Category: Kid Karisma

Where It Hurts

wrestlebard3 Comments


When I was a kid, I’d typically scheme all the time to start a wrestling match with a friend. Inevitably in the fumbling scramble, sooner or later, someone would get “racked,” by which we meant that they took a blow to the groin. It was always unintentional… or, at least, it was always unintentional on my part. Looking back on it, I sort of suspect that some of my wrestling buddies probably threw in a precisely placed knee every so often. I was always such a naive babyface.

The new Arena update at BG East has tickled my fancy once again with some preview pics of an upcoming release featuring the mouth-watering ass of Kid Karisma in action against Len Harder. This looks like it leans more the to homoerotic side than most of what I’ve seen Kid in, including some suck-face and ball claws. Good, good times…
The fact that this catches my eye and tweaks my kink so instantly is a relatively new thing. When I was a kid and would wrestle with my buddies, getting “racked” was an instant time out. The action stopped whenever someone took a blow to the groin. Every boy learns about the bundle of nerve endings in the groin, don’t we? At some point or another, we all experience that near-paralyzing pain of taking a shot to the balls. All the air rushes out of your lungs. Your head feels like it’s about to explode. You instinctively roll up into the fetal position with your hands cupped over your crotch to protect it from further abuse. It’s no fun, and as a kid it was typically a mood-killer for me.
Ball abuse as a mood-maker has been only a pretty recent development for me. I’ve always liked the concept of hands on genitals in my homoerotic wrestling. I just always cringe when I see some convincing bashing, twinges of some of my own greatest hits echoing through my body. I swear, it’s tissue memory more than anything cognitive. I see a blow to the balls, and I have a pre-cognitive cringe reflex. But lately, I find some hot, hard ball claws intensely erotic. I’m writing ball abuse into every fictional wrestling match I write.
I think I attribute my expanding my wrestling kink repertoire to Derek da Silva. He shows up frequently in homoerotic wrestling on the other end of the ball bashing stick. And he clearly LOVES it. I mean, seriously, he gets harder the more he gets bashed. Now, if Derek were naked and just hanging the laundry on the line, I’d be unable to stop myself from masturbating. But Derek grappling, getting ball bashed, and getting off on getting bashed has just turned a key in the back of my mind somewhere.
I still cringe. But the cringe and the pain and the primal domination of ball abuse are somehow doing it for me these days like never before. And it’s not like you can shake a stick and not smack up some ball torture everywhere you turn. Hell, in Naked Kombat you get points for it. It’s absolutely mandatory.
Can-Am has long sprinkled ball torture throughout their products. I remember one particular match that blew my mind when I saw Jimmy Dean shove his hand down the back of Mark Wolff’s trunks, reach between his legs, and claw at his testicles from behind. The boys, the gear, the ring, the bodies… everything about that makes me gasp a little.
BG East has ball claws featured prominently everywhere, in explicitly ball-torture themed products and otherwise. There’s just something stunning about the sight of a bodybeautiful, musclegod/ken doll like Jace Bradley pressed against the ropes and completely at Mr. Joshua’s mercy with his balls firmly in Mr. Joshu’s hand.
So I guess what this post is really about is the evolution of sexual appetite, the refinement of erotic tastes, and the observation that even when it comes to my wrestling kink, I’m not the same person I was even a couple of years ago. What strikes me as erotic, arousing, and captivating is growing and maturing as I march through life, scarfing down homoerotic wrestling every chance I get.

I Know It When I See It

wrestlebard2 Comments
“Every Once in a while, a wrestler comes out of nowhere and blazes across the sky like a meteor, or a shooting star. Kid Karisma, blessed with a ripped physique, energy, personality and wrestling skill to spare, is one of those blazing stars.”
That’s the beginning of the text-teaser for BG East’s new product, Gear Wars 1. I love reading lines that like. They transport a sincere little production from softcore porn into ancient Greek melodrama. Text like that sets us up to recognize hot, sweaty scrappers hurting one another on wrestling mats as the Olympic gods that they truly are, playing out their private battles for all of us to watch, admire, pick sides and own our little piece of the divine drama.
A perceptive author painted the picture of Kid Karisma for us as “this Teutonic god-like young man with the impressive torso, sculpted arms, and beauteous bulbous butt.” This is what good text does for this genre. It puts its finger precisely on the obvious truth staring us in the face, but it does it with such skill and art that we see more than we may have seen without it. Yes, Kid Karisma is indeed Teutonic god-like. I’d never have thought of him in those terms, but now that you mention it, that’s exactly what he is! His ass is indeed a beauteous bulbous butt. It’s not like I hadn’t noticed, but the alliteration and string of apt adjectives capture precisely what is so stunning about Kid’s ass.
The text here is like 3-D glasses at the movie theater. It’s not as if we can’t appreciate the 2 dimensional pictures on the screen without them, but the words of the craftsman bring the images into high definition. They make that bulbous butt pop right out of the screen. They trigger our imaginative perception that makes us experience this not like a photo album, but as if that gorgeous ass was right in our faces, as if we could actually reach out and grab those astonishing cheeks in the palms of our hands and feel the muscled heft of that jaw-dropping derriere.
The byline for this pic of Kid captures my thoughts exactly. “Kid Karisma: They don’t come any more iconic than this. Tom of Finland and MATT would love this guy!” And there it is again, precisely! Kid in his tube socks and jock strap, with that astounding ass looks exactly like a caricature of a homoerotic wrestling character from the classic artists of the genre. Spot-on description for the almost unspeakable beauty of a freckle-faced red-head with the body ripped directly out of my most cherished fantasies.

Art provokes. That’s the bottom line for me. If it’s too obvious, then it’s journalism. If it’s so esoteric that I don’t care, it’s folly. But if I’m provoked, if it makes me do a double take, if I’m perplexed, aroused, indignant or adamant in response, then it must be art. Like the Supreme Court’s struggle to define obscenity, I may not always have an objective definition of art, but I know it when I see it. Like the sight of Rocco’s face squashed underneath Kid Karisma’s ass while Kid leans back to crush his opponent’s skull, grimacing in concentration as if on the threshold of ecstatic climax… that’s art, boys.

And art and capitalism intersect at the point that I see the photos; I read the text; my heart begins to race as my hand is drawn, as if by a mind of its own, to my swelling cock. And I am provoked to own a copy of the divine drama for myself.

Gratitude

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On a day set aside for giving thanks, I’m counting my blessings. I’m thankful for this bizarre discipline I accepted for myself to write this blog and publish some of my fiction online. It’s a vulnerable, annoying, enriching and rewarding endeavor.

I’m thankful for ring rookies David Taylor, Tyrell Tomsen, Kid Karisma and Rio Garza who’ve climbed into the ring in the past several months and laid claim to my imagination. For their poundable pecs and astounding asses, for their breathtaking biceps and crushing quads (and BG East’s generous permission to post their photos), I’m truly grateful. And for David and Tyrell’s phenomenal phalluses, I can’t say how happy they make me.
I’m thankful this year that Mitch Colby likes, and likes to pound, men. For all his sweat-soaked suffering and his growing accomplishment at putting younger punks in their place, I’m filled with gratitude.
I’m thankful that Derek Da Silva read and got a kick out of my treatment of his wrestling performances. For his shout out, for the mindblowing tolerances of his fantastic body, and for the amazingly beautiful artistry of all those tatoos, I’m thankful.
I’m thankful that Chris Cuomo went fishing this summer and shared with his twitter fans the beauty of his shirtless body.
For Mehcad Brooks, a resident of Bon Temps for such a short time, baring his irresistible ass and being so generous with displaying his round, luscious pecs, I’m thankful. And for Alexander Skarsgård’s six foot, four inch Swedish gorgeousness, I’m grateful that his eternal character will be with us for more seasons to come.
Finally, for all the kind friends and gentle critics I’ve met online through this blog and my wrestling fiction, I’m thankful. I hope you all are surrounded by friendship and love today.