
Having failed Joss, sci-fi, and Tahmoh, I hereby promise that whatever their next projects are, I’ll faithfully follow them. Particularly if it involves Tahmoh showing a lot of skin. From the captures of Dollhouse that Superherofan has posted, I suspect I’ll be checking the series out in DVD and kicking myself even harder for not supporting the effort sooner.

What Turned Me Gay (again, not really)

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Andrew Stevens turned me gay. There was a period of time during which I was OBSESSED with him. He appeared in a few movies (lot’s of pics from “Body Chemistry 3” via capped), but during the 80’s he was all over television. I fondly remember the very brief run of Emerald Point, but perhaps Dallas was Andrew’s biggest exposure. Frequently shirtless, his tight, smooth bod triggered deep lust within this little gay boy’s heart (and crotch).

From Hotel to Murder She Wrote, Andrew walked on shows throughout the 80’s. And he was always the sexy, devilish studpuppy poured into his skin tight jeans. At 5’10, with nice, shapely pecs and thick shoulders, he was my idea of perfection for at least a while in my youth. Discovering that Andrew was a guest star on a show was an instant thrill. If I had some privacy, I’d settle in close to the TV, salivating, making my own jeans grow tighter in anticipation.
He was married to Kate Jackson ever so briefly in the late 70’s. I can’t imagine what could make someone divorce a young, gorgeous, well-muscled (especially for the 80’s) boytoy like Andrew. Capped’s captures from Body Chemistry III offer some fantastic looks at Andrew’s cum-face. If I had the chance to see that orgasmic look of ecstasy in bed with me, I’d chain him up and never let him go.
Now that image could turn any young boy gay!

Picking Up the Remote

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Now that Chris Cuomo is moving to 20/20 at 10 pm on Friday nights, I’m not expecting to have very much to write about him any longer. They don’t put 20/20 anchors into dunking booths to show off their stacked pecs in wet t-shirts. 20/20 anchors don’t tend to allow themselves to be photographed in shirtless hotness deep sea fishing. And, frankly, I’ve got a life, and I’m generally living it around 10 pm on most Friday evenings.
So yesterday’s send-off of Chris Cuomo on GMA will probably offer the last nuggets of Italian studliness for me to obsess over for a while. The montage of Chris-moments on GMA was pretty sweet. Chris’ interviews with Mattie Stepanek really were incredible (more because of Mattie than Chris, but regardless…). Mattie was an unbelievably wise and graceful human being, and Chris did a beautiful job of helping to tell Mattie’s story (have tissue in hand if you want to learn more about Mattie). But of course it wasn’t the journalism that caught me eye in yesterday’s retrospective of Chris’ greatest hits.
I have no idea how I missed the fantastic moment captured in the montage where Chris rolls back his short-sleeve shirt to cockily pump his massive bicep. Sam Champion is laughing, pretending not to be totally aroused. Seriously, check out the size of that arm! Personally, I’d like to see that bicep wrapped around George Stephanopoulos’ head until the little Greek cries. But that’s just me.
They call Chris’ move a “promotion.” I’m skeptical that it’s going to work out well for either my favorite 6’3″ Italian attorney-turned-journalist hunk, or for Good Morning America. As of Monday morning, they’ve already lost one loyal viewer.