The Wish List

Brooklyn Bodywrecker has come up in a few different conversations with a couple of different people recently. Originally, I think I didn’t key off on BBW when I was first discovering homoerotic wrestling online, primarily because of my own stuff. There was something intense and intimate about the way he would growl into the camera and taunt me, like, personally. I mean, I know he was taunting all of the fans watching, but there was this intimacy about it, about his questioning my toughness, his calling me names, his threats to do bodily harm to me like he was beating the living fuck out of the opponent in the ring with him. I’ve come a long way in my feelings of security about myself, and along the way, I grew to really love that fierce intimacy BBW struck with every opponent and fan watching from this side of the screen.

When a friend asked me just the other day something about X-Fights 10, I had to admit I hadn’t seen that gem from, what, 22 years ago? I was told in no uncertain terms that I needed to rectify that situation. And, hell, now that I’ve watched X-Fights 10, I’m berating myself for having waited this long! This will not surprise regular readers, but holy fuck, do I love a through-story. And there’s this seamless, insanely sexy simmering, to boiling, to exploding evolution of the first match of X-Fights 10 into the second match. Literally, the through-story is Yves Larocque, who gets thrashed and terrorized by champion ring sadist BBW, and then dumped in the matroom for the “undisputed superstar of the SM underworld, Donnie Russo.” Honestly, at first glance, I was seriously hot and bothered by the gorgeously nasty heels. But about 3 minutes into his match with BBW, I absolutely fall in lust with deer-in-the-headlights Yves! The still photos do NOT do this hunk justice. Holy fuck, is he the compelling leather-harnessed lamb to slaughter!?

BBW explains to me, personally, at the start of this match, that Yves is one of the countless BGE fans to write in asking for a shot at his heel crush, BBW. Apparently, Yves wrote that he’s got two wishes on his bucket list. 1. Meet BBW. 2. Beat BBW for the championship. Seriously, fuck, where has this French Canadian hunk been all my life?! The balls on this guy!!! And I say that well before lovely Yves gets his cock and balls lassoed and tortured by BBW. And, let me just make it clear, all that’s BEFORE the superstar of the SM underworld gets his go at the lucky fucker.

I sort of adore those early moments in a match when BBW gets rocked. Just a bit, of course. Yves does it in an inspired defensive maneuver. As he’s getting the shit beat out of those lovely, juicy pecs of his in the corner, he wraps his thick thighs around BBW, locks his ankles together behind BBW’s back, and crushes the bad boy. The drama is so fucking gorgeous. BBW keeps making a move to pound more forearms into Yves’ pecs to free himself, and each time, a split second before the blow rains down, Yves flexes his big, hairy quads hard enough to paralyze the nasty heel and suck the power right out of his threatened blow. I don’t know that I’ve ever heard someone credit BBW’s sell on the receiving end, but damn it all, he deserves it.

BBW is blunt force trauma. The moves are huge and straight forward. He repeatedly splashes his big, hairy chest into his battered, fading prey. He sprints corner to corner, to build up momentum, and, clearly, to terrorize the French Canadian with balls of steel. He very deliberately sets up a camel clutch so that the camera is staring down the throat of the screaming muscle hunk in his grasp. A chinlock isn’t sufficient. Just too fucking subtle for BBW. So, instead, he wraps his bulging right bicep across Yves’ throat and chokes him in the camel. Again, too subtle, so he also starts bouncing up and down, using Yves’ lower lumbar like a trampoline. Again, I say, it’s still too FUCKING subtle, so BBW then tries to rip his handsome face (despite BBW’s insults about Yves’ looks) right off his skull.

“You want to send a letter,” BBW asks me, personally, (I mean, the camera). I mean, fuck, the camera work here… Yves is literally not in the frame, his face slammed to the mat, but we hear him whimpering and wheezing and grunting in panic and pain beneath the champ. “Tell me how you’re going to smash me. Tell me how you’re going to squash me.” As BBW taunts me (personally), you can hear Yves whimper, and I swear to the homoerotic wrestling gods, openly cry in terror, as BBW grabs him by the hair and yanks his head up and into the frame. “Then, this face could be yours! Hey mom and dad, look at your pretty boy,” he snarls, slapping him in the face. “We’re only just beginning here,” BBW explains to me (personally), as the camera pans back. “This is just the start. The massacre is just starting.”

Yves eventually gets planted on top of the turnbuckle, and an “X marks the spot BBW took your fucking ass” shaved into his thick hairy pecs. BBW cleans off the shaving cream with the g-string he rips off Yves’ suffering, hot (did I mention HOT?) body. His own g-string pouch tied across his face, his cock and balls leashed, and every fucking ounce of dignity stripped from him, Yves is planted by BBW him across his back, screaming, twitching, and weeping as he’s carried around the ring like BBW is just picking up the trash. Finally, the heel hoists Yves’ naked ass over one shoulder and walks him out of the ring room, to hand-deliver him to Donnie in the mat room.

Woah. These days, I’m enthralled with the very same thing that sort of terrified me early on. BBW is talking directly to me. He’s taunting me, personally, challenging me to reconsider my fantasies of going toe-to-toe with the big, bad heels in the ring. The immediacy of this match, what, 22 years later, is so palpable. So, a send-up to BBW, and to all the army of his fans who still fantasize about what he’d do to them in the ring, these years later. And please, please, please someone send my very best to lovely, hairy, hunky, naked (hopefully still) Yves. We hardly knew you, buddy, but you were stunning!

Simmer and Boil

Dio Characi’s journey into BG East has fascinated me. Of course, I’m infatuated with Dio for a dozen reasons, and, if I’m being totally honest, the intrigues of his match history aren’t at the top of that list. Technically speaking. Knowing me, I’m sure I’ll mention the other reasons I’m infatuated with Dio soon enough, but let me start by just musing about his most recent BG East release, StripStakes 6.

There’s a “buyer beware” in the online match description for this match, letting you know that lovely, multiple award-winning Dio loses, but is spared having his last scrap of fabric stripped off his smoking hot body. That said, I get why this is a strip stakes match, though, because, fuck, vicious little pit bull Kirk Donahue relishes prying every last scrap other than that sweat-soaked pink thong off of Dio’s body. I love the simmering rage Dio serves up when he’s submitted. Fuck, EVERYBODY needs some sexy hunk glaring holes into them, the way that Dio smolders angrily at Kirk over and over again.

And, somehow, I fucking despise Kirk even more than I did when this match started. I mean, fuck, he’s incredible, and FUCK he’s sensational as a vile heel. Like, VILE. And I admit that I’ve been hating on him from nearly the first time I saw him climb into the BG East ring, often unfairly. But hating on Kirk now feels like a habit that I just don’t know that I can break, and based on his despicable, contemptuous, nasty attitude as he lowers the hammer on Dio, I’m not about to turn over a new leaf anytime soon. “Something tells me you belong flat on your back in the middle of this ring,” he snarls at doe-eyed Dio, dragging the fierce little Brazilian terrier all over the ring. At one point, Dio openly admires the size of Kirk’s biceps, which seems to be a calling card of Dio’s. He’s not afraid to slap down open admiration, and 9 times out of 10, open praise from a hunk as hot as Dio makes an opponent stop in his tracks and admire himself. But Kirk? Fuck, no. Kirk swats down the compliment and does not return the favor. There. Right there. Fuck, I despise Kirk for that. At no point in this entire match does he seem to appreciate the ggggorgeous hunk of beef that he’s tenderizing. Oh, Kirk says he’s having fun, but he doesn’t look like he’s having fun. Not the way someone who’s got Dio-fucking-Characi at his mercy should be enjoying himself. (Just one blogger’s opinion, mind you).

Dio sends me every time I watch him wrestle, and StripStakes 6 is no exception. He gets pretty much squashed into oblivion, but he never loses that bitter rage, and ferocity bubbling just below the surface. Way, way early, the savvy indy pro heel has Dio’s back stretched over the ropes with the Brazilian’s handsome face wedged up hard and tight in a dragon sleeper. And then, when he’s thrown to the mat, he looks like he wants to take a bite out of Kirk’s throat. Kirk viciously stomps the living shit out of Dio’s shins and ankles, his ridiculously hot body bouncing and writhing and squirming, a bundle of raw nerves and fear of being maimed. The indy pro applies an expert ankle lock and literally drags Dio’s unbelievably hot ass around the ring, whimpering. And when he submits in panic, and then gets his pink trunks ripped off, leaving him in nothing but boots, kneepads, and that entirely inadequate pink thong, Dio could start a fucking forest fire with the laser beams he pins onto Kirk’s smirking face. Fuck, I love that!

Having followed (not stalked, mind you, just very, very, very casually followed) Dio on social media, I know our cherubic babyface beefcake has got a seriously sadistic and kinky side. But other than his lopsided beatdown on notorious jobber Rocky Sparks (hello, 2023’s Best Abs!), the Brazilian hunk never quite unleashed that smirking, snarling, spitting, eye-fluttering sadism in his BG East journey. Thus far.

So, that intrigues me and keeps me up at night. Maybe not as much as Dio’s luscious pecs and mouthwatering ass do, of course. I’m not quite as infatuated with it as I am with, say, his thick, hairy thighs and superhuman proportions. Or his adorable baby-baby-baby face. Or the giggle of his pouch. Or the boatload of sweat that makes the Best Body of 2023 glisten in the overhead lights. But still, I seriously long to see that simmering rage come to a full boil!

NYC WrestleFest

Scooter contacted me on social media and asked if I’d pass along a PSA for NYC Wrestlefest organized on Meetfighters and a meet-up social opportunity for wrestlers and fans being organized by Scooter. His social media blitz on Instagram is cracking me up, and the idea of wrestlers all descending on Manhattan and doing what private wrestlers do best in a concentrated locale and time is super hot! From what Scooter has shared, NYC Wrestlefest 2023 is happening February 19-23, and Scooter is helping organize an informal meet and greet at the Eagle for Sunday, February 19, with wrestlers and fans welcome to drop in between 5-10 pm.

This hasn’t been on my calendar, and sadly I’m not able to get there. This sounds like an incredibly fun idea, though (both NYC Wrestlefest and the social meet-up for wrestlers and fans), so I hope someone (or many someones) share photos and first-hand accounts. All of this also raises for me some questions about MeetFighters that I feel certain I’m going to get answered by posting them here. So, here goes…

Inspired by a new friend, I went to sign-up for a Meetfighters account a little while back. I don’t know how often I’ll actually be able to connect and wrestle at this point in my career in my day job, but I’m intrigued to find more opportunities to enjoy homoerotic wrestling. But I couldn’t figure out quite what was expected of me as a new account on MF. Specifically, my attempts to post a profile pic were rejected, with an explanation that there were parameters that had to be met, but the link to explain those parameters didn’t explain them in a way that I could figure out.

So, here are a couple of questions. Should I try again to sign up for an account? If I do, what are the parameters for a profile pic, and how much about my personal life do I need to disclose? That’s three questions, I think. In any case, pulling the plug on Twitter and reinvesting my social media attention on Instagram has suddenly had me interacting with a lot of guys on MeetFighters, which has been fun. It sounds like NYC Wrestlefest is a brainchild sparked there on MF, so that alone makes me think it might be a cool way to connect. And, if you participate in NYC Wrestlefest, let me know how it goes, and if I should try to get it on my calendar for next year.

Let Me Entertain You

I hate the comments on almost anything OTHER than this blog. If you’ve skipped the comments, I sympathize, but I also have to tell you may have missed the super steamy heat that ignited after I posted my News Year’s look-back, when I wondered out loud if Scott Williams’ teasing offers to test drive my legs would actually amount to crushing his handsome face between my quads in 2023. Nobody has ever challenged my assertion that I am THE #1 Scott Williams fan… nay, fanatic. I think that’s wise of the rest of you, frankly, because I’ve got years of pent up lust and a reservoir of adrenaline stored up. I have not been coy about my adoration of Scott over the years, and I get a little star struck anytime (any. fucking. time.) Scott posts a comment around these parts. I do my best to keep my fanaticism for Scott’s smoking hot bod, and his fucking sensationally sexy way of milking a hold, just this side of full-on Annie Wilkes. I’ve tried to lure him into making an on-camera BGE comeback, but he just pshaws me. But when he floated the idea of him giving me a shot at the man of my dreams, one on one… holy shit, I’ve been feeding on that almost exclusively for a couple of years now. As the self-appointed and undisputed (?) #1 Scott fan, I can tell you that what Scott respects more than anything is a headscissors bear trap that can make the handsome hunk see stars. Thus, I’ve been doubling down on leg days and wracking up frequent flyer miles on my bicycle for the past couple of years, getting ready to make him beg. In his last reply to that post, after (once again) promising to make this happen, Scott chided me for being “WAYYYY too cocky,” and assured me, “You’re lucky that I find your confidence, like Rochelle’s and others….. VERY entertaining.”

That sent me combing through the archives of this blog for my review of Ultra Fight 2, to check out that chemistry again between Scott and Brad Rochelle again. Which then left me shocked when I realized I’ve never reviewed that match! Holy fuck, how did THAT happen? Honestly, scenes from that match still today suddenly intrude on my waking thoughts, some 15 years or so after I first saw it. I’ve never, ever made it through the entire match in one sitting without needing to towel off and re-hydrate. Fuck, who am I kidding? I’ve never made it through more than 5 minutes at a time of the 40 minute mat marathon without needing to towel off and re-hydrate.

That chemistry between Scott and Brad is lush. The cockiness that Scott finds so entertaining is seriously compelling. It has that feel of the freshly minted young buck on the scene (this was early in Brad’s BGE days, long before the Contract), setting his sights on knocking a seasoned alpha off his throne. “You’re not wasting my time or anything, are you,” Scott demands to know as they’re warming up. “Absolutely not,” Brad chirps back with a smirk. When they start to circle, the tension building for their fucking SENSATIONAL muscled bodies to finally come into contact, Brad slaps him in the face with a taunting sneer. Oh, fuck, you can see the irritation and bitter determination settle on Scott like a winter chill.

The submissions are fast and furious, and I mean genuinely, fucking, furious. Literally in under 15 seconds, Brad swarms him in a rear naked choke and Scott taps out. Slower and more indulgently, Scott roars back to life, locking on a side headlock and hip tossing gorgeous Brad to the mat with authority. He locks Brad’s left arm between his sensationally sexy legs and stretches him out, not really threatening the elbow, but just teasing it, like he wants Brad to know he could snap him, but just wants to milk the moment as the tanned, toned, babyface beefcake writhes and wriggles on the hook. “You just stay there for a while,” Scott taunts. Finally, he cranks on the side headlock like he’s yanking on the pull cord of a stubborn lawnmower, crushing Brad’s pretty, pretty, pretty face against Scott’s gorgeously hairy chest. He flexes his mile long legs, slowly hyperextending the captured elbow, and twists viciously on Brad’s neck. “You’re looking really good down there,” Scott says what every fan who’s watched this video was thinking at that very moment. He wrenches a squealing submission out of the young hunk a few moments later. And… fuck, I think I need to towel off and rehydrate now.

This is peak Brad. He’s got to have just come back from a beach vacation, with a bronze glow and a well-rested pump for getting down to business. At one point, Scott is working figure-4 headscissors, alligator rolling the coverboy across the mat at will. He punches those smooth, never bigger, never more beautiful pecs on Brad, before leaning back on one elbow, crushing his skull, looking like he’s the one enjoying a leisurely day stretched out on a beach towel. When Scott lets the stubborn punk up without wringing out another submission, Brad turns absolutely feral. He snaps on an armbar of his own and threatens to snap Scott’s elbow, making the man of my dreams squeak and tap out in panic. “You shouldn’t have let me up,” Brad snarls, climbing onto his back and wrenching Scott’s right arm so high between his shoulder blades in a hammer that Scott can actually scratch the back of his own head. When Scott gasps another submission out, like he’s sucking on a torment lollipop, Brad lets him go magnanimously and paces around the mat. “I’ll give you some time to glue that arm back on,” Brad taunts.

Okay, so this is a marathon of a match, as I said, and I’ve got SO much to say about every 5 minutes or so of it. But in the interest of not losing myself entirely in this post, let me just speed things along by saying Brad dominates… DOMINATES Scott in the final third of this contest or so. Fuck, Brad’s bronzed, pumped muscles are glistening with sweat as the flexes his most muscular pose over top of Scott, looking like he wants to fuck somebody right then and there, he’s riding that pump of domination so hard. “What’s the matter, boy?” Fuck, when Brad calls him boy, I swear the temperature instantly rises on both sides of the screen. “All that shit you were talking, it amounted to NOTHING!” He’s screaming, as he pumps his fantasyman bod in victory. “Look at this,” he demands that his stunning physique be acknowledged.

But then there are those last 3 minutes. Shit, Brad keeps trash talking. Scott can’t help himself but trash talk back. “I’ll be fucking nastier next time,” Scott promises. “You can be as nasty as you want,” the young hunk snarks right back, getting pissed that the beast he just bested still won’t shut the fuck up. “Please,” he snarls, when Scott is about to charge back to his feet for more, right here and now. “You think you’ve got enough gas in the tank to fuck with me?!” Fuck, that final fall. Fuck! One gorgeous hunk’s voice is an octave and a half higher, whimpering and crying, giving up that last and most humiliating submission of all.

The camera loves these two gorgeous bodies almost as much as I do. This is pre-HD, and I’ve got a young friend who complains about the relatively grainy resolution and low light and dark shadows in matches like this. But I don’t know if I’ve ever seen two wrestlers look better AND deliver authentic, exhausting, dehydrating ego-fueled bitterness and snark.

Apparently, dialing up ego-fueled bitterness and snark is entertaining for Scott. I’m practicing channeling my inner Brad now. If there’s one thing I want to come out of what would be THE fan fantasy face-off of the century, it’s that I want both Scott and me to be entertained!

“All that shit your were talking,” Brad snarled. “It amounted to nothing!”

Activating Erotic Mode

In the newest BG East catalog there’s a little gem that is guaranteed to spark controversy. I know that Robo-Wrestler is guaranteed to spark controversy because I’ve already had an extensive debate about it with another BG East fan and friend of mine. Honestly, I think the only really controversial element to Robo-Wrestler is its very gimmick-forward stance. Forrest Taylor and Mason Brooks fucking go for it, with a seriously earnest supporting performance by Freddy Campbell. It’s sensationally sexy and astonishingly clever homoerotic wrestling packaged inside a summer jamboree skit. The text is balls-out bold: Forrest has ordered an android version of Mason Brooks (“Mason-bot” even gets his own wrestler profile, because the commitment to this gimmick as 100%) to wrestle with any time and every time he wants. He wanted a Kid Karisma-bot, but it was too expensive. “You know I’m a cheap-ass, and this is what I could afford,” Forrest snaps back at his gamer buddy Freddy who gives him a hard time for ordering off of the clearance rack. I love all three of these guys A LOT, so I’m sure that’s biased me toward being willing to suspend disbelief and roll with it. But seriously, if any one of these hunks had gone in half-assed, if they’d snickered and rolled their eyes at the gimmick, this product would have ground to a screeching halt for me. But bless their beautiful, hot asses, the boys sell it like there’s an Emmy nomination at stake.

Seriously, go along for this ride, and you will see some sensational storytelling, hot, brutal wrestling, and full-throttle naked homoerotic grappling with a couple of incredibly tasty hot bods. Fuck, Mason(-bot) looks more and more gorgeous every time I see him in something new. His nipples continue to make me swoon, and fuck, those lush, massive, gorgeous pecs of his make everything he’s in have to have “-erotic” as a suffix. He not only takes shots at his reputation at BG East, he dishes them out, acknowleding that his “model” of bot has received poor costumer reviews because “my personality is off-putting. Too real and borderline insulting.” And Forrest just keeps showing up and making me dizzy, match after match. Just sticking to the visual aesthetics, fuck… I am in lust with every inch of him, and his overall proportions. He should be naked in every fucking match, as far as I’m concerned, because, fuck, he looks STUNNING naked. And Robo-Wrestler goes there brilliantly.

I could see some wrestling fans taking issue with the execution of the narrative, that sort of pulls the curtain back on kayfabe and pops open the hood to give a glimpse at the engine underneath homoerotic pro wrestling. Mason-bot has different “challenge levels,” from jobber to competitive wrestler to heel to erotic warrior. Forrest can’t quite figure out how to switch from one challenge level to another (hilariously), and his buddy Freddy mostly makes matters worse for him by accidentally turning up the difficulty rating on Mason-bot. But this is actually the most genius piece of this product for me. Because Mason walks us all (mostly Forrest, but clearly you and me, as well) through the paces of classic jobberdom, trash talking competiveness, sadistic heeldom, and, thank the homoerotic wrestling gods, gagging-for-it homoerotic warrior. Forrest remains Forrest, mind you. He won Jobber of the Year for a reason. So it’s absolutely hilariously fascinating to watch Mason-bot’s different challenge levels bring out different elements to tried-and-true, cheap-ass Forrest. As a jobber, Mason is a ton of shallow bluster and put-on cockiness, swearing that he’ll never submit to Forrest’s (fucking hot) bodyscissors one second, and then tapping out and pleadingly submitting the next. Like a fucking jobber.

“Freddy, I’m going to kill you,” Forrest snarls, when Freddy accidentally turns on the “Grappling Mode.” Mason-bot starts to seriously resemble Mason. He legitimately out-hustles and out-muscles Forrest. He nearly chokes him out cold before Forrest can submit. He’s taunting and bullying, brutalizing the sexy little red-headed minx (with fantasyman quads and glutes). He yanks on Forrest’s beard and stretches out the brutal punishment luxuriously, as the gamer buds struggle to wrangle Mason-bot’s control app under their control. When Freddy accidentally activates “Dirty Tactics” mode, Mason-bot locks him down in a figure 4 headlock and slaps that gorgeous, alabaster ass of Forrest’s (which I STILL say ought to have won Best Butt last year). And then there’s “Kill Mode,” in which Mason-bot turns full on sadistic heel, relishing in Forrest’s screams and pleas, ignoring his submissions, hell bent on humiliating his new “owner” relentlessly. “Do you feel humiliated, Forrest?” Mason-bot asks woodenly, schoolboy pinning him and smothering him in his crotch, as Forrest writhes and screams and kicks in terror. Holy fuck, yes, I’m definitely along for the ride at this point.

When the boys finally discover how to turn on “Erotic Mode,” everyone (and I mean EVERYONE) is firing on all cylinders. Full throttle, no pretense muscle worship. “Would you like me to flex my biceps while you grab my pecs,” Mason-bot asks woodenly. Holy shit, these guys convince me completely that they’re fucking into each other, right around the time Forrest tells his buddy Freddy to get the fuck out of the matroom and let them get down to business in private. Beautiful, excited, earnest as fuck cocks come out. Mason-bot slams Forrest down into an OTK and starts to jack him off hard and fierce. When he slams him to the mat, Mason(bot) sits on Forrest’s face and pounds his own throbbing cock into the lucky, sexy-ass leprechaun’s chest.

It’s fucking hilarious. Mason, Forrest, and Freddy are fucking hilarious, and the scene is outrageously hilarious. And I get it. That could be a buzz kill, but it most certainly wasn’t for me. It was sensationally clever, telling a story that unpacks homoerotic pro wrestling tropes, turning formulaic, gimmick-free(ish) wrestling on its head, and turning up the heat with something entirely novel, self-consciously iconoclastic, and intensely erotic. I laughed. I was wildly turned on. And I got off repeatedly, all the while feeling like I understood myself and my relationship to homoerotic wrestling just a little better.

The BG East Fantasy

Over the past six months, AR and I have been discussing the amazing power of homoerotic wrestling to transport fans into their shared wrestling fantasies. Of course, the eroticism is sometimes rooted in the voyeuristic aspect. The watching is, itself, a turn on. But having been a passionate consumer of homoerotic wrestling products for many, many years, it’s also true that the really good wrestling matches I watch ignite my imagination, and draw me into the fantasy as a participant. It happens subtly sometimes, like when I notice myself answering a wrestler who’s putting the hurt on an opponent and asking him, “How does that feel?” (Usually, the answer is “Fucking great, asshole, show me more!”). But sometimes it runs deeper, like when I watch a hunk locked up tight in a completely dominating, humiliating hold, and I see myself milking the hold. I think about what I do next to the unlucky jobber. I’m turned on, not just because of what I’m watching, but because I’m in the action, transposed onto one or the other combatants, and feeling it deep down inside, from the inside out.

Somewhere in the midst of discussing this phenomenon with AR, I decided to explore that fantasy BG East universe more. With AR’s unbelievably sexy artistry backing me up, I began charting a fantasy version of BGE, with a suspiciously familiar character of a homoerotic wrestling blogger who takes the leap from behind the keyboard to showing up and putting his own body and homoerotic wrestling soul on the line in the hard, hot, brutal world world of BGE competition.

It’s been a fascinating journey, figuring out how I might show up. What sort of wrestling persona would I have? Would I be a jobber or heel or babyface hero? How would opponents read me and react to me? We debated what opponents I might face, in what context, and resulting in what outcomes. The BGE-fantasyverse is built out sufficiently at this point that I feel some confidence in sharing it with others. Nervous, mind you. I realize I talk a big game when I’m picking apart homoerotic wrestling matches as a reviewer. This experience has heightened my empathy for the super hunky wrestlers who have to endure backseat drivers like me combing through every moment of their matches and spouting off about what I like and don’t.

“Catalog 1” of my Fantasy BG East Wrestling universe is now posted on Sidelineland Stories. I’m not entirely sure how the back office boys at BG East may react, but I hope it’s received by them, and by the existing wrestlers who’ve been transported into the fantasyverse, as deeply respectful and adoring of the amazing products that they publish. We’ve got some full match stories coming down the pike in Catalog 2, but for now, you can enjoy the teasers of a blogger’s rookie matches in the form of promotional match descriptions, not so dissimilar to the ones I IRL write for BG East on a regular basis.

I want to thank those who’s creativity, artistry, and inspiring wrestling have gone into this experimental little venture, including the wrestlers and crew of BG East and, especially, AR!

Hall of Fame

I’m still combing through the results of the Best of BG East 2022 awards and marveling at this cream of the latest crop of hot wrestling. As I was sending up congratulations to the winners that I’m connected to on social media, I got an intriguing, possibly even provocative reply from Lon Dumont, asking, “When’s my Hall of Fame induction?” And I’ve been obsessed with this question ever since.

Brad Rochelle receiving the Rookie of the Year Award from previous winner, Shane McCall, at Wrestlefest 2.

Not necessarily the question of when should Lon be inducted (five years ago is the correct answer). But I’m taken by the question of celebrating the mainstays, the sensational BG East wrestlers who put their blood, sweat, and tears into showing up, stripping down, and going at it for us homoerotic wrestling fans. There isn’t a Hall of Fame, is there? I mean, I believe that at the end of Wrestlefest 2, there was “technically” an awarding of a “Lifetime Achievement” award to Doug Warren. I say “technically,” because the Boss announced it, welcomed Doug to the ring, and then locked on a kiss of death, knocking hunky Doug out cold. Kid Leopard expressed his contempt for the notion of awarding anyone else a lifetime achievement award, before he, himself had been awarded one. So, yeah… I think there’s technically the start of a Hall of Fame, that rises above the yearly awards based on new releases! Unless I’m mistaken, I think Doug is the only member of that club so far, but… yeah, I think there IS a Hall of Fame, and perhaps it IS time to celebrate some more lifetime achievements of the hunks who live on in our fondest wrestling fantasies, even though they don’t appear in new releases any longer.

In a class by himself!

Like I told Lon, I am immediately and sincerely initiating my campaign to get this train rolling now! First up, I’d like to nominate Kid Leopard. I have to agree with his bitter, withering assessment of the idea he expressed moments after he knocked Doug Warren out cold: if ANYONE deserves to be lauded for monumental, even Herculean contributions to basically building what homoerotic wrestling is today from the ground up, it’s the Boss. I still keep his matches on repeat, because, honestly, no one has ever walked that line of legitimate pro wrestling sell and dazzling, sizzling, insanely hot homoeroticism as perfectly. And his contributions to the industry in terms of recruitment, production, distribution, and championing wrestling for a gay erotic eye is simply unmatched. And, let’s face it, he’ll kick the ass of anyone else we try to nominate, until his inaugural role in the Hall of Fame is certified.

Give this man what he wants!!!

But then who? Lon, of course. Don’t even try to argue with me on this, because I will swat you down so hard you’ll wake up just in time for the voting for the 2023 BG East Besties. But when we think of the wrestlers who stuck with BG East, who put in the sweat-equity to building this industry that fuels our fantasies, who never flinched from stripping down to next-to-nothing (or nothing) and entertaining an enthusiastic audience of guys who get off to wrestling… who should be the next class of inductees. After Kid Leopard. Let’s just all agree he’s in a class by himself.

“You may be my new favorite plaything!”

Woah. In Sexy Showdown 15, Chase Addams goes places we’ve never seen him go before! I’m clearly not the only one surprised by the… depths… Chase goes to in this match. Babyface Freddy Campbell is obviously a bit taken aback when his opponent locks on one of a dozen incapacitating armbar/wristlocks he has in his quiver. The armbar isn’t a surprise, mind you. Chase has been threatening to snap opponent’s elbows from day one with armbars, typically amended to other brutal submission holds in astonishingly innovative ways. No, the surprise comes when he starts sucking on Freddy’s trapped fingers. “What the FUCK are you doing,” Freddy cries out in surprise.

“You have one sick, twisted, pervy way of wrestling, Chase Addams, do you know that!?” Freddy is visibly freaked out and suddenly needing to reassess what he thought he knew about Chase. “Oh, I have MULTIPLE pervy ways of fighting,” Chase acknowledges proudly, and proceeds to demonstrate the truth of those words for the next 35 minutes.

I don’t know what Freddy’s boyfriend, Ash DeLeon, is feeding him, but fuck, he’s harder and sexier every match. He also executes some sweetly assertive offense that signals that Chase isn’t the only one with some new tricks up his sleeves. “There are a couple things you don’t know, Chase,” Freddy declares, stretching the sweaty, tanned sadist out in a seated surfboard. “One, I’m not so much a jobber anymore. And two, you now have very pullable hair!”

Despite Freddy showing his mean streak with hair pulls and vicious punches to Chase’s gut, I think the jury may still be out on the jobber thing. Because, fuck, he gets twisted, battered, and messed over relentlessly throughout most of this match. I curiously start to overheat when Chase is high in the saddle of a camel clutch, and he stretches his fingers around the babyface’s handsome cheeks and applies double fishhooks that look like, no shit, he might just peel Freddy’s face right off!

Things are going really, really bad for Freddy. Or, alternately, really, really fantastic for fans of absolutely brutal, screaming, wailing, weeping submission holds. I voted for this match to win Best Submission of 2022. But, Freddy’s bid to distance himself from qualifying for jobber of the year sort of evaporates when Chase ties his arms in the ropes, forcing him to watch his utter, soul crushing, body surrendering humiliation in the mirrored wall in front of him. Chase rips the trunks off of that astonishingly round ass, making me question for a half second my vote for Forrest Taylor as the Best Butt of 2022 (but, no, I still say Forrest’s ass is top shelf!). And the babyface pretty boy is helpless, as that lily white ass is getting whipped. Frustrated, Freddy pries one arm free from the ropes, and I’m thinking, for just a moment, we’re about to see a full on naked ass-kicking comback.

But then Freddy starts to jerk off! Oh, shit, Freddy, the case you were making that you aren’t “so much a jobber anymore” is seriously weakened! “Cum for me, bitch,” Chase demands, tormenting his nipples, squeezing his balls, egging him on.

Many years ago, I once discussed with Chase his prospects for translating his super intense, high class pro wrestling submission skills into fully explicit erotic combat. At the time, he was weighing his options, acknowledging that fans like me were jonesing for his hot bod and sadistic attitude and gallons of sweat to dial it up a few notches, but still working out exactly what his brand is. Well, gentleman, Chase is fucking with your preconceived notions, just like he fucked up beautiful, vulnerable Freddy Campbell and left him knocked out cold, with perhaps just a little hicky to send a message to Freddy’s rising heel boyfriend, Ash. “Tell your boyfriend that if he wants lessons, now that he’s a wannabe heel, he knows where to find me.” Fuck, pass the popcorn!

“You talked a big game online…”

Forrest Taylor says he isn’t impressed when Brendan Byers climbs into the ring in Babyface Bash 2. But he should be. And between you and me, I’m pretty sure Forrest is lying. “You looked taller and stronger online,” he says dismissively. “I was expecting some great big giant.” There’s a pull of gravity to the massive muscles towering over sexy little Forrest though, that I just don’t quite believe he isn’t feeling. When Forrest flexes his own hot, lean biceps proudly, Brendan steps up and flexes one of his own huge, mountainous peaks, and I swear to the homoerotic wrestling gods, the little guy’s entire head disappears behind it.

I’ve mentioned before the remarkably persistent, nay relentless commentary that Forrest pulls out at EVERY occasion. I’m a HUGE fan of trash talk, and pillow talk, and villainous monologing, and, well, wrestling text of all sorts. So it’s saying something when even I have to say, “Will someone shut Forrest up!?” On this day, in that ring, that someone is big, bad, brutal Brendan Byers!

I don’t want to be misunderstood, mind you. Fuck, Forrest is a tasty fucking treat! He was on my nomination form for multiple categories for the BG East Besties, and hands down, he was my top pick for Best Butt this year. In a homoerotic wrestling universe dominated by huge muscle monsters and physique stars, there’s just something about his gorgeous quads and that insanely round, mouthwatering bubble butt, that would make me pick him out of a crowd of hotties every fucking time. Hell, I’m even a huge fan of his beard, despite the inordinate amount of attention he constantly draws to his, admittedly, impressive facial hair. Lest I be painted as a hater, let me declare unequivocally that I am a Forrest Taylor fan.

But holy fuck, is it satisfying watching him get the living SHIT kicked out of him by Brendan Byers! Forrest also demonstrates why I voted for him to retain his title as Jobber of the Year for another year, by egging on his own corporal punishment with unbelievably cocky trash talk, even while he’s getting buried under the mountain of muscle crushing down on him. Literally, Brendan his choking him with his own suspender and riding him HARD in a camel clutch, and Forrest is snarling and spitting, “You ain’t shit.” Fuck, talk about asking for it. Fuck, talk about DEMANDING it!? It’s sort of the definition of “heel bait,” as his plucky defiance makes the muscle bear ripping him apart limb by limb that much hotter and fiercer. Brendan drags his nose across the side of Forrest’s face, breathing in deeply, absolutely intoxicated by the aroma of defiantly hopeless jobber wafting up at him. He throws him to his stomach and mounts that ass that got my vote, grinding his hips, holding him by the hair, and announcing convincingly “You’re mine, boy!”

My fellow Scotsman gets a little riding time, thanks to a savage punch to Brendan’s balls. But when Forrest mounts his own “revenge” camel clutch, giving it everything he’s got, Brendan literally smirks, “That tickles.” When Forrest snaps on face-to-crotch headscissors, it makes me wonder if I ought to have nominated him for best bulge. But it also has this pretense of twink dominance, all the while, I’m pretty convinced, it’s doing NOTHING but making big Brendan build up a whole new, bigger, harder head of steam.

A few highlights that grab me by the balls include the absolutely devastating series of pounding over-the-knee backbreakers that make me think for a moment there that Forrest was actually broken. Forrest pummeled while trapped in the ropes is exquisite. Somewhere in the melange of the sound of the red headed hunk’s panicked whimpers paired with the sight of his alabaster, fucking impressively built quads hanging there uselessly, I am seriously turned on!

A little over 17 minutes in, and Forrest loses the red and white stripped briefs he’d had on under his tartan, and, damn it all, that’s a fucking hot, bearded, booted naked man getting his sensational ass handed to him again and again and again! He fights it at every turn. He refuses to accept the inevitable, and that’s SO fucking adorable. “I told you all that shit talk would come back to bite you in the ass, didn’t I,” Brendan points out, mounted on Forrest’s naked ass and yanking his head back with a handful of fiery red hair. “Yes, yes,” Forrest gasps, with pleading in his breathless voice.

The reverse inverted bearhug with Forrest’s entire head shoved inside of Brendan’s pouch is epic, but fuck, I’m going to feast for days on the naked bearhug and wears that buttle butt out so gorgeously. So, sure, I’m going to keep bitching about Forrest’s relentless trash talk, because he’s asking for it, right? He wants to irritate, doesn’t he? There’s a devious, clever angle there, where every heel, and at least this reviewer, fucking sees RED under the constant onslaught of Forrest’s bluster, pretty much guaranteeing his total destruction again and again.

Fucking brilliant!

New Year’s Eve

Good stuff happened for me this year, personally as well as in terms of my creative attention on homoerotic wrestling. In terms of homoerotic wrestling, I started the year thinking that this would be the year of me exploring hot, erotic wrestling in graphic format. And I did, indeed, have a lot of fun doing that. Drawing really took me back to adolescent moments when I sketched out hot muscle men in a secret notebook that I (literally) hid under my mattress as a kid. I saved those old sketches for years as a young adult, but sadly, in one move or another among a whole lot of moves in my adult life, I lost them. I’m (obviously) not a trained visual artist, but there was something sweetly satisfying about drawing my lusts again, older, wiser, and somehow every ounce just as horny as I ever was!

I did NOT plan on this year being a year of returning to writing homoerotic wrestling fiction. But sharing my drawings, as nerve racking as that was, led to connecting up with AR on Deviant Art. Honestly, when he first suggested that we collaborate on something new, with me writing and him illustrating, I groaned just a little inside. I hadn’t really written anything original and new, of my own creation, in years. I’d totally lost steam for it, and, frankly, a lot of that had to do with not getting much feedback from readers about it. Creating for my sake is meaningful, but I discovered years ago that it wasn’t enough to sustain my effort to get back on the keyboard and keep writing. So when I told AR that I was “open” to the idea, I was more than a little skeptical. But then a couple of things happened.

The first thing that happened that turned me on was seeing AR translate an image directly (I mean DIRECTLY) out of my imagination and into 3D rendered art. Holy shit! That is incredible! And his eye is just so fucking nuanced and amazing. I literally keep a shrine of AR artwork now, that I visit every. fucking. day. And it amazes and titillates me endlessly!

The other thing that happened that really sent the second half of 2022 down an entirely different path than I’d expected was getting detailed feedback on my homoerotic wrestling fiction as I’m writing it, and finding AR‘s observations and suggestions incredibly on point. Sometimes, I’ve put myself out there, and I know that there a few hundred viewers seeing a blog post or reading a story, from the page counts. But it can be fucking lonely and discouraging to hear nothing but the echoes of my own voice. I’ve sort of doubted if what I’m writing has much meaning to anyone else, but fuck that no… working with AR has been amazingly validating. I’m writing again because it’s so fucking fun. Some of what we’ve been writing is likely never to be posted or published, and I’m incredibly happy with it because I’m creating and enjoying the act of creation so much!

Not that I won’t post anything, mind you. I posted the first couple of end-products of my collaboration with AR on the new Producer’s Ring Reborn archives, which was another highlight of 2022, beginning to transfer the old library of stories form the defunct Google site platform to a new one. I’m looking forward to sharing more of what we’ve been up to with a broader audience in 2023, so watch here for announcements about new stories, new artwork, and new awesome expressions of passion for homoerotic wrestling that I share with a lot of you.

Oh, and getting comments by man-of-my-dreams Scott Williams has GOT to be the other surprise highlight of the year. Scott continues to tease me that he wants a test drive of the quads I’ve been building especially for crushing his head. Maybe 2023?

I hope 2022 was as enjoyable and creative and validating and titillating for you as it was for me! Oh, and remember to vote in the 2022 BGE fan poll. I was, once again, on the nominating committee, so send me all your hatred and resentment for the field of choices, and then get your ass back over to BGE and vote anyway, like you know want to! If you need any suggestions, just ask. I ALWAYS have opinions, as you know.