Author: wrestlebard

I'm a gay man with an active imagination.

I’m Ready To Dance

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Before a couple of days ago, the only thing I really knew about Bondi Beach was that my favorite photos of my favorite wet Aussie were taken there.

Now, I’m infatuated with the Bondi Beach Flash Mob on YouTube. I’m not usually emotionally labile. I’m one of those gay guys still buying into the notion that I’m supposed to be emotionally distant in order to be a man (not proud – just sayin’…). So why is it, then, that this stuff makes me all weepy? What is it about a so-called “flash mob” that makes my lip quiver and my eyes mist up?


Of course I have a theory, and of course I’m going to share it. I think flash mobs (and not just the ones with drag queens) cut straight to my little gay core because I can’t avoid reading into the text the metaphor of coming out. Like the flash mob, we’re everywhere and intermixed among the unsuspecting populace. Like the flash mob, we’ve got our own moves, routines, rhythms and choreography that we know from a lifetime of negotiating how to be gay in a straight world, but the rest of the population just doesn’t know the steps (even if they wanted to join in). Like the flash mob, we know sometimes camp is the only way to resist a world of sleepwalkers taking for granted that everyone around them is just like them, that everyone around them moves and thinks just like them, that everyone around them is here to do just what they do.
When wave after wave of “spectators” jump up over time and join in, it sends chills down my spine. Like the flash mob, we are fabulous, fearless, and fierce in the face of every effort to make us conform to the expectations of the faceless sea of straights sunbathing next to us. I think I know why this makes me cry (this one makes me ball like a baby). I think it taps into this fantasy I subconsciously (until now) carry around, that one day we’re all going to hear the music playing, and as one, we’re going to jump up and start dancing with our freak flags (and our gay flags) flying. And it will be stunning and awesome and beautiful. And the rest of the world is going to smile stunned, and grab their cameras, and think to themselves, “This is fantastic!”
So this turned out to be totally confessional and perhaps not in keeping with what I typically write. I hope the gratuitous pics of Hugh kept you occupied. I also hope you’ll forgive me for my digression. Now I’m going to watch the video clip from Bondi Beach again with the kleenex box in hand.

The Crushing Embrace

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In honor of this blog being listed on Bearhugger.net, I thought I’d pick out some of my favorite belly-to-bellies and reflect a little on the crushing embrace.

The hug as a device of torture is a sweet paradox. One man wrapping his arms around another man’s waist, in a different context, is about tenderness and affection. When those arms are cinched tight, with the recipient squeezed hard, the intimacy of the embrace turns from tender to tortuous.
The mainstream pros do it at least as often as the homoerotic pros. When the musclegod Lex Luger clamped tight a bearhug, employing that stunning musculature in concentrated focus on the small of his opponent’s back, it’s no wonder that we could see not only pain, but fear on the faces of his victims. To be lifted off your feet and crushed against the sweaty, muscled torso of Luger must have been a nightmare for many, and surely a dream come true for at least a few.
The homoerotic pros, though, make explicit what’s undeniably implicit in every wrestling bearhug: the bearhug is all about the interplay of sexual intimacy and sadistic domination. Classic Can-Amer Cliff Conlin was a master salesman. Watching the hairy-chested heel beating up on his opponents was always golden, but when some studly challenger like Dean Christian captured Cliff, lifted him off his feet, and squeezed him until he screamed, that was priceless.
When Brad Rochelle picked to pieces Jeff Phoenix in BG East’s Fantasymen 18, the final and decisive fall was a long series of one impressive bearhug after another. Brad hoisted his man off his feet, pinned him against his pelvis, and squeezed the breath out of him until he passed out. Total control. Total domination.
David Taylor’s repeated bearhugs on Rusty Stevens in Wrestle Bait are amazing, not only due to the ease with which David holds Rusty off his feet, but even more impressively the way that David remains hard as a board throughout. Rusty looks like he’s sitting on that gorgeous cock of David’s as it sticks out from between Rusty’s ass cheeks perched in David’s powerful embrace. Passionate suffering becomes passionate ecstasy, and the bearhug is the seamless border between the two.
And finally, I have to mention again the inspired pairing of Mitch Colby and Cole Cassidy in BG East’s Ringwars 15. Mitch’s beautiful body is flexed everywhichway as he drags Cole off his feet and lifts him high in his arms. The fantastic juxtaposition of Cole’s delicious suffering and Mitch’s cocky self-congratulations for his stunning domination makes my head spin. And what makes my head spin even more is reading Kid Leopard’s teaser that the next BG East catalog will include a Wrestler Spotlight tape featuring three matches with Mitch! Sweet mother of God, someone has heard my prayers!

…Really, Why Don’t You Love Me?

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I’m continuing to dig the latest season of Californication. Unlike the first season, and completely opposite of the second season, I actually feel some empathy for David Duchovny’s character. Also, it can’t hurt that, as I’ve mentioned before, David has clearly been pounding the gym. Seriously beautiful bod…

The naked women everywhere is not my thing. The premise for this show is so misogynistic, though, that the naked chicks are completely backgrounded (I’m not saying I’m proud, but satisfied that this is the case). They don’t entirely kill my buzz from the sight of David’s rippled abs and round pecs. Women? What women? I only had eyes for Special Agent Fox Mulder… oh, I mean, David Duchovny.
I must admit to being a little perplexed by the “character” of Rick Springfield, cleverly played by Rick Springfield. Ummm…. isn’t that Rick Springfield cleverly playing the character of David Duchovny? The hot stud hearthrob from half a generation earlier who is still fucking everything in sight and having women (and men, I’m sure) throwing themselves at him all the time… isn’t that the story of the sex addicted David Duchovny in real life? If for no other reason, I find Rick Springfield creepy in these past few episodes because it seems like a parody of David. And I have other reasons. He’s a sleazeball who can’t keep his dick out of any vagina in sight (creepy). It’s treated like a running joke that he’s a sleazeball, which makes it more creepy. Whatever they call this device of having real stars play (good God I hope) fictionalized caricatures of themselves (I’m also picturing the straight, drug-addled Neil Patrick Harris in Harold and Kumar), I find it creepy. I vote for less Rick Springfield naked and more David Duchovny naked.

Promises, Promises

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So I’m still waiting in anxious anticipation of the purported launch of a new wrestling co. by the name of Rock Hard Wrestling. The name is promising. RHW’s MySpace page presents a stable of 6 wrestlers who, indeed, sport hard muscles, so I’m willing to believe in truth in advertising in this case. Again: promising. The one video evidence of an actual product from RHW, a quick clip of Brody Hancock squeezing a tap-out from Zack Vazquez, shows these two stunners looking in top shape. Once again: very promising.

But the MySpace announcement of an impending launch of RHW remains only that: a promise. The page was promoting an August launch last summer, but that promise was broken. And here we are over halfway through November, and I’m worrying that once again, my hopes will have been raised only to be dashed. The RHW “website,” is just a placeholder that’s been telling us that service would be up and running in “several days” for several months now. I’m starting to feel bitter.
Fortunately, we can appreciate the work of some of the talent from other sources. For fans of the babyface, Brock Hancock has wrestled as Reese Wells in BG East’s Ball Bash 2. The little studpuppy takes a serious beating, including admirable, cringeworthy ball abuse at the hands (mostly boots) of Johnny Firestorm. In the RHW clip, it’s quite a tasty treat seeing little Reese/Brody sneer at Zack Vazquez after forcing the muscleboy to tap.
For his part, Zack is the workhorse of Thunder’s Arena. As in Thunder’s Arena, Zack’s suffering looks like smiling in the RHW clip, which can be distracting. Still, he always seems game for camp in Thunder’s Arena, and in the RHW clip it looks like he’s trying to play it straight.
The fan groups seem to be lighting up with appreciation of RHW’s Ray Martinez who’s wrestled as Rio Garza a couple times recently for BG East. Imagining the gorgeousness of Zack and Rio in the same ring is quite a nice picture. Perhaps Rio can give Zack some salesmanship lessons. Both of these boys suffering at the hands of some of the other talents in the RHW stable is, once again, a promising premise.
I don’t recognize Tommy Clark, but I’d like to see much much more of him. I have my heart set on seeing him dishing out the punishment on the body beautifuls like Zack and Rio. But as long as RHW remains offline “for maintenance,” I’ll have to enjoy what I can of the boys of RHW elsewhere.

I Believe in Magic

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One thing I’ve discovered in writing this blog is that I walk through a world full of beautiful men. I constantly pick out gorgeous men to lust over in any crowd. There’s always someone that will catch my eye.

Johnathon Schaech first caught my eye in That Thing You Do. I immediately picked him out of the cast as my favorite flavor. So when the made for TV movie, Houdini, hit the air, it was destination television for me. Houdini confirmed my that my hunk-dar was still a finely tuned instrument. Johnathon has more than one sweet shirtless scene, unveiling a hot, muscled body. When Hush hit the big screen soon afterward, I was first in line at the box office. And Johnathon was cemented as a recurring star in my homoerotic imagination. In a plot to make Oedipus proud, Johnathon is working on the family farm, coated in mud, and eventually hosed down by his mother, played by Jessica Lange. There is NOTHING wrong with this scene (other than the fact the the hoser isn’t another hot hunk). The mud is slimy, but not thick enough to obscure the rocking body underneath. The hose down is so sexually charged I swoon every time I see it (pics via capped!).

Other than Johnathon shirtless and hosed down, Hush is a little disappointing. It doesn’t quite hit the mark as a suspense or horror flick, but there’s not enough skin to really make it a lust product, either. Then again, it’s not like I’ll ever get tired of Johnathon’s handsome face and furry forearms, particularly when the time is punctuated with him shirtless and getting hosed down.

Johnathan remains underused and under appreciated. He’s never seemed to get the traction for the stud puppy (and decent actor) that he is. I was recently watching Quarantine (I’m a sucker for quick-release-to-video horror flicks), and I found one of the leads intensely sexual, despite not getting much of a look at him. He had a huge, 80’s porn star stache, and he was always in fire fighter gear that obscured what sort of body was underneath. Then it finally struck me. It was Johnathon as a sexist, horndog, hero firefighter. Even when I didn’t recognize him, he jumped out of the crowd as sex-on-a-stick. In a tragic turn of fate, he’s writing and producing more, keeping him behind the camera. Someone needs to rectify this situation. This boy needs exposure.

No School Like Old School

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Randy Page was a classic pillar of old school homoerotic wrestling. Randy was relentless. He was often matched up with muscleboys much bigger then he was, and he invariably picked them apart like a turkey dinner. Randy wrestled in the day when scripts were thin, and even if the outcome was pre-determined (often it wasn’t), these boys seriously threw each other around.

I loved the recurring story in Randy’s matches of bulked up gym bunnies who started their matches joking and laughing. They clearly thought that their skinny little opponent wasn’t a threat. Perhaps they thought that this was all for fun; just roll around in skimpy trunks and let some guy with money and a camera film you for his kicks. In BG’s Hollywood Muscleboy Wrestling 2, bodybuilder Vinnie Marino thinks this is all camp, hamming it up early on, even pretending to lick Randy’s thong-clad ass when he finds his head caught in Randy’s vicelike grip.
Then Randy would attack, relentlessly on the offensive, twisting and cranking. When the big boys started tiring out, Randy would charge in and slap them in the chest, shove them in the ropes, and/or verbally taunt them. Slowly, you’d see the recognition dawn on their faces that this little scrapper was going to hurt and humiliate them if they didn’t lower the hammer on him.
And then they’d try to lower the hammer, and nearly always, Randy would take their punishment, then reverse on them and beat the shit out of them. In the Hollywood Muscleboys 2 collection (all 7 bouts featuring Randy), more than one of the cocky studs who enter the ring quit their matches early. Chuck Ramsay, who has nothing but a gorgeous musclebod to offer in the ring, gets wrapped up and immobilized in back-to-back rapid fire falls. He nearly sprints from the ring in defeat and doesn’t show his face in the genre again (as far as I can tell).
I think NakedKombat may come closest these days to trying to capture some of the less-scripted action that Randy Page made so entertaining. But despite Randy never getting overtly sexed up in his matches, I still find his action hotter than most things I see out today. Even Randy would occasionally throw us a bone (so to speak) such as his impromptu wardrobe change in his closely fought match with Kori Thomas, giving us a lingering look at his athletic, bare ass. The pantheon of grappling studs who make me pant today are near and dear to my heart, but Randy will always remain my favorite wrestleboy-emeritus.

What Turned Me Gay (again, not really)

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Lyle Waggoner turned me gay. At 6’4″ tall, he was the epitome of tall, dark and handsome when I was growing up. When I first saw him on the Carol Burnett Show (I caught them in re-runs), I was introduced to the notion of eye candy. He wasn’t as funny as the rest of the cast, and he couldn’t (really) sing or dance like the rest of the cast, but he was stunningly handsome and had a deep, sexy voice. I think Lyle’s frequent appearances in a tuxedo get some of the credit for making tuxes such a turn on for me. Whenever Carol would do her pre-show chat with the audience, invariably some girl would ask to give Lyle a kiss. And predicatably, Carol would call him out from back stage, and he’d lean over for the suddenly shy, star-struck yokel to plant her hungry lips on him. And just in that moment, inexplicably, in a flash… I was gay.
When Lyle showed up in the series Wonder Woman with Lynda Carter, he introduced me to another fetish: the hot man in uniform. The sexual tension between Major Steve Trevor and his assistant, Diana Prince (aka, Wonder Woman) was obvious enough for even me as a young child to observe. That show plunged me through a brief, confusing period when I wanted to be Wonder Woman. Looking back, it wasn’t that I wanted to be “a woman,” but I wanted the ability to deflect bullets with my fabulous Amazonium bracelets, and I wanted to constantly be flirting with Lyle Waggoner.
I was way, way too young to have known it when Lyle posed for the first issue of Playgirl. What an excellent choice to be “the first Playgirl centerfold!” I’ve since looked up and appreciated his Playgirl spread. The nudity was quite modest, by today’s standards. I’m sure Levi Johnston’s photo shoot will reveal much more than Lyle’s did 36 years ago. Still, I’d take Lyle over Levi any day (or decade).


In summary, Lyle Wagonner turned me gay. He eroticized the tuxedo for me. He made me hot for a hunk in a uniform. And he blazed the trail in softcore porn that has enriched my life immeasurably and mainstreamed the celebration and commodification of male nudity that today makes the world go round (or at least it makes the internet profitable).

I Will Not Hate, I Will Not Hate, I Will Not Hate…

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Clearly, I’m not a Cosmo girl. The unveiling of Cosmo’s hottest bachelors from across the country seems like it’s tailor made for gayboy consumption. But not so much. I really don’t think of myself as a hater. I love the look of all sorts of bodies, really I do. But seeing the wall of Cosmo’s bachelors on this clip from the Today Show makes me think that I am simply not the demographic Cosmo had in mind. Vanilla, vanilla, vanilla… no heat, little color, and some of them just haven’t quite finished up with puberty. Mr. Mississippi makes me feel like a felon, and that the time is not worth the crime!


Okay, that sounded harsh. I’m really working on not hating here. Let me just take Mama’s advice and focus on the positives:
In this clip, keep your eyes out for Mr. Oregon. I’m jonesin’ on him for three reasons: 1) he’s setting off my ‘dar with his answer to the question of what he looks for in a “girl,” 2) his body is ripped to shreds, and 3) he’s got to be high, probably to work himself up to answer questions about “girls” (see #1). Read his profile on Cosmo, and tell me that Mr. Oregon doesn’t play for our team. He finds it stressful to date (women) because he never knows how long to wait before it’s safe to make a move. Trust me, darling, we’ve all tried playing that stressful game at one time or another. He wants to remind women that some men are sensitive, and his roommate’s girlfriend says he’s the type that every girl wants to take home to her parents (e.g., non-threatening). Yep, my ‘dar is working just fine.
I’ll skip my catty comments about Mr. Georgia, and I’m summoning superhuman self-restraint not to do a discourse analysis on Mr. Maine’s characterization of a woman’s anatomy. Returning to Mama’s advice, let me continue…
I’m guessing Mr. Washington’s been smokin’ weed with his neighbor to the south, so he’s also tripping my ‘dar. If all he wants a woman for is to incubate progeny, we can hire out, and he and Mr. Oregon came come over to my place for naked Fritos.
Finally, Mr. Ohio is even more shredded that Mr. Oregon, but unlike Mr. Oregon, he doesn’t appear to be stoned (i.e., could be a bit uptight), so I’m sticking with my three-way naked Frito-fest fantasy in the Pacific Northwest. Still, that clip from the Today Show featuring Mr. Ohio in his adorable glasses, revealing that he’s a 3rd grade teacher, and… ding, ding, ding, ding!!!. Wait, he’s a gym bunny, third grade teacher who doesn’t have a girlfriend, and his idea of a sexy date (with a woman) is a bike ride in the country and ice cream? All right. He can grab some Ben & Jerry’s Hubby Hubby and bike over to join me, Mr. Washington, Mr. Oregon, and the Fritos. He needs a toke.

So, as I said, clearly I’m not a Cosmo girl. And this hottest bachelor bit is grating on my nerves and making me have to work extra, extra hard not to go hatin’. Now I need to clean the house and pour the Fritos in a bowl.

Skills and Equipment

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It’s a stream of consciousness post for today, so buckle your seatbelts.

A few days ago, UnDguy at Tattooed Hunks posted this beautiful pic of a handsome, inked, shiny man listening to his i-pod in bed (and in his underwear). It’s the “shiny” that keeps me coming back to this photo. Someone rubbed this hunk down with baby oil for this photo shoot. I’m sure of it. I want that job. I have the skills and equipment. I must have that job.
Of course i-pod boy in his calvins made me check up on another one of my favorite sites, SexyBlackDudes, where I came across (so to speak) this eye-catching fellow. With a little sleuthing, I found his page on Model Mayem. My friends, meet Martez Jackson. Martez is looking to work with some serious minded individuals, so be forewarned. With abs and obliques like that, I can’t imagine anyone not taking this guy seriously. The thickness of those thighs and the less-than-subtle package on display (someone’s not wearing underwear) make me want to cook Martez up a man-sized dinner in that kitchen of his. Seriously, I have the skills and equipment for that, as well.
And contemplating stunningly gorgeous black men, and skills, and equipment, it all sends my mind wandering to a perpetual model-crush of mine, Wendell Lissimore. Wendell has a fascinating body that I just can’t take my eyes off of. His proportions are sort of superhuman. Those long, long, long legs of his are just about unbelievable, but that waist looks inhumanly narrow. Seriously, he looks like someone’s photoshopped 5 inches off his waist. But every pic and clip I find of him, he’s built exactly the same way. The massive chest and shoulders mounting that long, slender body is simply unreal. Incredibly hot, hot, hot and unreal.
Wendell has made some background appearances in my gay wrestling fiction, but he has yet to be written into a match. Look for him to show up soon, now that my mind and eyes have been drawn back to him. See? No matter where you start, it always comes back to beautiful men wrestling. All is right with the world.

A Little More of This, A Little Less of That

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Mitch Colby seems to have been laying low lately. I hope it isn’t because I promoted Derek Da Silva ahead of him the line of my pornboy crushes. Perhaps his comments on his page at BigMuscle shed some light. In addition to some sweet photos of Mitch I haven’t seen elsewhere (including some naked and hard pics), Mitch shares some thoughts about his history and recent dabbling in the world of porn.

Mitch’s autobiographical narrative, including his mid-life commitment to get in shape (coinciding with his entry into homoerotic wrestling) is very, very sweet. I suspect he was a hot piece of meat before he lost thirty pounds, but his new body is thoroughly worship-worthy and deserving of all the credit in the world.
Mitch gives us some true confessions, including his decision to dip into hard core and his more recent decision that that scene isn’t for him. I’m thrilled that he’s still willing to fuel my kink though, and he’s leaving open the possibility of more homoerotic wrestling products (nice to see some new wrestling work from him on NakedKombat). I’m hoping that Mitch’s boundaries still include the opportunity to see his physical dominance of opponents that melts into post-victory worship and lust (a la Crotch Crushers and Motel Madness 8). Make them suffer, Mitch! Then make them yours. My credit card is in hand, in anticipation.
Mitch’s autobiographical confessions on BigMuscle are just so adorable and vulnerable. He’s making a resurgence in the competition for my lustful affections. Derek’s citation of this blog from Twitter still gives him a narrow advantage, but Mitch is coming on strong (and gorgeous, and sweet, and hot as hell).