Category: Joshua Goodman

How Does That Feel!?

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It’s cliche’, I know. But I can’t help myself but be sucked in when one wrestler snarls at his opponent, “How does that feel!?“

It’s not as if it’s a real question. It’s typically asked when one man is clearly suffering. The obvious answer is, “It hurts!” The question is rhetorical. It’s not asked in an effort to gather information, but to domineer. It’s a question intended to humiliate, to drive home the point that the suffering man is paid for and owned outright by his opponent. Asking the question, “how does that feel,” is about pointing out all that’s obvious here: I control you. Where your pain starts and stops is completely in my hands. I own your body, and once you acknowledge the foregone conclusion that you have no choice but submit to me, you’re entirely mine.
Let me just put it out there. When I’m watching a favorite homoerotic beat down and I hear the rhetorical question, “How does that feel,” I frequently answer. Out loud. Emphatically. As usual, even as I type this I wonder, “Am I just disclosing way too much?” Ah, what the hell. When I hear Cole or Mitch or Rusty or Derek snarl down at some muscled boy that they’ve just broken in body and spirit, asking him how it feels, I often answer, saying something like, “That feels fucking awesome!” I realize that they aren’t actually asking me, but that question can collapse the distance between entertainer and entertained for me, transporting me ringside where my muscle champion inflicts pain explicitly for my pleasure. Sure, he’s looking down into his opponent’s face as he crushes the suffering man’s balls beneath his feet, but his question is for me, “How does that feel, Bard?”
He’s digging his claws into the fantastically meaty pecs of his jobber boy, whose face is contorted with pain and near-sobs are wracking his body. And when he asks, “How does that feel?” he’s asking me, “Is this what you want to see? If I claw my fingers in deeper, how does that make you feel, Bard?”
It’s a contemptuous, domineering, humiliating throw away line that’s just meant to tell the story of one man’s complete domination. But when the fighter on top asks, “How does that feel,” the words frequently transport me ringside, where this muscle on muscle battle is being waged for my pleasure. The ars erotica of the beautiful body beatdown becomes more than just implicitly for my pleasure. The dispenser of punishment is considerately checking in with his patron. “How about if I twist his rippled body a few inches farther? What if I crank his neck until he cries. How does that feel, Bard?”
Feels fucking awesome, Mitch. Keep it up.

In Your Face

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What is it that’s happening when a wrestler grinds his opponent’s face into his crotch?Okay, I mean, besides the obvious. What’s the story line there? I’m NOT complaining, mind you, I’m just taking a second look at something that I typically take for granted.

PWP has just posted a couple of new matches. Pretty dancer boys are tossing and squeezing one another predictably. A beautiful, long pale hottie, White Angel, takes his turn working over and getting worked on in “The Challenge Series“. This image of him schoolboy pinning Mario, with what looks like a big smile on Mario’s face, brings the topic to mind. Part of the story, at least, is humiliation. Dominating your opponent so completely that you can drop your most vulnerable parts across his face with impunity has got to send a message: You are owned.
Can-Am’s Tom Flex was constantly planting his abundant package across his opponents’ faces. This position is repeated multiply throughout Flex’s wrestling history, both clothed and naked. Here, Beau Hopkins turns his face away to avoid Flex’s testicles pressed against his lips. Clearly, part of the story is also the allusion to forced oral sex. The dominant muscle stud possesses such command over his helpless opponent that he can force feed his cock and transform his opponent into his sexual toy.
Like Tom Flex, BG East’s Mr. Joshua Goodman frequently smothers his opponents with his overstuffed package, and like Flex, Joshua frequently puts his own stunning body on gorgeous display while he does it. Joshua is a case in point of another aspect of this crotch-to-face story. Joshua’s massive, low hanging balls are ALWAYS a feature of his matches. He’s gorgeously muscled, handsome, and has a nice, cocky persona, but let’s face it, it’s hard to associate Mr. Joshua with much else other than his pendulous package. The crotch-to-face is the exclamation point at the end of the sentence: Mr. Joshua’s balls are huge! His figure-four crotch-to-face is the unspoken (often spoken) message that Mr. Joshua is hyper-masculine, unstoppable, and irrepressible.

Mitch Colby, current top contender to take back the title of my favorite homoerotic wrestling pornboy, reaches that moment in pretty much every match where he has his opponent’s head wedged high between his thighs. He takes both hands and grasps the down man’s head, and presses his opponent’s face into this crotch. Mitch tells the whole story explicitly that so many only imply. Invariably, Mitch’s head rolls backward, his eyes are shut in ecstasy, and his face is enraptured by this moment of sexual domination. I swear, I expect to see Mitch cum in his jock strap every time he does this. Mitch is getting off on this, and for that particular story he tells so well, he remains firmly ensconced in the pantheon of my absolute favorites. To have a muscle hunk’s face crushed against your cock and balls should absolutely be about sexual gratification.

Speaking of pale, skinny white boys, Brigham Bell always did it for me in a way that never ceased to catch me by surprise. With zero bodyfat, Brigham was a walking anatomy chart, with every muscle, tendon and bone in clear relief. He was so skilled at using that whipcord of a body to beat down, conquer, and humiliate his bigger opponents. Squeezing a hard boy’s head into his crotch was standard fare for Brigham, using the maneuver to hammer home the point that it’s not always how big the muscles are that determine the tale. This pale, skinny white boy that you completely underestimated is suddenly planted across your shoulders, driving your chin into his balls. Whatever you thought was going to happen in this match, however you thought you’d overpower and dominate the skinny kid, it was always fated that you’d be flat on your back with his cock slapped down across your lips.

As always, I love the muscled bodies, the erotic, dominating positions, the enthused salesmanship. But it’s the arc of the story that I find most erotic. It’s the plot of two men staring one another down, untested and cock-sure of themselves, and all the fantastic elements that go into one of them ending up lying flat on his back, defenseless, with his opponent’s crotch shoved into his face.

Breaking Down the Unbreakable

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When I was about 7 years old, my older brother offered to let me punch him in the stomach. “Sure!” I said, since he was always bullying me. I swung for the rafters, not really knowing how to put much behind a punch, but fueled with a desire to make him hurt. He winced, but his flexed abdomen was none the worse for wear. “Now it’s my turn,” he said ominously, beginning a gut punching session that I had never agreed to. He was often a dick that way.
So gut punching tends to take me back. These days, I more often identify with the puncher. Perhaps I’m living out my fantasy of what I should have done to my brother when given the free shot. Frankly, though, I don’t really have my brother in mind when I see Ricky Martinez’s tasty ass planted on Troy Baker’s babyface as he humiliates the goldenboy while rapidly pounding Troy’s stunning abs.
Vinny Trevino’s double fisted pounding on Patrick Donovan is an awesome example of the erotic testing of a muscle stud’s core. Patrick was destined for this moment of agony painted across his face from the moment he stepped into the ring with this badass bodybuilder. He should have known that outweighed and outmuscled, there was nothing but humiliating pain in his immediate future. But cocky overconfidence is a jobber’s bread and butter, and so Patrick squeezed into his pink and white trunks banking on his ring-veteran savvy to overcome Vinnie’s power and youthful invincibility. Fifteen minutes later, Patrick is on his back, clutching desperately at Vinnie’s wrist, screaming in pain with his ankles in the air. Very nice story.
In babyblue and white trunks, Justin Pierce was similarly suited up for a devastating pounding from the fists of sadist musclepunk, Joe Mazetti. The systematic picking apart of the muscle stud who has complete faith in his own invincibly shredded abs is absolutely awesome. I want to see the muscled babyface on his back, writhing in pain, with his pride-and-joy six pack quivering and defenseless. I want to see Justin owned. Joe does not disappoint.
Sadist extraordinaire and aptly named, Kid Vicious never fails to deliver. His relentless attention to Steven Thomas’ wall of muscle is a work of art. With Steven’s wrists bound overhead and his lower abs bright, bright red from being used as a punching bag, Kid drives home the point that some beautiful bodies are simply made for suffering, and when it’s done right (KV always does it right), it’s a win-win-win situation.

Not that KV needed it, but he does take advantage of a 2-on-1 scenario at times to break down Steven. The 2-on-1 gut pounding is a particular delight for me. I know, I know. Not everyone is into a double-team beatdown. I’m a big booster of the 2-on-1 most of the time. When two gorgeous muscle sadists, Daz and Big John (where the hell did those two priceless gems disappear to!?) capture and immobilize infinitely arrogant Mr. Joshua Goodman, Joshua’s truly marvelous, ripped abs are primed for punishment. It’s not like Daz or Big John needed to double team Mr. Joshua. They’re both powerful and nasty enough to have broken him and his lamb-to-the-slaughter partner, Kieran Dunne, singlehandedly. But the double-team, like the gut punching session itself, is about the story of breaking down the hunk who believes he’s unbreakable. Much more than just about a decisive victory, it’s about proving the arrogant face wrong, destroying his ego, transforming him into a humiliated piece of property who will never again be able to strut and preen without one eye looking over his shoulder.

So when SteelMuscleGod offers to let his sidekick use his abs for a punching bag on YouTube, I’m seeing so much potential opening up for SMG. I’ve suggested that Lon Dumont do the honors of welcoming SMG to America (admittedly, in order to see more of Lon as much as to see SMG in the ring). BGE has a whole stable of hungry studs who could do the honors nicely, though. Who would you suggest to roll out the red carpet for SMG’s debut in the arena in which his godlike status was clearly born to be tested?

Hold Still!

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I’m not the only one seeing this, right? Wrestling as a bondage fantasy is all over the place. Tying up a stunned hunk between the ropes and working them over with both hands (and knees, and boots, and your partner, if applicable…) is directly out a BDSM playbook.
Okay, so obviously I’m not the only one seeing this. Wrestling Arsenal has several galleries devoted to the wonders of a wrestler tied in the ropes. Using the ropes as tools of torture is true artistry. Turning the set into the subject of a battle is the sign of a creative mind. But the creativity is just starting there. Finding new, ingenious ways of capturing and torturing your helpless opponent in the ropes is a many splendored thing. Like the doomed hunk in pink tights suspended helplessly from the ropes and his inverted opponent’s clutches, there are always new ways being invented to suffer with the aid of the ring ropes.
BG East’s Nick Archer takes the direct approach on poor Jason Zamora. Just position your man prone and step on the bottom rope, choking the sucker. Nick uses the top rope for balance. Personally, I’d like to see the top rope taut in the opposite direction, with Nick using it for extra leverage to apply more force across the poor chump’s throat. But that’s just me.


Lot’s of guys can lace a man’s arms between the top two ropes and hang him helpless inside the ring, but Sting here flipped the scenario outside the ring, leaving the gorgeous body of Rick Rude on stunning display, literally suspended off the ground. That bastard official looks like he’s going to ruin this scenario well before some serious discipline could be applied to Rick’s helplessly hunky body.

Early in Brad Rochelle’s BG East career, he won “Rookie of the Year” at the end of his systematic, sadistic dismantling of a young Patrick Donovan. Brad finished Patrick off with this truly inspired use of the ropes, immobilizing Patrick’s shoulders in the bottom two ropes and then lifting his body off the mat in a nicely suspended Boston crab variation. The cherry on top in this scenario was the standing ovation of the wrestlers watching outside the ring, who sealed Patrick’s humiliation by taking turns slapping him in the face as he remained trapped just this way in the ropes.
Karma is a bitch, though. Years later, after Brad’s suffering has propelled him to the heights of jobberhood, the Enforcer had him suffering miserably, his neck being pried painfully over the very same ropes with which he’s once humiliated young Patrick. The hunter quickly became the hunted, and our hopeless hero in white (specifically his trunks, though he’s awfully pale as well), is now the mounted trophy for Enforcer to examine and feel every inch of Brad’s tortured physique.
And speaking of tortured physique, did you catch the mega talent packed into a slender, tight package (aka Reese Wells) trapped in the ropes and having his balls crushed by Johnny Firestorm!? Johnny clearly is right there with me in recognizing the rope work as BDSM in the ring. Johnny actually uses the ropes from various angles to assault Reese’s balls and cock every which way. Our brave little scrapper with the literal target across his crotch screams and suffers valiantly, completing the cast of characters of the sadist and his hard working masochist.
The hunk who is twisted and tied, pummeled and pried in the ring ropes is nothing if not the object of homoerotic lust. His massive muscles immobilized outline the one-to-one connection between his suffering and our sexual fantasies. To be bound and disciplined on your way to humiliating defeat is absolutely the kink I’m talking about.

If You Just Smile

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I’m in a mood. There’s too much bad news and too many scowling faces right now. I’m feeling sour and cynical and ready to snap at someone who probably doesn’t deserve it. I need a mood-lightener.
Gorgeous hunks who snarl and scowl while pounding on other gorgeous hunks invariably make me hard. When those same hunks, like beautifully beasty Mikey Vee, are captured in a moment of spontaneous happiness, it gives me a special kind of joy. Mikey is much more typically on camera in a perpetual state of being pissed off. So a full on near-laughter smile across his face is quite a treasure.
It’s probably urban legend, but I’ve heard it said that smiling actually has a physiological effect that alters our mood. To smile, regardless of how you feel, makes you happier (so I’ve heard). Jimmy Dean with a smile on his face and a twinkle in his eye on the shoot of his double team match with two poundable beauties makes me smile and, true enough, I feel my mood lighten (that’s just anecdotal evidence, though… results may vary).
Three of the Von Erichs side-by-side (well, if you count Lance), can always make my mouth water. But the juxtaposition of their overcompensatingly massive championship belts, their sweaty, sexy bodies, and the “can I take a photo?”-nearly- genuine smiles leave me breathing a little deeper and feeling a little more at peace.

Tyrell Tomsen invariably makes me breathe a little faster and my heart start to pound. The heft of that package he’s toting around is a little dizzying. But he has such a sweet smile that I can almost manage to tear my eyes away from his stunning musculature to get a little lost in his face.

A smile is more than the contortion of the lips. The cocky smile is a good example of what I mean. Josh Goodman here is smiling with his mouth. The corners of his lips are upturned and he’s flashing some teeth. But he isn’t smiling with the rest of his face. He’s displaying his truly incredible body, probably concentrating a little on maintaining that beautiful flex, and communicating cocky self-confidence, not happiness.
But catch Mr. Joshua’s cheerful smile on set in his battle with Troy Baker. Both Troy and Joshua are captured here in a moment of genuine light-heartedness. Not just their mouths are smiling, but also their eyes. The fact that moments later the match was likely rejoined and they were taunting and punishing each other makes this stolen moment of genuine happiness that much more of a mood-lifter for me today.

So perhaps it’s urban legend, but I’m already feeling a little lighter for having reflected on some smiling, gorgeous faces this morning. I realize that light-heartedness isn’t always necessarily socially appropriate, but I think I’ve established pretty conclusively that I am often outside the bounds of social appropriateness. When things are seeming particularly heavy, I’m a little happier thanks to the sight of beautiful men with hard bodies cracking a delighted, unguarded smile.

Ode to Legs

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Legs are fantastic tools of control and humiliation in wrestling. The alignment of gorgeous legs and homoerotic domination is hot, hot, hot. While my current obsession with sexy legs is at the forefront of my own thinking about the subject, clearly I’m not the only one appreciating the many excellent uses to which legs can be put in hot wrestling action.

Wrestling Arsenal has page after page of fantastic head scissors from every angle. He has one entire page marveling at the joys of Mr. Joshua’s crushing legs. As Wrestling Arsenal points out, Joshua Goodman likes to deploy his massively muscled legs not only to wear down his man, but to torture and humiliate him. In this shot, Joshua is looking down the length of his beautiful body to watch his opponent’s pained face squeezed beet red, just inches from Joshua’s notorious package.
Wrestling pornboy extraordainare Mark Wolff always had the thickness to make men squirm when trapped between his bodybuilder thighs. In Muscle Match 3, muscleboy Ken Daniels enjoyed turning those tables and eliciting a grunt of pain with Mark’s muscle-armored waist trapped between his knees.
It’s not just the homoerotic boys squeezing the breath out of their opponents in humiliating fashion. Paul Roma (well, okay, he’s got to be considered homoerotic!) frequently used those shiny, steel-trap legs to squeeze his opponent’s bodyparts tight and up close. This remarkable shot of Roma with Animal’s head trapped between his legs while hanging horizontally, propped up on the turnbuckle, is pure artistry.
Speaking of art, Kevin Von Erich was always the master of torturing his opponents with his legs… and what beautiful, beautiful devices of torture he had!
Still, I think the explicitly homoerotic boys get the most mileage from their legs-as-means-of-torture, better than the pros. Troy Baker could squeeze out a whimpering submission from sheer brute force, making it that much sweeter when the tables were turned on the doe-eyed muscleboy.
Standing scissors seem to me to be the most humiliating and dominating use of a wrestler’s legs. The complete, abject vulnerability of the victim in contrast with the upright, almost unconcerned affect of the squeezer tells the story I love to hear: bodies dominating bodies, possessing and taming them, controlling and claiming them.

Still a Mighty Pain to Love It Is

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They’re doing it to me again, those bastards. They’re taunting me. Teasing me. Rubbing my face in withholding what I’d like to have my face rubbed in. First of all, I return to my previous discussion of Michael C. Hall’s ass:

Yes, it’ s Dexter time. How many ways can they almost show some serious Dexter skin? The shower scene with the strategically placed shower head. The sex scene in which Dexter mysteriously keeps his pants on. It’s inhumane, I tell you! At least in this week’s episode we saw some shirtlessness… from across the room… slightly out of focus. Yet even with those obstacles, Michael C. Hall makes my mouth water. Take that shirt off, Michael. Slower…

Still no sight of that beautiful badonkadonk. Thank God for paparazzi and Michael’s need for cat litter. Even in jeans, that’s a beautiful butt! Quick, someone, find something else that Michael needs to load into the trunk! Come on Michael’s-wife, throw us a bone! Tell him to drop trou!
And speaking of bones, there’s Joshua Goodman’s cock (is that a butt-tease?). As if in answer to my diatribe about how Mr. Joshua’s package is both the center of attention and fastidiously kept under wraps at the same time, just days later BG East releases a match between package kings, Mr. Joshua and Jobe Zander.
Despite Jobe’s tats, he isn’t my favorite if he’s going head to head (if only) with Mr. Joshua. Both of these dudes have made considerable hay from straining the seams of their thongs with their equine genitalia. I haven’t seen the product yet, but all signs appear to be that this match is all about whose is bigger. Billed as “The Battle of the Bulge,” this match is conspicuously absent the little asterisk next to all the BG East products featuring nudity.
I repeat: You bastards. You cock-teasing (and/or butt-teasing), sadistic bastards. I should wipe my hands of Dexter and all Mr. Joshua products in disgust. Yet, there I go paying my cable bill for Showtime and pulling out my wallet for a fresh dose of gazebo grappling. You bastards…

A Mighty Pain to Love It Is

wrestlebard3 Comments
Unrequited loved… the cock tease… these are cruel, cruel manipulations of the heart. To have the object of your affections dangled before you, but just out of reach, hidden just out of sight. It’s sadistic cruelty, I tell you (not the good kind).
Evidentiary item #1: Michael C. Hall as Dexter. It was with anxious anticipation that I sat down to drink in the first episode of season 4 of Dexter. Honestly, I really enjoy the writing. Nicely complicated, yet tidy story lines. Can we all just acknowledge the elephant in the room, though. Michael C. Hall’s booty.
Michael is one fine looking man, and he’s done a wonderful job with the subtleties of playing the part of a serial killer playing the part of an averagely neurotic tech-nerd. But Michael’s most powerful asset that he brings to the small screen, his ass, remains only hinted at. Once again in last night’s season opener, we’re treated to Michael walking away, that fabulous bubble butt framed nicely in his chinos. But despite a plot including a kinky sex scene (well… vanilla-wafer, suburbanite housewife “kink”), we barely catch a glimpse of our beautifully psychopathic hero shirtless.

You shameless, horrible tease! Michael and his handlers clearly have negotiated to keep his gorgeous ass under wraps, but we all know that we’re all tuning in for that magical moment when Michael finally drops trou. It’s like Sam and Diane all over again, the ridiculous dramatic tension drawn out to the point of total frustration, bordering on disgust. You know that we know that you know we’re paying our Showtime subscription fees to see Michael’s bare-ass. You cruel, cruel bastards.
Evidentiary Item #2: On the other side of the pelvis, I have a bone to pick (so to speak) with Joshua Goodman (Mr. Joshua) of BG East. Similar to Michael C. Hall, BG East has been teasing us, taunting us, sadistically torturing us by dangling Joshua’s packed package before us for years without finally paying up. I lost hope of finally seeing Joshua’s bona fides, so I haven’t seen all his matches to verify that we never see his sizeable cock and balls (please, please let me know that I’m wrong). But we’re continually taunted by Joshua in tight trunks and thongs, his pendulum swinging impressively. Joshua himself can’t seem to keep his hands off his cock, constantly adjusting himself both from the exterior as well as the interior of his briefs. Just to tantalize us, we’ve occasionally glimpsed his balls squeezing out the sides of his trunk-crotch (cha-ching!). Joshua tells a nice story, both pitching and catching, but it’s hard not to find your eyes fixated on his pouch, waiting for the moment when the goods come spilling out (or busting out at the seams!).
But the cruelest cut of all was Joshua’s Wrestler Spotlight tape. The pics of the Brooklyn Bodywrecker hoisting the naked Joshua up over one shoulder was finally the long awaited promised land. This pic of Joshua’s quite beautifully naked ass and thick, muscled legs hanging down from BBW’s shoulder is truly a work of art.
I totally took the bait. Only to find that, despite Joshua getting stripped out of his g-string, we are treated only to the visual of his captured butt (totally worth the price of admission… but still!!!). BBW sadistically rubs salt in our wounds, taunting us by pointing out that he knows we’ve tuned in to see Joshua’s goods. He assures us that Joshua’s bits and parts are stunning. Then he carries Joshua back to the dressing room, leaving my jaw dropped open, my pants unzipped, and my face red with frustration.

Michael C. Hall and Mr. Joshua, you are hereby put on notice! If you continue with your cock-teasing ways, I will wash my hands of you in disgust. I will no longer pay up if you continue to refuse to pay up! I will not be so manipulated any longer! … okay, just one more episode… just one more match… if I just give them one more shot, they’ll give me what I want, won’t they!?