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Drake Reborn: Part 2

May 20, 2016May 22, 2016 wrestlebard1 Comment

In Drake Reborn: Part 1 you read about my picking up the pieces of a shattered Drake and trying to glue him back together. The plot turns to a grudge match of demons and angels and the making (or unmaking?) of a BG East wrestler.

——–

Drake Reborn – by Bard

Part 2

I flew home the next day, but we stayed in touch. Emails, texts, chats. He’d ask me what that reinvented, heel Drake would do. And I’d tell him. And then, unbelievably, he’d fucking do it! He was in the gym 5 days a week. He tossed out his boxer briefs and twink-tastic Banana Republic button downs. He started blogging again, fully giving voice to the iconoclastic, loud mouthed, fierce, trash talking troublemaker that I’d only hinted at. He sent me video clips of himself, practicing calling out BG East’s finest, insulting Kid Vicious, taunting Jonny Firestorm, telling Kid Leopard to kiss his ass. Yep. I totally got off to those videos.

And week in and week out, I couldn’t help but notice that Drake was looking sensational. He’d put on some sweet muscle before that train wreck with Trey, but damn. A little blogger-inspired reinvention looked fucking great on the kid. After a couple of months of Bard boot camp, I honestly wouldn’t have recognized him. Which is what inspired me to pitch The Boss.

Gabriel Ross was Drakes very first first opponent, back when he was an overly tanned, quiveringly anxious newbie a few years ago. Drake put some sensational hurt on the pint-sized muscle cherub, but in the end, Drake was on his knees and completely at the Brit babyface’s mercy. Who better for Daemon to face, to demonstrate that this is a whole new wrestler, than Drake’s original tormentor?

———–

So here we are, me and Drake in a bathroom at BG East’s Boston-area facilities. BG East doesn’t “do” managers, so it took still more fast talking, negotiations, and, yes, flattery for me to be permitted to come along for the ride. Drake insisted on it, though. I think his internal image of his new wrestling persona may be a little more fragile than I thought. He’s still relying on me to reflect back to him this vision of a confident, cocky, balls out bad boy that he’s been trying on for the past 4 months.

The bathroom door flies open. “Let’s get a look at this Daemon,” Kid Leopard smirks, strolling in without knocking, of course. There’s just a momentary twitch across the Boss’ face, and I’m convinced that he’s surprised and impressed with what he sees. Drake looks sensational, and the solid black square cut trunks he’s pulling on are sexy as fuck. “Well, you’d better wrestle better than you look,” Kid Leopard snarls with contempt. His lingering look at Drake’s ripped abs tell an entirely different story.

On command, I’m following The Boss out of the bathroom, down the hall, and into the BG East ring room. Jonny Firestorm is already there, setting up equipment with some hot twink I’ve never seen before. Kid Leopard barks at them to hurry the fuck up. Time is money. We’re wasting daylight. On and on, he rides them, and I’m pretty certain they’d be done a lot sooner if he didn’t keep distracting them.

I’m instructed to sit on a couch and remain abso-fucking-lutely silent. “The moment I hear a peep out of you,” Kid Leopard wags a finger in my face threateningly. “We’re making an unprecedented exception to let you watch. But if you fuck up the taping with so much as a sneeze, I’ll drag you by the balls out of here!” I acquiesce. It’s not as if I’m going to cross the Boss in his own ring.

A few minutes later, Kid Leopard is sitting on the couch next to me. Jonny and the hot twink (I’m told his name is Billy), work the equipment. Billy has a shoulder mount video recorder running, and Jonny has a wicked looking digital camera up to his eye when Kid Leopard suddenly shouts, “And… GO!”

A few seconds later, Gabriel Ross walks through the door. Holy shit, this kid is insane to look at! He’s shorter than I am, which is saying something, but good fucking God! He’s huge! I mean, I’ve seen his massively muscled-up body on camera before, but honestly, he’s breathtaking. His massive pecs shake a little as a walks to the ring and steps up to the ring apron. As he climbs through the ropes, I stifle a gasp at the full-on view of his magnificently muscled ass straining the seams of his tantalizingly tight trunks. They’re the same yellow swim trunks he wore in his first match with Drake. His glorious glutes bulge out over the top of them as he slowly walks barefoot across the ring, stretching his arms behind his back, hopping on the balls of his feet, warming up all of that gorgeous muscle mass.

Holy fuck, what have I got Drake into? I think to myself.

Jonny’s clicking that digital camera like a machine gun. Billy keeps crossing back and forth in front of me, clearly studying every juicy inch of the muscle cherub in the ring. It’s annoying, but I know that my unobstructed view is the last priority on anyone’s mind.

A minute later, Drake strolls through the door. He pauses on the short steps leading down to the ring room floor. Fuck, he’s pulsing with cocky confidence. He purses his lips and tilts his head to the side, staring at his opponent. “Time to settle up, Gabriel,” he growls. Walking to the ring and stepping up onto the ring apron.

“You again?” Gabriel asks, as if shocked. He’s not, of course. He knew who his opponent was going to be. But the feigned shock is just part of the story. “Didn’t I already beat your ass?” There’s something about a British accent that makes trash talk sound like poetry.

Drake climbs through the ropes and strolls in a circle around the ring. Gabriel backs away, keeping out of reach for the time being.

“That guy’s gone,” Drake coos almost seductively. “You’ve never met me. You’ve never met anyone quite like me,” Drake promises. My cock’s hard a granite.

They suddenly lunge toward one another, locking up by collar and elbow. Drake is half a foot taller than the muscle cherub. Gabriel struggles with those relatively long arms, until suddenly Drake reverses momentum, stepping backward and pulling Gabriel toward him. Off balance, the British babyface stumbles forward. Drake shoves him in the back of the head toward the ropes. Gabriel slams into the top rope awkwardly, bouncing backward and falling to his ass.

This is Gabriel’s first ring match, as far as I know, and it shows. Drake is on him, dragging him to his feet and shoving those gargantuan pecs of Gabriel’s, sending the muscle boy slamming backward into the turnbuckle. He looks like he’s expecting to get the same bounce out of the corner that he got from the ropes a moment earlier. The agony twisted across his beautiful face suggests that he’s just learned the hard way that a turnbuckle doesn’t “give” the same way the ropes do.

When Gabriel steps out of the corner, arching his back in pain, Drake steps in front of him, turns, and reaches over his shoulder to grab the Brit by the back of the neck. The snap mare is smooth and sweet like honey. Fuck, I can’t help myself. I gasp audibly, just a little, when Gabriel finally lands flat on his back in the middle of the ring. Fortunately, the muscle cherub’s loud cry of pain drowns out my shocked pleasure.

Drake really does look like a new man as he’s instantly on one knee, the other knee digging into Gabriel’s spine as Drake wrenches his head backward in a sick chin lock. A deep, guttural groan comes from Drake. It’s eager and intense, like a grunt of pleasure mid coitus. My cock is throbbing in response.

He keeps bending his opponent backward until Gabriel is arched high across his knee. Suddenly, Drake pounds a vicious forearm across the muscle cherub’s big, bulging pecs, driving the Brit’s back down hard across his knee one more time. Gabriel cries out in honest to god agony before Drake lets him roll like a sack of potatoes to the mat.

Drake is breathing a little harder than I would have expected so soon. He has his hands on his hips as he takes a slow lap around his opponent’s crumpled body. There’s a missed opportunity here for him to press his advantage. When he finally leans over and grabs a handful of Gabriel’s hair, dragging him up to his knees, I can see it in the Brit’s eyes. That breather Drake took was just as beneficial to Gabriel. Suddenly, Gabriel drives up to his feet while he wraps his huge, muscled arms around Drake’s torso. With an animal grunt, the cherub leans backward, pulling his taller opponent off his feet briefly in a powerful bearhug.

There’s a cry of pain that gets stuck somewhere in the back of Drake’s throat as his mouth gapes open. Gabriel can’t manage to hold him off his feet for long. The height difference is just too much for him. When Drake’s feet touch the canvas again, he sucks down a sudden gasp of air. He starts to try to squeeze his hands between his torso and Gabriel’s crushing biceps. I’m relieved he’s still working through the pain, move and counter.

Neither I nor, clearly, Drake are expecting it when Gabriel suddenly sprints forward. Drake is again swept off his feet in that sensationally powerful bearhug. The Brit has built up some momentum by the time he’s pounding Drake’s back into the turnbuckle. The explosion of air out of Drake’s lungs is almost comical. “Ooooof!” If Drake didn’t suddenly choke on a sob of pain and collapse to his knees, it might have been at least momentarily funny.

“No,” Gabriel chuckles, staring down at the dazed stud on his knees in front of him, “now I distinctly remember you being right here once before.” He grabs the back of Drake’s head with both hands and shoves his face into his body. Even on his knees, Drake’s mouth comes mid-chest to the bulging muscle cherub standing in front of him. Gabriel smothers him there, deep in the crevice between his massive pecs. I can hear Drake grunting, struggling for air. He presses his hands against Gabriel’s hips, attempting to pry his face away, but the Brit holds him in place with a vice-like grip. About 30 seconds of pec smothering in, and Drake’s arms start to go slack. Oh, fuck.

Slowly, Gabriel drags Drake’s slackening face down his torso. Drake’s lips stretch and twist across the pronounced ridges of Gabriel’s abs. Down, down Gabriel presses his opponent’s face until Drake his hunched forward, his mouth pressed hard against the muscle cherub’s big bulge. Holy shit. HUGE bulge! Gabriel’s legendary cock is visibly growing right before my eyes. Well, most immediately, it’s growing right before Drake’s lips. Gabriel’s head rolls backward, his eyes closed, obviously getting stoked to the edge. Fuck, they look like both of them may very well ditch the wrestling and just start fucking. Not that I’d mind watching that. But…come on, wrestling!

——–to be continued——–

Drake Reborn: Part 1

May 19, 2016May 20, 2016 wrestlebardLeave a comment

I must admit, it was satisfying when Drake Marcos authored a piece of homoerotic wrestling fiction to concede the bitter truth he’d been denying for over a year: a certain blogger had, indeed, owned him in the ring. In some twisted art imitating life imitating art (ad nauseam), Drake’s last chapter in our tag team writing effort left him precisely where I’d had him IRL a year and a half ago, hanging like a Christmas goose from the ring ropes. So charmed was I by his implied confession, that I was inspired to take the tag and author still another chapter in “Drake Marcos: Larger than Life” homoerotic wrestling saga. And in yet another art imitating life imitating art imitating life imitating art iteration, let me just be clear, the following really is how I’ve seen the the grinning grappler all along.

_________________

Drake Reborn – by Bard

Part 1

“We don’t do rematches,” he interrupted me.

“Look, Boss, this is different.” I switched the phone to my other hand. “This isn’t a rematch, because I’m talking about a whole new Drake. He’s…”

“I don’t want to hear that name again, blogger boy,” he interrupted me again. “I refuse to waste another minute on that waste of space.”

I felt my throat tightening with frustration, but I intentionally kept my voice even. It never pays to raise your voice with Kid Leopard. “What if I told you that I had a fantastic new recruit? He’s young, fit, and hungry for competition. And best of all, he’s got the finest pedigree you’ve ever seen. Ring experience, mat experience, erotic experience, and extensive one-on-one training with the best wrestler in the business.” I didn’t know if the Boss would see through the flattery. He’d taken a personal interest and put Drake through the ringer on countless occasions when Drake first arrived at BG East. That was also what seemed to piss him off most, all that time and effort “wasted on a simpering jobber,” as he’d put it earlier in the conversation.

For the first time in the phone call, the Boss didn’t interrupt me, so I continued. “This new kid is 5’10, 155 pounds. He has long, punishing legs and disarmingly handsome face. Let’s call him… Daemon.”

“Demon?” He snorted, unimpressed.

“Daemon,” I repeated, spelling it out. “It’s Latin for ‘divine fate.'”

“Daemon what?” Kid Leopard snapped. I had him on the hook.

“Just Daemon. No last name.”

“Sounds boring,” the Boss muttered, but I could hear it in his voice. He was almost ready. “What’s in this for me?”

“Other than a sensational new wrestler to sell the shit out of?” I asked.

He snorted with contempt. “Dime a dozen, blogger boy,” he snarled.

“If Daemon fails to impress you, he’ll scrub your toilets for a week,” I started.

“A month.” Kid Leopard interrupted. “What else?”

“And… I’ll write all of your product copy for the next BG East catalog,” I offered. I’ve been writing match descriptions for the BG East website for years. The Boss always asks me to write more than I have time for, so I know this tempts him.

“The next 4 catalogs,” he demanded. I had him.

“Deal.”

It had been just over 4 months since things took an unexpected turn between me and

drakeoutsouth — The aftermath of our first blogger vs. wrestler face off.

Drake Marcos. For my part, things hadn’t changed all that much. Fuck, I’m a major Drake booster from way back. I am now every bit as much a fan of the Cheshire Cat as I ever was, despite the little drama that went down at BG East South 4 months ago. He’s a handsome stud with equal parts personality, body and passion for wrestling that I respect so much. I continue to count it as one of my very favorite moments getting to climb into a ring for the first time and have Drake initiate me into harsh realities of pro wrestling. Somehow, it hadn’t occurred to me how deeply wounded I’d left the Cheshire Cat that first time, when I played the game a little better than he expected, and my initiation ended up with him out cold, at my mercy, and extensively documented with photographic evidence.

drakevtrey Clearly, I had a better time than Drake did, because the stud went ape shit all over me 4 months ago after I had the distinct pleasure of refereeing a fabulously sexy match between him and the goldenboy Trey Dixon. Okay, sure, suffering the humiliation of not only getting strung up helplessly in the ropes, but having the ref accept an invitation to join in the fun was probably overstepping things. A bit. But holy shit, the Pearl Harbor job he did on me afterward was over the top. Seriously, I always thought big D was secretly enjoying my good natured ribbing as much as I. Obviously, I was mistaken, because the kid nearly ripped me to pieces.

I just didn’t know he had such a delicate ego. I know it now. When Kid Leopard climbed back in the ring to tape the blogger-versus-wrestler grudge re-match, Drake put me through the fucking ringer. Not that I didn’t score some satisfying riding time of my own. For my first match ever recorded, I was pretty proud of myself. The seasoned pro pushed me to edge repeatedly, but I refused to give. It’s true, I was completely at his mercy there at the end, but then that whole bruised ego factor came back into the picture. So sure, I apologized on command, with my spine nearly snapping in the Cheshire Cat’s rack. But with his ego assuaged, Drake forgot all about the fact that I DIDN’T FUCKING SUBMIT! As he monologued for the camera like a Saturday morning supervillain, it was nothing but a thing to pull my shit together and choke the grandstander out cold.

drakeropessouth It was Kid Leopard who suggested I give him some gratuitous glam shots after it was all said and done, so I acquiesced (have YOU ever tried telling him no?!) and let him tape me as I hoisted the limp sack of potatoes up and tied him hanging from the ropes. Again. Mmmmm, fuck. Totally at my mercy. Naked. Cold sweat glistening on his gorgeous body. He deserved to get messed with more, for taking himself way too fucking seriously and taking it out on this novice wrestler’s body. But I just slapped him around a little for the Boss and taunted him for the camera and whatever private customer had wanted to see the two of us in the ring at the same time (hello, I’d love to know who was the fan who custom ordered that little bit of heaven!).

I asked Kid Leopard if we should rouse the kid, but he snorted with contempt. “I’m done with that piece of shit,” he muttered. “Lock the place up once you’ve showered off,” he instructed me, tossing me the keys to the kingdom and strolling out of the building without a second glance. After a long, hot shower, I couldn’t help myself. There Drake was, literally snoring as he hung from the ropes, still locked up tight. He was so fucking pitiful. And sexy. I untied him and roused him from the sweet escape that was sleep.

He was a broken man. Not literally, mind you. Trey Dixon had just about ripped his balls off, and I had choked the kid out cold, but physically, he was still entirely intact. The nasty bruises across his back and legs were already turning from dark red to a greenish black, but everything was still attached and functioning. But he was a ghost of a man. I led him to the showers, and he just stood there, staring blankly at the wall. I finally stripped back down and climbed in with him just to clean him off. It would’ve been super sexy, except that he was just plain hollow inside. He’d snapped, and no praise, no prodding, no playful taunts or challenges got even the smallest rise out of him. I got him dressed and dropped him off at his place, but he was sleep walking through the front door without a word.

I’ve always been a sucker for lost lambs. I was supposed to be on a plane home the next day, but I postponed my return trip to check in on the boy again. He answered the door, looking marginally more aware than when I’d left him the night before. But he was still mostly MIA, in spirit if not in body. I finally got him talking. He was aimless. Humiliated to be turned out by his mentor. Ashamed to show his face in the wrestling ring ever again. Woe is me, woe is me…

Fuck, what a Debbie-Downer. I told him to pull his shit together and stop whining. It somehow seemed like that just made him shrink even more. I assured him his best days were ahead. Get back up on the horse again. Lost the battle, not the war. Seriously, I was completely out of cliches, and they bounced off like he was bullet proof glass.

He only made eye contact when I started describing how I saw him. Not “the Cheshire Cat of Homoerotic Wrestling.” True, I’d given him that moniker early on in his BG East career, but that’s not what I saw in my mind’s eye the first time I saw a photo of Drake. Before I’d ever exchanged an email with the kid. Before I’d seen him step foot on a wrestling mat, and long before I ever had the pleasure of seeing him climb into a wrestling ring. Before I got to know the frustrated jobber he became, I pictured him as a smart, savvy, sexy-assed heel.
drake

He perked up when I told him that I used to picture him as a lean, mean, balls to the walls erotic sadist. Clearly, Drake never pictured himself that way before, but he was a blank slate now. He was in the throes of a soul wrenching existential crisis, and seeing himself through my eyes, reinvented in the depths of my twisted imagination, something took root. There was a glint in his eye and a determined clench to his jaw, and I could tell that the picture of himself as a fully formed, gay wrestling fan’s vision of a devastating psychological and physical wrestling dominator was taking on a life of its own where his delicate ego strength use to live.

———to be continued————-

Homoerotic Wrestler of the Month

May 16, 2016 wrestlebardLeave a comment

I have a few more reviews planned for recent wrestling releases, but I’m prepared to lay the laurel leaves across the handsome brow of one particular wrestling stud who, in my humble opinion, put up the hottest, most provocative, most entertaining homoerotic wrestling appearance in an April release. In a field of truly outstanding contenders, just one wrestler showed me something not only new, but something downright inspired. My homoerotic wrestler of the month is…

…Rafael Valmor.

Even Kieran can’t help but get a little handsy with Rafael.

I won’t reiterate all of the points I made in my review of Rafael’s Fan Fantasy match against his long-time muscle crush, Kieran Dunne. A few points, however, deserve mentioning again.

Rafael is infatuated with sweaty, bulging, beautiful hunk Kieran. Well, I’m sure it’s entirely possible that he’s not, in real life, but in Fan Fantasy 4, I believe him. There’s a genuineness about him, a raw, open-faced honesty that drips with veracity. It’s not that I expect to see Oscar-award winning acting in my homoerotic wrestling, but anytime a hunk sells me as hard as Rafael does, I’m fully engaged, delighted, and charmed.

So Rafael brings clearly drawn character, which is enough to put him at the head of the pack in most random samplings of homoerotic wrestling. But he also tells a story. Kieran, of course, tells it, too, but if there’s a narrative voice in this drama, it’s Rafael’s. I watched Magic Mike XXL recently, and I was reminded of the allure and the limits of eye candy. I had the same reaction to the first Magic Mike. All those gorgeous bodies, stripping and dancing, will haunt my dreams for weeks. But, fuck. No goddamn plot. No dramatic tension. Incredibly weak motivation, and a story that can be summed up comprehensively in 5 words (“Strippers reunited to strip again”). Seeing Joe Mangienello’s naked ass and watching him tie some fawning fan up in a sling and simulate growling sex to a Nine Inch Nails soundtrack sends me diving deep into my own homoerotic wrestling fan fiction of Joe in the wrestling ring. But that’s just it. I’ve got to add the storyline.

In Fan Fantasy 4, adorable Rafael provides all the back story, dramatic tension, and quest narrative necessary to turn this into so much more than eye candy. His fawning devotion for Kieran lures the narcissist into agreeing to wrestle (well, that an a wad of cash). But living the fantasy isn’t just thrilling for Rafael. It also inspires a passion that takes both him and Kieran by surprise. The curly haired cherub sucks down more punishment than Kieran can believe because Rafael is living the dream! When he shyly asks to feel what’s like to have Kieran trapped in his headscissors, the once in a lifetime opportunity to see Kieran’s face turning beet red, staring up helplessly at his number one fan, turns Rafael into a gloating, flexing, swelling lottery winner. The two of them, both Kieran and Rafael, have unleashed a beast that neither of them quite expected, and the unexpected is always value added for me in homoerotic wrestling.

Lest I short sell the more obvious delights of Fan Fantasy 4, let me acknowledge that Rafael’s body drives me insane with lust. At the surface, it’s a classic mismatch of big, bulging meat against lithe, lean twinkie. But as much as I also adore Kieran’s big, juicy, muscled ass, I cannot take my eyes off of Rafael in this match. I’ve documented in the pages of this blog extensively the truth that I get turned on by a wide variety of bodies. Most certainly on that list is a curly haired, 5’9″, 145 pound, bronzed, stunningly beautiful Latino heartthrob with a perfect ass.

By the time this match is over, I’ve invested a couple of hours and quarts and quarts of bodily fluids. I’m praying to the homoerotic wresting gods that next up for Rafael is his own Eve Harrington fawning fan whose knees quiver at the sight of his insanely sexy trail and piercing, dark bedroom eyes. In the mean time, make room on the throne for the mouthwatering hot, taut ass of my new reigning homoerotic wrestler of the month.

Rafael Valmor: Homoerotic Wrestler of the Month, April 2016

The Right Hand

May 10, 2016 wrestlebardLeave a comment

As the self-anointed president of the Kid Karisma fan club, how am I the last to know that a muscle worship session with Kid Karisma was up for bids at a charity auction!? The 2nd match in BG East’s Fan Fantasy 4 is what happens with Billy Lodi wins said auction and the two BG East veterans get down to business.

I’ve got so many questions. What charity benefitted from this incredibly inspired auction? The Ginger Anti-Defamation League? Kid K’s local gay rugby team? The World Muscle Ass Hall of Fame? And seriously, again I ask, how did I not know about this!? I don’t actually know for a fact that I could have outbid Billy, but I’m confident that I’m older, have likely accumulated more assets, and possess a 401(k) that I’d have sucked the life out of to slap Billy into 2nd place.

“Very!” Billy confirms just how excited he is.

There are a thousand and one things to love about this Fan Fantasy match, and I’m not even counting Billy’s hot, horny, skinny twink body or Kid Karisma’ magnificently muscled, fantastically fit, downright divine physique. For starters, this is muscle worship done right. Fan Fantasy does not skip on open, awed, slack jawed muscle worship. It’s hands on and intimate and enduring. Billy is counting his lucky stars even before Kid Karisma confirms that he can touch his body, tactilely adore his godlike muscles, and ask any questions along the way if he wants any curated details of the work of art out on loan to him.

This narrative is fundamentally superior to the first match on in this collection, for my tastes. In Rafael Valmor’s bought and paid for muscle appreciation session with the object of his long-time infatuation, Kieran Dunne, Kieran insists on a no-touch rule. Rafael is permitted to eye fuck him all he wants, but he’s instructed to keep his hands off. Sure, Rafael ups the ante for a full contact wrestling session with his favorite muscleboy, but the muscle worship is constrained. The homoerotic text is ever so much repressed. Not so with Billy’s redemption of his winning ticket for a crack at Kid K. Hell, when Billy seems a little tentative about really giving Kid K’s multi-award winning glutes the adoration they so abundantly deserve, the physique star prods him on. “Feel those powerful glutes,” Kid Karisma demands when Billy’s hands awkwardly, almost shyly only graze those fantasy cheeks. With full permission and encouragement, Billy really digs in, turning me insanely jealous.

There is one constraint on the full-contact muscle worship auction award, it turns out. Although Billy has won the opportunity to worship Kid K’s muscles, the ginger hunk firmly, but not bitterly, shuts down the twink’s efforts to get his hands on Kid K’s crotch. “But, it’s a muscle, isn’t it!?” Billy asks perhaps the most provocative rhetorical question in homoerotic wrestling history. Despite his impeccable argument, Kid Karisma insists that while every other inch is on the table, Billy must steer clear of the seductive bulge that, thus far, has remained hidden from the camera in Kid K’s wrestling career.

It’s a dangerous line to walk, as far as I’m concerned, in any story that explains violence in response to amorous advances. Fortunately, Fan Fantasy 4 steers well clear of a “gay panic defense.” When Kid Karisma finally lowers the corporal punishment boom on the auction winner, it’s not at all about Kid Karisma having some sexual insecurity about getting his junk fondled. Fuck, Kid K is quite clearly as turned on by getting worship as Billy is to worship him. When the mat scrap breaks out, it isn’t even really centered on the mystery of the anaconda Kid K is smuggling in his pouch, or his chastity belt struggling to prevent him from, for the first time, going truly full monty on camera. No, much more seductively, the twink discipline that breaks out is really about respect. Kid K asks for respect. Billy disrespects him. Kid K insists on respect. Again, Billy defies him. Obstinately disobedient, Billy keeps pushing the envelope until Kid K enthusiastically opens a can of whoop ass on the lithe punk.

The wrestling is sensationally sexy, with considerable focus on both battlers punishing the fuck out of each other’s balls. Kid Karisma is transcendent, that teasing package swelling with the pleasure of completely manhandling the tenacious, oppositional-defiant young hottie. But hands down (pun intended), the highlight of this match, the scene-stealer to end almost all scene-stealers is when Billy latches onto Kid K’s balls like a beartrap, dropping the hunk to his knees, and then slides the vulnerable, bulging, sensational muscle star backward into a dragon sleeper and shoves his hand down the front of Kid K’s trunks.

Judging by the look on Billy’s face, the prize that, to date, only he has sampled on camera was worth every penny he begged, borrowed, and stole to win that charity auction. And Kid K may have never looked so outrageously gorgeous as splayed out and totally at the mercy of his overtly amorous worshipper turned tormentor simply determined to get every penny’s worth from this once in a lifetime opportunity.

Kid Karisma continues to bulge and swell sensationally

I wasn’t physically present to actually measure the evidence, but I swear that Kid Karisma’s bulge is demonstrably bigger after he’s escaped from Billy’s hands-on cock and ball attention. And, perhaps, the avalanche of muscle torture Billy endures for the duration of the match was worth it, to be the first to say he’s handled Kid K’s goods. It would be for me. And you, admit it. Hell, for you and me, the subsequent getting totally owned and pounded into a withered pulp would just be value added.

There’s a reason that Kid Karisma continues to be my favorite homoerotic wrestler running, and a reason that, I believe, he has held that title longer than anyone else to date. He is as fearless and unapologetically erotically oriented as he is unbelievably beautifully built. Honestly, I sort of hate Billy right now for his luck, but I grudgingly acknowledge that his insistence on sledgehammering right through the boundaries turned this Fan Fantasy into the closest we’ve come yet to getting to truly appreciate ALL of Kid Karisma’s fabulous muscles. If only vicariously, I have to admit that Billy deserves the respect of all of the Kid K fanatics out there who are ragingly jealous of his right hand right now.

Menacing

May 9, 2016 wrestlebardLeave a comment

I’ve mused often before about the mysterious allure of masked wrestlers. BG East’s latest contributions to the masked pro wrestling canon sparkle with heavy notes of terror and luscious undertones of homoerotic desire. All three features in Masked Destroyers delight me. But if I’ve got to start somewhere in describing what grabs me hardest in this collection, it’s got to be my first introduction to masked muscle daddy Masked Menace.

It takes me a couple of minutes to warm up to Menace’s opponent, Lazlo Kohl. He’s warming up in the ring before Masked Menace arrives. He’s big and beefy and eye catching, no doubt. Lazlo is soft in the middle, with rounded edges padding what are clearly big, strong muscles. Blond and beautiful, I’m initially torn as to what to think. He’s handsome enough to be a babyface hero, but there’s something quietly bubbling underneath the surface that could be the bottled up sadistic zeal of a heel daddy. When the action heats up, I finally get my read on the silky smooth Norse powerhouse. He’s not really either babyface hero or sadistic heel. He’s a crybaby.

I’m not sure if “crybaby” is precisely a pro wrestling character type. I doubt it’s something that I can claim credit for, because if there’s one thing I’ve learned after 7 years of blogging about wrestling, there’s nothing new under the sun. But that said, I’m not sure if I’ve ever seen anything quite like Lazlo before, either. He looks like a blunt bruiser. He has a quarter of a body weight in advantage over his significantly shorter opponent. Judging solely by the salt and pepper mix of gorgeous chest hair on Menace, I’m guessing Lazlo is likely somewhere between 10 and 20 years younger (Menaces’ mask makes that confidence interval large, I know). But although he looked confident to the point of cocky stretching and warming up pre-match, despite all of the more obvious advantages he’s walking in with, relatively quickly he reveals himself to be a flat footed and indecisive, and the clearly well-studied and accomplished pro debut of Masked Menace systematically turns all of Lazlo’s big, bulging blond beauty into an obviously overwhelmed crybaby who can handle a teaspoon full of punishment before pounding the mat and wailing like a naughty boy mid-tantrum.

So early on, I’m nursing a sneering contempt for Lazlo, but there’s exactly one, unmistakably element that redeems him as the match unfolds: Masked Menace’s raging lust to spank some crybaby ass. Whereas Lazlo comes into focus as an oversized teddy bear stuffed with fluff, our introduction to Menace coalesces around this fantastic character of a seasoned, salted, seriously tough slice of meat who clearly knows his way around a wrestling ring. And a bulging, beefy, sniveling crybaby opponent’s body.

This isn’t quite a squash, which I’m sure is surprising based on how I’ve described it thus far. Pooh Bear grabs hold of the reins at one point and uses his mass and building petulance to bully his petite opponent for some sweet riding time. It’s nearly enough to make me think that Lazlo might just turn this around and reveal himself to be a serious threat. He gets a submission, after all, and I think like so many teenagers, he’s starting to believe that he not only deserves to be treated with respect, but that he can demand it.

But then again, I think this is all part of Masked Menace’s personal kink. He gives the teddy bear a little rope, let’s him glimpse the mirage of the barest hope, and then crushes the Norse baby god with just that much more relish. He stretches out the torture, ignoring the first few seconds of weeping submission time and time again to drive the man child to panic. He trains Lazlo brutally, until Menace reaches that point that he can basically just lay a finger on the sweat soaked, rosy cheeked crybaby and instantly make him scream in submission.

I’m just a little crazed for Masked Menace by the time he really starts pulling his plan together, owning every inch of Lazlo and then moving in and measuring for drapes. He strokes him possessively. Whereas the the masked master daddy is lean as fuck, he obviously likes his conquests with meat on the bone. He savors Lazlo’s hefty pecs. He strokes his baby smooth bear cub belly. He throttles the withering muscle crybaby’s cock and then uses his balls as reins, dragging this completely compliant, entirely trained, gagging for it daddy’s boy out of the ring by his testicles.

Masked Menace is hungry for the thick cut of meat.

My love-hate relationship with Lazlo in this match notwithstanding, I will say unequivocally that I would love to see this massive man child return to the ring under exactly one condition: collared and leashed by Menace appearing as a bit over one half (in overall weight, at least) of a sensationally sexy daddy/boy tag team. Masked Menace, on the other hand, can show up anywhere, at any time he’d like, facing any opponent BG East can think up to pit him against. I’ll be there as a fanboy, anxiously waiting to see that ripped, taut, sensually calculating body shocking and awing another bigger opponent (let’s face it, they’ll almost all be bigger).

The Gods have Landed

May 6, 2016 wrestlebard2 Comments

I confess that Steel Muscle God (SMG) continues to be a sentimental favorite of mine. I remember the first time I caught glimpse of him. Someone had captured a brief clip for YouTube of SMG doing a private cam show, dressed in a sensationally tight wrestling singlet and glasses (I swoon). In his eastern European accent, he flexed and snarled and promised to dominate and destroy any wrestling opponent with his godlike muscles. I wasn’t the only one to discover him and click “like.” His fan following grew, motivating a personality driven SMG muscle worship site. Oh, yes, and inspiring a series of fictional wrestling scenes that I wrote for this blog, featuring him in a magnificent muscle battle against another European cocktease muscle man.

Back near the beginning of my SMG infatuation, I offered to pitch in to buy him a plane ticket to the US to hook up with one of our domestic producers of homoerotic wrestling products to really polish him to a blinding shine. Muscle Domination Wrestling teased just that a while back, producing and publishing MDW stamped wrestling videos starring SMG. But they were contract pieces. SMG was still in eastern Europe, facing, albeit sensationally sexy, local talent there. But my way back fantasy of SMG hopping a plane and landing in the US for an all-American welcome to homoerotic wrestling stardom just came true. MDW brought him here (and I didn’t even have to pay for his plane ticket!), and he’s now available for viewing in Super Men 5.

Bat Stud promises justice all over bulging beefcake Riddle Man

“That prick will definitely get what he deserves,” and angry ~~Batman~~ Super Bat Stud murmurs to himself, his sense of justice tweaked. SMG is cast as the dark knight, driven with a passion for justice that frequently shoves him right over the edge of vigilantism. He’s in the MDW garage ring, in painted-on black trunks and boots. He flexes and monologues, like any good self-righteous superhero does, before donning his Bat Stud cowl and sucking down a little liquid courage to really pump himself up for facing the reigning bad boy in ~~Gotham~~ Boston, the ~~Riddler~~ Riddle Man.

“Looking for me, Bat Stud?” Riddleman arrives, laughing ominously, as if he knows something the impressive Bat Stud doesn’t. Morgan Cruise has managed to yank the Riddler tights onto his massively muscled frame without ripping it to shreds, which I think proves that he is, indeed, superhuman. The last Riddle Man to don that suit was somewhere around half the man Morgan is. The sheer mass of Morgan’s out of control curly locks could probably pin Charlie Evans for a 3-count. I’m bitter that Morgan’s hairy body stays entirely suited throughout this match, but fans of muscle-stretched lycra will probably find this value added.

“You’ve been doing your shenanigans for a long time, but you need to be brought to justice!” Bat Stud snarls threateningly. Bat Stud with an eastern European accent instantly grabs me right at the base of my balls. That mouthwatering ass of his squeezing out here and there from the confines of his too tight trunks doesn’t hurt matters, either.

Making muscle domination wrestling an art form!

I argue that MDW is the leading company in producing narrative-driven homoerotic wrestling, and particularly for that distinction, they keep me on the line. In this case, Riddle Man has spiked Bat Stud’s shot of courage that he downed moments before donning his mask (SMG fans will appreciate the homage to his muscle worship site gimmick of sucking down tonics that do all sorts of things like turning him into a giant). Bat Stud is weak, helplessly bullied by the boy in green.

“I’m going to drain you!” Riddle Man promises, manhandling the masked muscle man with relish. “I’m going to suck out all of your power, all of your strength, and I’m going to make it mine. And I’m going to get my hands all over that body!” Here’s the other strong suit that MDW brings to the table lately. Some (not all) of MDW’s roster unflinchingly charge headlong into the explicitly homoerotic text that their audience enjoys. Some other companies are still producing matches as if the homoeroticism, the muscles dominated, the implications of physical intimacy and sexual foreplay aren’t on our minds. Of course, some other companies are specializing in wrestling-as-sexual-foreplay, with seemingly every wrestling narrative rushed through in order to set up two hot pornboys fucking each other’s brains out. MDW is one of just a couple that I can think of that charts a middle way, dabbling here and there in explicitly sexual content, but for the most part, dialing up the homoeroticism by simply overtly acknowledging erotic lust as a factor in the wrestling narrative. Not that I don’t get off on some g-rated fratboy, mainstream pro imitation hot bodied wrestling matches. And not that I don’t saddle up frequently for enjoying full, fuck stakes pornboy grappling foreplay (I usually don’t linger on the fucking). But I really appreciate the respect MDW (and BGE) are giving their audiences, at least at times, by just treating our lust as something other than their dirty little secret.

“This is NOT happening!” Bat Stud groans in shock. Our superhero is accustomed to outmuscling his opponents. The vigilante hunk is used to flexing and sneering in the faces of rule breakers on the way to manhandling them right to jail. But his spiked tonic is making him raw meat for Riddle Man to torture mercilessly.

“Getting my hands all over these muscles, I must confess, I’m pretty excited,” Riddle Man confesses, again cementing my allegiance in the match to the forces of evil and injustice. He strokes SMG’s torso. He slaps his ass. At this rate, whether on camera or off, I’m pretty sure Bat Stud is going to be getting his hot ass fucked for days just like Super Stud did to a red-headed twink Riddle Man not so long ago. SMG suffering long!? SMG dominated and humiliated, provoked and possessed!?! Oh, fuck, yes.

Long-time fans of SMG will not be surprised when I reveal the spoiler that Bat Stud miraculously, inexplicably (okay, so plot holes abound in MDW’s enthusiastic efforts to produce narrative-driven homoerotic wrestling) regains his super strength. Riddle Man’s punches to SMG’s rock hard core bounce off harmlessly (except for bruising Riddle Man’s knuckles). Bat Stud spends the last third of the match bullying and preening. He backs Riddle Man into a corner and beats him to his knees.

“Wh-wh-what are you!” Riddle Man stutters, in a direct quote from the 1989 Batman movie, proving yet again, as if we needed further proof, that MDW is masterminded by the sexiest pack of muscle nerds to dabble in gay wrestling. What he is is a decent nod to the dark side of the Batman franchise, the vigilante who starts to get a kick out of not just bringing badboys to justice, but bullying them first, dominating and terrifying them. This is a superhero who clearly is starting to get off on the highlight reel he’s recording in his head of making a hot, beefy, (too) hairy muscle hunk like Morgan Cruise cower and quiver and beg.

SMG glistens in total control of Morgan Cruise.

“You win, Bat Stud! Send me to prison!” Riddle Man pleads for reprieve, begs for straight up justice under threat of the boundary crossing vigilante who’s starting to enjoy this delivery of corporal punishment too much. How far might a steel muscle god in black go, with revenge on his mind and a growing sexual taste for turning muscle bullies into fuck puppets?

Okay, that last bit is mostly me extrapolating the juicy homoerotic wrestling narrative that Super Men 5 seeds. And, of course, that’s a skill I’ve learned after decades of enjoying the homoeroticism of wrestling, having learned how to take the barest thread of a storyline and add all the sexual heat and lustful intent that I need to to feed my homoerotic wrestling kink. MDW doesn’t make me work so hard, though. They know it’s me (and you) tuning in and getting turned on, and they aren’t embarrassed to appreciate their audience for exactly who we are.j

I think SMG needs to find a daddy like Matt Thrasher.

Now, if I may make a request, let’s see SMG face Matt Thrasher in a Daddy’s Home episode, because I’ve been waiting to see SMG bent over some muscle daddy’s knee and spanked into weeping submission for years!

Battle of the Bulges

May 3, 2016May 3, 2016 wrestlebard1 Comment

As is so often the case, I have to agree with Joe. The climactic 3rd match in BG East’s Undagear 25 new release is sensationally hot. Featuring hot little chili pepper Drake Marcos turning up the heat with bad boy Ethan Andrews, this classic mat match is a fabulous take on the classic question, “Whose is bigger?”

I’m sure that Drake will take offense at something, despite my best effort to heap praise on his pounding mat confrontation with Ethan Andrews. If I say he’s a top notch jobber, he’s offended. If I say he can suck on agony with the very best of them, his ego is bruised. If I say he’s got a hot, taut, fuckable body he… well, no, he doesn’t seem to really complain about that. But while points 2 and 3 hold true for Undagear 25, Drake is no jobber against Ethan. He suffers under a bulging mountain of pain and suffering, and his sensationally sexy legs continue to make me gasp with pleasure as he milks the whimpers out of his opponent, but the narrative here is not one of Drake’s destiny with failure. In fact, three quarters of the way through this match, I am once again wiping a bead of sweat away from my brow in anticipation of finding out if this is, finally, Drake’s breakout, undisputed, planned and followed through, first ever clear cut check mark in the victory column.

You have to admit Drake looks sensation in charge.

Speaking of bulging mountains, the real stars of this show are the big, flexing pythons straining the confines of Drake and Ethan’s jock straps. That battle really only unfolds once the built-for-fashion singlets come off, which is not a minute too soon for my taste. Ethan’s is sexy enough, but Drake missed the memo that no one honestly looks good in camo. I feel like Ethan is reading my mind when he says as much, right as he’s ripping Drake’s singlet off.

Drake gets a whiff of that all-too familiar smell of humiliating defeat.

Ethan’s bulging doesn’t stop at his crotch, either. I don’t remember seeing the smirking bad boy looking this fit and muscular ever before. Once Drake finally returns the favor of ripping off E’s singlet, the best supporting actor in a homoerotic wrestling drama really comes to the forefront: Ethan’s magnificent, meaty, muscled glutes. As I said, the stars of the show are the packages, but I think the real writing on the wall in Drake’s undoing here is when he seriously melts in Ethan’s figure-4 headscissors. Personally, I think Ethan did his homework, and it shows right here. I don’t know if there was ever a sexier undoing of Drake (and I have studied the subject extensively), than when the Cheshire Cat had the smile wiped right off his handsome face in that exact position, smothered to perfection by Ray Naylor in Mat Scraps 2.

Ray Naylor wore Drake (out) to perfection in this very same hold.

I’ve got my opinions about which Drake-slayer wore him (out) best with this hold, but I’ll let you vote below without me swaying your opinions. In the mean time, let me just conclude with a few highlights that are already recurring images in my waking homoerotic wrestling daydreams.

Pony rides. Fuck, I love a sexy pony ride. The supersize serving of humiliation and domination in a pony ride are like the sugary center to the earthy saltiness of a salted caramel. Fascinatingly, both Drake and Ethan score some literal riding time, and it’s Drake’s lap around the mat on Ethan that makes me believe the babyface also-ran might be just about to ride that stallion across the finish line for the first time. Never one to let a slight go unanswered, it’s Ethan’s tit-for-tat pony ride using Drake’s jock strap as reins that brings this pounding race to it’s climactic finish. Sadly, neither pony ride is tucked, confirming yet again that perhaps no one will ever do a post-match pony ride humiliation as provocatively as Rusty Stevens. However, kudos to both Drake and Ethan for saddling up nicely.

The real climax of this match for me (literally) was the brutal cock beatdown that Ethan delivers while pinning a withering, weeping, wasted Drake to the wall. Ethan is fucking gargantuan. It’s just a fact. And he swings that massive, erect member like a battering ram over and over again into Drake’s already tenderized balls. “Whose is bigger?!,” he demands repeatedly, his hotly muscled ass undulating, flexing and relaxing in rhythm as his cock pounds his now defenseless opponent mercilessly. While they don’t pull out the measuring tape or the scales, just eyeballing it (and I did repeatedly), I have to conclude that Ethan’s battering ram is, indeed, quantitatively superior. Drake admits it, too, finally, bitterly, reluctantly.

Drake is hell bent on ripping a trophy off from this match and taking it home with him.

But I’ve got a few words of wisdom as someone who is, my guess, around a decade and a half older than either of these testosterone filled young bucks. Size gets you only so far in life. It is not indicative of capacity for sexual pleasure. And some of the most massively endowed men I’ve had the pleasure of meeting were die-hard, gagging for it, exclusive bottoms (and were sensational at it, by the way). I think 20 years ago, I was much more invested in the question, “Whose is bigger,” but these days, I’ve come to realize that the answer is one of the most unilluminating pieces of information when it comes to sexual performance (homoerotic wrestling or otherwise).

All that said, let me just again reiterate that this match has great pairings of bitterness and sweetness, power and cunning, speed and skill. I’m still left waiting hopefully to see Ethan out-bullied by some doe-eyed babyface beauty that he completely underestimates. And hope burns eternal for darling Drake to pull his shit together and fully execute a balls-to-the-walls take down that I’m certain he has in him. In the mean time, enjoy Undagear 25.

And honestly, what could I have possibly said that petulant puppy Drake could have taken offense to today!? Now, don’t forget to vote for which sphincter-smothering figure for headlock wore Drake best: Ethan or Ray.

Living the Fantasy

April 26, 2016 wrestlebard1 Comment

BG East’s catalog 113 has landed, and I’m tucking in to feast for days. Fan Fantasy 4 immediately caught my attention because… Kid Karisma. I decided to watch the first match on the DVD first, though, to whet my appetite, to just get my engine running so that I’m all tuned up for Kid K’s match. Instead, I got completely derailed and delightfully charmed by seductively sexy muscle fan Rafael Verga living the dream with his hands all over bulging beefcake Kieran Dunne.

Rafael was a standout in his debut mat match against Blaine Janus a couple of years ago. There was a sensational playful sensuality about the Latin beauty that turned my crank with both hands. Finally back on the mats, Rafael is one of the most compelling characters in homoerotic wrestling I’ve seen in quite a while as the slack jawed, grinning ear to ear, stammering, wide-eyed muscle freak fanatic dropping a massive wad of cash in order to experience the fantasy come true of not just meeting, not just admiring, but getting to wrestle bulging bro Kieran.

Kieran dishes up some surprising sexy twists and turns in this match, too. It was supposed to just be a private posing session, but that thick, pulsing mass of cash in Rafael’s pocket convinces Kieran to treat his fan to some wrestling fantasy, too. But Kieran doesn’t just throw down. He insists that Rafael slip into something more apropos. Rafael quickly drops his baggy shorts to reveal sexy black square cuts with red racing stripes underneath (he came prepared). But Kieran refuses to let his fan wear black (“I’m the bad ass!”), so he sends Rafael out to raid the BG East trunk closet. He comes back in crazy sexy red square cuts that are super low rise. Kieran takes a long, appraising look but sends him back again, because Kieran wants to see more skin (uh, fuck, yes!?). Rafael keeps coming back in tighter, trimmer, sexier trunks painted onto his gorgeous bronzed body. Kieran has the kid turn around slowly for him to check them out from every angle. He gets on his knees and slides his fingertips underneath the fabric, stretching and straightening the swatches to show off Rafael’s magnificent thighs, flat as a pancake abdomen, and one of the most sensationally juicy asses on a skinny boy I’ve ever seen. I had no idea Kieran was such a connoisseur! The hands-on fashion show has me gagging for full contact confrontation.

Kieran finally agrees to the obvious. Rafael’s baby blue trunks with white side panels are perfection. “So, what’s your favorite hold?” he asks his fan. Without skipping a beat, with that earnest-as-fuck smile across his beautiful face, Rafael gushes, “I love your headscissors, man!” Generous to a fault, Kieran offers to let his eager fan skip the foreplay and slide right into place. Rafael clearly wants to be nowhere else in the world, but after a few minutes of feeling Kieran’s massive quads bearing down on his skull, Rafael pleads, “But, I want to see you!” Kieran doesn’t quite get it for a second, but with a wry grin, he lightens up the vice and lets his fan spin around to settle into a super sexy, downright gagging for it, face-to-crotch headscissors.

Homoerotic wrestling dreams do come true!

The plot of this encounter turns on the tension between Rafael’s pent up, fan-crazed desire to soak in every last second of this once-in-a-lifetime opportunity, and Kieran’s growing frustration that his #1 fan refuses to submit. Kieran keeps doubling down, keeps taunting and testing. “You can’t be enjoying this!?” he insists, he questions disbelievingly. But quite obviously, Rafael is having he time of his life!

Kieran can’t quite understand how much Rafael is (and I am) enjoying this.

The other compelling twist in this narrative is the reveal that Rafael’s fantasy isn’t only to suffer at the mercy of his top muscleman infatuation. Apparently, Rafael knows Kieran’s resume intimately, and he seems to know ahead of time how sensationally sexy it is to watch Kieran’s bulging, powerful muscles squirm and squeal at the mercy of an opponent (check Kieran’s early career, and his face in the dictionary under “Muscle Jobber”). I thought Rafael’s face was downright beaming when on the receiving end, but damn, he’s glowing with erotic pleasure watching all of Kieran’s muscles made impotent when he’s stuck in the beartrap of Rafael’s thighs.

The other narrative device in this match that tickles me no end is that just like Kieran doesn’t quite “get it” that Rafael is aching to suck down every ounce of offense the muscle boy can manage, Rafael doesn’t really “get it” that his irrepressible enthusiasm and lust are seriously pissing Kieran off. Kieran’s bulges glisten with sweat as he works so much harder than he’d expected to make the sultry middleweight submit. He’s raging when Rafael steals some lustful strokes of Kieran’s trapped body, the muscle boy grunting furiously. “Not bad?” Rafael smirks, honest to the wrestling gods, taunting his infatuation. The Latin heartthrob flexes his biceps and actually laughs out loud. “Is this how you do it?,” he asks, making Kieran submit, and then submit again humiliatingly before he lets him go.

“You son of a bitch!” Kieran rages. This is not going the way he’d expected this to go! But this is going exactly the way Rafael’s fondest, barely acknowledgeable secret fantasies have always wanted. “Sorry about that man,” the #1 fan apologizes sincerely. “I just got too much into it. It just looked so good!”

Every ounce of punishment makes Rafael bulge harder.

So, it’s true, Rafael is not the typical #1 homoerotic wrestling fan. He doesn’t just hold his own, he grabs Kieran’s and manages to throttle the muscleboy with abandon. Kieran doesn’t get how much he wants it, and Rafael doesn’t get how much he is bruising his infatuation’s surprisingly delicate ego. This match begs the question of how far do you take it, how far do you push it, when the once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to wrestle your fondest fantasyman presents itself?

Fantasyman possessed!? *(look at Rafael’s sensational ass!!!)*

I’m such a huge fan of Rafael Verga’s right now. This narrative could have come across as incredibly hokey. It could’ve been canned ham, if it weren’t for the full throttle sell of every inch and second by Rafael. He’s got a big personality and a deep respect for the homoeroticism of wrestling, and that, paired with one of the sexiest, most fuckable lean bodies in the business, makes this opening match of Fan Fantasy 4 a major league, headliner quality hit.

News Break – The Honeymooners

April 25, 2016 wrestlebard3 Comments

Tragically, my invitation to Gio Benitez’ wedding must have been lost in the mail. The nuptials happened without me. Happily, with a celebrity gay wedding on the card, it was well documented.

I’ve been gagging for Gio and Tommy’s budding romance ever since I first caught wind of it through Instagram a year ago. Hell, I was aching for a gay love story for Gio from the first moment I saw him hit the big leagues as an ABC news correspondent. Well before there was any confirmation of his sexual orientation, his gargantuan biceps straining the seams of his suit coats had me praying to the homoerotic wrestling gods that he’s gay and into erotic wrestling.

My faith in the existence of the homoerotic wrestling gods is now at least partially confirmed, and his deliriously sexy husband has elevated my newsboy fantasies to new heights. Combining my long standing infatuation with the idea of tag team lovers with my even longer established, some would say inscrutable fixation on mainstream news hunks, Gio and Tommy are instantly in contention to be the hottest newsboy tag team lover champions. But, let me remind you, their competition is stiff.

Thomas Roberts points at who he’s gunning for.

Perhaps most notable contenders were in attendance at Gio and Tommy’s wedding, specifically, CNN’s Thomas Roberts and his husband, dimpled chinned beauty Patrick Abner. I know, I know, I’ve argued in the past the Sam Champion and Rubem Robierb would be the hottest tag team lovers to face down all of Gio and Tommy’s sensational, hot, ripped muscles. But this photo of Abner & Roberts cozying up to the couple on their wedding day sure gives me the impression that Roberts is aching to get all handsy on Gio’s new ball and chain. In this newsboy tag team lover showdown, I think Tommy’s fine ass is the prize, and I’m not at all sure Gio can hold off the more mature, seasoned partners with their eyes on that prize.

In case you need further inspiration, Tommy and Gio jetted off immediately after the wedding to honeymoon in Bali. When you’ve got bodies like these, going somewhere tropical is your only reasonable option. They’re documenting much of the trip on instagram. I’m still waiting for the leaked sex tape, but in the mean time, sensational shirtlessness is on full display.

Yeah, Tommy. Holy fuck. Gio needs to bring his A-game, because I think double teaming hubbie’s hot body with Gio tied in the ropes would be on the mind of any tag team lover opponents. Gio’s huge pecs and arms flexing and straining against his restraints futilely as their opponents break Tommy down muscle by muscle, making him sob, making him beg, making him promise to do anything they ask if they just bring his humiliating torture to an end. And then 3 pairs of eyes all turn their attention on trapped Gio…

This waterfall shot grabbed my attention not only because of the generous views of both bodies on this tag team power couple, but it reminded me of shots of another celebrity gay couple on vacation from just last week.

Young, muscled, hairy, hunky Gus Kenworthy & Matthew Wilkas

Olympic snowboarder Gus Kensworthy and his ripped beardaddy boyfriend Matthew Wilkas have apparently been similarly getting their hot bodies soaked at the foot of a waterfall, only in their case it was apparently in Hawaii. I’m not into coincidences. So of course, I read Gio and Tommy’s follow up waterfall hot shots as a direct challenge to the gay fantasy couple Gus and Mattie.

Before Gio and Tommy are pumped and primed to take on Roberts and Abner, I think they’ve got their sights set on honing their honeymoon tag team lover skills all over Kenworthy and Wilkas. They may be the warm up match, but Gio and Tommy need to keep their eyes on Wilkas. There’s something about him that makes me think as outmuscled and out prettied as Gus and he may be, he’d bring some beardaddy brutality, particularly if Gus is in jeopardy.

Still, my money is on the honeymooners. Who do you think comes out on top?

Face Turn

April 19, 2016 wrestlebard2 Comments

I thought often about the allure of the pro wrestling narrative of the heel turn: when an upstanding babyface beauty finally gets pushed too far, humiliated too much, cheated out of his just rewards once too often, and he snaps. Fuck, I love that drama. The dark side, constantly tempting and taunting, seducing and enticing, finally unmoors the boy scout from his moral compass, and all bets are off when beauty, brawn, and a disregard for the rules align into a terrifying synergy. Think Brad Rochelle in Contract 6. Think Scott Rogers reborn as Dark Rogers.

Lately, however, I’ve been craving the opposite trajectory. I can work up a head of steam on the story of a vile, sadistic, juggernaut heel who is so out-heeled, so underhandedly brutalized, that he’s reduced to contemplating the vicissitudes of social justice even as he’s reduced to an impotent puddle of humiliation and tears. I’ve been warned by much more influential thought-leaders than I that such a story is verboten. The anti-morality tale inherent in pro wrestling narrative is loathe to witness the heel-turned-babyface. With perverse irony, the unwritten rules of pro wrestling are relatively inflexible around beatification of a formerly monstrous heel. Still, I can dream.

Rusty Stevens late career work with Can-Am scratches that itch of mine. Rusty has been one of the sensationally sexy hunks I’ve obsessed about most on these pages. From his iconic work with Naked Kombat to his Can-Am appearances in the short-lived Arena series, Rusty owned the homoerotic wrestling heel character as persuasively and compellingly as anyone ever has, as far as I’m concerned. He was a completely graceless winner, absolutely reveling in totally humiliating opponent after opponent. He was fucking mean, unstoppable, and I still return to his magnificent heel work over and over again for chart topping satisfaction these years later.

Rusty’s heel work for Naked Kombat was a work of art!

Even after announcing his retirement from porn, Rusty showed up back at Can-Am for a couple of appearances in their Pro Sex Fight series. While true, he’s a just little softer than at the height of his reign of terror, Rusty continues to be an insanely sexy muscle hunk with a gorgeous body, sensational cock, and sneering, snarling, supremely cocky attitude. But these years later, in the Pro Sex Fight ring, he’s far from invincible.

Rusty stares down yet another pretty boy.

In Pro Sex Fight 5, Rusty came pec to pec with the franchise player, Michael Vineland. While I fucking love Vineland no end, climbing into the ring with Rusty highlights Michael’s weaknesses. For my tastes, he simply doesn’t sell, doesn’t own his own character, nearly as convincingly as someone like Rusty does. I think he has one of the hottest bodies wrestling today. But facing that shit-eating grin and cocky, curled lip of Rusty’s, I immediately think of Michael as seriously outclassed.

Of course, Rusty does, too. He’s eaten hot, sexy muscle boys with tons more wrestling experience than Michael. He has the entire canon of pro wrestling at his back, as the supreme heel who can take a younger, bigger, fitter opponent in hand and through superior experience and cunning, make him his bitch.

Michael crushes the formerly invincible heel!

So when Michael works up a head of steam on the veteran heel, I’m absolutely gagging for it! He outfoxes and outwrestles Rusty, turning the dirty tricks and tools of diabolical humiliation back on his seasoned pro.

Ball bashing is supposed to be Rusty’s move!

Rusty screams. He begs. He fucking cries, because a career in homoerotic wrestling has taught him that it isn’t supposed to turn out this way. His crushing humiliation isn’t fucking fair! He sold his soul to the emperor ages ago, and that was supposed to mean that he can dig deeper, be twice as vicious, and always come out in total control, than any ridiculously handsome opponent with superhero pecs and a chiseled jaw.

It wasn’t supposed to turn out this way!

Rusty’s humiliation sends me places that I long to go to more often. If you could pick an invincible homoerotic wrestling heel to get turned, who would it be?

Rusty Stevens is a brutalized babyface!?!

	wrestlebard on Always Been There
	Chris H on Always Been There
	Scott THUNDER Willia… on Nice Shot
	David Cunningham on Bellboy Upgrade
	Swimmboy on Bellboy Upgrade