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Producer’s Ring: Pitt vs. Faris

August 10, 2018August 9, 2018 wrestlebard2 Comments

The Focus Group – Brad Pitt vs. Sean Faris

Brad Pitt was making movies when Sean Faris was in diapers. Both men generated a lot of buzz from fight movies, Brad 10 years before Sean. When Sean’s film hit bandwidth, he talked a lot of smack, including insisting that he could kick Brad’s ass. “He’s, what, 20 years older than I am? Hell, does he still have all his original joints?”

Eli Brody had made a lot of money from Brad’s films, and he expected to make a lot of money from Sean’s. But Eli was not pleased to have one member of his talent pool publicly trashing another. It wasn’t good for the bottom line. Eli sat in his office with a cocky Sean slumped in the chair in front of his desk, looking like he’d just been called into the principal’s office.

“Your media relations suck, Sean. The way you’ve handled yourself in the past year has made me question if you’re film quality. A recurring role in a daytime soap opera might be more your speed at this point in your career,” Eli chided.

Sean was furious. “What the fuck!? I’m golden and you know it! I have to have two bodyguards to keep the girls from ripping me apart when I walk down the street,” Sean bragged.

“Girls are certainly one component of a winning market strategy,” Eli conceded. “But I’m not bankrolling any more film projects for you without some clear evidence that you can draw the size and diversity of audiences I need to justify my investment.” Sean sulked bitterly. “You will be in Seattle at this address tomorrow” Eli handed him a card. “You’ve got something good. My instincts tell me that you can be a big star,” Eli said, grabbing his crotch beneath his desk. “But I will not stake my fortune or political power on a not-ready-for-primetime punk. I’ll be pulling together a focus group and mixing you up with someone else from my talent pool. Come ready to show some passion and win over some new fans, or don’t come at all.”

————-

Sean knocked on an unmarked door in a back alley behind an anonymous brick building. A massively muscled blond hunk opened the door and waved Sean in, instructing him to change clothes in a dressing room at the end of the hallway. Sean walked down the dark hallway past door-less, dark rooms with groans coming from inside. Men stood in the hallway wearing nothing but towels around their waists, looking Sean up and down as he walked to the end of the hall. At the end of the hall, Sean found the empty room where he was supposed to change clothes. The only thing there for him to change into was a white towel.

Eli walked up as Sean was frozen, the towel in his hand, uncertain of what to do. “You’ll need to take your clothes off, wrap that around your waist, and then follow me.” Sean looked uncomfortable, but pulled off his training jacket, sweatpants, and tennis shoes, and stepped out of his boxer briefs, turning away from Eli. He wrapped the towel around his waist, then turned and followed Eli down the hallway. ” Continue reading “Producer’s Ring: Pitt vs. Faris” →

Peekaboo

August 8, 2018 wrestlebardLeave a comment

Watching Drake Marcos stretch out before his Masked Mayhem 13 match reminds me all over again how much he turns me on. His handsome face. His pouty lower lip. His long lean torso. And those legs. Fuck, those legs. They’re just so pretty and punishingly strong. Trust me, Drake’s long, meaty legs can squeeze the juice right out of an opponent.

I’ve mentioned before my opinion that Drake is an epic underachiever on the mats. He’s been trained by the best. He’s got a short fuse against bigger opponents who try to bully him. It’s magnificent to watch him clench his jaw and shift into overdrive to battle back from a deficit. Drake has this raw, fiercely competitive edge to him that belies his well-earned reputation as a powderpuff jobberboy. Every time I settle in to appreciate a new Drake match, I’m wondering if this will be the breakout moment when finally lives into his potential as a vicious, erotic badass.

So I’m lusting over Drake’s legs and fantasizing about that long-awaited heel turn when Gold Shaft silently steps onto the mat behind Drake. It’s like a horror movie, with me yelling at the screen, “Turn around! He’s right behind you!” Gold Shaft admires the view a few seconds, which makes me love him more than ever (which is saying a lot). Gold Shaft likes what he sees, and Drake doesn’t even realize he’s already pinned between my gaze bearing down on him from the front and Gold Shaft’s gaze locked on from behind. And then just like that, Gold Shaft snaps his right arm across Drake’s throat from behind, pulls him to the mat in a padlocked sleeper, and peers around Drake’s head to soak in the sight of Drake’s handsome face going slack. Holy fuck. The fastest victory in BG East history? Possibly.

Gold Shaft rouses Drake to face his humiliation.

Fuck, Gold Shaft is pretty. Sure, the mask exponentiates his erotic allure, but that body?! I don’t quite understand how none of his opponents ever seem to lick his honey dipped muscles from head to toe. I feel like Pavlov’s dog, salivating uncontrollably at the sight of him. When it comes to Drake, part of his attractiveness is how he doesn’t quite seem to recognize how hot he is. But as for Gold Shaft, he knows exactly what a sexy mother fucker he is, and every flex and stretch and angle is dripping with erotic beauty. The way he possesses Drake, slack in his arms, stroking his torso, sliding his hands inside the front of Drake’s briefs and massaging his cock, is entrancing. He feels entitled to lick his opponent’s face and mount him, shockingly slapping Drake to consciousness again.

For his part, Drake suffers like nobody else. The pathos streams off of his twisted, twitching body in waves. I’m sure it’s what keeps him chained to jobberhood, but nobody wrestling today sells his own jeopardy anywhere nearly as compellingly as he does. There’s a bitter panic pulsating off of him when he’s trying to suck air into his lungs with Gold Shaft’s figure-4 choke almost pinching his windpipe closed. Drake’s muscles spasm involuntarily when his opponent throttles his crotch violently. He has no poker face. When he’s getting buried under, every muscle fiber and choking gasp of air communicates clearly that he’s on the edge of terror and genuinely fears for his safety. Drake goes there in this match and every match, because facing down his own panic and potential humiliation is dizzyingly sexy, and Drake loves erotic wrestling just that much to dance on the precipice of his own horror and degradation.

Perhaps Drake’s jeopardy and terror are what turns Gold Shaft on. Maybe it’s just stroking and humping and tasting his opponent’s sweet body under his control. Whatever it is, mere minutes into the match, he’s working hard to keep a lid on Drake’s bitterness coming to a boil. He cranks hard on a side headlock, smashing Drake’s cheek against his smooth chest. He’s on his knees on the mat, pumping viciously, Drake groaning in pain, and there’s Gold Shaft’s golden shaft stretching excitedly out of the top of his white trunks. We’ve seen his beautiful, erect cock come to bear in past matches, but there’s something so sincere and earnest about the appearance of the head of his cock rising like a periscope. He hasn’t touched himself. He’s just so entirely turned on by wrestling Drake that his cock refuses to be contained. I so fucking love watching wrestlers who are experiencing the same erotic thrill I am.

My take is that this is not a squash. Drake is a tough mother fucker who can give opponent’s twice his size a full dose of hurt, so he gives Gold Shaft a serious run for his money. In fact, there’s a lush, tit-for-tat revenge sleeper just a few minutes after his own shocking undoing out of the gates that momentarily strokes those hopes of mine that Drake may harness all of that sensational wrestling skill and competitive drive to drag an opponent kicking and screaming to the edge of terror that he knows so intimately. But soon enough, Drake starts getting buried under, submitting as much to his own demons as to his opponent. Gold Shaft knocks him out again and again, possessing Drake’s vulnerable body repeatedly, and then slapping him back to his living hell. It’s not a full on squash, but Drake should definitely be in the running for jobber of the year again.

The standing headscissors submission tops me off magnificently. Drake’s trunks violently wedged up his quivering ass are sensationally sexy. Gold Shaft mounting his unconscious victim from behind, thrusting his shaft grinding victoriously between Drake’s cheeks, is everything right about homoerotic wrestling. Gold Shaft is irrepressible. Drake is desperately struggling to uncork that vicious sadist he’s got bottled up inside. Everyone is turned on, especially me.

Producer’s Ring: Craig vs. Bale

August 3, 2018 wrestlebard3 Comments

Readers may think that they know this world. Many of the names may seem familiar. You may think you’ve been to the places mentioned. But you haven’t. Because this world exists a half-blink to the left of the world you live in. In this world, mass media have outgrown the confines of national boundaries or legal regulations. Broadcast television has spun off multimillion dollar closed-circuit, membership-only channels that cater to the tastes of niche markets worldwide. The internet mobilized so quickly in the 1980’s that it quickly outpaced bricks-and-mortar political and economic institutions to reshape the world into a place where the virtual and the real blend and blur, where democracy elects regional leaders through virtual social networks, and where those leaders are replaced the moment their poll numbers fall below 50%. The political economy is one instantaneously responsive unit, with the Titans of the entertainment industry commanding power never seen before in history, based on their ability to give the people what they want, what they lust for, what they demand.

In this world, Eli Brody is a Titan among Titans. He cornered the gay entertainment market in the early 90’s with gay broadcast entertainment and membership channels devoted to the varied tastes, erotic and otherwise, of gay men. Generating an immense capital base from his gay entertainment empire, he subsequently emerged as one of the top five titans of the teen girl entertainment genre, benefiting from considerable crossover between the two markets. Riding this wave of market success, Eli rose to the political top of the culturally dominant West Coast North America region in 2004. He has remained the top industry and regional political leader for the longest consecutive tenure of any Titan in postmodern history.

Eli Brody stays behind the camera, but he’s nothing if not camera-ready. At a modest 5’8″, Eli crafts his body daily through swimming, weight training, and private grappling sessions. He keeps his dark hair just long enough to show his natural curls. His piercing brown eyes peer from an angular face with a square jaw and strong chin. The public never sees Eli without a West Coast casual business suit, but his tailored suits frame a strong, slender torso with a broad chest and shoulders. His trousers are amply filled with his thick thighs. Eli is an object of lust not only because of his carefully crafted physique and good looks, though. Eli exudes the power he possesses. Men and women are drawn to him because he commands and controls; he is a postmodern Titan managing the personalities that people tune into, deploying the faces and the bodies that the world consumes. “The talent” maintain a popular following and political economic power of their own, but it is Eli that makes the talent, breaks the talent, and gives the people whatever they, and he, want.

The Focus Group – Daniel Craig vs. Christian Bale

The last movie theater in North America closed in 1995. Streaming internet and home theater technology put sticky floored theaters with skyrocketing ticket prices out of business. The “film” industry had become a high-rollers’ club for entertainment industry Titans like Eli Brody. TV series and low-budget made-for-TV movies vied for marketshare with lower-salaried talent, lower-tech effects, and writers that tended to recycle through one body of plot lines every thirteen years. On the other hand, the “film” industry deployed stars that commanded a mass audience of devoted fans, tech-intensive sets and effects, and cream-of-the-crop writers who recycled plot lines with slightly more originality. Big budget films streamed across the same bandwidth as TV, but sponsorships and audiences could make or break a Titan with one film.

Eli Brody had seen fellow Titans destroyed by poorly chosen money-pit films. Eli had a knack for picking winners, though. Specializing in the gay male and adolescent female demographics, Eli produced a handful of films each year that invariably made money and built the fortunes and careers of elite talent that could deliver what the viewing public demanded.

Daniel Craig was an English actor who Eli discovered toiling in the European Region TV circuit. Eli immediately saw Daniel’s potential and offered him a project contract for more money than Daniel had ever seen. Daniel learned quickly to trust Eli’s guidance. Their partnership transformed Daniel into a “box office” champion who had his audiences eating out of his hand. Under Eli’s tutelage, Daniel’s body was toned, he was effortlessly confident, and he could make his audiences orgasm with a flash of his bright blue eyes.

Although Christian Bale was six years younger than Daniel, his film career was longer. Once a child star, Eli saw Christian as a young adult and began throwing him some projects. Christian first made it big with the adolescent female demographic, but with Eli’s urging, Christian put on muscle, took off his clothes, and hardened the cocks of a loyal gay male audience. With each new hit, Christian listened less and challenged Eli’s career advice more and more.

Daniel was slated for a pet project that he had negotiated when he filmed his last cocktease blockbuster. Eli humored Daniel’s insistence on taking some “high art” roles now and then, just so long as Daniel maintained his market power with major revenue projects. Christian had grown interested in the art-film, though, and he had given Eli the ultimatum to give the part to him, or else Christian would shop his talents elsewhere.

Eli resisted. “Daniel can draw his audience along with him on this project. I’m not sure you can pull that off,” Eli countered.

“What the fuck are you talking about, E?!” Christian raged, his Welsh inflection apparent only when he was angry. “I could be wearing a dress and still make the boys cum!”

Eli filed that idea away, then offered Christian a shot at the project. “I can pull together a focus group to test the audience response to the two of you. I’ll give this to you Christian, if you can win over the focus group. If not, I pick your next project for you with no input, no right of refusal. You do it my way. Do we have a deal?”

Christian smirked and shook Eli’s hand. “I’ll destroy that old man,” he said cockily.

——————————

Christian arrived at an unmarked alley entrance to an anonymous brick building in Seattle. A hugely muscled blond man in a t-shirt and cut-off jeans opened the door when Christian knocked. He waved Christian in, instructing him to follow the hallway to the right all the way to the end and enter the last door on the left. “Change out of your clothes and to get ready for the fight. Someone will come for you,” the doorman said.

Christian had no idea what sort of fight he was in for. Coming into the business as a child star, Christian had managed to pick up productions without screen tests or focus groups as a young adult. Despite being new to the need to really compete for a role, he was beginning to get a picture of the focus group he had to win over. As he walked down the hallway, naked men with towels wrapped around their waists were milling about, going in and out of rooms, looking Christian up and down. Christian found his dressing room and entered, noting that there was no door. The room was empty except for a towel lying on a bed. Christian pulled off his jacket and unbuttoned his shirt, stripping down to his jeans. Christian looked at himself in a mirror on the wall. He was in top form. His aggressive weight training and cardio schedule had left him shredded, practically zero body fat, with tightly layered muscles. Christian peeled off his jeans and wrapped the white towel around his white Calvin Klein briefs.

A knock at the door frame startled Christian. He jumped and turned, to find Eli standing dressed only in a towel, leaning against the wall. Eli had a carpet of short, dark hair across his chest and in a fine line down the center of his rippled abs. Eli crooked his finger, beckoning Christian out of the room. Christian walked into the hallway, and Eli placed his hand across Christian’s shoulder, directing him down the hallway as Eli explained what was about to happen. “You’ll be fighting Daniel in a small arena. Your focus group will watch, and I advise you to take note of the feedback that they give you. I’m no longer the one you need to win over, Christian. They are. Secure a submission from Daniel any way that you can. Once the match is over, we’ll poll the focus group to see how they felt the two of you did.”

Eli brought him to a halt at a closed, unmarked door. Eli opened the door, and firmly pushed Christian through. Christian found himself in a dark, narrow hallway. About 10 feet in front of him, he saw light and an opening into another room. Christian walked out of the dark hallway and found himself in a small room, about 15 feet square. The walls were painted black and the floor was covered in wall-to-wall black gym mats. About 10 feet up the walls, Christian could see a balcony surrounding all four walls, filled with men in towels. As they caught sight of Christian, a low cheer arose, as some of the men applauded over a rumble of conversations. The room felt damp and hot, a musky smell of sweat and sex hanging in the air.

The crowd on the balcony erupted into raucous shouts and applause suddenly, all eyes seeming to fix all at once on Christian. Confused, Christian waved at the men and smiled. He jumped with a start when a warm hand touched his shoulder. Turning suddenly, he found that Daniel Craig had just walked up behind him from the same hallway by which Christian had entered.

Daniel was a couple of inches shorter than Christian, but more thickly muscled and a little heavier. Where Christian was all shredded muscle, Daniel looked more like a longshoreman, or perhaps a pornstar playing the part of a longshoreman. Daniel’s arms, shoulders and chest were huge. His waist was not as narrow as Christian’s, but his abs were a rock hard wall of tight muscle. A dark blond trail of hair extended downward from his bellybutton, disappearing beneath the towel wrapped around his waist. Daniel’s ample butt stretched the terry cloth, and the bulge at his crotch suggested Daniel was packing something impressive from the front as well.

Laughter and cheers mixed from the balcony, as Christian flinched away from Daniel in surprise. Christian walked backward to the to the center of the room, Daniel following him, holding his gaze. Daniel spoke calmly to Christian, “Don’t worry kid,” he said in his English accent. “I won’t embarrass you… unless that’s what they demand.” Daniel nodded at the men on the balcony, who cheered wildly.

Christian lunged forward, wrapping his arms around Daniel’s powerful waist. Daniel lifted his arms as Christian approached, allowing himself to be captured in his opponent’s embrace. Christian squeezed tightly and lifted Daniel up off the mat, taking advantage of his extra height and pressing his face against Daniel’s mounded pecs. Daniel allowed himself to be held for several seconds, clearly unaffected by Christian’s bearhug. Daniel smiled up at the balcony, giving them two thumbs up. The men howled in laughter.

Daniel stretched his arms out straight to the sides, then with a snap, he brought his fists together, boxing Christian’s ears sharply. Christian yelped in pain, dropping Daniel to the floor and backing away, holding his ears and wincing in pain. Daniel lifted his arms victoriously and waved at the crowd above. Turning his back on Christian, Daniel blew kisses at a group of men cheering particularly loudly behind him.

Christian rushed forward and ripped the towel away from Daniel’s waist to humiliate him. The balcony erupted even louder in applause and cheers, as Daniel turned slowly to face Christian, smiling slyly, completely naked. Daniel rubbed his chest with his left hand while rubbing his right hand down his abdomen and grabbing his thick cock and balls. Daniel’s crotched was shaved except for a small crescent of hair, framing the base of his cock in short, dark blond curls. Christian stood watching, stunned, as some of the men above dropped their own towels and started rubbing themselves.

Nervous sweat trickled down Christian’s ribs as he sized Daniel up. Daniel was almost certainly stronger, and he seemed to know what these men liked. For the first time, Christian began to doubt that he could win this thing. Angrily, Christian darted low to Daniel’s side, wrapping his arms around Daniel’s neck as he came upright to stand behind him. Christian pulled Daniel’s towel, still in his hands, across his neck, drawing it taught, choking Daniel savagely. Daniel clawed at the towel, his face quickly growing dark red. Daniel fell to his knees as Christian towered above and behind him. Christian placed his right knee in the center of Daniel’s back, leveraging his weight backward to choke Daniel harder. The balcony grew quiet, watching intently, listening to Daniel’s choked grunts .

As Daniel’s left hand continued to claw at the towel around his neck, his right hand flicked behind his back. He latched a hold of Christian’s towel, still wrapped around his waist, and tugged it loose. Christian’s towel fell to the floor, and a chorus of “boos” erupted from the balcony. Catcalls rained down on Christian, telling him to “drop the under-roos, kid!” Christian realized that his decision to retain his underwear was costing him with the crowd.

Christian released his choke on Daniel and awkwardly pulled down his underwear. The balcony was filled with competing jeers and cheers, as Christian bared his ass, doubled over to draw his underwear off his feet. By this time, still red in the face, Daniel had spun around on his knees in front of Christian. With a savage look in his eyes, Daniel grabbed Christian’s ankles before he could get his Calvin’s off. Daniel pulled Christian’s feet out from under him, dropping him on his now bare ass. Daniel ripped Christian’s underwear to shreds, then used the strips of cloth to bound Christian’s feet. The crowd hooted and hollered their approval.

Trussed up by the ankles, Christian tried to squirm away from Daniel. Both men had broken out into a full sweat in the heat and musk of the arena. Daniel pursued his opponent, grabbing Christian’s ankles firmly and standing up, pulling Christian’s legs up off the mat. Daniel lifted Christian and spun him around in circles by his ankles, helpless. As the room spun, Christian’s eyes rolled upward into his head, a wave of nausea washing over him. Finally, Daniel slammed Christian on his back in the middle of the room, breathless and dizzy.

Christian kicked to try to free his ankles from their bonds. Daniel reached down, squeezing his left hand between Christian’s sweaty thighs and cradling Christian’s neck in his right arm. Scooping him up in his arms to rest horizontally across his chest, Daniel paraded Christian around the mat, kneading his round ass with his left hand. Daniel came to a standstill in the center of the room, and a hush fell upon the crowd in anticipation of what Daniel might do next. With a loud grunt, Daniel hoisted Christian high up on his upper chest, then dropped him powerfully, driving Christian’s back down across his outstretched knee. Christian screamed out in pain, and the crowd erupted into cheers.

Daniel used his right hand to pin Christian’s chest in a savage over-the-knee backbreaker. Then Daniel grabbed Christian’s cock in his left fist, massaging. Christian’s dick responded immediately, swelling, growing thicker and longer under Daniel’s manipulation. Christian groaned as Daniel jerked him semi-erect. Then savagely, Daniel gripped Christian’s cock and balls tightly. Christian screamed, his hands darting forward to try to pry Daniel’s left hand away. Daniel squeezed harder, “tut-tut”-ing at Christian. Grunting fiercely, Daniel pulled upward on Christian’s trapped cock and balls, lifting him off his knee a fraction, and then driving him downward to the mat. Christian’s back arched away from the mat in pain, Daniel’s left hand still maintaining his brutal cock claw.

Both men were covered in sheets of sweat now. Still maintaining his control over Christian’s crotch, Daniel leaned over Christian’s face and shook his blond hair, showering him with sweat. The balcony hooted in approval. Then Daniel swung his right leg over Christian’s prone body, straddling his chest, facing Christian’s crotch. Daniel’s right hand joined his left hand in squeezing Christian’s cock and balls. Christian screamed in desperate pain, arching his lower back. Christian’s arms were pinned beneath Daniel’s thick legs, and Daniel’s ass was directly in front of Christian’s face.

Daniel leaned forward onto his hands, still locked on Christian’s crotch. Daniel extended his legs straight backward, his body planked above Christian’s head. Daniel began doing push-ups over his opponent, his triceps and chest straining. As Daniel dropped low, he rubbed his cock around Christian’s face . Then he pressed his body up, leveraging his full upper body weight onto Christian’s trapped crotch. Again, Daniel dipped low, pressing his swelling cock, across Christian’s face, then up again. Up and down, Daniel pressed. The crowd counted the push ups eagerly, “…eight! …nine! …ten!”

Daniel pulled his knees forward again to straddle Christian’s chest, releasing Christian’s bruised, swollen cock. With both hands, he dug into Christian’s vulnerable abdominal muscles with savage claws. Digging his fingers in and pulling the muscles apart, Daniel elicited a pained scream from Christian.

After a torturous minute, Daniel released the abdominal claw and spun around to straddle his opponent’s midsection, now facing Christian’s head. Daniel massaged Christian’s sweaty, tight pecs for a moment, as Christian gasped trying to catch his breath. Then savagely Daniel clawed at his opponent’s pecs, the fingers of each hand digging into the sides were the muscle met the rib cage. Pressing his thumbs into the meat of each pec, Daniel pulling upward. Christian screamed, frantically trying to pry Daniel’s fingers away from his chest. Christian arched his body, trying to buck his opponent off of him. Daniel simply dug his fingers deeper and pulled harder. Daniel leaned forward, maintaining his pec claws, placing his mouth a fraction of an inch away from Christian’s trembling mouth. “Submit!” Daniel said commandingly. Christian closed his eyes and shook his head no.

Daniel pulled his feet underneath him, then pulled Christian off the mat by his trapped pecs. Christian’s face was contorted in pain, tears flowing down his cheeks, as Daniel dragged him to his feet. Daniel pushed Christian backward into the wall, pressing his body into his claws digging into Christian’s chest. Then Daniel grunted loudly as he lifted his arms upward, sliding Christian’s sweaty back up the wall by his trapped pecs. Daniel’s arms locked, fully extended, suspending Christian’s body more than half a foot off the floor. Christian winced silently, his mouth hanging open and his eyes squinting shut. “How does that feel?” Daniel asked, almost sounding like he sincerely wanted to know. “It looks really painful. Submit now and I’ll put you out of your misery.” Christian’s eyes remained closed, tears squeezing out the corners, but he shook his head no.

Daniel shifted his center of gravity, pressing his full body weight onto his right hand. Releasing his left claw, Daniel watched Christian’s right pec spasm and twitch involuntarily. Then Daniel thrust his left hand against Christian’s balls, squeezing tightly. Christian screamed in pain, then cried, “I submit!” Applause broke out from the balcony, as a chant of “Dan-iel! Dan-iel!” erupted spontaneously.

Instead of releasing his grip, Daniel dipped his left shoulder low. Peeling Christian away from the wall, Daniel lifted him over his head by his clawholds on Christian’s left pec and balls. Daniel locked his arms straight over his head, and walked slowly to the center of the room, balancing his victim carefully overhead. Christian was sobbing in pain, sweat pouring off his body in streams onto Daniel’s powerful body below him. Daniel held his opponent overhead until his own body began to fatigue, his muscles jumping and wobbling with the strain. The crowd continued chanting, “Dan-iel! Dan-iel!”

Finally, Daniel dropped his decimated opponent downward. Christian fell helplessly, then crashed violently, his weakened stomach folding across Daniel’s outstretched knee. Christian bounced upward, and Daniel shoved him forward. Christian slammed to the mat and rolled over twice, then lay motionless, groaning deliriously. The crowd was howling, near hysterics.

Daniel kneeled on one knee next to Christian’s head lying on the mat. He stared down silently for half a minute, then leaned his head low, his lips again a fraction away from Christian’s mouth. “The next time you try to steal my role,” Daniel growled lowly, “I’ll fuck you until you split in half.”

Daniel jumped to his feet, stomping his foot onto Christian’s startled midsection. Daniel flexed his right bicep for the adoring crowd, while his left hand massaged his semi-erect cock.

—————————

After Daniel and the crowds exited the arena, Eli had to carry Christian cradled in his arms back to the dressing room. Eli waited with him for 30 minutes before Christian was able to sit up on the bed, his head clearing and every inch of his torso throbbing in pain. As Christian pulled his jeans and shirt over his still wet body, Eli reported “You definitely have a following. Although your performance was significantly harmed by your showing up in your underwear, there was nearly universal approval of the way you endured your suffering for a nice, long time. As I expected, though, 95% of the focus group identified Daniel as both the winner and their favorite. So he’ll keep his project. And about your claim that you could draw an audience even if you were wearing a dress…”

Re-Runs

August 3, 2018August 3, 2018 wrestlebard2 Comments

On the one hand, I’ve been noticeably absent from posting here because I’ve been busier than ever with the work that pays the bills. On the other hand, I’m making more money than I ever had in my life, so on the balance, you probably shouldn’t pity me too much for my busyness. I’m not getting to watch as much wrestling these days, however, which is pitiable. I have a few reviews of recent releases in the hopper, but in the meantime, as a compromise, I thought I’d trot out some old pieces that I’ve published elsewhere (and thus, require less time for me to post here now).

A friend who knows this blog well recently asked me about text-based wrestling erotica. It became evident that he was entirely unaware of the homoerotic wrestling fiction I’ve written in the past. I have a couple of collections of stories in private sites for a couple of hundred interested readers. One of those collections became a collaborative site for other writers to post as well (and thus the first time I got to be wildly turned on by the writing of Alex). I pulled down some of the old stories for this friend of mine who was completely unaware of my fiction catalog, and found myself turned on all over again reading these little blasts from the past.

So pulling these out of the private archives and into the light of day feels like something I can carve out some time to do here and there, to supplement my sparse posting on more current topics. I’ve also been inspired by Alex successfully transitioning his ongoing catalog to his blog, so I know it can be done and there may be an interested audience.

So I’ll post another post momentarily with the introduction to the “Producer’s Ring” world, along with one of the first matches I wrote for that universe. Digging into these stories has already given me the bug to write more, but then that takes me right back to my first point in this post. In any case, thanks for checking in on me in my absence recently, and I hope you enjoy these matches dating back more than 8 years.

Always the Bride’s Maid

July 9, 2018 wrestlebardLeave a comment

Joshua Goodman (that’s Mr. Joshua to you!) has got to be one of the most underrated wrestlers at BG East. I admit, I’m biased. I’ve been sending love letters to his crotch for years now. But objectively speaking, Mr. Joshua is seriously dangerous in the ring, and getting more so the longer he’s in the business. Opponents never seem to recognize the threat until it’s too late. I suppose it’s easy to underestimate someone so sensationally pretty. One might easily assume that a musclehunk so epically endowed hasn’t had to work as hard as others might have. I suspect I’m not the only one who would do just about anything Mr. Joshua wanted in exchange for a close up look at his marvelous muscles and that titanic bulge. So perhaps it’s understandable that opponents might think he’s more show than go.

Chace LaChance channels his inner von Erich

Chace LaChance gives Mr. J a smirk and an eye roll before their Hunkbash 19 match. Like so many before him, Chace appears oblivious to the functional potential Mr. Joshua’s fantasyman body possesses. He just sees a gym bunny goomba who looks better suited to a stripper pole than a wrestling ring. And sure, Chace is every ounce as much a pretty boy as Mr. J. He’s channeling Kevin von Erich, with his bare feet, taped ankles and wrists, and insanely fuckable muscle-ass. Chace is solid as fuck and fits the part of a beefy babyface with the potential to bring a boatload of hurt. Opponents and fans take him seriously in a way that they don’t always do for Mr. J.

Chace rubs his Best Body Award in Mr. J’s face

The match appears to be recorded during Chace’s reign as the wrestler voted Best Body at BG East. It seems like he hasn’t been humbled yet by having Kid Karisma rip that title from his clutches (all hail the king!). He’s flexing in the mirror as Mr. J arrives, and when the recurring Best Bulge winner harasses him a little, Chace is quick to point out that he’s the “muscle model winner” in the room. It’s not the first time that an opponent has basked in the accolades that Mr. Joshua rightfully believes that he deserves. He’s been bitterly watching baby hunks jump in line in front of him as top ranked objects of muscle worship for far too long. He’s had his eye on being a mainstream fitness model for years, but then the likes of Chace keep making Mr. J the runner-up. My theory is that Mr. J’s mouthwatering physique is persistently underrated because no one can tear their eyes away from his mammoth package. What mainstream fitness mag, intent on disguising their inherent nature as softcore gay porn, would want to paste the overtly and over the top eroticism of Mr. Joshua’s Louisville slugger on the their cover?

In any case, Chace flashes his von-Erich-esque hotness and ponders his next match, just assuming that he’s got a victory over this erotic dancer in the bag. Mr. J suddenly grabs him by the back of the head and chokes him over the top rope, making Chace’s powerhouse muscled ass quiver with shock. “It’s dominance time, baby,” Mr. J crows.

Chace buries his face in Mr. J’s tortured muscles

It’s a hunkbash, but not entirely one-sided. Chace has been in the business long enough to know how to earn a little respect even when he’s getting buried under hard. The Best Body beefcake interrupts Mr. J’s momentum long enough to nearly decapitate him with a clothesline and scoop him up in a gorgeously muscled bearhug. It’s no secret that I love a heel, but I particularly swoon over a fallible heel. I crush on them a hundred times harder when a heel takes a little taste of humiliation and has to put his opponent in his place with just that much more authority to obliterate the memory of that fleeting moment of hope. Mr. J hoisted off his feet, every muscle clenched in agony, sweet glistening off his forehead, is hot as fuck. For that brief, shining moment, Chace is the barefoot babyface hero with a serious chance of defeating the nefarious bad ass with sheer will and hard work.

Chace’s pretty face pounded into the mat

It’s just that much sweeter watching Mr. J chop him in the neck with his elbow, pound him corner to corner, and then flatten him like a panic with a sprinting clothesline. “This is muscle worship, boy,” Mr. Joshua snarls, pumping a most muscular pose over top of his writhing, whimpering, despairing victim. Fuck, I’m aching to see another Mr. J match with an opponent who’s even half as turned on by him as I am (somebody please tell me that Randy Stanton has been training with Kid Vicious for his rematch with Mr. J!). Mr. Joshua mentions muscle worship several times in this match, lording his superiority over Chace with relish, implicitly acknowledging you and me, dizzy with lust for him. He tugs at the top of his trunks and shoves his hand into his pouch to rearrange the beast within, which, let’s face it, is really Mr. J’s signature move.

Watch him strut and flex. Just watch him, eyes fixed on his own gorgeous image staring back at him in the mirror, but with his beautiful body turned at the perfect angle for us to adore his physique. Mr. Joshua wants to be worshipped. I want him to be worshipped. Please begin to flood the mailbox of BGE, insisting on booking Mr. J with an opponent with both the raging erotic desire to worship him, and the wrestling skills to demand the full tour.

Chace fails to appreciate this enviable position

I digress. Mr. Joshua does that to me. Two particular holds demonstrate Mr. Joshua’s brilliance and beauty most directly. First, he wears Chace out repeatedly with headscissors. There’s just something combustible about watching Mr. J shove a man’s head high up between his thighs. Crotch pillow scissors and face-to-crotch scissors alike draw our attention like a magnet to Mr. J’s gargantuan package. Chace just bitches and whine’s about the humiliation. Fuck I hate him right then and there. He should be thanking his lucky stars.

The Best Body getting fucked (over) by the Best Bulge

The other move Mr. J comes back to repeatedly is thrusting reverse bearhug. It’s just meant to be: Chace’s luxuriously muscled ass cheeks pressed firmly around Mr. Joshua’s protruding package. “Fuck you,” Chace mutters impotently with Mr. J’s pole grinding into his crevice. “Did you say something, muscleboy,” Mr. Joshua openly laughs. “I can’t hear you!”

Mr. Joshua manhandles Chace more completely than I can ever remember Chace getting manhanlded before. Over the knee backbreakers serve him up like a Thanksgiving turkey. Mr. J’s squats, with Chace racked across his shoulders helplessly, demonstrate what Mr. J means when he repeatedly announces, “It’s dominance time, baby!” There’s one particular camel clutch that has Chace weeping like a sniveling bitch, begging for mercy, owned in total. Mr. Joshua throws him down with contempt, leans back and slaps Chace’s Best Body butt possessively.

Fuck, this match fires on all cylinders. If you like watching a von Erich get plowed under and owned, body and soul, or if you’re even half the Mr. Joshua fan I am, pull up a chair. Mr. Joshua is back to deliver a message. Anybody jumping in line in front of him for muscle worship glory had better watch his back.

Triple Z

June 24, 2018 wrestlebardLeave a comment

I’m a simple man. I like word play and alliteration. I enjoy well told stories with compelling characters. And I love hotly muscled, mismatched hunks making each other scream.

Zip Zarella’s sensational schooling of Z-Man in Hunkbash 19 has all the required ingredients to make my mouth water. I’m sure I’ve said it before, and I’m sure I’ll say it again, but I am 100% positive that Z-Man has a decrepit portrait of himself aging in a dusty attic somewhere. He’s fucking inhuman! To say that his physique is on point in this match is the least newsworthy statement in history. His physique is ALWAYS on point. My opinions of his wrestling have waxed and waned over the years, but his sexy-as-fuck, luxuriously ripped muscles have remained perpetually and permanently perfect.

Then there’s Zip Zarella. I’m just about ready to offer to throw down with ANYONE who wants to challenge me as his biggest fan. His boyish babyface is cute as a fucking button, which makes his gorgeously inked muscles just that much more breathtaking. I know that his day job is as an indy pro narcissist in the made-for-the-masses variety of wrestling, but that combo of boy-next-door dimples and gay porn-ready body is simply perfect for pro wrestling for a gay audience, as far as I’m concerned.

The narrative device is pristinely simple. Z-Man is, unquestionably, a soft-core physique model who’s made mint moonlighting as a ham sandwich for gay wrestling audiences forever. So his strut and smirk just piss the fuck out of Zip, who perfected his craft night in and night out in front of live fickle indy pro wrestling audiences. But in the BG East universe, let’s face it, Z-Man is the The Man in this match. All he has to do is snap his fingers and clench his ass cheeks and an army of gay wrestling fans would cum drooling all over ~~themselves~~ ourselves. In our corner of the universe, Zip is a newbie still building his brand. Of course, I was an extremely early adopter, but BGE fans are still deciding how to respond to Zip.

Honestly, I’ve seen a lot of indy pro wrestlers dabbling in wrestling for gay audiences who convey, quite clearly, overall apathy for the sexual objectification that is a key ingredient in what we’re talking about. Hell, some of them seem hard pressed to suppress out and out repulsion at the thought that you and I are getting turned on watching them at their craft.

“You’re liking this,” Zip speaks the truth.

Zip is not a no-homo-bro. When he finds Z-Man posing in the mirror, he insists on a side-by-side comparison. Zip turns his back to his opponent, and us, and gives a juicy flex of his right bicep and tightly packed glutes. “You’re liking this,” Zip chuckles, catching Z-Man’s glance. He’s also talking to you and me when he says, without a hint of reproach, “I see you looking.” Hell, Zip is tickled as fuck that you and I are looking at his phenomenal body.

Permit me to fast forward a half a dozen minutes or so in this match. Zip is beating the living fuck out of Z-Man. It’s gorgeous and completely humiliating. Zip just can’t get over what a pushover this prettyboy is, after having heard about all of the gay wrestling fans who fawn over Z-Man. “All those pretty muscles won’t help you now,” Zip laughs, twisting Z-Man’s ankle viciously in a sick leg lock and making him scream. He manhandles the coverboy like a practice dummy, dragging him up into a bearhug, pounding him into a corner, and then hip tossing him hard to his back in the middle of the ring. Zip flexes his tatted pecs in a most muscular pose, first checking the mirror for the optics, and then turning his gaze directly at the camera. “Is this what you guys want!?”

Ohfuckyes, that is most definitely what THIS guy wants! Zip wants to please some fans. He wants to deliver. He’s holding the gay gaze and looking back, unflinchingly, and demanding to know if he’s stroking us just the way we like it. I have no idea what team Zip plays for on his own time, but when he’s on our dime, he appears enthusiastically committed to delivering in the ring whatever it takes for us to unZip our pants and grab hold of the entertainment he delivers with both hands.

Fuck, I love this guy. Sex and contempt pour off him like a steam shower. “Is this really THE Z-Man they brought me,” he scoffs, choking him with a barehand, bending him backward across the top rope. “I trained for a wrestling competition, for this? This is a joke,” he barks with a half-laugh at how easily he has his way with the coverboy. He face-plants Z-Man’s prettypretty face into one turnbuckle after another. “Oh, I heard about you,” Zip taunts, cranking the fuck out of a figure-4 leglock that makes Z-Man howl like a wounded animal. “And I was expecting so much more than this!”

“Come on, boy, flex those pretty muscles now!”

I know some of you hate spoilers, but then again, you know I spoil matches constantly. But seriously, this is a Hunkbash. It should hardly be a shock when I say Zip plows down Z-Man like a riding lawnmower. But this is so much more than a squash. Zip is out to do a lot more than “win.” He’s hell bent on destroying the body beautiful beefcake who, at least for the moment, possesses more BG East fans than Zip does by a factor of at least 20 to 1. “Come on, boy, flex those pretty muscles now,” Zip taunts, literally (I kid you not) standing on Z-Man’s head crushed into the mat.

He drags him up to his feet, and Z-Man is standing only because Zip his holding him up by a fistful of hair. “I’m about to break you in half, boy!” Zip scoops him up across his chest like a child and parades the battered beefcake around the ring a couple of laps before pounding him down in a sensational OTK backbreaker. And up and down again, cracking him sideways across his thigh. And again.

“That’s right,” Zip crows, his pecs bouncing and his muscled glutes flexing. “I’m the new Z-Man. I’m taking over here. I’m the new body guy!” I’m sorry to have to tell Zip that he almost certainly has not made anyone less a fan of Z-Man, laying waste to Z-Man’s fantasyman body and manhandling him so beautifully. However, I have to believe that Zip’s masterful ownership of both Z-Man’s crushable body and the narrative of this compelling match will do nothing but bring along more fans to the ZZ camp.

Get in line behind me! I’ve been eyefucking this magnificent specimen all along. And more importantly, Zip has been asking for it all along. The Z-Man is vanquished. Long live the Z-Man!

“Centerpiece this!”

June 15, 2018 wrestlebard3 Comments

Holy crap! It’s been a month since I had a chance to post anything. Time flies when life is full and busy. I have managed to squeeze in a little time writing a few match descriptions for the new release of BG East’s catalog 128. So even if you don’t know it, you very well may be reading some of my writing in that format. As so often happens with big pauses in my blogging, I’m now facing a backlog of intentions and plans. I’ll do my best to backfill, but hot new wrestling releases wait for no blogger.

With that in mind, I want to describe the sweat soaked pleasure it was to watch one of my longstanding obsessions climb into the ring again in the new release of Ringwars 29: Steeped in Sweat. Honestly, all it took was watching Mitch Colby stretching before the match to get me dizzyingly aroused. Over the years we’ve seen Mitch in various states of fitness. There is no version of him that fails to turn me on, mind you, but in RW29, he is mind bogglingly gorgeous, primed and pumped, tanned and toned, with mile wide shoulders and an impossibly narrow waist like Clark Kent at a day at the beach.

0106_lg — You can afford to be chill when you look this hot!

There’s something coolly majestic about Mitch. I suppose if you look like he does, and you’ve hammered your rockin’ muscles so sweetly out on your 6’2″ frame, you can afford to be chill as fuck. He’s self-possessed and confident, this side of cockiness. I always get the impression that Mitch wants a challenge. He gets a little contemptuous if it’s too easy. Mitch appreciates serious competition. He wants to prove himself.

“Serious” is not a word that jumps to the front of the line when Jobe Zander struts into the ring room. Fuck, I hate this guy. And by hate, I mean, fuck, I ache to see someone beat the living shit out of him and strip him naked. He’s always a contender for biggest bulge in the business. And he enthusiastically puts his most prominent feature forward in every match, calling attention to “the Centerpiece,” and taking every opportunity to shove his massive package in an opponent’s face. Jobe is loud and over the top and almost comical, which is clearly his modus operandi. He struts and barks and presents himself almost as a caricature of the narcissist pro wrestler, invariably disarming his opponent who struggles to take him seriously.

Do NOT fail to take Jobe Zander seriously! Mitch learns what most of Jobe’s opponent’s learn. Underestimate him at your peril. He takes it to the beach body beefcake with authority, and I love watching Mitch struggling to dig himself out of a hole. Even before the low blows and dirty tricks take over the narrative, Jobe quickly outhustles my fitness model infatuation and works him over like a boss.

As is almost always the case, inexplicably, it’s Jobe who’s first to attack his opponent’s balls. I’ve got all sorts of feels about watching him claw the fuck out of Mitch’s bulge. First and foremost, just getting a feel of what Mitch is packing is a vicarious thrill. In particular, this reach through the legs from behind with a subtle twisting chaser is as if I’m remote controlling Jobe. Mitch, with his glistening, superhuman muscles quivering in agony and whimpering, is a work of art. But I’m also rolling my eyes at this move because you know, for a fact, what happens next when Jobe, possessing arguably the most massive crotch in competition, flings open the door of crotch attacks.

0146_lg — “What’s wrong, can’t take your own medicine?”

That shit just got real, now, didn’t it, Jobe? I’ve been taken to task before for crushing hard on a classic babyface disciplining a vile heel. But I can’t help it. Sometimes I want to see an earnest, magnificently muscled jock slap a loudmouth cheater down and make him regret it all. I know, I’m such a mark. When I’m pounding one out in ecstasy watching Mitch make the previously cocky bad boy weep and beg, I don’t give a shit. These two hunks can manipulate me any way they want.

Jobe make SUCH a huge deal of his HUGE deal, it’s no wonder that, yet again, this match really becomes all about “the Centerpiece.” He shoves it in Mitch’s face. He demands that the hunky heart throb pay homage to the legend that is straining the seams of Jobe’s pouch. “The tide has turned, Mitch the Bitch,” Jobe snarls down atop the schoolboy pin, smothering Mitch in his ball gag. “I’m the Centerpiece here,” he monologues like a Batman villain. “Nothing can stop me now!”

It turns out, a 6’2″ fitness competitor in the best shape of his life can, actually, stop Jobe Zander. Mitch milks the babyface retribution to perfection. He scolds Jobe mercilessly for his greed and self-centeredness. He punishes him brutally, employing all of those stunningly gorgeous muscles to accomplish the task of dominating and destroying this quite serious competition. It’s not as if it had to go this way. It’s not as if Mitch is, by his nature, hell bent on humiliating and bullying an opponent. He’s just cashing that check that Jobe’s been writing all along, piling on complete domination to not just beat him, but to disprove every taunt and brag and unnecessary act of poor sportsmanship along the way. “How about that for a Centerpiece,” Mitch demands to know, resting his balls on Jobe’s chin and anointing his own big bulge the new title holder.

There are a lot of familiar components to this match, if you’ve watch many of Jobe’s more recent bouts. But there are a few delightful innovations in this pairing that I have to mention. One such innovation is that Jobe makes Mitch scream. I mean, really scream. Mitch typically is the type to screw up his face and put a cork in it when he’s suffering hard. Agony paralyzes and gags him most days. But when Jobe really cranks on his balls, crushing and twisting and dragging him around the ring by them, Mitch lets loose with some crotch tingling screeches of pain. Fuck, I love that chink in the muscleman’s armor.

The other notable part that I want to mention is all the trunk pulling. It’s like Mitch knows how much I’ve been wanting someone to finally rip Jobe’s trunks off and show us what the heel has been teasing for years now. That doesn’t quite happen, despite my longing. Nor does Mitch bend him over the top rope with Jobe’s anaconda in his hand and Mitch’s manhood up Jobe’s round ass. But both wrestlers give us peekaboo glimpses of the underworld, dragging each other around by a fist full of trunks and showing off just a little of the astonishing beauty both men criminally cover up with their gear.

Mitch’s bearhugs are sexy as fuck. If watching his gargantuan deltoids flex and swell as he crushes his wailing opponent suspended a foot off the ground doesn’t get you off, then it is a complete enigma to me why you would read this blog.

This match pushes a ton of my buttons, so if we share any buttons, I recommend you tuck in. My infatuation with magnificent Mitch has only grown with his latest display of his power and beauty. If the wrestling gods ever bother to hear our prayers, then please, oh PLEASE, let’s see Mitch pit his mouthwatering muscles again another longstanding infatuation of mine, Scott Williams. That would be the headliner match to the “Masters Division” matches I’ve been fantasizing about for so long now.

The Charm Offensive

May 12, 2018 wrestlebard2 Comments

You only have to be casually familiar with this blog to know that I’m a major Chase Addams fan. I literally sponsored his first custom, signature trunks. It makes me feel a little like a part-owner of his hot ass when he wears the tight, gun-metal gear with the words “Charming as Fuck” stitched across his backside. I didn’t contribute to the shiny purple version of those same trunks that he wears in his new match for Florida Fights 7: Pride-Aftershow, but I still feel like I’ve got a proprietary claim on his derriere.

Someone has GOT to dick slap that grin right off of Kirk’s face!

Regular readers also know of my strong feelings about Kirk Donahue, Chase’s opponent in Florida Fights 7. I hate that guy. I mean, he’s also a sexy little fucker with incredible wrestling chops that I respect the hell out of. But there’s just something about his heavy lidded, smirky, smart ass, saccharine-sweet earnestness that leaves me with an insatiable desire to watch him get thumped and plowed under hard, again and again. Happily for me, BGE wrestlers keep delivering that sweet dish over and over, smacking the cutesy off of Kirk’s freckled face and making the cocky indy pro weep like a little bitch.

Trevor Read, how the FUCK did you blow this!?!

And then, somehow, Kirk pulled off a stunning upset victory in front of the live audience at Wrestling with Pride. I don’t know Trevor Read, but I’d like to. So sexy. Gorgeous to look at, but the bitter edged, fiercely confident heel attitude he wore in his match with Kirk was what really made me want to slap one of those front row fans to the curb to get an up close look at him. He looked like he was on his way to delivering the public humiliation that Kirk so abundantly begs for. But then, what the fuck, Trevor choked to that annoying little stud puppy! Fuck, Trevor. Just… fuck.

So apparently riding high on that shocking babyface victory, Kirk accepted a challenge from Chase Addams that same weekend back at BGE central. The stakes were high when I tucked into this Florida Fights match. Because if this was signaling Kirk’s ascension, if his freckled face and gargantuan bulge are going to start racking up serious victories over the likes of my boy Chase, then I am going to be SO pissed.

Honestly, I wondered if Chase might be biting off more than he could chew. He’s shared his origin story with me in different contexts over the past couple of years, but the narrative remains the same. Chase is, largely, a self-taught pro wrestling prodigy. He transitioned from fan to competitor by perfecting submission holds on the lucky son-of-a-bitch friends who would let him tie them up in knots, and then later on in the underground gay wrestling scene in St. Louis. Don’t get me wrong, Chase regularly leaves me awestruck and tongue tied by the vicious, gravity defying stunts he pulls at the expense of his opponents. He’s serious as a heart attack. But testing out his moves against a seasoned pro like Kirk, albeit a perennial jobber, seemed risky to me. If Howdy Doody has, in fact, turned over a new leaf, I could certainly see things going south big time for the Charming One.

Kirk clearly has wind in his sails as they sink their claws into each other. The action is ferocious and almost faster than the eye can follow. Kirk’s been doing this longer and much more often, and he looks annoyingly cocky as he curls his upper lip and dives in. The near-submissions fly with abandon. At one point, Kirk cinches Chase’s arms brutally behind his back and flips overtop of him, bridging high and grinding Chase’s handsome face into the mat viciously while attempting to rip his arms out at the shoulder. Holy fuck, that monster bulge at the apex of Kirk’s bridge defies belief.

The suspense is thick from start to finish, as they trade momentum back and forth, but I’m reading the tea leaves when Chase rakes Kirk’s eyes to escape from that bulge-tastic bridge. “You cheating son of a bitch!” Kirk whines petulantly. Right then, right there, my anxiety on behalf of my boy Chase settles down a bit. Chase is eager to show off his submission skills, but he’s also enthusiastically ready to piss on the conventional rules of sportsmanship and fair play. And Kirk is, ridiculously, shocked and irritated. The odds just tilted dramatically in my (Chase’s) favor.

My hunch is seemingly confirmed when Chase exploits Kirk’s foot stomping, whiny little bitch moment to clamp down one of a billion arm and wrist locks he has in his quiver and wrenches Kirk’s fingers sickly backward. Fuck, Kirk’s screams of panicked agony turn me on. Howdy Doody with the monster package taps out to give Chase the first submission.

They work like berserkers tearing through holds faster than the eye can follow. Despite my early intuition that this is Chase’s match to have, Kirk evens the submission count with a viciously deep Boston crab. Back and forth they trade submissions, with neither one able to pull away, until the count is 3-2. Then 4-2. Then 5-2. Kirk keeps fighting, mind you, but Chase absolutely outclasses him. The more withered Kirk gets, the meaner Chase grows. Watching his profound pleasure taking ownership of this hot bodied indy pro who thought his victory of Trevor Reed was signaling a new day for Howdy Doody is so sensationally satisfying. And by satisfying, I mean an incredible turn on.

I stand up an cheer when Chase locks down the Will Breaker and Kirk’s desperate screams echo off the warehouse walls. The self-taught phenom quite literally hangs this seasoned indy pro submission star out to dry. When Chase deigns to let him back down to the ground (after soaking in the dulcimer tones of his opponent’s countertenor screams of anguish) the Charming One lingers, crouching over top of Kirk’s wasted body. He strokes Kirk’s sweaty back possessively. Chase’s obvious admiration for his beauty makes me feel like I can admit that, sure, Kirk’s fucking hot. If Chase would just peel Kirk’s trunks down, bend him over his knee, and spank his alabaster ass fire engine red, I just might be ready to set aside my perennial enmity toward Kirk Donahue.

Chase gets ready to crawl on top and knead the dough

Sadly for everyone, I still hate that guy. This match, though, I love. Chase, seductively stroking Kirk’s tightly muscled back, I enjoy. Chase’s insanely long, smooth legs tied in crushing knots all over his opponent’s overwhelmed body, I lust for. A gut check story of a self-taught prodigy testing his mettle against a privileged, impeccably trained, abundantly seasoned pro and making Kirk his bitch, I adore.

Skinny Does It

April 6, 2018 wrestlebard2 Comments

If you know me at all, you know that my tastes cover a range of wrestlers and wrestling. Lately, I’ve been keying off a lot on skinny boys. I love audacious skinny wrestlers who instantly make fans wonder out loud, “What the fuck is that guy think he’s doing climbing into the ring?!” I like them when they look breakable. Tantalizingly vulnerable, but with a fierce core of tensile steel and inexplicable fearlessness. Within the genre, I like them cute as buttons, with bright eager smiles and pinchable cheeks. Thus it surprises no one with a passing familiarity with my tastes in wrestlers that little Charlie Evans keeps reeling me in.

Charlie uses guile and deception to take Gunner from behind

I also like my skinny boys with a chance. So, in Catchweight 9 when Charlie camps out underneath the BG East ring to sneak up on Gunner Baer from behind as the big muscle boy flexes and stretches, I’m cheering him on. Charlie leaps up on that broad, muscled back of Gunner’s, squeezing the big man’s torso between his legs and clamping down a blindsided sleeper gambit. He takes the muscle boy completely by surprise. As Gunner stumbles around for several seconds struggling to catch up with the chess match, I have fleeting hopes for a revenge of the nerds bout. With this uncharacteristic flash of foul play, perhaps Charlie is finally taking my longstanding advice to grab the wheel with both hands and swerve recklessly into the heel lane. Fuck, just how satisfying would it be to see a skinny boy instantly outsmart his preening, homecoming king, jock opponent and sadistically pry his luscious body apart in retribution for every towel snapping, homophobic bullying that the genetically gifted bodies take such pleasure in doling out during our compulsory education. Okay, perhaps that says more about me than about Charlie or Gunner.

Tragically, my unrequited longing to see Charlie’s heel turn continues unabated. Big Gunner reaches over his shoulder, grabs Charlie by the back of the neck, and easily, with one hand, flips the lightweight cheater head over heels. “Really? This is what they sent?” Gunner asks, giving voice to what countless fans have said upon seeing an ambitious skinny boy like Charlie dare to accept a match with a muscle armored hunk like Gunner.

I’m still undecided what I think of Gunner Baer. I mean, don’t get me wrong. He’s unquestionably fuckable. He has a teen angel thing going, with a stunningly gorgeous, delicately featured face atop a hypermasculine, thickly muscled, beautifully proportioned body. My question is not whether Gunner is a sexy mother fucker. Give me a bottle of lube and a couple of hours, and I’d muscle worship the fuck out of big Gunner Baer. The jury is still out for me as to what to make of him as a homoerotic pro wrestler. In his debut match, he was squashed like a bug by Flash LaCash, and he made a compelling case as a doe-eyed muscle jobber. Watching his musclebound pretty boy dreams get trampled under foot was seriously hot. This time out, though he’s large and in charge. He’s contemptuous and sadistic. He’s far more fallen angel than teen angel. I’m not sure which side of Gunner Baer I’m left wanting to see more of. And of course, that, in and of itself, is seductively sexy for me.

As for this match, holy fuck, Gunner beats the living shit out of little Charlie. There’s almost not suspension of disbelief necessary in this match. The only doubt you’ll need to dismiss is whether Charlie could take the amount of abuse he takes without broken bones, internal injuries to vital organs, and multiple concussions to show for it. As Charlie has pointed out to me, the trade off for staring down long odds every time he climbs into the ring is that fans will be treated to some of the most visually stimulating feats of lopsided strength available. There’s something just sublime about a fully extended, unending gorilla press. When Charlie gets tossed out of the ring, big Gunner follows his befuddled prey, picks him up, hoists him straight-armed overhead with barely an effort, and then overhanded flings him over the top rope, flying back into the ring to land about 10 feet away.

Gunner relishes the psychological dominance every bit as much as his physical dominance. “Say, ‘I’m a little bitch-boy,'” Gunner demands of Charlie before he’ll free him from a spine-damaging Boston crab. Charlie obeys. Prying his body in all the wrong ways like a twist-tie, Gunner refuses to accept another submission until Charlie cries out, “I’m a girly-man!” Flinging him to the mat, Gunner flexes his gargantuan biceps in Charlie’s slack jawed face. “Look at these 20-inch pythons,” Gunner crows. “You thought you could beat this?! I’m a Greek god!”

While my deep longing to see this skinny boy upend his bully and spank Gunner to tears is unsatisfied, I think I’ve got reason to hold out hope. In every conversation I’ve had with Charlie, he’s saccharine sweet IRL. My relatively colorful use of profanity has, quite literally made Charlie blush (of course, he’s such a ginger that’s not hard to do). Charlie literally, unselfconsciously uses phrases like, “oh, golly,” and “son of a beeswax,” fastidiously eschewing all coarse language in a way that seems astonishingly genuine and habitual. So when big Gunner snap mares Charlie so hard the ginger levitates about a foot off the mat on the rebound, it’s a little shocking to hear Charlie shout, “Goddam it!” Gunner hooks Charlie’s left knee behind his thick, jock neck and stands up, dangling Charlie off the ground by the straining, snapping tendons and ligaments in his knee. Abruptly, Charlie screams out, “Damn it! SHIT!!!”

It seems to me like the wear and tear of BG East action very well could accomplish what my powers of persuasion have been unable to. Dudley Do-Right Charlie Evans is resorting to openly cheating to try to level the playing field with the muscle hunks he’s forced to face in the ring. His virginal mouth is now driven to coughing, screaming fits of profanity. His earnest faith in hard work and fair play are already corrupted. His values have been compromised. And he’s persistently a serious student of the science and art of professional wrestling, learning new holds and moves by the minute. So yeah, I’m still hopeful to see this skinny boy finally snap, in a good way. Scratch an undersized gay kid with a lust for wrestling and there’s GOT to be a subterranean volcano of anger, frustration, and unresolved grudges bubbling just beneath the surface. One of these days, little Charlie Evans is going to climb into the ring with a contemptuous, musclebound, captain of the football team, Greek god of an opponent and fuck him up on behalf of all of us who were ever shoved into the lockers, wedgied, taunted and tormented back in the day.

“Say ‘I’m a little red-headed bitch!'” Gunner demands. “Say, ‘I’m worthless!'”

Feel the power of the dark side coursing through your veins, young padawan.

Pride and Joy

March 30, 2018 wrestlebard2 Comments

I’ve been giving a lot in the give and take of balancing my wrestling infatuation with my day job. Not only has it taken a bite out of my opportunities to watch new wrestling, I’ve also not been keeping up with the other excellent bloggers covering the scene. So who’s covered Jonny Firestorm and Ty’s Wrestling with Pride match? I definitely defer to the judgment of eyes on the scene, but this is my take from this side of the screen.

Okay, this is fucking sexy. To start with, Ty is full on, well into beefcake territory at this point in his incredible physical transformation. It’s hard to connect the dots between his beefy, muscular, cover boy body in the Wrestling with Pride ring and his skinny, smooth, boyish vulnerability just a few years ago. Ty’s sell has always struck me as right at that line between compelling and camp, but when he struts to the ring at Wilton Manor, smirking, winking, inviting the gay crowd to appreciate his hotness, that thoroughly Ty character of his perfectly hits the sweet spot.

Ty’s possession of the pretty boy role is only that much more locked into place when Jonny arrives with his hot and hairy bear daddy belly, wearing a leather harness. I don’t know how many of the fans in the live audience follow BG East quite like you and I do, so it’s hard to tell if they recognize the set-up of, historically, one of the company’s most prolific babyface jobbers squaring off against, historically, one of the most lauded badass heels in the business. If they did understand the historical context, they might have expected a squash. If they did expect a squash, they were sorely disappointed.

Fuck, I LOVE the give and take in this match! Ty’s infamous narcissism (he does, after all, have the words “Cocky: Suck It” printed across his ass) is sensationally tasty when paired with his quickly developing ring skills. He absolutely takes it to leather daddy Jonny. There are many moments when I actually feel just a little sorry for Jonny getting fucked up and humiliated, after such a dominant career as a sadistic heel, in front of this live audience. Ty is a mean mother fucker, asserting a classically heel mix of beautifully executed wrestling and vicious, underhanded rule breaking. I’ve told Ty that I’ve longed to see him become an unmistakably dangerous competitor after serving such a long sentence in prettyboy jobber purgatory. He’s been emerging into adulthood in several matches I’ve seen over the past 9 months or so, but never as commandingly and persuasively as in this match.

And I know that there are plenty of fans who completely disagree with me, but I find a badass heel with strong notes of vulnerability one of the sexiest things ever. I love seeing Jonny struggle. I love seeing him have to fight for it. Hard. I love seeing this irrepressible head of steam he’s generated over the course of his career, plowing into, over top of, and through countless opponents like a tidal wave, sputter and stumble. Don’t tell Jonny, but frankly, I’m turned on incredibly by the sight of him suffering hard. My vote for Top Heel a few months ago joined a majority of BGE fans in catapulting Kayden Keller over top of Jonny for the first time, and for me, it’s because Kayden has perfected the seductive allure of a vulnerable heel. Jonny’s performance at Wrestling with Pride, however, could make me rethink my vote come January of next year. There’s not a thing less “heel-like” for those moments when Ty is fucking him up. I don’t subscribe to the philosophy that being a heel and executing a squash are intrinsically linked. Jonny repeatedly and convincingly turns the tables on the babyface challenger, and in entirely Jonny-style, he does more than his share of fucking his opponent up as well. But honestly, the suspense of not knowing which badass beauty is going to pull it out for the adoring gay crowd in attendance makes this bout so succulent for me.

Ty’s ultimate downfall in this match is not due to any character flaw or inadequacy on his part (and thus I love this match so much more than many matches earlier in his career). He’s a completely legitimate contender who grabs his burly opponent by the balls (literally… and the ref’s balls, for that matter), and battles to the wire in a compelling bid for victory.

And he comes up just short. And the ghosts of Christmas past come to haunt his beefcake body laid bare (well, thonged) and wasted at Jonny’s feet. I love the cameo at the beginning of the match when Ty bitches about his ex-tag team partner turned tormentor, Chase Addams, who’s been invited to give color commentary over the PA. I pop my cork at the end of the match when silver fox fantasy-daddy Shane McCall climbs in to perform the post-mortem on Ty. If you don’t follow these two on FB, you may not know that Ty has continued to talk trash at Shane ever since Shane laid waste to Ty back in his twink days. There’s a lot of value added for me seeing Shane in street clothes, mount Ty’s ass, pry him into a camel clutch, and cinch on a dog collar and leash. Please revisit my comments earlier about the gaping hole in homoerotic wrestling that needs to get filled by the likes of hot daddies like Shane (preferably going pec to pec for the daddy championship title against man-of-my-dreams Scott Williams).

Collared and crushed, Ty is served up to the front row fans in the most generous moment of Wrestling with Pride. Jonny parades his trophy-boy in front of the fans, inviting them to spank Ty’s pride and joy bubble butt. A few of them seriously get into it, which makes me less bitter toward the ones who momentarily balk at the opportunity to put a hand on Ty’s vulnerable ass shoved in their laps. The public humiliation and fan-participation-spanking again harkens me back to my favorite live wrestling match (in which Shane also makes a post-match appearance!). It also almost makes up for no one (NO ONE!?) accepting Elite Eliot’s invitation to check his gorgeously packed pink trunks for weapons in that earlier match.

0308_lg — Ty lives to regret getting “Suck It” printed on his ass

I feel like there was a tragically missed opportunity to have Chase join Shane in doling out some satisfying Ty humbling. For that matter, can we just consider the magnificence of a Chase & Shane (Shane & Chase?) tag team? I can’t think of a sexier daddy-boy wrestling partnership since BBW slapped the dog collar on Shane and they showed up in the same corner to pry apart and ball gag another daddy-boy tag team to victory.

Well done Ty and Jonny (and Shane, and Chase) for making this match multifaceted and engrossing. So many moving parts could, I’m sure, have sent this train flying off the tracks. Instead, this was the sensationally gayest, hottest, most homoerotic match of the night. And this was Wrestling with Pride, so that’s saying something!

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