I got this tasty bit of holiday cheer from Ty Alexander, aka, Santa’s Little Helper. Like Ty, I hope all of you who are celebrating Christmas have a happy one, filled with hot, mostly naked homoerotic wrestling studs!
“Riddle me this, Super Stud: what is black and green and in your gut?” Simple, naive, gullible as shit Super Stud is stumped. He looks inward, trying to solve the riddle. Riddle Man relieves the suspense by driving his black and green walking stick viciously into the super hero’s rippled abs.
How in the fuck could adorable, skinny little red-headed rookie Charlie Evans Riddle Man possibly execute a salacious squash all over incredibly built, bigger and bigger every time we see him, Damien Rush Super Stud? A kryptonite plated walking stick, kiddies. That’s what levels the playing field, or, more accurately, levels the luscious man of steel, Super Stud.
Muscle Domination Wrestling’s Super Men 4.4 is a perfect stocking stuffer for the homoerotic wrestling fan with a twink’s revenge fantasy deep inside. The contrast of skinny, snarling Charlie and magnificently muscled Damien is an enticing hook. Charlie’s green and orange tights hang loosely off his thin frame. This was also Bryce’s costume as Aqua Bryce, but I’m suspecting the Mastodon may have been the last MDW wrestler to squeeze is massive muscles into those tights before tossing them over to the lightweight rookie, because the ass sags halfway to Charlie’s knees without the prominent shelf and shapely glutes of the bigger boys at MDW to fill it out. In contrast, that same Super Stud suit we’ve seen Damien wear on multiple occasions has never fit tighter, never sucked into every crevice and stretch across so many mountainous bulges as it does in 4.4. Literally, Damien can no longer zip the lycra suit up all the way because his gargantuan shoulders and huge pecs can no longer be contained! There’s something extravagant and overcompensating about the suction packed super suit that makes the drapes and pleats of Charlie’s sagging tights seem somehow hungrier, more dangerous, more ripe with arousing potential for the brainiac high school nerd to get sweet, sweet satisfaction from the suffering letterman.
I’m sure I’m simply a sick puppy for getting turned on by the scene in Rob Zombie’s Halloween when the kid version of Michael Myers gets revenge for getting bullied at school by ambushing his bigger tormentor in the woods and beating the shit out of him (literally) with a tree branch. Yeah, that’s just fucked up, I realize, but I’m just being honest. I took my fair share of bullying torment as a skinny academic all star, so I’m sure it says everything about me that I’ve got a hair trigger for the twink’s revenge narrative in 4.4.
But unlike Michael Myers, Charlie Evans has more on his mind than homicidal brutality. He mercilessly taunts the bulging super hero as he pounds his kryptonited cane into Damien’s very prominent pouch. “I don’t think your super crotch here has seen enough action,” Charlie gloats. Not nearly satisfied enough, he dives in and wraps the fingers of his right hand around Damien’s mountainous crotch, squeezing, manipulating, crushing the nearly comically virile hunk into a writhing, impotent pile of meat.
Like the vicious twink avatar he is, Charlie doesn’t just drive home the blunt end of his walking stick, he drives him the utter humiliation that all those gorgeous, lovingly sculpted muscles are completely useless. The jock’s pride and joy, his never fail cocktease physique is laid to ruin by a lightweight 4 inches shorter and, according to their wrestler profiles, 70 pounds lighter.
Things really start to turn sexy when Charlie pounds the end of his walking stick into Damien’s fabulously meaty glutes. “Time to soften you up before I get a little touchy-feely. I don’t know which is more fun,” Charlie chuckles. “Your front, or your back.” As I’m screaming at the screen “his ASS!!!” Charlie rolls the writhing hunk to his stomach and digs his fingertips into those meaty, shrink wrapped glutes. “I can work with this, I think,” Charlie says appreciatively. “This will be a lot of fun to play with!” He grabs both cheeks and shakes the meat enthusiastically. “I’m going to have a blast back here!” he promises.
“You might look pretty bad, but you feel pretty nice!” Charlie coos, getting good and handsy feeling up Damien’s sweetly suffering muscles. “You’re going to be my slave!” the twink on a rampage promises.
As is the norm at MDW, this is a squash, and other than ball claws, stomping, and assault with a blunt weapon, there’s not a strong reference to professional wrestling in the narrative. It’s a domination match, through and through, and setting my imagination into overdrive for what a skinny, horny, vengeful nerd might do with a battered, conquered, and sleepered jock tormentor at his mercy, Super Men 4.4 scratches an itch for me right. “And now you’re mine to play with…”
I find it nearly impossible to refrain from commenting when Lon Dumont stars in a new release. Capping off a sensational year, Lon does what, I believe, Lon does best in Gut Bash 12: wreck the fuck out of rookies.
I realize that I can neglect talking enough about a wrestler when I’m such a raging fan of his opponent, so let me take a little time up front to welcome hot, ripped, lithe, lovely rookie Carlos Ortega to the homoerotic wrestling universe. Is there anything more mouthwatering than a ripped, achingly young, lusciously lipped newbie climbing into the ring in white trunks and sporting a pony tail? The adorable kid has an awesome attitude. Sure, he works the time tested, well worn path of the cocky, naive young hottie convinced of his own destiny. But as the tussle rages back and forth with one of the most tried and true pro heels in the business, Carlos takes a beating and keeps crawling back for more. He gives nothing away to the sizzling hot, fabulously fit wrestler turned bodybuilder turned wrestler Lon Dumont. Lon’s got to earn it.
Earn it, he does. There’s something of waves crashing to shore about Lon when he’s executing a crushing, grinding, weathering assault on a hot young kid like this. Rakes to the eyes, ab stretches, grinding knees digging deep into the kid’s core initiate adorable young Carlos into the harsh realities of pro wrestling. Somehow, the babyface beauty keeps insisting that his abs put the bodybuilder’s six-pack to shame. Have you SEEN Lon’s abs!? (Oh, sorry, my infatuation with Lon popped up there).
I’ve got a Pavlovian response to watching Lon prop himself up on the ropes and hang there with an opponent squirming like a bug stuck between his sensational scissors. That’s what squeezes a screaming, “I QUIT!” from the hot young initiate first, slapping at Lon’s boots in a frantic, humiliating tap out.
“You put up a pretty good fight,” Lon concedes, hovering over the pile of broken promises and dreams lying in a heap at his feet. “You impressed me today, buddy.” True, Lon then proceeds to kick the kid viciously while he’s way down and way out, but seriously, any newbie who can earn that much praise from the notoriously unimpressed Mr. Dumont deserves a second look.
Lon gives him another 10 minutes of soul crushing gut bashing, delivering to us a glimpse of the depths of suffering young Carlos can suck on and still remain conscious. My favorite moment of this match, by far, is when the battered babyface swings for the fences, driving full force, drilling jabs punching squarely into Lon’s muscled core. Lon sucks it down, but Carlos suddenly cradles his right fist, trying to shake the numbness away. Fervently, he starts punching with his left fist, determined not to relinquish momentum, only to abruptly cradle his left fist against his chest, clearly now having damaged both paws futilely pounding at the granite sculpture that is Lon’s phenomenal, award winning bodybuilder core. A note of panic creeps across the kid’s face. Determined to throw everything and the kitchen sink against the veteran heel, in desperation Carlos drives a diving head butt down into his opponent’s abdominals. The kid comes up, swaying sickeningly, having nearly knocked himself out on Mr. Dumont’s famously fit gut.
Lon doesn’t disappoint fans aching to see Carlos’ irresistible hair handle get yanked. Truthfully, the kid has been out COLD from a skull rattling bull dog well before the unsatisfied heel drags him to his feet by his hair. He hangs him in the ropes, awakening the kid from the respite of unconsciousness back into the nightmare of being the helpless target of a bodybuilder with pro wrestling expertise.
“Still undisputed, baby!” Lon crows, patting his trophy-ready, ripped six-pack proudly as the kid hangs humiliatingly from the ropes. So fucking true. In fact, it’s been a full two years since Kid Karisma last snatched title of my reigning favorite homoerotic wrestler from Lon’s grasp, but with this exceptionally entertaining follow up to Lon’s inaugural Wrestler Spotlight DVD earlier this year, I’m announcing that Lon has retaken my fondest fanaticism from Kid K by a hair’s breadth.
Somehow, I doubt this will be the last of Kid K’s praises here at neverland. And of course the best evidence of which of these hot, hot wrestlers shines brightest would be a head-to-head battle of the titans in 2016. Oh, homoerotic wrestling gods, hear my prayer…
Although I consider professional wrestling as my gateway drug, hooking me early and setting me up for a lifetime of getting turned on by wrestling, I don’t follow mainstream straight up pro much at all anymore. However, even I know that there’s a little something special under the tree for Indy pro wrestling fans who also enjoy the homoerotic side of the scene. BG East’s new release Gut Bash 11 features 2015 standout indy pro turned homoerotic heartthrob, Chet Chastain, climbing into the ring with his honest to god Indy pro tag team partner, wrestling for BGE as Brice “Big Mamma” Moore.
The pretty quotient spikes dramatically, with both Chet and Brice being dazzlingly beautiful. So many of the homoerotic wrestlers who come by way of the mainstream scene are cut from the harsh, rough edged, burly badass side things. I mean, it’s absolutely true that I find the like of Guido Genatto, Flash LaCash, and Lane Hartley infinitely fuckable, but I wouldn’t put them in the pretty pile. Sexy as fuck, yes. Pretty, no. The leading men from the dazzlingly beautiful corner of the homoerotic wrestling stable seem more likely to find their way to one of our rings by way of being go go boys, dancers, fitness competitors or underwear models. But despite living in the meat grinder of the Indy pro circuit, Chet and Brice are nothing if not dazzlingly beautiful, pin-up-beefcake.
They also show up with some palpable chemistry that I have to imagine comes only with spending thousands of hours together working out, practicing, traveling and wrestling out of the same corner night after night. In Gut Bash 11, the two accomplished pretty boys are on the outs, with sibling rivalry gone horribly wrong. There’s apparently an ongoing debate between them regarding which of them earns the loudest cheers, which hot body possesses the most fanatical followers, which member of the sexy combo carries more than his fair share of the burden of making them a brilliant, successful pro wrestling tag team.
As you might imagine, kicking off a product called “Gut Bash” means that, specifically, Chet and Brice are focusing on whose ripped abs are most awesome. Personally, I think settling this question would really require a blogger and a bottle of baby oil to be on hand, but Chet and Brice do an admirable job of taunting, testing, and tenderizing each other with a level of heat that only lover, brothers, or tag team champs could possibly generate.
There’s something totally over the top about this match. As someone who is always looking for compelling ring personalitities, my cup runneth over as Chet and Brice snarl and snap, monologue and improvise non-stop. I have no idea where Brice came up with calling himself “Big Mamma.” It’s apropos of nothing I can see. Chet appears genuinely taken aback by it. But Brice owns it, lives it, makes me find myself astonishingly muttering the words, “fuck, yes, do it Big Mamma” at the screen, which is a phrase this Kinsey 6 has never said, thought, or even considered in my life.
The wrestling is similarly over the top. A frustrated Chet literally bites the gorgeously bulging abdominals of his mouthwateringly sexy tag team partner. The spirit of the match is highly competive, momentum teetering back and forth, but these boys really shine in those moments when one stud is firmly in control. There’s a recurring theme of the taunting coach, barking and intimidating his opponent into obediently doing sit-ups in the middle of the ring to “get those shitty abs into shape.” “Scream my name!” Brice commands when he’s got his hands wrapped around Chet’s throat. “Whose house is it!?!” he demands. “Big…. Mamma’s house!” Chet screeches in a panic.
I hear that crotch claws may be breaking into mainstream pro, but I have to think that Chet and Brice haven’t had their hands on each other’s junk this much ever before. Brice grabs momentum (aka, Chet’s cock) with vicious enthusiasm, before grabbing the back of Chet’s head in hand and shoving his partner’s coverboy face into his own bulging package. Chet battles back to follow his partner into the dark side of homoerotic pro wrestling villainy. “You want to grab my dick, Big Mamma? You want to put your dick in my face, Big Mamma!?” He stomps his boot heel viciously into Brice’s big bulge with abandon, grabbing him by the ankles and driving the sole of his boot brutally into his partner’s balls. “How about I shove your balls into your abs of steel?”
Watch the match if you want to relieve the suspense of finding out whose abs earn bragging rights when all is said and done. As for me, it’s the other, implied contest that I’m ready to settle here and now. Which of these dazzlingly beautiful pro pretty boys own my most heart pounding adoration? When push comes to shove, if forced to decide which luscious hunk makes me cheer loudest, sweat hardest, and ache to see more of most, I’ll kick Chet’s munchable ass right out of bed to make room for the incredibly classic physique of Brice.
The last time a BG East debut captivated me quite as completely as Big Mamma, I was beginning a perpetual crush as president of the Lon Dumont fan club (just try to wrestle that title off my hands!). Brice is larger than life, with an aggressive, confident, cocky personality that can barely be squeezed inside the confines of a wrestling ring, much less manage to share it with anyone else. And speaking of squeezing into tight confines, that body!!! Holy fuck. Massive, broad, boulder shoulders, meaty pecs, ripped abs, TINY waist blossoming into an unbelievably gorgeous muscle ass, and beautifully, powerful legs… again I say, holy fuck, this man is stunning. And that face. Roaring and in charge, adrenaline pumping out his pores as he snarls and snaps, Brice has the unmistakable look of a potential header liner of a Fantasyman release in 2016.
Not that I’m not infatuated with Chet, mind you. But if these two egos absolutely required me to pick sides, and essentially, that is the real competition in Gut Bash 11, I’ll smack Chet’s fine, fine ass and send him packing for a full contact meet and greet with every beautiful inch of Brice “Big Mamma” Moore.
How about you? Team Chet or team Brice? And who do we have to blow to get to see these boys bring their over the top Indy pro tag team cred and barely maintained detente to a homoerotic tag team match? Come on, 2016. Let’s see some dreams come true.
Just a few (relatively) quick, mostly unrelated items of interest (to me).
First of all, have you been following Jose’s exclusive advance coverage of Rock Hard Wrestling’s imminent King of the Ring 5? RHW has not been on my speed dial recently, so I’m grateful that Jose is broadcasting the news I can use from the Rock Hard world. Defending his title as reigning King of the Ring, Austin Cooper is back and beautiful facing off against babyface muscle star Bruce Ballard. My opinions and perspectives on the upcoming title defense are woefully uninformed, so consult Jose’s breakdown of the past, present, and possible future for Coop and Bruce. Results of Jose’s fan poll sincerely surprised me, but as for me, as with King of the Ring 4, Coop is my sentimental favorite to slap beefy Bruce down and put him in his place. I will say that regardless of who wins, there is something super sexy about a classic muscleman in trunks with a championship belt hanging across his big, bulging shoulder. Yum!
Speaking of yum, did you celebrate Ty Alexander’s birthday last week? Judging by the hundreds of birthday wishes stuffed into his Facebook feed, probably the chances are you did. In case not, I have it on good authority that Ty is accepting adoring attention every day of the year.
I often wonder about a day in the life of my favorite homoerotic wrestling infatuations. I have to guess that, for Ty, an average birthday includes unwrapping tons of wrestling gear from fawning fans, based on the perpetual wrestling fashion show Ty gives us displaying an unending supply of bubble butt beautiful trunks, singlets, thongs and jock straps. I sent my birthday wishes (no gear, sorry Ty) last week, but honestly, every day is a special day whenever Ty strips down and shows off his tight, sexy wrestling bod.
And speaking of news, ongoing newsboy crush Gio Benitez and his fiancé Tommy DiDario recently returned from a sun soaked Hawaiian vacation. I, for one, would like to insist that these two gorgeous muscle hunks always vacation in hot, sunny locations, because there was so much lush, beautiful shirtless muscle on display! I keep waiting for my invitation to their wedding, but I console myself in the mean time returning to one of my favorite pastimes, handicapping celebrity lover tag teams in my homoerotic wrestling imagination. The quality of beef on display and the increasing generosity of sharing make me think that Gio and Tommy are odds on favorites to double team and flex their way to a number one ranking. As of this particular moment, I think the championship would climax with side-by-side tandem tombstone piledrivers as prelude to Gio’s face sitting 3 count pin on Sam Champion while tasty Tommy flexes in victory with his sweet ass planted atop Sam’s husband’s handsome mug. Pumped and fired up to claim the titles, Gio lustfully tackles his beautiful bon bon to the mat, right in the middle of their unconscious opponents, for a crotch grinding make out session.
So yeah, thanks Hawaii.
My heart raced the moment I saw the news that Joe Mazetti is starring in The Comeback 2 in BG East’s newest catalog. I fell so hard for Joe way back when I purchased my very first BG East DVD, Fantasymen 18. It was one of those situations where I purchased the DVD thinking that the match pitting Joe against Derek D’Amore ranked last among the contests that I thought I wanted to see most from the collection, but then it turned out to be tied for 1st when it comes to the bouts from that DVD that I return to over and over again.
There’s a strong element of barely contained rage in Joe as a pro wrestler. It’s like he’s Bruce Banner on the edge of hulking out, but honestly, Joe always looks like the Incredible Hulk, whether he’s philosophizing or raging. Returning to the ring after an absence of somewhere around a decade, Joe is every inch as wad blowingly sexy as he ever was. Fuck, please, I’ll pay a mint for a bottle of baby oil and Joe’s outstanding fantasy physique in hand for a couple of hours. But these days, Joe says he’s mellowed. All those sensationally sexy muscle is now paired with maturity and patience. With age has come wisdom, and he’s much more the philosopher than the impulsive ring heel he was back when.
He’s nearly fawning over big, beautiful, blond beefcake Biff Farrell when he climbs into the ring. Hearing the compliments roll off Joe’s tongue is both surprising (knowing what a bulldozer heel he used to be) and sensationally arousing. I’d love to hear more homoerotic wrestling stars show some well earned adoration for their opponent’s fabulous physiques. The sportsmanly tone draws the blond rookie right in, and Biff gives credit where it’s so aptly due, admiring Joe’s incredibly fit muscles. I keep waiting, any second, for Joe to jump his juicy young opponent from behind, to punch him in the testicles, to rake him across the eyes. But no, the thick, thick coat of humility and sincere compliments he’s laying down persists. It’s the kinder, gentler, but not an ounce less massively muscled beautifully built Joe Mazetti who agrees that Biff’s body is such a close match to his in size and fitness that they really ought to arm wrestle to check out whose biceps pack the bigger punch.
Joe loses, and I’m breathlessly waiting for his legendary short fuse to light. But holy shit. No, Joe is downright self-deprecating! Sure, he says he thinks that he may have been in a bad position, but even behind the rationalization for his loss, Joe reasserts repeatedly that Biff absolutely gets full credit for besting him. Credit where credit’s due, Joe insists. Still, Biff offers to go 2 out of 3, just to make sure Joe feels like he’s got a fair shot at an honest muscle versus muscle showdown. They’re so incredibly respectful! I expect this from a naive, muscle head youngster like luscious Biff. But never would I have expected to be this far past pushing the play button and have yet to see Joe Mazetti go ape shit all over an opponent.
I’m just settling in to appreciate this new reality. Would we call this a “face-turn?” They lock hands again and bear down. Joe’s quickly got the momentum going over the top, but holy shit, like a machine, Biff stops him inches from victory and second by second fights his way back to neutral. Joe can’t believe it. I mean, really, he can’t believe it. As Biff suddenly overpowers him, slamming his arm down, Joe swears that the blue-eyed rookie cheated. Before any discussion of the more esoteric rules of arm wrestling can be discussed, Joe’s fuse gets lit and the bomb goes off in an instant. He clotheslines the unsuspecting babyface beefcake. “Look what you made me do!” Joe screams at Biff, writhing at his feet.
It’s like not a minute has passed since we last saw Joe demonstrate the very definition of kicking ass. Fascinatingly, Joe tries to talk himself down, even as he brutalizes big Biff viciously. He doesn’t want to be that vile, ill-tempered, underhanded heel anymore. He wants to win fair and square, he argues as he kicks his opponent when he’s down. Biff is fucked but good, as Joe rides the wave of momentum he’s built out of pure instinct. All things being equal, he could put poor, bulging, beautiful Biff out for good at any moment.
But he doesn’t. He stops himself, swearing that if ever he’s going to be anything other than the vile, brawling heel of his youth, it’s got to start now. He gives Biff a hand up off the mat. I’m thinking Biff’s about to get sucker punched in the balls when he accepts the offer. Frankly, I’m pretty sure Biff is half prepared for just that sort of treatment he’s learned to expect from BG East heels. “Are you sure?” Biff asks if Joe’s sincerely ready to turn over a new leaf, as he slowly reaches his feet, shaking away the wobblies left over from getting his bell rung repeatedly.
And then Biff sucker punches one of the most devastating ring heels in BG East history! I’m sure I’m not the only one to wonder if gorgeous Biff is destined to be anything other than heel bait. Well, watching him not just level the playing field but ride his ill-begotten advantage out for days illustrates a whole new side of Biff that I for one am thrilled beyond words to be introduced to. He manhandles Joe. Let me just repeat that. Biff Farrell manhandles Joe Mazetti. Let that sink in just a bit, as I replay the incredibly hot scenes in my head of Biff making the veteran scream, his head trapped between Biff’s humungous thighs, while the rookie laughs in open faced delight at completely taking advantage of his stunned opponent.
This is a sensationally competitive match before all is said and done. I’m left guessing to the very end who’s still got fuel in the tanks and a will to stomp away the last vestiges of good will, mutual respect, and an honest interest in straight up wrestling competition. I’ve never seen big, bad Joe more vulnerable. I’ve never witnessed blue-eyed Biff more vicious. But watching both beautiful boys work up thick coat of sweat on their way to beating the living fuck out of each other, I’m breathless with anticipation of which handsome hunk will leave the other laid out cold in the middle of the ring.
I was chatting with one of my sounding boards this weekend about this very match, and we bandied about the question of which is inherently the sexier scenario: the seasoned veteran who puts the rising young hunk in his place, or the “pretty muscleboy who beats up big, burly daddy” (my sounding board’s words)? You know it’s a cruel universe when we have to choose between those two fabulous fantasies. The Comeback 2 gives us a tantalizing taste of both, but this is homoerotic pro. It’s not as if there’s any chance that this will end in a draw. It’s not as if these two perfectly matched beasts will so impress one another that they’ll just shake hands and join forces to own tag team wrestling in perpetuity (they would). As evenly matched, as fantastically fully formed these two wrestling characters are in service to a sensationally suspenseful, ego raging, muscle ripping narrative, only one of these homoerotic wrestling fantasies finally plays out here.
And I’m breathlessly waiting to see if Biff can bring this intensity and hunger to the ring again. And I’m nothing short of gagging for seeing more of Joe Mazetti, a little older, a little wiser, and, if anything, about 20 times sexier (by my subjective calculations) for the rounded edges and eye on his own legacy that’s motivated one of the most exciting comeback’s in homoerotic wrestling history (by my estimation).
There was quite a flurry of November new releases at the end of the month. I didn’t come close to sampling everything hitting the market, because I have only so much money and time. But that doesn’t mean that I wasn’t moved by what I did see, and when it comes to selecting my favorite each month, the name of the game is what grabbed my attention and tickled my crotch most. So, yes, I’m ready to anoint a new homoerotic wrestler of the month, and based on the sweaty fantasies haunting my dreams in the wee hours of the mornings, that wrestler is…
… Thunder’s Arena’s Eagle.
This gorgeous newbie made a big, big splash in the homoerotic wrestling pool, debuting in Thunder’s Battlespace 84, then earning the unique distinction of co-starring the Thunder’s first ever extremely limited release, available for one day only, running headlong into the beautiful muscle veteran Frey in Bodybuilder Battle 85.
Regular readers are aware that my HWOTM title tends to go to time-tested, fully formed wrestling personalities. However, Eagle is definitely not the first, fresh out of the box, mouthwatering muscle man to rise to the top of the cop in a given month. It takes a rookie with a particular set of jaw dropping assets to put him into this elite company. Bronzed, blond, blue-eyed fitness model Eagle possesses exactly those foot-in-the-door credentials to make me take a double take. And then some!
Eagle has a delightfully compelling personality to compliment his muscle mag coverboy aesthetics. In his opening confessional with the camera, he acknowledges precisely what I’m thinking when he tells fans not to worry about his close-up-ready pretty face. Pointing those piercing, hauntingly luminescent eyes straight into your soul, the devastatingly handsome hunk flexes with a cocky sneer and explains that he’s built his comic book superhero physique into such a powerful, completely dominating mass of muscle in order to protect his picture perfect pretty face. He crunches those gargantuan pecs, pumps his massive, peaked biceps, and promises you that he’s abundantly equipped to emerge from any wrestling match every bit as pretty as he started.
It’s a special joy when a newbie shows up to the homoerotic wrestling mats with unmistakable amateur wrestling experience. Eagle is every juicy ounce as comfortable, confident, and capable as Frey as they lock up, scramble, and score take downs. The narrative takes shape around the notion that Frey finds the fitness model newbie perfectly able to hold his own (and he’s welcome to hold mine anytime he’d like) when it comes to straight up speed, strenghth, and mat skill. After an impressive display of body awareness and control, a frustrated Frey initiates the beautiful rook into the rougher edges of professional homoerotic wrestling. Nut shots set up that wonderful arsenal of corporal punishment that they do NOT train you for in high school wrestling. OTK backbreakers, bone crunching bearhugs, and a spine crunching Boston crab work every bulging inch of the luscious newbie beautifully.
Both Frey and Eagle stroll gracefully into one of my favorite plots as the newbie roars back to demonstrate he is a very quick study and enthusiastic to practice everything he’s learning on the fly. It’s his gargantuan quads that feature front and center and really make me gasp in unison with Frey struggling to feed his lungs oxygen. Those massive tree trunks are insane! And he crushes the bearded badboy like squeezing the last fraction of an ounce of toothpaste out of the tube. I buy it 110% when Frey submits, looking for the world like he’s desperate to make an appointment with his chiropractor to get his spine fixed after getting violently rearranged in more than one variation of Eagle’s scissors.
And the newbie is so fucking proud. He preens and pumps cockily. He flexes those insane quads, pointing at them and trash talking the veteran writhing on the mat at his feet. And then here’s the plot point that makes me weak in the knees. Frey fucking goes after the goldenboy’s pride and joy. He targets Eagle’s huge thighs for a cruise missile attack. There’s no skirting around the edges. He doesn’t distract him with one thing in order to sneak attack the tree trunks on the sly. It’s ego versus ego as Frey charges headlong into what is undeniably the kid’s proudest asset and, at face value, his most devastating tool in threatening to upend his seasoned pro opponent.
Frey locks on a figure-4 leg lock, and suddenly all that luscious meat hanging off of the bone is useless! Eagle looks shocked. He’s panicked as the reality of his knee about to snap in half washes over him. Technique and a perfectly executed plan defy the overwhelming momentum that the dazzling newbie was riding. All that mouthwatering promise, all that cocky, stunningly beautiful physical perfection, all that cocky, athletically accomplished, roaring young ego certain of his date with destiny… left screaming in a pool of sweat and tears.
I’m hoping Eagle sharpens his talons and flies right back into the fray, because he completely did it for me in Bodybuilder Battle 85. In the mean time, for the body, the beauty, the wrestling, and the storytelling, Eagle is my new reigning homoerotic wrestler of the month.
Publishing over 1,300 blog posts over about 6 years comes with an occasional privilege. No, I don’t mean taking shit from rude people insulting me about my opinions. That’s just a gift that seems to keep on giving, true enough, but the privilege that I’m talking about today is an occasional sneak peak of homoerotic wrestling products not quite yet released. I was on a short list sent a wrestling match by Mr. Mike at Thunder’s Arena. They’re trying out a new marketing approach in honor of the most post-modern of holidays, Cyber Monday. November 30, 2015, for one day only, you can download a muscle on muscle feast featuring industry titan Frey (aka, Austin Cooper) getting his hands all over new, young muscle phenom Eagle.
I haven’t yet seen Eagle’s debut match against Dozer in Battlespace 84, so I’m late to the game in assessing this very tasty, fresh cut of meat. So you’ll forgive me if I take a moment to evaluate the promise of this magnificent kid. First of all, those eyes. I know, I know. You aren’t shelling out cash to admire some guy’s eyes. But honestly, take a moment, because Eagle’s eyes are stunningly beautiful. Those eyes would stop me in my tracks if I saw this perched out a bar somewhere. Before I had the opportunity to confirm he’s built like the proverbial brick house, I’d be signing up for a ride based on nothing but those translucent, shimmering, riveting baby blue eyes.
So, yes, the kid is pretty. He knows what you’re thinking, too. Painfully pretty often means heel bait in homoerotic wrestling. So Eagle gives you a little testimonial by way of introduction, assuring you that although he gets paid good money as a fitness model to look pretty, he’s got the muscle and the wrestling background behind him to be much, much, much more than a pretty face on the Thunder’s mats. Though, again, at the risk of repeating myself, I just have to say again, fuck, he is lusciously pretty.
The title of this blog post was nearly “Hangin’ with Mr. Cooper,” but at Thunder’s, Eagle’s veteran opponent goes by Frey rather than Austin Cooper, as he’s known in competition elsewhere. I’ve often referred to Austin as homoerotic wrestling’s reigning goldenboy, so it says something that dazzlingly pretty Eagle instantly rips that title from the veteran’s hands in the opening muscle pose down. Not that Frey isn’t every ounce as gorgeous and titillating as ever. He bulges in all the right places, and all of his bulges bounce and quiver with just the right heft. But if we’re talking homoerotic wrestling’s resident goldenboy, Frey looks downright pasty white and lumbersexual with his pale, pale skin and sinister red beard. Eagle is a bronzed god, with thighs that completely dwarf Frey’s powerful legs, and an incredibly aesthetic, perfectly proportioned back plunging via an incredibly tiny waist into a lush, powerful, thickly muscled set of glutes. At the risk of getting yet another boatload of hate mail from Coop fans, I’m just going to say what I see here: Eagle’s fitness, muscle size, muscle tone, tan, fuck, even his perfectly smooth skin tone puts the bulging, bearded veteran to shame. There, I said. Let the hate zingers fly.
Physique aesthetics are, however, merely one component in what turns me on about this genre, of course. So color me delighted when the opening third of this face off demonstrates that both Frey and Eagle are equally credentialed amateur wrestling masters. They trade single leg take downs for days. They put each other’s backs to the mat with authority. I’ve known from the beginning that Frey is an accomplished amateur mat wrestler, but seeing him get pushed and tested by this shining, golden kid that’s just smacked the pretty right off of Frey is completely unexpected.
I won’t spoil the drama of competition too much for you, but I think Mr. Mike will understand if I have to say that the heat turns way, way up once Frey starts teaching the beautiful young pretty boy the difference between amateur and professional wrestling. He lays the physique star out like Thanksgiving dinner in a long, lingering, agonizingly arching over the knee backbreaker that shows off most of the kid’s best assets. All of Eagle’s muscles are just laid out there for the veteran to torture. Your amateur wrestling coach didn’t teach you about that, now did he, Eagle?
Eagle is a quick study, though, and he is firmly in possession of all of the equipment necessary to not just dazzle fans, but also put the hurt on an opponent. It’s his gargantuan thighs crushing Frey’s ribs that slowly, wetly milk the grudging respect out of the veteran with a gasping submission. Frey has to take a minute to recover, which merely gives Eagle the time to flex and crow about his magnificent quads. He flexes those monsters in victory, and I’m signing up for the Eagle fan club instantly. Fuck, this guy is built!
Frey is that much more determined to snap the kid off at the knees, targeting precisely Eagle’s pride and joy legs for the veteran’s last ditch effort not to suffer a humiliating defeat from the very same kid who snatched the title of reigning homoerotic wrestling goldenboy from him 10 seconds after taping started. Sure, the biceps and the pecs are fucking huge, but there’s nothing quite as titillating or entrancing as egos this massive pounding into one another in a desperate attempt not to be humiliated.
One final, relatively minor point that I have to mention. You know how a lot of homoerotic wrestlers, particularly newbies, are unable to contain their self-consciousness, how they tug and pull at their trunks to keep as much skin covered by the tiny swath of fabric that producers let them walk onto the mat with? Well, Eagle does exactly the opposite. He’s always tugging down at the top of his trunks. It’s like he’s dying to show us how insanely tiny his muscled little waist is. The relatively modest square cuts he’s in seem to persistently irritate him because they cover up too much of his perfectly unblemished, gorgeously bronzed skin. Every time he pulls them down, showing off a fraction of an inch more of his very lower abs, giving just a glimpse of his ripped, ridged hip flexors, I fucking love this dazzling beautiful kid a little more. Get this beast out of square cuts and let his inner/outer exhibitionist fly free, Mr. Mike! Clearly both Eagle and I are just dying for him to show more skin.
I could get into celebrating Cyber Monday each year if there were more presents like this wrapped up and waiting for me.
I’ve talked about my infatuation with some of the early wrestling matches from Can-Am before. I’ve mentioned my infatuation with Jimmy Royce’s body (and particularly, that spectacular, muscled ass). But I don’t think I’ve actually done a full review of those classics, including one of my very first, treasured homoerotic wrestling purchases, Canadian Musclehunk Oil Wrestling 3.
All 4 matches in the compilation have merits, but it’s the second match, (oil)pitting Jimmy Royce and Can-Am classic staple Beau Hopkins against one another, that I’ve savored most over the years. The match starts with each wrestler taking turns doing a solo self-oil down. There’s something particularly seductive about this type of pre-match “introduction” that I love. Movimus continues to do this type of foreplay with the viewer, showing each opponent in turn stretching in preparation for the match. Back in the day, On Top did it best, as far as I’m concerned, giving each wrestler camera time to answer some questions, talk about their preparation and game plan, sort of handicap their own match. It totally cemented the sell for me, establishing motivation, character, and, of course, giving ample opportunity to study the physiques about to square off. Naked Kombat has continued the pre (and post) match camera confessional, but last I was signed on to NK, they were so formulaic that the shine had worn off a bit for me.
But watching Beau, and then Jimmy silently coating their gorgeous muscles in oil, only the sound of the padded mats underfoot shifting beneath them as they slowly, seductively move, I’m sucked right in. Beau grins at the camera a lot. He looks like he could easily pull out his cock and pound one out on nothing but the feel of his own gorgeous muscles coated in oil. He doesn’t do that, but the sly smirk on his face gives me the impression he knows I’m already compelled to unzip and release some of the pressure building in my pants.
Jimmy, on the other hand, doesn’t crack a smile. He holds solid eye contact with the camera as he bathes his phenomenal physique, but it isn’t playful, like Beau. Rather, he gives that look that I’m absolutely certain he uses to pick up beefcake in the bars, staring fixedly, silently signaling that he knows you want to get your hands on his muscles. It’s challenging and invitational. It’s an erection in 10 seconds (not Jimmy’s. Mine).
They cut to action is abrupt. Jimmy and Beau circle the oil pit cautiously. Footing is treacherous on the padded surface already slick with oil dripping off of their fine physiques. Jimmy moves in for the lock up, but suddenly Beau shifts to the side and charges forward, clotheslining the stud hard to wet mat. Instantly, Jimmy’s oil stained, tiny blue trunks ride way up his crack. His legs and ass are lightly hairy, in contrast to Beau’s baby smooth skin everywhere. Beau’s pink trunks (on my fading VHS tape, they’re pink, though the Can-Am photos reveal they’re actually orange) are form fitting, but he just isn’t packing the same mouthwatering muscle in the back end that Jimmy’s got. He quickly rolls his opponent to his stomach and cranks on a nasty hammerlock, prying Jimmy’s glistening, muscled arm high up between his shoulder blades. “How does that feel!?” Beau demands in a way that doesn’t seem nearly as cliche as those words sound in most matches these days. “Fuck you!” Jimmy shouts angrily, in a way that makes my balls contract just a little with excitement.
What I love, adore, am completely owned by in this match is the suspense. Two big egos attached to two sensationally sexy bodies have me guessing from start to finish who will end up with bragging rights at the end of the day. They struggle to maintain holds, to apply pressure to joints, to keep a grip as they attempt to manhandle each other’s bodies, with so much excessive lubricant coming between them. I have to confess that I’m compelled to pull for a Jimmy victory, mostly because I just want to see him flex that mouthwatering body cockily over his vanquished foe. But early going, it’s clear that Beau is living it up as a heel in this bout. He cottons on early that if he takes Jimmy’s back (sign me up for that ride, please), the gorgeous boy is defenseless against a humiliating hammerlock. So he exploits that weakness often, letting gravity keep Jimmy solidly in place trapped underneath his opponent’s weight across his muscled back. “Smile for the camera!” Beau insists, yanking on Jimmy’s hair to pry his face up off the mat and stare humiliatingly into the faces of his fans on this side of the camera. “Lick up the oil!” Beau laughs maniacally, seeing how much he can control, dominate, and own his opponent.
The first fall belongs to Beau. Jimmy has been milked for days in that oil choked hammerlock, face down to the mat. He’s clearly tired out when Beau slides his smooth, strong legs around Jimmy’s neck, locks his ankles together, and squeezes the kid’s windpipe shut. “Do you give, Jimmy Royce!?” Beau demands. Fuck, I love it that these guys know each other’s wrestling names. The implication is that they’ve sized each other up, they’ve prepared for this match. Jimmy resists, but Beau doubles down on the choke, leaving just enough air for Jimmy to breathlessly squeeze out the words, “Okay… I… give…” It’s not enough for the gorgeous heel. “Say it again! Say, ‘I give Mr. Beau Hopkins!'” Jimmy can barely breathe, but he finally sucks down just enough air to slowly squeak out the humiliating submission. “I… give…. Mr….. Beau Hopkins.” Beau laughs as he climbs to his feet and flexes his glistening body in victory.
The second fall belongs to Jimmy. He’s got a fire lit under that magnificent ass after getting owned in the first fall. Beau grabs about 30 seconds of offense, but fuck it all if Jimmy isn’t ragingly in control and liking the feel of manhandling his hunk opponent almost from start to finish. He knows how to please his fans. He uses his gargantuan thighs to squeeze Beau’s face, then sits his gorgeous glutes down on top of the stud in total humiliation. In one stunningly aesthetic moment, he climbs on top of Beau, facing his feet, and wraps his huge, hairy thighs around his torso. Locking his ankles together behind his opponent’s back, Jimmy squeezes hard, digging his knees into Beau’s ribs. You can watch the muscle contraction wash like a wave up Jimmy’s hamstrings and across his muscled ass. I swear, even the most exclusive bottom has got to be picturing the ecstasy of sliding his cock deep between those two ripped, massive mounds of muscle. Beau is fucking toast with Jimmy on a roll, and slowly, surely, Jimmy slides his gasping opponent into position to wrap those aforementioned magnificent legs around his shoulders from behind in another award-worthy wrestling sculpture. “You’re finished!” Jimmy states the obvious with authority. “You want to give, baby?” he asks the whimpering hunk getting his arms ripped out of their shoulder sockets. The mortified heel resists, but finally concedes. “Mr. Jimmy Royce?” Jimmy demands to hear the meat say his name before he lets him go. Things are seriously all even. Fall to fall, humiliation to humiliation. Jimmy flexes his bicep in Beau’s face in victory, his ripped abs glistening so beautifully. He doesn’t give us a long, lingering look from behind at that epic ass that’s pretty much stolen the show, but there’s fall 3 still to come. My aching desire to see the decisive, post-victory full muscle showcase is so intense.
The third fall teeters back and forth. Both boys have tasted victory, and they’re both clearly hungry for the final score. Jimmy pulls out some amateur wrestling moves that make me ache for him that much harder. If exposing the back earned him points in homoerotic oil wrestling, he’d be way, way ahead as the match careens wildly toward its climactic end. But just controlling your opponent’s body doesn’t count. Their are no back points, much less riding time. And although Beau is often the babyface chump in other matches, he’s all heel as he doubles down on humiliating and wearing out luscious Jimmy. He sits on his face. Just sits there for a couple of seconds, letting Jimmy smell the vicious punishment coming his way. Then he slides into place, snapping his thighs around Jimmy’s skull and bearing down. Jimmy battles back, slipping free and managing to hold onto a beautiful bow-and-arrow (beau-and-arrow, in this case) that stretches Beau out and makes that bulge in the front of his trunks quiver. When Beau finally slips free Jimmy is on his back and applying a fish hook from behind, threatening to rip that classically handsome face right of the mean heel.
But there’s a feel of inevitability about it when Beau turns the tables and plants his knees into Jimmy’s pecs, pulling on his arms and prying the kid’s head forward painfully pressed intimately against Beau’s bulging pouch. Jimmy’s ripped abs writhe, his hips sliding from side to side struggling to slip free. But there’s not enough oil in the world to earn luscious Jimmy reprieve from this one. His beautiful, blue bulge looks like he’s smuggling a grapefruit as he slowly stops struggling, the camera panning up his huge, hairy legs, over the mountainous bulge, up the ridges of his six pack abs, and into the agony contorting his face, framed so perfectly between the glistening smooth inner thighs of his tormentor.
Fuck. I don’t get to see Jimmy show off that top shelf ass in preening victory. Somehow, Beau looks like he knows it as he smirks at the camera, flexing over top of his fallen foe. Like the vile heel he is, he’s both crushed Jimmy’s dreams and denied me my fawning adoration of my hero’s victorious muscles. Not that I’m not completely turned on by Beau’s classic form. He tugs at the sides of his trunks, accentuating the bulging pouch and taunting me with a glimpse of more of the terrain just beyond the borders of his covered, oil soaked cock.
Again, I say, fuck. It’s true, there’s a clumsiness inherent in oil wrestling. You’ll see no high flying. All but the most perfectly balanced holds are destined to pop free with all that muscle being so extensively lubricated. Long held suffering is rare. The oil pit is a relatively abridged territory, so the action is mostly in the center of the mat, more about scrambling and slipping and sliding across each other’s muscles than working an offense or a counter. But I love this match because there’s drama. I totally believe the pretense of competition. Precious few words and a lot of silent looks sell two sensationally 3-dimensional characters. The oil is gimmicky, I know, but these were younger days, before the industry needed to try to stay two steps ahead of a well-established customer opinion. And I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again, there’s missed opportunities in not circling back to oil wrestling more these days. And without an ounce of sexual tension really spared for each other, both Beau and Jimmy place this match squarely in the homoerotic end of the pool for their taunting, tantalizing, seductive looks right into my wrestling fan soul. They know you and I are turned on, and frankly, they love it. Come and get it, they both say as they stroke their lubricated bodies and invite us to smell the oil, to feel the heat rising from their hardworking bodies, and to take pleasure in their combat as only you and I really do.
Love this match.
Goran recently reached out from Serbia to do a little fact checking here at neverland. He assures me that BG East one-hit-wonder Arn Nedic is not, in fact, from Serbia. I had passed along that little detail from the online description of Arn’s one and only (fuck, get him in a ring!) homoerotic wrestling match (to the best of my knowledge, PLEASE correct me). Goran states that Arn is, in fact, a London-based model known as Lucas Agra.
Lucas (aka Arn) can call himself anything he wants, as far as I’m concerned, as long as he puts those phenomenal pecs back into homoerotic wrestling action again soon. The fact that he’s London-based doesn’t, on the surface, exactly pin down his ethnicity, of course. Living in one of the most cosmopolitan world cities in the history of the world doesn’t really argue strongly that he’s English, by any means. And going by Arn Nedic or Lucas Agra lends itself to an interpretation that his incredibly distinctive, severely ripped physique belongs to someone somewhere east of the prime meridian, I’m still suspecting. But Goran seems sure his origin story isn’t rooted in Serbia. Fair enough.
Happily, luscious Lucas has demonstrated he is fabulously equipped and willing to bare it all to show off his sensationally sexy body, so may I recommend a rip ‘n’ strip scenario? Those soul piercing eyes are enough to stop even a mildly homoerotically inclined opponent in his tracks, but can you just picture that gorgeous cock unleashed mid-match!? Fuck, even a Kinsey 1 would surely be unable to resist getting an up close, hands-on examination of that marvelous meat.
The misdirection of Arn/Lucas’ wrestling persona raise for me the question of what it is we expect by way of self-disclosure of our homoerotic wrestling infatuations. In an erotically-identified industry like homoerotic wrestling, it should come as little wonder that athletes use pseudonyms. You might not want mom or a day job employer to do a Google search on you and stumble across an image of an opponent schoolboy pinning you with his balls resting on your lips. Truth be told, I’ve even had an opportunity to pitch in a couple of times when it comes to selecting a wrestling name for a newbie looking to make a big splash with fans. So, of course I’m well aware that, as with public entertainment figures of many types, homoerotic wrestlers may have many reasons for going by a name that isn’t on their birth certificates.
But more than simply a matter of keeping the homoerotic professional and the personal separate, I think there’s a utility to hunks wrestling under a pseudonym. There’s a suspension of disbelief inherent in professional wrestling. No matter how much back story explains it (and I LOVE a compelling back story to my homoerotic wrestling), there’s little face value validity to the idea that two complete strangers strip down to next to nothing, climb into a wrestling ring with a camera crew on hand, and instantly generate a roaring, aggressive animosity that compels them to execute such stylized and idiosyncratic combat moves as snap mares, over-the-knee backbreakers, and Boston crabs.
Ours is a genre that makes demands of us and of the wrestlers we enjoy. Of us, professional homoerotic wrestling demands that we overlook occasional lapses in motivation, character, and convincing sell. It demands that we read pro wrestling shorthand to recognize the tropes and gimmicks and suspend disbelief enough to follow a narrative about magnificently muscled men trading what would almost certainly be lifelong crippling maneuvers leading to miraculous rallies, devastating reversals of fortune, and will-bending psychological domination. As a couple of wrestlers who I’m privileged to count among my friends point out, it isn’t all gimmick and script. These are trained (for the most part) professionals committing their bodies and well-being to honest-to-god wrestling, including both highly competitive unscripted shoots as well as carefully choreographed dances in service to propelling a particular character (the irritating narcissist, the savage heel, the doomed jobber), a certain fan-favorite narrative (the squash, the heel turn, the agro-lust boiling over), or a particular fetishized genre (trampling, gut punching, knock outs). We know the homoerotic wrestling camera is not a lens into the “real” world, but it is, most certainly, a lens into the world in which we live, with real men, with real lives and experience and motivations, engaging in a competition-themed form of entertainment that turns us on.
But the industry also makes demands of the wrestlers we adore. It demands that they display more of their body than they probably do with all but one or two of their most intimate companions. It demands that they conform their aptitudes and preferences and insecurities to the kinks and opinions and tastes of those of us in the homoerotic wrestling audience. It demands that they engage in a homoerotic narrative, even if only erotic by association with the broader industry within which their match is to be marketed. It insists that they be characters, much bigger than life, louder, more egomaniacal, more sinister, more helpless, more merciless than surely any one of them ever actually is. It demands that whatever decisions they have made to work in this industry at this particular moment in their lives, their choices will be part of the public record in perpetuity.
So if Lucas Agra (I’d bet a lot of money that’s also a pseudonym) wrestles as Arn Nedic, more power to him. I bet Goran is correct that he probably isn’t Serbian, but I’m absolutely certain he is something. He’s a real boy, with a heritage and a resume and a pile of dirty laundry and a longing to be loved for the content of his heart. He’s flesh and blood, gifted with drop dead gorgeousness more than abundantly enhanced by what is obvious a fanatical devotion to fitness and muscle development.
And whatever he’s like with his family and friends and lovers, he’s also, for just a few minutes whenever I push “play,” an eye-poppingly sexy motel wrestler who wants nothing more than to wipe that fucking smirk off of prettyboy Connor Cross’ face and make that punk ass kid his little bitch.
We’re all complex, socially constructed, and self-determined human beings. Homoerotic wrestlers included.
Sidelineland 