Author: wrestlebard

I'm a gay man with an active imagination.

Masonry

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Adorably Mason Brooks looks like he just stepped off the train.
Ben Monaco, bless his soul, mentioned in his embedded report from the front lines of a marathon BG East taping bonanza in September that there was a particular new slice of of babyface gold with magic nipples.  No, he clarified, it’s not the same jaw droppingly hot muscle-face that boys were sneaking peeks out of the 2nd story windows to watch his photo shoot in the backyard.  That stunner, we’ve since learned, was pretty Pete Sharp (who hates being called pretty).  No, there was a different magically nipped newbie who Ben mentioned will grab attention right around and to either side of the sternum area.  I don’t yet have independent verification (though I’m working on Ben to give me an interview any day now), but I’m strongly compelled that said rook is lean, lovely Mason Brooks, also seen in a behind-the-scenes candid shot from Ben’s camera that weekend.
Accomplished erotic wrestler Blaine Janus is unmistakably happy to see his rookie opponent.

The first BG East staple to get his fingertips on Mason’s nipples is astonishingly blue-eyed Blaine Janus, facing the raw rookie in Gazebo Grapplers 14.  My question is whether Blaine is horny for anyone who steps on the wrestling mat with him, or whether he has some sway with the BG East back office boys to get to handpick the hotties he faces.  Because one thing seems as regular as rain, Blaine is HOT for his opponents.

Blaine is very, very happy to get his hands all over Mason Brooks.

Mason is no exception to this rule.  There’s a hunger in Blaines’ eyes the moment he struts onto the mat and finds young Mason stretching his muscles.  Blaine also seems to have a taste for the freshest meat, wanting to be first to put his scent on debuting rookies like Mason.  The moment the action begins, the look of a starving man eyeing a T-bone washes over Blaine’s face as the anticipatory grin slowly stretches from ear to ear.  He wants this handsome boy in his hot wrestling singlet.  He wants to muss up his gelled hair.  He wants to dial up those nipples with both hands.  He wants to make this gorgeously innocent rookie sweat buckets so that he can skip the lube and slide straight into place.  And as is Blaine’s way, he’s not going to be happy until he’s been the first at BG East to taste this hot rookie’s sweet, sweet lips.

Not so fast!  This rookie isn’t so innocent after all.

But wait.  Did I refer to Mason Brooks as innocent?  Mere minutes into this match, the rookie neutralizes Blaine’s offense, takes him down, uses his surprisingly powerful legs to wrap up the veteran’s arms behind his back like a twist tie, and then, with a confident, easy grin of someone who’s been down this road before, he wraps his fingers slowly around Blaine’s pouch, pauses a moment, and then squeezes. I guarantee you Blaine did NOT see this coming!

Blaine wants Mason to get a good taste of humiliation.

So lovely Mason Brooks isn’t as green as we might have thought.  That doesn’t mean, of course, that Blaine Janus is any less dangerous, or passionate, as we’ve come to know and love.  I’m guessing Blaine has been in psychoanalysis, because he seems to have fully embraced his oral fixation, specifically his fixation on sweet Mason’s mouth.  Mason does not make it easy, but eventually, carefully, with several starts and stops in the mean time, Blaine finally manages to slide into place in a fantastic folded schoolboy pin, pivoting his hips forward into Mason’s face.

Surprisingly ripped Mason serves up his own dish of humiliation!

Even when young Mason was stretching out before the match, I thought this kid was delightfully handsome.  He exudes a sort of “high school kid makes a bid for erotic wrestling fame” sense about him.  He’s extremely lean.  He looks so young.  But when Blaine forcibly yanks Mason’s singlet straps off his shoulders and peels him down to bare torso, I have to reassess the situation.  Holy shit, this kid is hot!!!  His pecs are seriously sweet, and damn it all if Ben wasn’t absolutely right, there’s just something about those nipples that makes me have to swallow.  “Mouthwatering” is a good start at describing them, but just a start.

Blaine cannot keep his hands (and claws) away from the rookie’s meaty pecs

Blaine sees it too.  He grows fixated on pushing those alluring buttons on Mason’s surprisingly meaty pecs.  He also relishes clawing the big, broad, strong pecs themselves… and clawing the kid’s crotch… and taunting, daring, luring the hard fighting rookie to give Blaine’s nips some oral attention in return.

Mason’s got the situation well in hand!

But I tell you, Mason is no varsity standout thinking that amateur wrestling credibility will automatically translate to the BG East Gazebo.  The kid has either done this before, or he’s a fucking savant, because Mason draws a straight line between seriously vicious underground wrestling tactics (crotch claw, face-to-crotch head scissors, both at the same time, etc.) and homoeroticism.  He’s got a great poker face that leaves me wondering just what’s going on inside his head as Blaine gets more and more erotically explicit in his wrestling assault.  Is he flattered?  Is he as turned on as his opponent clearly is?  Or is he just one fabulously focused competitor with a truly awesome rookie arsenal for playing a randy veteran like Blaine like a player piano?

Nighty-night, Mason!

There’s nothing you can take for granted about where this match is headed, because neither hunk looks ready to admit defeat.  They get deliciously sweaty.  They’re clearly starting to wear each other out as the minutes grind by in one test of strength and skill after another.  Blaine’s got a tiger by the tail, and hard pounding Mason is just not the doe-eyed, barely legal amateur-in-over-his-head that I (or I’m guessing, Blaine) thought he was at the start.  No, he’s a seriously sexy tactician with a ground game of both amateur and underground wrestling skills that are an intoxicating mix with his unflinching, cool as ice demeanor.   Even when Blaine catches him off guard in a beautifully intimate sleeper and the rookie starts to slide into Neverland, I’m still left guessing whether Mason is as hot for this type of wrestling as he is hot at it.

The thrill of victory… the agony thrill of defeat…

Then he rouses at the touch of Blaine’s lips on his.  His hands rest at the base of Blaine’s ass.  His mouth opens slowly, but hungrily.  Mason’s on board, boys.  And with a solid foundation already in place, paired with some intimate tutoring sessions from the likes of Blaine and the other boys at BG East who I’m certain will want a piece of this kid, I think Mason, and his nipples, could make a very, very big name for himself with fans of unmistakably gay homoerotic wrestling.

Destiny

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Well, my review yesterday of Thunder’s Arena’s Halloween Havoc match between Brendan Cage and Braden Charron generated the thoughtful conversation and, perhaps, a little bit of controversy.  Controversy is probably much too strong a word for it, but it’s a word that sounds like something serious and important happened, so I’ll stick with it just for the gravitas.  However, no one seemed to be too negatively provoked by my marveling at Thunder’s Arena’s Austin Wolf doing Randy Blue a few days ago, so for the moment, I’ll go back to more unanimous territory there.

Austin Wolf wrestles himself

Yowza!  I still haven’t re-upped my “premium” membership in RB, but I just discovered that my lapsed pay membership from years ago reverted to a free “basic” membership that gives me free preview pics and videos.  Score.  So I’m able to get my hands all over portions of Austin’s delightful performances, including both his solo video and his (by all appearances) aggressively hard pounding sexual domination of Nicco Sky.

Nicco Sky isn’t sure what he signed up for when Austin shoves him to his back
The closest that Randy Blue appears to get to stroking my wrestling kink with Austin is that he seems to shove and bully Nicco a bit.  Hot? Yes.  Wrestling, not quite.  He pins Nicco’s wrists over his head and climbs on top, a little fear playing across Nicco’s face as the 6’4″ muscle monster mounts him without a smile.  Damn hot? Hell yes.  Wrestling?  Still not quite.
Does this shot come in a wall-size mural format?
I’ve only seen the preview (I’m still toying with where to squeeze money out of my porn budget), so I don’t know exactly how the boys choreograph the approach to this truly awesome work of art constituting a bearhug/cock-suck/rim-job combination with an added bonus of enjoying the sight of Nicco massaging Austin’s beautiful glutes in the palms of his hands.  Wildly erotic?  Oh, fuck yes!  Wrestling?  Well, I need more context, but bear with me here…  Paint out the living room, the sofa, the rug, the sketchy art, the lamp, the houseplant.  Now paint this scene inside a wrestling ring, Austin’s feet planted in damp sweat stains, Nicco’s wrestling trunks ripped to shreds near one corner, and Austin’s trunks carefully folded on a top turnbuckle.  With me?  Why has this beast not yet been seen climbing into a wrestling ring!?
“The Wolf” would make an epic fuck-stakes finisher!

This standing fuck similarly strokes me so close to my wrestling kink that I’m left a little breathless.  Do the same background readjust, and slap the title “Catchweight XXX-Fight” on it and tell me how I’d be able to do anything other than slap Skrapper’s ass into 2nd place and crown a new favorite wrestling pornboy!? Seriously, crowdsource this question for me: has there been a standing victory fuck like this celebrating an all-stakes homoerotic wrestling ring match?  Because if not, this finisher could easily be dubbed “The Wolf” for all eternity… if a producer with vision signs this stud and get’s those gorgeous glutes inside a pro wrestling ring!

Sign this muscle hunk up yesterday!
So perhaps we don’t all agree on the line that wrestling for a gay audience shouldn’t cross when it comes to potentially sublimated wrestling kink.  But surely, in the name of all that’s good and beautiful, we can all agree that this gorgeous ass, in full contact, fuck stakes ring wrestling, would be a stroke of pure genius, can’t we? 

Austin surely knows the fickle tastes of gay fans.

Oh, who am I kidding?  There’s nothing that we can get 100% of gay men to agree on, even gay men who all have a particular hard spot for wrestling.  Austin Wolf is a slam dunk for me.  I’m tempted to just state imperially that he is, objectively, an essentially perfect specimen of a hunk who everyone in the universe MUST agree would make an earth-shattering, game changing character in the world of dicks-out homoerotic wrestling.  I will this to be true for you, dear reader!  I could be adamant, bordering on shrill, in pursuit of opening your eyes to the Platonic ideal embodied in every inch of Austin Wolf’s body and wrestling demeanor.

The homoerotic wrestler platonic ideal: Austin Wolf
Every so often I get a comment or an email essentially laying out precisely that argument for some hot stud I’ve horribly shortchanged in my reviews.  I’ve been called ignorant, tasteless, blind… any number of supposed deficiencies have been proposed to explain why my tastes are so impaired as not to recognize the perfection of the object of someone else’s raving fanaticism.  So I’ll try not to insist that you’re seriously damaged if you don’t jump on the bandwagon of pleading with the powers that be to transform this muscle god into the homoerotic wrestling god that he was meant to be from birth.  You don’t have to agree with me here.  I’ll be okay with it if you aren’t as much an Austin Wolf fanatic as I am.  But for those of you who are, and I know you’re out there, write your favorite producer of homoerotic wrestling products today (and tomorrow) and tell them to find this hunk of meat and get him in the ring.  He’s got a date with destiny, and I’m telling you, remember the title “Catchweight XXX-Fight!”

"Remember, it’s wrestling!"

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Brendan Cage earned his homocredibility in the work he did in the ring for Cam-Am.  In Pro Tagteam Sex Battle 1, the handsome stud teamed up with porn tidal wave, Aryx Quinn, to physically, psychologically, and yes, sexually dominate mouthwatering former homoerotic wrestler of the month, Landon Mycles/Marcus Mojo and his partner Jake Lyons.  Brendan likes cock.  He also clearly likes pounding his cock up the ass of hot muscle hunks.  So when Brendan invaded the living room of Thunder’s Arena, I took notice.

Brendan Cage pays $400 for 25 minutes of “wrestling” with Braden Charron

Brendan brings the most overtly homoerotic element to Thunder’s Arena that I’ve seen yet.  For example, in Halloween Havoc 2012 he apparently went on the internet and found Braden Charron, looking as hard and ripped as we’ve ever seen him, advertising for some private, recreational wrestling services.  The offer of $400 by Brendan lures beautiful Braden to the Thunder’s mat room, where a hungry Brendan instantly begins to devour the tanned muscle god with his eyes.  “Pretty, pretty nice,” Brendan says with his mouth, though his eyes are screaming, Fuck, yes!  “You know a little bit about wrestling?” he asks.  Of course you and I know that Braden knows a lot about wrestling.  Or, at the very least, we can testify that Braden has logged some crazy hot hours in the ring and on the mat, for the most part getting his juicy muscle ass squashed in one bashing defeat after another at the eager hands of some of BG East’s most fierce grapplers.  “Are you ready to earn your $400 today?” Brendan asks, giving Braden an unsolicited, hearty squeeze of his huge, sculpted tricep.

“Remember, it’s wrestling!”

“Remember, it’s wrestling!” Braden cautions. “This isn’t a muscle worship thing!” And therein lies the paradox.  Thunder’s Arena is unquestionably about both wrestling and muscle worship.  It’s unmistakably pitched directly at a gay wrestling kink audience.  But typically Thunder’s relies on us to read between the lines, to supply our own heat to the pounding muscles of their strong suit: massive, meaty bodybuilders going toe-to-toe in mostly fun-and-games wrestling with frequent drift into selling competition, egos, and lusty desires to dominate.  It’s wrestling.  Undoubtedly.  It’s also “a muscle worship thing,” despite Braden’s protest.  But lately Brendan Cage is connecting the implicit and explicit stories written into the fabric of Thunder’s Arena more openly and enthusiastically than I’ve seen before.  In some ways, he embodies the role that Thunder’s plays in the homoerotic wrestling genre, creating a virtual universe in which straight bodybuilders grapple lightheartedly in g-strings and speedos, explicitly staying this side of “straight” wrestling, while giving an unmistakable nod to the other side of that line, where the homoeroticism of wrestling draws those like you and me.  Brendan’s frequent eyebrow wags at the camera are not-so-subtle signals that he’s turned on by beautiful Braden.  He’s offered $400 for a private session not just to wrestle, but to feed a hunger for getting his hands all over big Braden’s famously hot bod.  In short, Brendan is one of us, my friends, and he’s slipped in the back door of Thunder’s Arena to enjoy the fratboy hijinks there the way you and I have been imagining for ourselves for years.

Braden cops a feel, here or there, tempting Brendan farther down the path…

He wraps his arms around Braden  almost lovingly and turns him to the camera.  Brendan’s bright, blue eyes give us a knowing wink as he reaches around and feels Braden’s famously luscious pecs.  “Remember… wrestling,” Braden warns.  “I know, I know… I’m just fucking with you,” Brendan says with a smirk, wagging his eyebrows at the camera once more.

“Yeah, I’m ready, but this ain’t touchy-feely!”

It’s Brendan’s $400, so Braden obeys his instructions to get down on all fours.  Brendan slides in behind him, pressing his crotch against Braden’s fantasyman ass and sliding his hand slowly around the muscle hunk’s narrow waist in order to squeeze his right pec.  “Just let me know when you’re ready,” Brendan purrs.  Braden growls threateningly, “Yeah, I’m ready, but this ain’t touchy-feely!”  “I know!” Brendan grins, “this is the position you get in.  This is called the opening stance.”  He digs his fingers into Braden’s massive traps.

There’s a fine line between a passionate hug and an erotic bearhug.

“Is this opening stance or a massage!?” Braden protests again.  But he doesn’t flinch, really.  He doesn’t shove Brendan’s exploring hand away.  So Brendan slaps Braden’s ass. When Braden doesn’t complain, he slaps it again.  “Cut the shit, and let’s wrestle!” Braden snaps, his patience finally wearing thin.  He wants to wrestle, and just playing a game of ass-grab isn’t on the menu (so maybe it’s actually Braden who’s really “one of us” in this scenario!).

“You really don’t like this!?” Brendan asks incredulously.

They do wrestle, and it’s hot action.  Brendan hoists his musclebunny off his feet in a lovely bear hug, before slamming his back to the mat and mounting his ass provocatively.  He spends a lot (alotalotalot) of the 24 minutes of this match mounted across Braden’s back, shoving the muscleboy’s face into the mat and grinding his crotch into Braden’s bubble-muscle-butt.  He keeps dialing up the sexual tension, groaning lustfully as he pumps his hips, until he crosses some invisible line that pisses Braden off.  Where is that line, up to which Braden will permit Brendan to stroke, squeeze, and grind, but beyond which he’s not willing to go, even for $400?  That’s pretty much the eternal question gay man have been asking through the ages, haven’t they, playing fratboy hijinks with their macho buddies, psychologically masterbating off of the sublimated intimacy while upping the ante, bit by bit, to test whether the defensive heterosexuality is merely a veneer overtop of a deep down cocklust?

“Yeah, come on, that don’t bother ya!”

Braden catapults Braden off of him when near-pin morphs into a some rousing worship of his massive biceps and sculpted pecs.  “That’s not my thing!” Braden protests.  “If I wanted a massage, I’d go down the street.”  “Take it easy man, take it easy,” Brendan smirks, reminding Braden he’s earning $400 to walk that fine line with him.  Brendan’s rides the wave across most of the best of what Braden offers, including those mountainous biceps and pecs, but also including slapping and even kissing his ass. “You really don’t like this?” Brendan asks, his crotch pressed tightly against Braden’s ass as he squeezes tight to a full nelson.  “Really?” he repeats incredulously.  Braden complains, “I just thought we were gonna wrestle!”

“Oh, yeah, it’s just wrestling, man!” Brendan mocks.

Of course, 30 seconds later, Braden is the one who’s the first to rip off his opponent’s baggy shorts to reveal Brendan’s speedo underneath.  The smile that stretches across Brendan’s surprised face is priceless.  He spins around in shock and gives Braden another appraising look.  Is he, or isn’t he?  Just how far can he take this mouthwatering brick house?!  “Oh, yeah, it’s just wrestling, man!” Brendan mocks, even as Braden immediately starts to protest that he’s just here for above board athletic competition.  Sensing a green light to go another block, Brendan returns the favor and peels Braden down to a bikini-bottom.  “This is good!” Brendan laughs.  “You’re having fun with me right? You’re having fun?”  Braden isn’t exactly enthusiastic in response, but he doesn’t quite give his lustful benefactor the red light, either.

Brendan leans in extra close in a distracted test of strength

A test of strength looks like Brendan is in way over his head as Braden begins to power up, but when the salt-n-pepper daddy leans in and rests his cheek on the muscleboy’s flexing pec, Braden loses his concentration and quickly ends up on his back again.  “Look at that muscle!” Brendan marvels, pinning his opponent’s wrists to the mat.  He leans in and kisses Braden’s right bicep.  “Does that bother you?” he asks, doing the same to the left bicep.  He slides his hips forward and rests his pouch on Braden’s chin, laughing.  “You gotta admit, this is pretty fun!”  Braden grimaces and turns his mouth away, but he doesn’t exactly “say no.”  “Does that bother ya?” Brendan asks, slapping Braden’s cheeks with his cock stretching the fabric of his speedo.  “Yeah, come on, that don’t bother you.  I know how you are.”

“I’ll keep feelin’; you keep squeezin’!”

Braden acknowledges the attention that Brendan is paying to his stunningly hot legs and offers his benefactor the opportunity to feel their power in a headscissors.  “Yeah, okay!” Brendan accepts eagerly.  Brendan strokes his opponent’s muscles wrapped around his skull lustily, making Braden threaten to squeeze harder.  “Go ahead!” Brendan says through clenched teeth.  “I’ll keep feelin’, you keep squeezin’!”  The headscissors turns into a schoolboy pin, with Braden slapping his low-hanging pouch across his opponent’s cheeks in retribution.  “Remember that? This is the way you like it, right?” The smile stretched across Brendan’s face is a crystal clear answer.

This is, most definitely, the way Brendan likes it!

What else do you get for $400 and 25 minutes with Braden Charon?  Brendan requests the pleasure of being captured in Braden’s side headlock and trying to escape.  Braden crushes him mercilessly, though the proximity of Brendan’s captured face to his opponent’s bulging pouch doesn’t seem to be entirely “punishment.”  Later, Braden allows Brendan to stroke his washboard abs for a few seconds before saying, “Okay, that’s enough of that.”  Stroke his abs? No, but Braden will let you punch his abs.  And he’ll raise his arms and let you lift him off his feet in a bearhug, and then treat you to the same just to show you what it feels like to have all that muscle wrapped around you.

$200, right?

“Come here, man.  That’s good.  That was very fun!” Brendan finally embraces his wrestle rentboy, slapping him on those pecs he so admires.  But wait, was it $400 or $200 they agreed on?  When Braden confesses he doesn’t actually have $400 on him, he may have crossed the line once and for all.  Trying to bargain Braden down after the fact earns a suddenly panicked Brendan a fireman’s carry out of Thunder’s Arena to be forcibly transported to the nearest ATM to pay up.

There’s a morality tale or two in this match.  There’s something here to be said about the dangers of playing the “just how straight are you?” game with your buddies.  Of course, real fans who know of Braden’s work from his Randy Blue days know that he’ll go a lot farther, but presumably $400 won’t cover the ground he staked out for RB.   I also think there’s a morality tale about walking that delicate line between appealing to a homoerotic wrestling audience while simultaneously appealing to a more closeted, just-this-side-of-the-line gay audience whose closet boundaries may be less threatened by strictly straight-up wrestling than full on porn.  It’s a dangerous line to walk, with pitfalls both for straying too close or keeping too safe a distance away from the line.  I have to think that there a lot of you who are like me (and Brendan) who harbor a serious lust to see the beautiful bodybuilders of Thunder’s Arena more exposed, infused with more erotic content, slapped down, felt up, squeezed and kissed in exchange for suffering domination at the hands of a randy wrestling opponent.  I for one am glad to see someone like Brendan Cage facing the danger head on and pushing that line (both Braden’s and Thunder’s).

Dicks Out… Now!

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Homotrophy is a regular read for me.  Like, daily.  Like, multiple times a day.  I don’t actually know whether neverland is a regular read for Homotrophy, but if it isn’t, then there must be a homoerotic wrestling god in heaven, because just yesterday Homotrophy featured a completely gratuitous and seemingly random full-frontal pictorial expose’ of none other than my reigning homoerotic wrestler of the month: Austin Wolf.

Reigning Homoerotic Wrestler of the Month: Austin Wolf

I have been, in the past, a subscriber to Randy Blue, but my heart is really rooted in wrestling (or, rather, my hard-on is really rooted in homoerotic wrestling).  While Randy Blue has produced some very notable entries into the homoerotic wrestling sidedish menu, it wasn’t enough to keep me sated.  But having Homotrophy point out that my reigning homoerotic wrestler of the month is a Randy Blue model strongly tempts me to re-up.

Now THAT’S what I’m talking about!!!

I noted in my essay crowning Austin as this month’s HWOTM that his unlikely defeat at the hands of rosy-cheeked cherub-bomb, Dominic, featured some impressive evidence that Austin is packing major league heat in the front of his trunks.  Now we’re unlikely to see exactly what’s filling Austin’s pouch so impressively at Thunder’s Arena because, so far, Thunder’s doesn’t do nudity.  However, this is clearly not Austin’s hang up, as evidenced by his proudly displaying his beautiful meat for Randy Blue as covered by Homotrophy. Seriously.  That’s fucking gorgeous!

More than two handfuls of fun

One thing that both Thunder’s and RB-via-Homotrophy both capture is the fact that my reigning HWOTM is just… damn…. HUGE!  Thunder’s clocks him in at 6’4″ and 235 pounds.  For Randy Blue, Austin has done a solo video, but the cover for his first hardcore action with RB is what grabs my attention with both hands.  The cover to the preview video features gorgeous, gorgeous, gorgeous Austin naked with his shoot-partner Nicco Sky in an inverted bear hug, Austin’s face in Nico’s ass and Nico’s lips wrapped hungrily over Austin’s big, beautiful rod while Nico simultaneously squeezes Austin’s luscious cheeks. Wait, how much is a Randy Blue membership again?

…never works his abs, my ass…

Austin is another example of a gorgeous hunk clearly open to exposing all of the fantastic assets that genetics and hard work have given him (I don’t believe for a second the Randy Blue bio that claims Austin never works his abs… I call bullshit… and I’ll say it to his face… preferably with his thighs wrapped around my head and my mouth shoved hard into his balls).  And Austin is even, obviously, equipped and willing to perform the beautiful dance of gay sex on camera.  And yet his appearance in the homoerotic wrestling universe has thus far been G-rated (well, counting the massive excitement of Hooper when he faced Austin, let’s say rated-PG).

Someone NEEDS to wrestle this monster to the mat!

Get this man and his full monty on camera in full-fledged, unabashed, every inch homoerotic wrestling action, people!!!  Now Thunder’s Arena and I have come to terms with the scope of Thunder’s work.  I know that they consider their specialty being in the “implicit” realm of homoerotic wrestling, and they recognize that I always, always, always long to see some of their brightest and best talents more explicitly erotic (though Brendan Cage is stroking a sweet spot that I’ll talk about more in the next couple of days).  I realize that Thunder’s wrestlers aren’t all porn stars, and they aren’t all interested in appearing on a website that’s more explicitly homoerotic.  Gray area huge, let’s just admit it.  However, when you’ve got someone with the obvious… talents… of Austin Wolf, there’s a moral imperative to set this massive muscle beast free on the dicks-out universe of homoerotic wrestling fanatics!

This man was born to cock wrestle!

I want to proudly point out that I was totally turned on and fully a fanatical admirer of Austin Wolf’s before I ever saw his incredibly beautiful cock unencumbered.  That deep, rumbling bass voice of his can make me hard with my eyes closed.  The tummy tat alone makes me involuntarily stick out my tongue.  His beautiful nipples, big, bulging pecs, astonishingly hot, athletic legs, and the veins on the backs of his hands and hairy forearms all drive me crazy, and that’s with his trunks on.  Put this boy on a mat (or better, for my tastes, in a ring) and don’t stop taping until he’s de-trunked, fully aroused, and replaying that inverted bear hug/standing 69 on a totally wasted, dominated, conquered and humiliated opponent, and this power hitter will be a master of the universe!  At least the universe of homoerotic wrestling fanatics.  All hail my homoerotic wrestler of the month, and sign this gorgeous beast to a strip stakes x-fight… yesterday!!!

Pretty Pete Sharp

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There’s a new stunning hunk in town: Pete Sharp.

Ben Monaco, bless his soul, was the first to give me heads up that there was about to be something big and shiny landing on the scene at BG East.  Ben reported after the now famous, blisteringly hot marathon of taping in Massachusetts two months ago that one particular tattooed adonis newbie was so smokingly hot that wrestlers were literally stealing glances out of the upstairs windows to get a first look at him during his solo backyard photoshoot.  With the release of BG East’s Catalog 96, we now know who the scene stealer is: painfully pretty Pete Sharp.

What do you notice first?

Many things might grab your attention about lovely Pete… oh fuck that, you and I both know that we were both immediately transfixed by this pretty boy’s MASSIVE package!  I mean, sure, when you’ve picked your jaw up off the floor, you’ll get a little lost in those baby blue eyes and handsome features of a 1950’s Hollywood leading man.  Yep, you’re going to marvel at this tanned stud’s sweet proportions, mouthwatering pecs, luscious arms, and I lose all self-control when he flexes those tree trunks he calls legs.  And yeah, without a doubt, that’s a top notch ass screaming (SCREAMING I say!!!) for a mercilessly stunning spanking.  But interspersed throughout that virtual tour of his astonishingly hot body, we both know that you were repeatedly double-checking if that mass of muscle hanging between his legs was as big as you remembered it from 5 seconds earlier.  Wow.  Yeah.  Um, wow.

The look in pretty Pete Sharp’s eyes says it all… well, that and his massively stuffed pouch.

The masterminds behind the scenes tapped long, sexy, Christian Taylor, a former homoerotic wrestler of the month on this blog, to break-in this epic rookie in Gazebo Grapplers 14 (which could possibly qualify as sexiest compilation from start to finish of any homoerotic wrestling collection).  I’m totally making up the back story that Christian’s beau, scrappy Skip Vance, was just off camera hoping for his lover to conquer this Greek god and put him out cold so the two of them can tie him down and get their four hands all over that impossible to overstate bod.  This imagined trophy take down does not materialize, sadly, but both of these on-camera grapplers get their hands all over each other.  That massive hulk of a pouch protruding from Pete’s crotch is like a third participant in this match.  When he wraps handsome Christian up in a standing full nelson, there’s Christian suffering, Pete threatening to break him to bits at the shoulders, and Pete’s package pressed tantalizingly against Christian’s ass.  I’d still love to see Skip in this mix, but even without him, that’s still an awfully incredible threesome!

Christian puts the rookie on perfect display!

Christian, bless his soul too, works his ass off making sure to show off Pete’s best sides.  The smooth, tanned stud spends a great deal of time locked up tight and split nearly in half, with his remarkable manhood framed front and center.  And the still-frames don’t capture the kinetic qualities that make Pete about 1,000 times hotter in motion.  That tantalizing mass in his trunks jiggles.  It swings and sways.  When he moves suddenly, it bounces heavily, proving via the laws of physics that there is NOT just some sock stuffed in there, but rather that’s more than a mouthful of real man dragging Pete’s waist band downward.

Pete presses his advantage

That third party in this match, Pete’s powertool, spends a lot of time smashed beautifully between the rock of his muscles and the hard place of Christian’s long, lean, powerful bod.  There was clearly some codicil in Pete’s contract in which he stipulated that Christian would not get aggressive with that humungous vulnerability dangling between his meaty thighs, because there’s just NO other explanation for how Christian managed to go from start to finish in this match without grabbing hold with both hands (because it would require two!) and milking this adonis’ moneymaker in one raw-nerve screaming hunk submission after another.  That’s not to say, however, that Christian has no contact with the trunk monster reaching out from Pete’s crotch at all times.  Pete may be going for the cover to pin Christian’s shoulders to the mat, but it’s hard not to be fixated on the sight of Pete’s pouch grinding into his opponent’s midsection, stretching the tight confines of the metallic gold fabric like an animal struggling to escape captivity.

Christian restrains himself from going for the gold.

And Pete’s body scissors comprise one of the most astonishingly sexy homoerotic wrestling images I’ve seen in a long, long time, with his gorgeous body flexing and his sneering, perfectly white teeth flashing confidently.  But even though Christian doesn’t go for the gold by yanking on that emergency exit handle, just trying his best to pry Pete’s legs apart inevitably brings Christian’s hand in contact with the intrusive presence of that huge pouch.

Lip-smackingly lovely muscle ass!

Who do I have to fuck to get Pete Sharp on a long-term contract to launch a long and (I guarantee) wildly successful homoerotic wrestling career?  Because I’d love the leisure to study this stunning specimen in infinite detail and from every angle over and over, including that lip-smackingly lovely muscle ass!  I want to linger on those glutes, to marvel at the mountains of muscle there on his backside that need to get clawed, first above board and then with a couple of expert hands slid down inside those tight trunks.  I want to contemplate his glutes more… but fuck me if I can rip my mind away from projecting inside of Christian’s head as he feels Pete’s huge pouch grinding against his ass right there in that full nelson.

Like Christian, I’m appreciating this view a lot!

Pete Sharp’s rookie debut is truly a thing of beauty.  I’m right beside those other BG East wrestlers who were irresistibly drawn to pull back the curtain to soak in the mind-boggling beauty that this man embodies from head to toe.  I haven’t really mentioned his wrestling yet, which is uncharacteristic, so let me just marvel that the boy is every bit as strong as he looks.  He’s already got a solid mat game that suggests this is most certainly not his first time putting a lucky bastard on his back.  And he’s just plain fierce, clearly taking it personally and refusing to concede until Christian absolutely and entirely locks up this muscle monster like a vice.  But that massive package is nothing short of epic, and I’m on my knees and praying like a son-of-a-bitch to the homoerotic wrestling gods for one, simple, unavoidable, pristinely perfect true and right thing to occur: Sharp and Goodman vs. Taylor and Vance.

"Kids these days…"

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I’m enjoying a rare opporuntity I have to thumb through my archives and pull out some homoerotic wrestling gems that I didn’t have time to fully appreciate when I got my hands on them in busier days.  Take, for example, BG East’s Matmen 23, featuring two friends of this blog, Kid Karisma and Skip Vance, making sweet, sweet music in a certain Florida sunroom.

Kid Karisma can’t wait to get his hands on Skip’s “cute” hair.

“Um, elementary school is the other block,” Kid Karisma smirks when achingly adorable Skip Vance struts onto the mat with an eager grin stretched ear-to-ear.  Despite Skip giving up 35 pounds to his muscle bulging opponent, it’s not hard to understand that big smile.  I know of dozens of fans who would stand in line all night for some alone time with Kid K’s muscles.  Sure, you have to assume Skip knows he’s going to get bashed.  In addition to being one of the best jobbers on the planet (I’m buying anything and everything this boy sells!), he also clearly gets major kicks out of taking a beating.  All arrows are aligned in one direction that entirely explains Skip’s shit-eating grin: Kid K’s stunning body, soul-crushing ego, and erotically charged wrestling style are perfectly tuned to Skip’s fondest fantasies.

Kid K puts Skip in one compromising position after another

“You think I’m scared of you, big boy!?” Skip laughs.  “Do I look scared!?”  No, Skip does not look scared.  Skip’s charm is exactly that.  Look vulnerable?  Absolutely.  Mouthwatering?  Definitely.  Scared? Not for an instant.  When Kid K refuses to take him seriously, Skip dials up the heat another notch.  “Are you ready to get your ass beaten?”

Skip’s got Kid K right where he wants him!

Yep, I’m with Skip.  It’s hard to consider a Kid Karisma match for more than about 5 seconds before remarking on his ass.  It is AMAZING.  It’s almost certainly the glimpse of that thong underneath his trunks, visible where his ass crack cannot be covered by the outmatched black fabric, that makes Skip blurt out in the middle of his beating, “Fuck you, dude! If you wasn’t so sexy…” What, Skip?  You’d enjoy the complete demolition you’re suffering a shade less?  But more pertinently, I find it highly erotic and refreshing for wrestlers to acknowledge the cold/hot, hard facts, like saying out loud the most obvious-yet-unspoken fact that Kid Karisma is wildly sexy!

“Scream LOUDER, boy!”

For all his ego crushing taunting, Kid K points out his own highly erotic facts, as well, referring to achingly adorable, innocent-looking Skip as incredibly “cute.”  Of course, Kid K says the word “cute” with a lip-curling sneer and seems to feed off of his contempt for adorability to fuel an incredibly hot session of complete, humiliating domination.  “Scream louder!” he demands at one point, with his rugby thighs squeezing tightly around Skip’s narrow waist.  “Scream LOUDER, boy!!!” he roars, bearing down harder with his scissors and crushing out Skip’s wailing obedience.

“Can you see these abs, or is my cock in the way?”

Skip spends a whole lot of time flat on his back in repeated Kid Karisma schoolboy pins.  In the 3rd (or 20th) time, Kid K flexes his gorgeous guns and then runs his fingers down his washboard.  “Can you see these abs, or is my cock in the way!?,” he asks before crawling his hands forward across the mat and grinding his crotch into Skip’s trapped face.  Feel sorry for Skip?  Don’t.  Most moments like this, even when he’s clearly choking on the pain, that shit-eating grin is still plastered across the lucky kid’s face.  “Kid’s these days,” Kid K marvels at Skip’s obvious relish for soaking up punishment.

Skip momentarily obeys

It’s not a 100% Kid Karisma offensive match.  After Skip obeys his opponent’s command to peel off Kid K’s black trunks to reveal the “surprise” underneath (packaged in a leopard print thong), Skip reaches up and claws the karismatic one’s pouch viciously, bringing the bully to his knees in agony.  Skip still has enough in his tanks to put the pedal to the metal and make the most of Kid K’s breathlessness.  He folds him up in a gorgeous ass-to-ceiling small package, pinning Kid K’s ankles to the mat above his head.  “Is that all you got now!?” Skip demands, delighting in spanking that glorious ass.  “You smell that, fucker!?” he snarls, grinding his crotch in Kid K’s face in retribution for the karismatic indignities suffered earlier.

“I said LOOK!”

This match opens up a fascinating side to Kid Karisma that I haven’t noticed before.  It was probably there all along, but it didn’t grab me before this match.  Kid K wants, nay, needs to have a witness to his stunning beauty and power.  “Look at this,” he demands in yet another schoolboy pin, flexing his powerful biceps.  Skip doesn’t respond quickly enough, so Kid K grabs his head and yanks it off the mat to give him a closer look.  “I said, LOOK!” he barks.

Skip can’t take his eyes off of Kid Karisma’s “best” side

“I’m looking! I see it! I like it!” Skip sputters back obediently.  Later, Kid K spreads his awesome lats and turns his, arguably, best side toward his opponent as Skip struggles to peel himself off the mat after giving away yet another submission.  “Do you see that?” Kid K asks, looking over his shoulder.  Skip is just trying to shake the cobwebs from his rattled brain.  “I asked if you were LOOKING AT ME!” Kid K threatens.  “I see it!  I see it!” Skip pleads.

“Do you like that? To feel those arms around you?”

An exquisite rear bearhug shows off both Kid K’s power and Skip’s vulnerability and sell.  Kid K lifts him entirely off his feet and marches him around the mat for days, crushing him and owning him completely. “Do you like that!? To feel those arms around you?” Kid K wants to know.

My personal favorite Kid K maneuver

A late inverted bearhug from the karismatic one leaves him open for a suspended headscissors from Skip’s always dangerous legs, combined with another vicious ball claw that drops Kid K to his knees again.  But Skip is far too wasted by this point to do anything at all with the momentary advantage.  Kid K is back on his feet and locking down another in a series of standing scissors (my personal favorite Kid K torture device!) to make Skip howl in agony while leaving Kid K’s arms free to flex and admire himself in the mirror.

The perfect pin

A figure-4 choke caps off 8 unanswered submissions that Kid K racks up, but really, the last 10 minutes or so are pretty much one long series of Skip slamming face-first into that wall.  Kid K drags the lucky, lucky jobber across the mat, smothers him with his crotch, and slaps down a 10 count final fall victory.  He admires his handiwork by flexing for the mirror with his boot grinding into Skip’s crotch, but Skip’s too far out of it to even flinch.  The karismatic victor claims Skip’s lost trunks as a trophy, but then reconsiders.  On one knee, he leans in and plants his mouth across the slack lips of his beaten opponent.  Slowly (it’s almost a half a minute of face sucking), Skip rouses in what has got to be the absolute best way to wake up in the history of waking up.  Hell, if you’re going to take his trunks, why not just toss the adorably ripped jobber over your shoulder and take him as the sweetest trophy of all?

Best way to wake up ever invented!

Wow, wow, wow.  There’s much, much more to enjoy in this match than even this major league spoiler details.  Sign me up for the petition to see a follow-up three-way (let’s be honest, 2-on-1) between Kid Karisma, Skip Vance, and Skip’s lover, Christian Taylor.  And in the mean time, beautiful work boys, and no wonder Kid K remains at the very top of my list of favorite homoerotic wrestlers!

Talk about a trophy!

Video Diary of a Wimpy Boy

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I was taken a little by surprise the first time I saw a body worship video.  My surprise was how intensely sexy I found it, even without any explicit wrestling in it, which is typically what I’m looking for.  There’s something powerfully engaging about watching a man treat another man’s beautiful body with the awe and adoration that I, in my mind, am heaping up on him.  The muscled stud flexes his pecs.  I crave to reach out and feel them turn to granite in the palms of my hands.  And then, as if obeying my primal urges, his on camera worshipper reaches out and gives those beautiful pecs a hearty squeeze. For a moment, my lustful imagination and the lucky bastard feeling up his on camera partner meld into one, and that moment becomes intensely intimate and immediate for me.  It’s a sweet, sweet illusion when it’s done right.

Steel Muscle God has just posted a 3-part video series on his membership site featuring himself flexing (of course), but with the additional element of a recurring character buddy of his who he affectionately refers to as “Wimpy Boy” (sometimes, “Wimpy Dude”).  SMG introduced his minions to Wimpy Boy a couple of years ago, using the long, skinny blond kid to answer the question that SMG fanatics are always praying to know: what’s it like to feel those steel muscles crushing you?  Wimpy Boy was featured in several videos getting dominated and pummeled for sniffing around SMG’s belongings, not being respectful enough, or just because SMG had a hankering to humiliate a wimp.

Apparently these two recently reunited, and SMG thought his adoring fans might like to hear first hand from Wimpy Boy what it’s like to witness the evolution of a god over time.  Wimpy Boy (with less hair, but then again, who am I to talk?) is treated to an SMG-style bodyworship session to repeatedly pose the question to the lucky wimpy one: how do you like me now, bitch?

These two are fascinating to watch together.  They both appear completely at ease with one another.  There’s no self-consciousness about discussing the subject matter at hand (SMG’s godly muscles).  There’s a lot of verbal foreplay to start off with as they sit side by side addressing the camera.  Then, at about 2:30 into the first chapter-video, SMG stands up, stretches, and without even glancing at Wimpy Boy, flexes his left bicep in front his little buddy’s face.  Holy shit, the hungry look in Wimpy Boy’s eyes as he sits up straighter is incredibly hot.  His eyes are fixed on that bulging bicep.  He scoots forward in his seat, as his hands twitch.  Without his gaze straying for even a second from the gorgeous peak, his hands start to reach out several times to touch it, but he pulls them back.  Wimpy Boy has clearly been trained well.  “Really huge,” he mutters is testimony to the camera once he’s finally been permitted to wrap his long fingers around the softball.  “Hard like steel… that’s really the right name for you!  Really impressive, those biceps… there’s no way if I try that I can get my fingers in there,” he says, trying to force his fingertips in the deep vertical crease between SMG’s deltoid and bi.

I have seen body worship videos that I’d evaluate as being in the “not done right” column.  There are several possible reasons for a body worship video to strike me as less than fully erotic, most of which I’d just sum up as involving a lack of “chemistry.”  Although chemistry is, technically speaking, an exact physical science, when it comes to erotic chemistry, there’s a whole lot of a “I know it when I see it” vagueness about it.  Generally speaking, if no one appears to be getting any particular thrill out of the body worship, then I say there’s lack of chemistry.  Personally, I like seeing the object of worship with a clear pay off, obviously enjoying being adored.  But at the very least, the worshipper needs to be into it, making that imagined connection between my lust and his hands clear.  There are moments when Wimpy Boy seems too nonchalant, a little too comfortable with his musclebuddy next to him.  However, there are many more moments when Wimpy Boy communicates with wide eyes, a fixed gaze, a stutter as he tries to obey SMG’s command to verbalize what he feels, that he’s awestruck.  He appears to seriously get into the task of trying to dig his fingertips into SMG’s thick muscles, letting us on this side of the camera know that it feels like trying to claw granite.  I have no idea what SMG or Wimpy Boy’s sexual tastes include, but there’s no doubt in my mind that Wimpy Boy is getting a major kick out of getting his hands all over his studly, condescending, gorgeously handsome buddy’s body.

Did I say “claw?” Why yes, yes I did.  And if there’s one thing that SMG wrestling kink fans like me know, we know that SMG’s mind is never far from the topic of wrestling.  Wimpy Boy obediently does his best to claw SMG’s steel pecs, biceps, and quads.  SMG orders him every step of the way like a drill sergeant, raining down condescension and complete psychological domination.  And all of it, inevitably, leads to SMG’s core need to use those muscles the way they were intended to be used.  He suddenly wraps his arm around Wimpy Boy’s head and squeezes until the veins on Wimpy Boy’s scalp pop out.  He adjusts his grip, sliding his arm down around Wimpy Boy’s neck and flexing that point peak of his bicep across the wimpy one’s carotid artery.

When an object of body worship seems to barely even notice the gnat buzzing around feeling him up, there’s something pretty hot about it.  There’s sort of a sense that the muscle hunk is so massive and above it all that he doesn’t notice the intimate treatment he’s getting.  That, however, is NOT this story.  SMG dominates Wimpy Boy a half a dozen different ways, from talking about his own devastating physique, to demanding that Wimpy Boy talk about it, to shoving his muscles in Wimpy Boy’s face, to using the self-same muscles that Wimpy Boy is in awe of to then exact punishment on him.  When you’re honored with the opportunity to enjoy such intimate proximity, you’re gonna get physically controlled to go along with all of that psychological domination.

A couple of things that would have made this an even tastier treat: 1) if SMG had demanded Wimpy Boy strip him, rather than doing it himself, and 2) tongue.  That said, there are some delightful moments that go above and beyond my expectations.  For example, SMG decides to use Wimpy Boy’s skull to demonstrate how hard his washboard abs are, pounding Wimpy Boy’s head over and over into his rippled gut.  Wimpy Boy starts to look a little disoriented soon enough, and suddenly SMG holds his head pressed firmly against his lower abdomen, forcing Wimpy Boy into position to check out the muscle stuffed inside those crazy hot trunks of his.  
I also have to say the pec smothering turns me on in a way that totally catches me by surprise.  Again, add tongue and this would’ve been outrageously hot.  Even sans tongue, with Wimpy Boy’s muffled grunts starting to fade as he’s smothered deep in those mountainous muscles, there’s something in the definitely “done right” category about this!

Again, I say, there’s some hot, genuine chemistry here that turns me on.  Wimpy Boy isn’t fawning.  But there are just some wonderful moments that capture me when he’s so clearly marveling, his eyes riveted, his attention totally and completely fixed on the truly lovely, divine body pumped in front of him and shoved in his face.  I get the feeling that these guys probably went out and had dinner together after all of this luscious on camera intimacy, because they actually enjoy each other’s company.

So life will be left just a little unfulfilled if a couple things fail to happen:  1) More Wimpy Boy on SMG action needs to happen, preferably including tongue and Wimpy Boy stripping SMG; and 2) Steel Muscle God partners with his tag team sidekick, Wimpy Boy to take on a couple other Eastern European bodybuilders (preferably a couple guys SMG has faced 1:1)!  Steel Muscle God continues to totally turn me on and entertain me, and Wimpy Boy does nothing but multiple both the hotness and the quality entertainment!

Joining the Club

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Picking up on yesterday’s sub-theme of “reading is sexy,” I’ve just posted to the Sidelineland fiction group a new fictional homoerotic wrestling story penned by fan-favorite Alex.  It’s a new chapter in the AWL series, in which we get some backstage, locker room insight into what could have made early ’80’s professional wrestling the sexiest business in the history of the planet.

“Joining the Club” stars a recurring character, young stud Jake Justice, having returned from his road shows and motel madness to keep his on-air career chugging forward as a tough young face.

Jake comes face to face, pec to pec, and cock to cock with a mighty hunk of meat who has more in store to teach young Jake about games within games, moving the career ball forward, and finding your people along the way.  This story features what I can only describe as a breathtakingly awesome return of another AWL feature star who lit up the Sidelineland listserv the last time he appeared in one of Alex’ matches.  Like Quantum Leap, Alex has jumped our perspective into young Jake’s head this time, and there’s something insanely hot about seeing a hunk of meat we’ve grown to know and lust after from the inside out, now described through the eyes of another star-struck hunk.

This has most definitely been the year for homoerotic wrestling fiction, in huge part thanks to Alex’ incredible productivity.  I believe he’s authored no fewer than 17 of the highest quality pieces of homoerotic wrestling fiction on the Sidelineland fiction site, and I’m happy to report that there’s more coming from Alex and others.  So be part of the pouch pounding action by signing up to get all hot and bothered reading these gems.  Better yet, be a total stud and contribute your own pieces of original writing!

Enough About Me… What Do You Think of Me?

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Yesterday neverland saw one of the busiest (if not the busiest) days of traffic.  More than 3,500 hits from around 1,800 unique visitors! A sudden surge like that typically means just one thing: some major router of gay internet content gave us a shout out.  This time, it was the high honor of being an Editor’s Pick for the GayDemon gay porn blog.

I’m much more accustomed to being the reviewer than the reviewee, so it was a fascinating exercise to see what GayDemon’s take on neverland is. He refers to my little corner of the internet as “a personal blog with words and images, written by a guy who shares his fascination with homoerotic wrestling.” Yep. That’s me in a nutshell. Some aspects of neverland seem to leave GayDemon a little confused. For example, my distinction between my “Pornboy Division” and “Non-Pornboy Division” leaves the gay porn connoisseur GayDemon scratching his head. For any newbies around these parts, I make a (probably arbitrary) distinction between homoerotic wrestling starring hunks who (at least) jack-off on camera (“pornboys”) and homoerotic wrestling hunks who may or may not wrestle naked, but as far as I know, they don’t cum on camera (“non-pornboys”). Since Naked Kombat went dormant (yes, I know they’ve reincarnated themselves, but they’re a shell of their former selves), the pornboy division has been pretty damn quiet. So when GayDemon says that it all looks the same to him, I can understand his confusion. It’s just one of those little things that means a lot to me, avoiding trying to compare pornboys and non-pornboys in homoerotic wrestling as essentially comparing apples to oranges (or bananas, really).

My commitment to the companies that give me permission to post their pics is to always cite/link them appropriately, which admittedly amounts to a form of advertisement.

GayDemon references “adverts” on neverland, which makes me cringe just a little. About once a year I teeter back and forth between giving in to pressure and allowing paid advertisements to be posted on neverland. So far, I’ve resisted the pressure, however, and I feel an admittedly self-righteous pride in saying that any link you find on this site is placed there voluntarily by me as a personal endorsement and not a paid advertisement. I possess a (probably illusory) sense of independent license to present my unvarnished opinions of homoerotic wrestling products, relatively unsullied by conflicting financial interests (for the most part). So, sure, technically the links to sites in the margins of neverland are literally advertisements, but they are not paid advertisements. They’re just there for your illumination, not my renumeration.

Are you hitting on me?

There’s something charming about GayDemon’s summary of what he sees when he visits neverland. “All in all this is a neat pace to get a general picture of what the wresting and eroticism combo is all about, or to find some in-depth thoughts and writing on the fetish, genre, subject. Which is another way of saying that you can click there for a sexy look around as well as an intellectual one.” Neat. In-depth. Sexy and intellectual!? Is GayDemon making a pass at me? And if so, is he prepared to trade bodyscissors until one of us cries uncle?

Enough Said.

One of the things about GayDemon’s review of neverland is the obvious way my text-intensive nature strikes him. Now clearly I love images of the beautiful men of homoerotic wrestling! The pages of this blog are littered with laboriously chosen pics intended to be the perfect complement and exemplars of my opinions and thoughts on the subject at hand. But from the beginning, and I expect until my dying day, I’m a man with a passionate fetish for words. The right words, the precise turn of phrase, the strategic deployment of metaphor, the particular poetic provocation of alliteration… these things dial up for me the intoxicating allure of what turns me on: homoerotic wrestling. Writing about it… writing it in the form of fiction and reviews … what I’ve been broadcasting for three and a half years has been not only the subject of homoerotic wrestling, but the subjective experience of appreciating homoerotic wrestling as conveyed through my perpetual self-narrative. I have zero doubt that there are some, quite possibly a majority, of regular visitors to this site who never, ever finish reading my epistles, drawn instead to click-through or settle in with a particular visual for a chart-topping release. Not everyone gives a flying fuck about what GayDemon identifies as an “intellectual” element to the pages of the blog (you FLIRT, GayDemon!).

Denny Cartier makes it to the sweet, sweet end of his match with Alexi Adamov

However, I know for a fact that at least some of the time that there are tenacious readers who make it all the way to the end of even a pretty long swath of text like today’s, because thoughtful readers leave comments (hint). I also know some certain someones in particular read me, because as happened last Friday, I’m occasionally extensively quoted by the likes of the brilliant boys at BG East who sometimes appreciate a particular turn of phrase I offer in praise of one of their gems.

I could still write a novel about what Alexi does to me in Leopard’s Lair 4!

Some back office boy there sent out a promo referring to my detailed admiration of the striking appearance of Alexi Adamov in Leopard’s Lair 4 as me “gushing” about the Russian bodybeautiful superstar. Gushing? Okay, okay. Sure. I gush. Take a look at Alexi’s sweat soaked muscles and just try not to.

I’m gushing at this very moment!

See? Words. Images. More words. It’s a style that I’m sure I’ve plagiarized from plenty of other places, but somehow it’s just how I start to think as I open up Blogger, curse our Google overlords for the pain in the ass interface, and then start to compose a new post. It’s a strange thing to look out into the virtual world and see yourself reflected in the mirror of another’s eyes (I told you I’ve got a thing for metaphors). While occasional commentators has assigned me much less flattering labels than “neat,” “sexy,” and “intellectual,” I’m pretty okay with how my work around here seems to be received, perceived, and reflected back.

Reflecting on reflections.
And being referenced as both sexy and intellectual will feed my often wavering ego strength for weeks to come!  Thanks, GayDemon.

As the World Watches

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I actually wasn’t going to post today, but a very sweet, direct appeal from a reader for something to divert his attention from election day anxiety convinced me otherwise.  I’m not sure what topic is appropriate for a day like today, as Americans go to the polls to cast votes with such big potential to impact people around the world.  We have way too much influence on the well-being of people worldwide, those of us who live and vote in the US.  So many people may prosper or suffer based on the (let’s face it) fickle and often superficial election choices of Americans.  So today, I honor those who have to sit on the sidelines and watch the wingnuttery of American politics play out yet again, just hoping that those crazy Americans won’t elect a(nother) nutjob who will start yet another war of expedience, exploit more of the earth’s resources while ignoring the impact of our exploitation on the global climate, or arm more wingnuts worldwide to fight wars of ideology that ultimate do nothing but increase overall human suffering.  So here are a few of the fantasy men I lust after who today, as far as I know, don’t get to vote in the 2012 US election…

Even armored in newly minted, mouthwatering muscle, high impact x-wrestler Gabriel Ross can only sit back and sip his tea, hoping that those crazy Americans get it right.  Then again, Gabriel and his UK buddies have their own political insanity to sort out on their side of the pond…

Monstercocked leatherboy Rob Chandler and dizzyingly handsome x-wrestler Chris Xaos both command my lustful adoration.  These gorgeous, nasty battlers do such things to me! But one thing that they can’t do: cast a vote for the American politicians who will undoubtedly have undue influence over the world economy and their own local well-being in the UK.  Truly, I’m sorry boys.

Ben Monaco and his hot and hairy pecs are Canadian, which is a particularly hard place to be on a day like today, I’d think.  There’s so much American shit that rolls down hill and across our northern border.  Again, Canada’s got their own bizarre politics to cope with, but at least they have universal health care.  And if it’s any consolation, at least Ben and his compatriots will have another 3 years or so before they have to hear completely ignorant and misleading American political ads warning against being “too much like Canada.”

Rio Garza compete for Mexico in fitness competitions, though his livelihoods seem intimately tied to his commercial success in the US.  I can’t imagine what the US campaign season looks like from south of the border.  Even worse than for Ben and the Canadians, Rio and his countrymen can almost certainly count on being continually demonized as the barbarian hordes beating down the gates of America, all of them drug dealers and mafioso murders who want nothing more than to sneak across the border in order to sit in their lazyboys and soak in all the free shit American’s mistakenly think we provide anyone, much less undocumented immigrants.  It’s guaranteed that U.S. policy makers will bat around Mexican interests like a cat with a ball of string, but do Mexicans get to have any voice in directly influencing their overly wealthy cousins to the north? Despite wildly misleading allegations of voter fraud (always implicating Central and South American immigrants), the answer is no.

Vlad Varek is billed a Russian cage fighter who made just one trip to this country to beat the living shit out of a few weak-assed Americans.  True story or promotional gimmick, I can’t actually attest, but if Vlad is indeed from the motherland, he’s also got to be wondering just how much more saber rattling American politics will get based on who we elect today.  The right wingers in this country still try to dabble in resurrecting Cold War terrors to motivate the electorate, and let’s face it, Russians have more than their fair share of both widespread corruption and undue influence over their neighbors, near and far.  But whether the US will keep trying to put the boogeyman mask on them or, conceivably, deploy actual diplomacy that doesn’t come at the point of our over-estimated sword, Vlad and his peeps can only wonder.

I’ve got a crrrrazy infatuation building for the particular combo of Dan the Steel Muscle God and the return of his plaything, Wimpy Boy.  These Hungarian beauties have managed to reach halfway across the globe and grab me by the balls with the intoxicating chemistry that they’ve got going.  I sweat to god, I’d do a lot of things for the chance to get my hands on SMG, but I’d give my left kidney to round out the entirely naked threesome with BOTH SMG and Wimpy Boy.  I have no idea what their politics are, but if they know what’s good for them, they’d better be hoping for increased prosperity for their army of gay US fans.  Whether they think that would come from re-electing President Obama or siding with $Romney$ and Ayn Rand budget slasher, it doesn’t really matter, does it?  Because Hungarians don’t get a vote in our crazy hot mess of an election in the US.

I’m sure there are more citizens of the world in our homoerotic wrestling universe, but those are the ones I could come up with on short notice.  Whether this little jaunt across the globe actually serves as a distraction or not from the insanity of election day in the US, I don’t know.  But for those of you like me feeling extremely tense and at least a little nauseated today with worry about the future of the US and our social and civil rights, I encourage you to pop in a homoerotic wrestling tape, lay back, and pound yourself into a stupor until the political ads start to fade.  After you’ve voted, bitches.  But then, let your favorite wrestlers take you far, far away.