Author: wrestlebard

I'm a gay man with an active imagination.

Still a Mighty Pain to Love It Is

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They’re doing it to me again, those bastards. They’re taunting me. Teasing me. Rubbing my face in withholding what I’d like to have my face rubbed in. First of all, I return to my previous discussion of Michael C. Hall’s ass:

Yes, it’ s Dexter time. How many ways can they almost show some serious Dexter skin? The shower scene with the strategically placed shower head. The sex scene in which Dexter mysteriously keeps his pants on. It’s inhumane, I tell you! At least in this week’s episode we saw some shirtlessness… from across the room… slightly out of focus. Yet even with those obstacles, Michael C. Hall makes my mouth water. Take that shirt off, Michael. Slower…

Still no sight of that beautiful badonkadonk. Thank God for paparazzi and Michael’s need for cat litter. Even in jeans, that’s a beautiful butt! Quick, someone, find something else that Michael needs to load into the trunk! Come on Michael’s-wife, throw us a bone! Tell him to drop trou!
And speaking of bones, there’s Joshua Goodman’s cock (is that a butt-tease?). As if in answer to my diatribe about how Mr. Joshua’s package is both the center of attention and fastidiously kept under wraps at the same time, just days later BG East releases a match between package kings, Mr. Joshua and Jobe Zander.
Despite Jobe’s tats, he isn’t my favorite if he’s going head to head (if only) with Mr. Joshua. Both of these dudes have made considerable hay from straining the seams of their thongs with their equine genitalia. I haven’t seen the product yet, but all signs appear to be that this match is all about whose is bigger. Billed as “The Battle of the Bulge,” this match is conspicuously absent the little asterisk next to all the BG East products featuring nudity.
I repeat: You bastards. You cock-teasing (and/or butt-teasing), sadistic bastards. I should wipe my hands of Dexter and all Mr. Joshua products in disgust. Yet, there I go paying my cable bill for Showtime and pulling out my wallet for a fresh dose of gazebo grappling. You bastards…

Crowning a New Champion

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Ohmygod! I’m completely star struck. Derek da Silva “tweeted” (I hate that word!) about my blog last night. I feel like a teenage girl whose favorite boybander just made momentary eye contact with her from stage. Derek finds my blog entries about him “nice.” Sweet. I’ll be gabbing on and on about this brush with fame for weeks! My friends are going to hate me. Totally worth it.

I don’t know any erotic performers in real life, but I have to guess that Derek is not your typical pornboy. He was enjoying the Joffrey Ballet last night, and he’s reportedly a vegetarian into yoga and post structuralist philosophy. A gorgeous boy into BDSM AND post structuralism!?! Michel Foucault must be smiling down proudly (and with a hard-on).
As regular readers can attest, I had a crush on Derek long before he twitted (I prefer that word) about my blog. The fantastic tats, the prolific sweat, the awesome flexibility, the sublime suffering… Derek was made to order for all my kinks. But now that Derek glanced my way every so briefly, he’s jumped to the head of the line of my pornboy crushes. Mitch, you’re demoted to runner-up. If you don’t like it, you may fight it out in a sequel to Crotch Crushers (please).

Crushworthy, Captivating Calves

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I’m getting fixated again. Sorry. Sometimes, in some seasons, body parts just call to me. Sometimes it’s pecs. I’ve had infatuations with asses. These days it’s legs, and in particular, calves.

I could feel the calf obsession rising when I wrote a fantasy BG East wrestling match, in which bodybuilder Tyrell Tomsen worships his own flexing hardbody in the mirror, culminating in rolling up to the ball of one foot and flexing out his defined calf muscle. Mmmm…
So now, of course, everywhere I turn I’m captured (if only) by gorgeous legs and stunning calves. These off season pics of footballer Cristiano Ronaldo, in all his stunningly vascular glory, explain why he’s due to make an appearance in my wrestling fiction. Sweet God, just the idea of those legs scissoring someone makes me a little light headed. I’d insure those works of art for $130 million, too!
I haven’t seen the match yet, but BG East’s new release of BG’s Bad Boys looks like it starts with a pose off between Aryx Quinn and stunning newcomer, Rio Garza. If it’s a competition, Aryx’s look bigger and Rio’s look more beautiful. But it’s a win-win for me, any way you look at it.
I think well-muscled calves are particularly hot because it takes someone who really loves their body (or who naturally does a lot of sprints) to really pump out rock hard, massive calves. A lot of posers, even some bodybuilders, are huge all over, but still have skinny calves. Clearly genetics plays a big role, but someone with big, round, angular calves bears the evidence of more than a little narcissism. It takes cockiness, intense self-consciousness, and above all, focused effort to craft beautifully muscled calves. And these days, I’m smitten.

More Mr. Muscles

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Tellumyort has posted another match (in 4 parts, starting here) of classic muscleboy Johnny England. I was a little bored with “Mr. Muscles” after the first couple of matches I saw, but he’s growing on me. He’s less about the character and more about some impressive ring action in this match against neon green-clad “judo” fighter Pat Patton. Johnny is a really delicious bully in his boot tassles and floppy long hair. He entirely physically dominates his opponent. Patton’s full bodyweight planted across Johnny’s shoulders can’t keep the strong man on his back. Johnny’s bread and butter in this match is a double handed slap to the chest that sends Patton flying across the ring over and over and over again.

I’m really not a fan of deceptive screen caps that mislead one into thinking there’s something sexual happening when it’s just a random frame frozen in time. But these two maintain this position (Patton’s head against Johnny’s lower abdomen and his hand between Johnny’s thighs, squeezing his ass) for several seconds, and the hoots and whistles from the crowd make me think that I’m not the only one recognizing that this is more than just a little erotic.

Johnny quickly follows up by slamming his man to his back and then dropping his ass across Patton’s upper chest (leaving Pat with a telephoto view of that athletic butt). Johnny straddles Patton’s chest repeatedly in this match, planting his ass right in front of Patton’s nose more than once in nice overtones of humiliation/sexual domination.
As ALWAYS, the commentary is thinly disguised body worship. The commentator takes pains to describe Johnny’s “powerful arms” and worshipfully makes note of Johnny’s “very powerful biceps.” He has a hint of reverie in his voice as he marvels at Johnny’s “powerful legs… a weight lifter’s legs.” When Patton is clearly totally outclassed by Johnny’s strength, the commentator sounds like he almost pities him, as he’s “up against a very powerful opponent, giving away a lot of strength advantage here….” With awestruck emphasis, he marvels that “he is such a strong fellow!” And clearly enjoying Johnny’s post-fall display of domination, the commentator swoons just a little when he explains, “A great physical culturist, this fella… He’s got to use his strength and pose a little on occasions.” Yes. Yes. He’s just got to.

While bully Mr. Muscles’ bread and butter here is his brutal chest slap, by far his most impressive display of total domination is his repeated use of the torture rack. Holy crap! Over and over he powers Patton helplessly up to his shoulders, parades around the ring, then flings him face-first into the turnbuckle. Fan-freaking-tastic!

Neon green boy, Patton, acts like he’s all put out by Johnny’s savagery and ring-smart use of the ropes, but I think Patton is secretly enjoying getting owned by the strongman. Immediately after Johnny powers out of Patton’s full nelson as if it were child’s play, he applies a tit-for-tat full nelson on the green boy. When Pat can’t break out of Johnny’s vicelike full nelson, he drive his ass over and over again into Johnny’s crotch. Yep. That’s the type of wrestling I’m into!
Even the ref cops an entirely gratuitous and unnecessary feel of Johnny’s pec.
And finally, Johnny’s use of the figure-4 choke throughout the match is priceless. Squeezing Patton’s head against his crotch like a melon, Johnny looks like he’s enjoying the moment of total head-to-crotch (including one very nice face-to-crotch) control. Even the commentator can’t help but allude to the very intimate action happening in the ring. “Johnny England going for that… very close… figure-4 head scissors.”
It’s fascinating to look back nearly 30 years and see what a “physical culturalist” looked like then, as compared with the muscleboys in the ring today. Johnny England would look like a munchkin doughboy next to the likes of John Cena or even Randy Orton. Nevertheless, Johnny’s got my number. I believe him when he muscles his man around like a rag doll. And I’m totally turned on by his narcissist, heel, dominating ring persona.

What Turned Me Gay (again, not really)

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Adrian Zmed turned me gay. He’s so “I Love the 80’s” I have to restrain myself from feeling the need to make excuses for calling him out. I was, afterall, only 11 when T.J. Hooker premiered on television, at which point I instantly became obsessed with Officer Vince Romano. But enough excuses. I’m owning it. My desperate hope to see Adrian Zmed in a shirtless scene (there were several in T.J. Hooker) made it impossible to deny: I was gay.
The Eastern European look (interpreted as “Italian” for his character on T.J. Hooker) was hot. The thick dark hair and olive skin was sex on a stick in my mind. It’s not like he was bodybuilder, but he was meaty enough (seriously, 03:06 in this clip totally transports me back to my adolescent giddiness for Adrian). Officer Vince Romano was a green cop, fiery and hot-headed (hot, hot, hot), who had to learn self-restraint and smarts from his much older partner played by William Shatner (not, not, not).
The occasional glimpses of Adrian shirtless in T.J. Hooker would likely have been enough to cement him in my gay biography, but further shirtlessness in the movie Bachelor Party sealed the deal. Even playing an über-hetero horndog, I had eyes for no one else for a slice in time. Adrian (who can actually sing) ripping off his shirt as he sings is a fantastic intersection of teen idol meets movie star meets rock star.
I don’t actually remember Adrian’s appearance alongside Scott Baio on Battle of the Network Stars (which will probably require its own installment in “What Turned Me Gay…” loved, loved, loved seeing my favorite stars trying to be jocks on BNS). But this shot of Adrian in a speedo and Scott in a towel captures such an authentic moment in my emergence as a gay boy. Skinny-but-fit white boys with broad chests, skinny waists, and the hint of gym-bunny abs were both who I wanted to be and who I wanted to be with. Before I ever conceived of the notion of fucking, sucking, mutual masturbation, or even kissing another man, really, the idea of speedo-clad Adrian with his arm wrapped around my neck, leaning against me bare chest to bare chest was my first, sort of pathetic in hindsight, fantasy of male-male affection.

So judge me all you like (you catty bitches). Roll your eyes and smirk. I refuse to be embarrassed by my adolescent crush on Adrian Zmed, who without a doubt, turned me gay.

Smiley

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I *heart* Norman Smiley. Always have. When he was getting the crap beat out of him by punks who, I’m sure, he could have snapped in half, I was entranced by Norman. When he was doing the beating, I worshipped him. It’s not so much of a mystery. He was always in incredible shape, and from the first moment I saw him when I was a teenager, I was immediately in lust.

His career took him around the world, it seems. This UWF match dated 1988 shows Norman looking particularly stunning, I think. He’s no full contact fighter, but Norman in tight white trunks working up a sweat is pure gold. Sweet mother of god, those shiny, sweat soaked pecs still make me a little woozy. Hell, he could just shake his ass and I’d feel faint.
Oh wait, that was exactly Norman’s schtick when WWE got their hooks back into him, wasn’t it? The Big Wiggle. Ironically (or more probably, by design), the Big Wiggle actually tones down Norman’s obvious sexuality. He becomes as much an object of ridicule as an object of lust, as he spanks his baby and thrusts his pelvis. Being a self-parody was probably required of Norman so as not to make a lot of white people feel threatened by his fantastic sensuousness. The Big Wiggle was probably about as much as straight up pro could handle of the stunning beauty of Norman’s physique.

Much of Norman’s career was built on getting his ass kicked, and I completely respect him for that. Allowing himself to get used by the likes of Alex Wright shows serious professionalism for a 6’2″ brick house. The moments when he took a beating and came out on top always brought a tear to my eye.

Delightfully Deviated

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Clearly I enjoy the perfectly shaped model boys. I’m a sucker for massive beasts and thugs. Muscleheads and wiry brawlers alike have a place in my heart. But without a doubt, I’ve also got a thing for deviated septa.


A fantastically crooked nose demands a story. A perfectly straight nose can be pretty, sexy even, but a nose that bears the evidence of trauma is erotic, if you ask me. Noses are just fantastically vulnerable. Of course there are lots of ways to get a deviated septum that aren’t so erotic. But that’s where an active imagination comes in handy.
Apparently not a lot is known about how Owen Wilson earned his trademark nose, though the word is that it came from playing high school football. In my retelling, I’m seeing a young, hunky Owen on field trash talking after practice, after he’s pulled off his helmet. Some vicious rival kicks his knees out from behind, dropping him to his back. Then without pause, the attacker drives his knee downward across Owen’s face, smashing his nose and sending blood spurting everywhere…. but that’s just me.
One of my daily news crushes, Carter Evans has an unmistakably deviated septum. Carter, looking so dapper in his pin-stripe suits and power ties, is one sexy beast, not in small part thanks to that traumatized nose suggesting some physical action. I initially wrote Carter into my wrestling fiction thinking I’d give his signature nose a backstory (his face caught scissored between two massive muscle thighs, perhaps), but interestingly, I kept writing Carter breaking the noses of his opponents rather than getting broken. The more broken noses, the better, in my mind.
Adrien Brody’s nose most often gets comments for its sheer size. Personally, I like them big (I’m talking about noses… stay focused!), but I detect a significant crook in that gorgeous nose, which makes Adrien that much sexier (as if he needed help). Word is that he’s broken his nose repeatedly doing “off the wall stunts.” That’s sufficiently vague to invite my imagination to write him in a throw down with some muscled heel who snaps it with a sadistic boot heel then drops to his knees, straddling Adrien’s face and planting his ass across the bloody, throbbing shnaz (as Adrien screams)…. again, that’s just me.
This fantastically produced YouTube clip (pop-up video meets sadistic pro-wrestling) shows some very hot nose abuse by beautiful Johnny Saint, who gets nasty on the heel Jim Breaks. Jim is bloodied and dazed by the end of the fall from move after move torturing his nose. Another YouTube clip has two teens who can’t decide if they’re wrestling or boxing, but one of them decides to beat the shit out of the other’s face. If you watch all three clips, you get the fantastic shot of black-shirt with blood pouring down his face, his nose already swelling, and blood spattered all over the sidewalk.

There’s nothing wrong with a pretty, perfect face. But a messed up nose is a thing of beauty that tells an awesome story… and if it doesn’t tell a story, I’ll make one up.

Owning Hair

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Re-reading my own wrestling fiction is illuminating. Some patterns emerge that I didn’t recognize before. For example, I obviously get off on hair pulling. Who knew?

As I mull the high frequency of my fantasy fighters yanking one another around by the hair, I can certainly see the attraction. Wrestling Arsenal states it concisely: “Hair pulling is all about control.” It’s part and parcel of the humiliating submissions that turn my crank. There’s the heat-of-the-battle hair pull that signals the tables are beginning to tilt and one competitor is beginning to take ownership of his foe. Then, there’s the heel who’s destroyed his jobber and has him pinned, then at the last minute yanks the helpless victim up by the hair, thus interrupting the 3-count and rewarding the fans with more humiliating abuse. And of course there’s the post-victory gratuitous tossing around of the loser by his hair, rubbing in his humiliation and driving home the point that he wasn’t just beaten. He was owned.
One the the most over the top erotic collections in my mind is BG East’s Hunkbash 6. After exhausting oneself on the wonder of Joe Mazetti beating the crap out of Brad Rochelle, then the pure beauty of bouncer-stud and fantastically tattooed Mr. Big literally tossing Brad Leonard around the ring by his very long, curly locks (he’s clearly just asking for it), then you come to one-hit-wonders Danny Morris and Ryan Laramie. Ryan is a body beautiful muscle stud who looks like he’s going to crush little Danny. He worships himself in the mirror while pinning Danny’s shoulders to the mat and Danny’s face to his crotch with the aid of a convincing fistful of hair. The icing on this cake, though, is that Danny is a total sadist who ties the muscle hunk into the ropes and beats him up until he’s whimpering, “No more,” before eventually dragging the massive stud out of the room naked and on his knees. Ummm… yes.
For a dude with curly hair trailing down his back, Rolando certainly enjoys torturing his pretty young opponents with hair pulling. He relishes owning gorgeous bleach blond Matt Silodis in Jobberpalooza 1, commanding him to flex while holding the beaten hardbody by his hair. The juxtaposition of Matt being completely controlled by the hair and wincing in pain, while simultaneously flexing his meaty left bicep for Rolando to taunt him as having an inferior body is sweet, sweet (did I mention, sweet?) domination.
Cole Cassidy is such a gorgeous heel. In his Wrestler Spotlight tape, his beat down on Derek da Silva makes my day. The smooth “pretty” heel torturing the hairy, tattooed jobber is such a sweet turn on the classics. The shot of Cole almost casually leaning back, simultaneously bodyscissoring, hammerlocking, and hair pulling a screaming Derek is not just hot, it’s damn impressive! The choreography alone is astonishing, but both of these men also sell it like pros.
And speaking of pros, Brad Rochelle’s heel turn in The Contract 6 displays Brad’s salesmanship better than just about anything else I’ve seen him in. Johnny Firestorm is the heel-in-training punk using Brad as a practicing dummy, until Brad can stand it no longer. Jobber/muscleboy/face Brad FINALLY snaps, getting nasty on the smaller kid. Brad makes me believe that he’s gone over the edge, and the hair pulling is just one sign that Brad’s not taking shit from anyone anylonger. It’s a great set up for the second match on this tape, which allows Brad to truly display his new sadistic heel side and at the same time introduce for the first time the stunning body that we’ve come to know and love: Alexi Adamov.
Just to mix it up, I also wanted to mention a Can-Am classic, Suits to Nuts 1, for the joy of hair pulling. Strip wrestling is hot, in my book. The boundary-busting image of pretty boys in suits (despite the wrestling boots) throwing down, ripping each other’s gear to shreds, and fighting dirty is highly erotic. Brody and Mason both do their best at fighting nasty, including some nice hair pulls. As is Can-Am’s way, the ring action inevitably ends up on the blue tarp with both studs stripped and coated in oil.

So I realize that this could go on and on. Clearly I’m not the only one that enjoys seeing some fists full of hair as an element of domination in a wrestling match. Controlling your man by his hair tells a fantastic story of mastery, control, and humiliation… and I’m buying (and writing) that story.

Workout Ink

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Yesterday was another wonderful day of beautiful men crossing my path left and right. This video (which I found thanks to Tattoo Hunks… more from inked beauty Billy) inspires me to celebrate the beauty of some of the very fine men I saw at the gym…

While I did not catch sight of as much stunning ink on such hot, round biceps as Billy’s, there was the 5’10” pale stud with long curly blond hair. I’m sure he caught my double take when he walked by me in the locker room. I’m guessing he played football in high school, but he’s too small for the college team, so he just does bodybuilding now. His massively mounded shoulders and beautifully round, full pecs made me smile. But he didn’t see my jaw drop when he walked by, with that towel wrapped around his narrow waist and bubble butt, and I caught sight of the letter “B” tattooed on his right shoulder blade. Truly fantastic. I don’t know if it was his high school logo, but it only goes to show that he’s got a fantastic canvas crying out for more ink.

Sadly I didn’t see this hot swimmer stud, but very happily I did take a long gander at the 5’5″ young Latino guy with dark, hairy legs in the pool . He has a sweet, slender bod with thick legs and a strong (not huge) chest, but watching that stroke, it was clear he didn’t hone that body as a competitive swimmer. Soccer, perhaps? In any case, the large red and orange phoenix tattooed completely across his right pec is truly a work of art. I hope he didn’t mind me staring at his chest. If so, well… why did he get that fantastic tat there?
Although I didn’t get to see this very serious looking lifter, I did enjoy the even more stunning view of a 6′ or so dark Italian hovering around the locker room in black boxer briefs. I had to make several laps around the locker room to have an excuse to examine both the hard bod and the gorgeous ink climbing up his hip to his rib cage, then continued on the outside of his arm, up to his shoulder. It was one, long, abstract vine. Simply beautiful. I forgive him in advance for probably referring to it as a “tribal” design despite almost certainly belonging to no tribe in particular. Let’s just say it’s art, and his already beautiful body is that much more a fantastic work of art for it.
I actually do swim and work out at the gym. Really, I do. I don’t spend the whole time stalking the body beautifuls. But when stunningly fit men walk around me half naked sporting inspired ink, swimming, flexing, strutting… well, let’s just say that I enjoy all the perks of my gym membership.

Gay Wrestling Fiction

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I finally had time (and recovered enough from my cold) to do some more writing this weekend. I managed to crank out two wrestling matches, for those interested in gay wrestling fiction. The first match I posted to my celebrity wrestling fiction group, the Producer’s Ring, pitting an ever more massive Christian Bale against an untested Chris Hemsworth. The match-up emerged from a reader recommendation, and I enjoyed the notion of the grappling veteran picking out promising talent to test both himself and the new crop of contenders. Here’s a quick moment from the action…

“Chris held the torture rack for a half a minute, but Christian continued to chuckle and taunt him. “Make me hurt, boy!” Christian said through gritted teeth. Chris slowly began walking in a tight circle in the middle of the mats, his knees wobbling with each step before locking out. With each stride, Christian grunted in pain, but he never stopped chuckling. Frustrated, Chris came to a halt in the center of the room. Releasing his grasp, he dropped Christian, who fell hard from the 6’3” frame upon which he’d been captured. Christian crashed to the mats directly behind Chris. Chris doubled forward, gasping, placing his hands on his knees, catching his breath. After a moment to recover, he turned around. Looking down at Christian, who lay on the mat on his back, Chris leaned down to scoop him up again. Before he laid a finger on him, Christian’s right fist shot between Chris’ legs and crunched upward into his balls.”

Since posting a fictional match pitting my long time obsessions, Brad Rochelle and Mitch Colby, against one another, I fielded a few requests for another match set in the BG East universe. With the writing bug upon me, I also polished off a new match, giving Brad a shot at another one of the new cocky body-beautifuls who’ve been hot in BG East (and in my imagination) in recent months: Tyrell Tomsen. After enjoying Tyrell’s pounding on Braden Charron, I was inspired by the notion that Tyrell is collecting his opponents’ clothing. So in this match, Tyrell shows up already wearing Brad’s boots, and the battle is waged over who’ll walk out of the ring in possession of the boots.

“I said…” Tyrell began, driving the heel of his right boot into the side of Brad’s head. Brad dropped to his side, his hands instinctively rising to protect his head. “I said…” Tyrell continued, “that these boots don’t have your name on them, mother fucker!” Again, Tyrell stomped the heel of his right boot, this time driving into Brad’s hip. Brad’s back arched away from the blow, and he rolled over to his stomach. Tyrell positioned himself next to his opponent once again, then hopped into the air before driving the heel of his boot into the small of Brad’s back. “So keep your fucking hands off!”

Check out the BG East match at the FantasyBGEwrestling Yahoo group (not my group, just where I’ve posted a couple matches), or read more of my celebrity wrestling fiction in the Producer’s Ring (my google group… don’t be afraid of the sign-up. I’m just trying to screen out the haters). If you’re interested in sharing some original short stories, let me know. I’m always interested in getting feedback, and I’m happy to offer it to others as well.