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You Like That, Right?

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As I navigate the world, work, family, most of my friends, I’m pretty sure I’m usually the kinkiest person in the room. I mean, we never know what cousin Fergus gets up to behind closed doors, do we? But in terms of me being primarily turned on by rough and raunchy homoerotic wrestling fare, I typically assume that if we all laid our cards on the table, I’d be holding the hand that makes the most of us blush. But then, I hang out with my homoerotic wrestling friends. And in that crowd, I know that I’m not particularly the kinkiest at the table. For example, long-time friend of this blog and someone I genuinely count as a kindred spirit, Chase Addams, reached out to me recently to ask if I’d be interested in watching a super hot cage match he recorded with Ultimate Domination at Wrestlefest Toronto. You know where my mind went, right? Yep, I was marveling at how Chase and Ultimate D. found a wrestling ring surrounded by chain link to battle it out in a cage. Of course, I want to see that! So, I eagerly tucked into their Watchfighters video, Cage Match, and quickly realized… oooooh… “cage match!” As in, loser gets his cock caged! I mean, yeah, I’m familiar with the concept of a cock cage. I haven’t given it a lot of thought, but I know there are guys who get passionate about the ownership, control, and humiliation of caging another man’s cock or getting their own caged. I wouldn’t say it’s in the top 10 of what turns me one, but Chase and Ultimate D. had agreed to those terms from the start of their match. One of these hunks was going to have his cock locked down before they were done.

I’ve lusted after Ultimate Domination from a distance for a while, but this is my first time watching him wrestle. Holy fuck, the man is right at the edge of too handsome, too built, just too fucking beautiful to be believed. He looks like the homoerotic fantasy of my G.I. Joe action figure I owned as a kid come to life, but more gorgeously muscled, more devastatingly good looking, and with all the correct anatomical parts. I mean, check out Chase’s tags here on Sidelineland and you’ll see that I am a long-time fan and devoted admirer of his wrestling portfolio. Of course, I’m dialing in to see him get mean and heel hard. But then, fuck, Ultimate D. absolutely towers over him. Chase is a homoerotic wrestling star, but Ultimate D. struts in like a force of nature. I’m so fucking torn as to who I’m tuned into!

“You like that, right?” Ultimate D. sneers as Chase slathers on slack-jawed muscle worship as soon as they meet. He looks like a man accustomed to guys immediately swooning under the sway of his stunning good looks. Maybe Ultimate D. isn’t quite so inevitable after all, though, as he falls for the oldest trick in the homoerotic wrestling book. Chase’s full nelson snaps on him, mid-double-bicep flex, and all that magnificent beef can’t earn his freedom. He fights it long and hard, but he’s nearly passed out within a minute of the start of the match, and Chase is already pulling the cock cage out. Fuck, is Ultimate Domination a paper tiger?!

No, for the record, Ultimate Domination is legit. I mean, he suffers HOT and hard in Chase’s camel clutch, and the pairing of the look of panic in his eyes and his trapped muscle bod is intoxicating. But he’s about 6 seconds away from getting his cock caged when he battles back from the blurry edges of consciousness and starts immediately manhandling Chase. While I’m not entirely sold on whether the cock caging turns the heat up for me, personally, there’s plenty of hot and mean pro wrestling that’s right up my alley. Ultimate D. luxuriates in delivering a payback camel clutch that looks like it could rip Chase’s skull off. His Boston crab is beautiful and boss, and he rings Chase into a whimpering mess of helplessness.

Chase gets buried under an avalanche of ultimate muscle, and, fuck, Ultimate D. in the driver’s seat is golden. The visuals are magnificent. That cocky smirk on Ultimate D.’s face that tilts his stash to the side makes my cock twitch. He keeps flexing that Hollywood-ready physique while he’s smothering Chase under that packed bulge in his pink trunks. Like, of course Chase munches on that ass when Ultimate D. turns around and sits on his face to slap and taunt the BG East heel’s helpless bod.

But honestly, it isn’t the visuals that put me over the edge. It’s the audio. Ultimate D.’s grunts and moans are primal. They’re the growls of a predator with his jaws already clamped around juicy prey. Holy fuck, I’m not sure if this more like watching Mutual of Omaha’s Wild Kingdom or full-on gay porn. Whatever it is, I’m just about as coated in sweat as Ultimate D. is as he cages Chase’s cock and then stands up to peel his pink trunks down and unveils his own gorgeous cock. Fuck, does this man have imperfections? His cock is thick and juicy and perfectly proportioned to his huge, rock hard physique.

In total honesty, I’m typically not hanging around for cum shots. It’s the wrestling itself that gets me off and consumes me. But watching Ultimate D. smothering Chase under his naked ass and pumping on his own cock to climax is art that I just can’t take my eyes off of. The caged cock stakes aren’t right at the center of my bullseye, but the idea of Ultimate D. pounding out a tidal wave on Chase’s chest in victory while Chase is locked up wicked tight and frustrated is certainly a hot contrast.

So, sure, this wasn’t the “cage match” I naively expected. But it’s a hot 23 minutes of pro wrestling domination, with a seductive and seasoned heel getting way more than he bargained from a stunningly gorgeous muscle beast. Heel bashing is a secret pleasure for me, so watching Chase conquered and mistreated is a super sweet treat. But it’s nothing short of magical when Ultimate D. is cranking the last ounces out of his thick cock, and he indulgently flexes a peaked bicep just for himself, growling like the primal beast he is. I’m am officially a fanatic now, maybe not of cock cages, but definitely of Ultimate Domination.

The Head Start

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I’m a big fan of this current chapter in Chace LaChance’s wrestling career. He’s always been jaw-droppingly hot eye candy. Fuck, do you remember what a beautiful, almost delicate twunk he was when he debuted for BG East? It’s been fascinating and awe-inspiring, watching him grow and mature, literally and figuratively. He’s always had hot attitude, even when (especially when) he’s about to get squashed. Those dynamics merely evolved, and I think only got hotter, as he packed on such phenomenal muscle mass over the years. Those huge shoulders, square pecs, and gorgeously peaked biceps getting undone, conquered, and dominated are sensationally hot. I get why he’s been a target of so many hunk bashes.

But when he gets a look at his meet-up wrestling opponent, Kal Connor, in BG East’s Motel Madness 26, Chace is not concerned in the least. “Well, now,” Chace smirks. “I’m certainly bigger than you are.” It’s a laughable understatement. BG East says they’re the same height, with Chace carrying 25 pounds more muscle than Kal. I think that difference might also be an understatement. “I give you that,” Kal snarks back, checking out Chace’s huge, hairy pecs. “But I’m pretty sure I can take you.” Fuck, the balls on Kal! I love a feisty, ripped, gorgeous lightweight with a munchable ass and no self-preservation instinct.

“I’ve heard that before from fucking little skinny boys,” Chace snorts dismissively. “I think I’m just too strong. So maybe I’ll give you a head start, maybe 5 minutes, I’ll just let you do whatever you want…. From there, I’ll just kick your ass.” So, yeah, let that premise sink in a minute. Chace is giving Kal 5 minutes to do to him anything he wants. Chace won’t fight back. All that luxurious muscle is just Kal’s to fuck with any way he wants. Yet another thing I absolutely love about Kal is that it takes him approximately 0.0025 seconds to pull his phone out and start a 5 minute timer.

We’ve seen Kal’s mean streak before, but honestly, I feel like him tucking into Chace’s buffet of succulent muscle kicks him into a whole new gear. He’s sucker punched Chace and thrown the legendary muscle boy to the bed in under 10 seconds. He’s seriously unleashed, pinning Chace to bed with a knee to the back and Chace’s bearded jaw getting ripped off his skull in a chin lock. Those five minutes have a super sweet and spontaneous feel about them. I think it’s one cut, legitimately just five minutes of a hungry twunk going to town on Chace’s gorgeous body. Chace has his game face on for about 2 minutes, acting like everything and the kitchen sink Kal is throwing at him doesn’t bother him in the least. But holy fuck, there’s no bluffing your way through the feral mauling Kal gives him. Kal’s dragon sleeper, cranking on Chace’s neck and pounding on those meaty pecs with the muscle man’s mouth buried in Kal’s armpit, is just fucking too much (meaning, EXACTLY the right amount of muscle boy punishment!). Chace gives up, snarling threats about the price Kal is going to pay for every second of those five minutes. I’m pretty sure I can read Kal’s mind as he doesn’t let up on the gas pedal for even a second. Whatever the price, it’s fucking worth it!

When Kal’s alarm goes off on his phone signaling the end of the five minutes, it’s like a sudden shift in gravitational pull as Chace briefly licks his wounds and then licks his chops. Holy shit, he delivers this avalanche muscle bullying brutality that makes me just a little worried for Kal’s safety along the way. Chace’s huge arms look like they’re swallowing the ripped lightweight whole in rib crushing bearhugs. Again and again, Chace powerslams Kal to the bed, which, on the one hand, leaves me thinking, “it’s a mattress, how much damage could that really do,” but then on the other hand I see Chace slamming his 190 pounds down on top of Kal and looking like he’s making a pancake out of the plucky boy. The move that recurs in my waking and sleeping dreams from this match is Kal, face down on the bed, with Chace pulling on his ankles and Chace’s foot drilling into his ass. “How you doing, little boy,” Chace asks rhetorically.

The things is, though, Kal’s not done. Sure, Chace had this scene plotted with him giving Kal enough rope in those first five minutes for the ripped anatomy chart twunk to deserve the unremitting squash in store for him. Sure, sure, despite stubbornly holding out, Kal submits several times, discretion being the better part of valor and all. But our boy is tough as fucking nails and strikes like a cobra when Chace is indulgently flexing and declaring victory prematurely. Kal finds that extra high gear again, crushing Chace in bodyscissors, and ripping Chace’s tree trunk thighs apart, and gut punching him, AND clawing the fuck out of the unmissable target of Chace’s massive, hairy pecs. Chace giving up outside of those gratuitous first five minutes is as fucking shocking as it is seriously hot!

I know some of you hate me for spoilers, but it can’t be too much of a shock to anyone with eyes that Chace turns this back around and crushes the mean boy like an avalanche again, right? But I swear it’s meaner, more sadistic and unhinged, precisely because Kal is not a pushover. Kal’s pluck and viciousness transform Chace from a vaguely disinterested legendary muscle boy into a seriously pissed off beast, and every twist and turn is intensely satisfying to watch.

Kal Connor needs a full on heel turn, please. Sign him for a match, and make sure that the version of Kal that shows up is the one that just about broke Forrest Taylor in half before planting those magnificantly sculpted naked glutes on Forrest’s face. Make sure it’s the version of Kal that looked like he was in ecstasy ignoring Chace LaChance’s angry submissions and savoring every moment of literally doing anything he wanted with the muscle boy. I’m fully on board for seeing a seriously ripped pretty boy with an award winning physique and adorably disarming baby face going full on heel on some lucky fucker who completely underestimates him.

More Mayhem

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I tried to capture the crashing waves and relentless undertoe of Sir Dark’s Watchfigthers Rumble Match Part 1 in an earlier post. While I’ve been a bit spread thin over the past couple of months, I didn’t want to leave it any longer before I offered the necessary review for the necessary finale of that battle royale rumble from up north, Watchfighters Rumble Match Part 2. If you’ve read much that I’ve written, it will sound familiar when I say that wrestling is drama. Especially when it’s done right, it’s suspenseful and narrative. And WF Rumble Match Part 2 is drama done right. The energy and intensity of the second half of this wild ride is equally as frenzied and hot as Part 1, but the pace is a tad more deliberate. All that’s left are the last few lucky entrants to jump into the fray late in the line up and join the iron men with the stamina and stubbornness to endure while the first couple of layers of hopefuls got peeled off.

The roster for part 2 is more concise than part 1. B Sprite and Neil are still going at it as holdovers from the first half, along with Isaac, Kayden, and Chase. Fuck, everyone wants to wring suffering out of Neil, and I get that. He’s solid enough to not easily break, and it turns out he can suck down punishment with a tenacity that makes me want to see just how much he can take. He can take a lot, and he looks beautiful doing it.

Kayden and Chase are absolute titans in these final rounds. They’re fucking big, solid, and just so extensively experienced as hungry heels. I’m pretty sure if they cooperated even a little bit, they’d have wiped the floor with the competition and then had only each other to tuck in against in the end. Heels aren’t really known for cooperation, though, are they? Even still, I’m convinced the two of them are just too big and mean to do anything but outlast everyone…. right up until Leon Cyrus clocks in.

Fuck, Leon. I enjoyed watching him wrestle Dash Halley’s pecs at Wrestlefest Live in NYC last February. A lot. Leon is fucking massive and skilled, somehow managing to pull off a bulldozer heavyweight vibe while staying just this side of the line of earnest babyface. He’s a total wild card showing up so late in the rumble that suddenly I’m thinking Kayden and Chase might not just run away with this. In fact, this feels like anyone’s game again. There’s a real possibility of Kayden, Chase, and Leon being capable of doing serious damage to each other and leaving an opening for a sleeper underdog to sprint for the finish. There are three sharks circling, and fuck the drama is rich!

Chase gets double teamed by Isaac and Kayden, which feels like an incredibly sexy heel tag team to me. I feel like Isaac and Kayden run on the same octane, which burns hot and slow with an strong whiff of inevitability. But the alliances morph constantly, as if despite the fun of collabs, they keep reminding themselves that this is every man for himself. Rick Roma barrels in like a house on fire, tucking into Isaac’s hot bod like Thanksgiving leftovers. Isaac white knuckles it to the very bitter end, but the hairy hottie finally taps when Chase and Rick double team him and, honestly, there was no coming back from that.

When NonoZ clocks in, my already rock hard cock quivers with excitement. Fuck, that man. Like, FUCK… that man! When he just walks up and smack the fuck out of B Sprite’s crotch, I literally swoon. I’d donate a kidney to trade places with Rick when NonoZ hoists him off his feet in a bearhug. The masked hunk is so patient in this way that makes my knees weak, just milking the will to fight out of Rick with his hairy pecs and huge arms crushing like he could keep it up for hours.

My cock similarly throbs with an extra pump of excitement when Beau Jordan clocks in as almost the last entrant in the rumble. This man is ridiculously hot, of course, but when he turns full on sadistic, he’s got this pretty boy ass assassin feel like possibly no one else I’ve seen. Just like I can’t help but picture Kayden and Isaac as tag team, I can’t stop obsessing over the pairing of Beau and NonoZ. They’ve both got this silent intensity perfectly poised on the edge of competitiveness and eroticism. At one point they’re double teaming Neil, not because I think either of them couldn’t put the demolished fucker away single handedly, but because they can’t help themselves but work together like a well oiled machine (fuuuuuck, just picture that in oil?). Beau wordlessly wrenches Neil’s legs apart in a banana split. Simultaneously, NonoZ is immobilizing Neil with a chicken wing, tauntingly folding Neil forward until he starts slamming Neil’s face into Beau’s famously gorgeous curved scimitar, happily at attention.

Again, I say, fuck, this drama is compelling! NonoZ, Beau, and Kayden are the last men standing, and the erotic tension suddenly explodes. NonoZ picks up Kayden’s road kill and starts face-fucking Beau in a helpless schoolboy pin. It’s ally-and-betray, rinse-and-repeat, with Beau and NonoZ’ sensational cocks taking strokes and beatings that make me sweat hard. Again, the smart money is on NonoZ and Beau turning that incendiary chemistry of theirs on Kayden, but in the heat of a battle royale, decisions are sometimes more impulsive than smart. It takes Kayden exactly 3 seconds to congratulate his final rival on their mutual success in knocking the second runner up out of competition, before Kayden is landing a sucker knee to the gut and scooping the sizzling hot pretty boy into a bearhug.

As I mentioned in Part 1, there’s too much drama to do it justice in a review. You’ve just got to watch it and marvel. And, sure, if you’re like. me, you’ll have lost a few loads before you get there, but watch it all the way to the naked ass face scissors smother end.

Just like the incredibly hot and lucky 2nd place winner is asking himself with all that gorgeous ass in his face in the end, my only question is whether this is too much of a sensational thing? There are about 8 or so mini-dramas I want to linger long and very, very hard on, and who can bankroll a custom of my fixation on an erotic tag team beat down pitting Kayden and Isaac squaring off against Beau and NonoZ’s awe-inspiring cocks? Part 2 dials down the frenzy and lets us savor a little more deliberately the spontaneity and raw intensity that comes with throwing this many gorgeous wrestlers onto the same mat. Still, it’s a lot. If you want something slow and deliberate with cinematic blocking and measured close-ups documenting two hot competitors testing their egos against one another, this probably isn’t that. But if you want more of that full throttle, wild and unpredictable energy that is totally the Sir Dark brand, like a sampler plate of the tastiest Watchfighters wrestlers, you want to buy the WF Rumble bundle!

The New Me

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This is the time of year when I start getting excited for the holidays. I mean, sure, Thanksgiving is tolerable, and I enjoy exchanging presents around Christmas. New Year’s Eve means less and less to me as I grow older, it seems, but MLK, Jr. Day later in January feels like it’s growing in pertinence and urgency this year. But for the past few years, what I think of as the climax of the holiday season is really the Presidents Day holiday, aka Wrestlefest NYC. A few months ago, I was more ambivalent, grousing about how expensive a weekend in Manhattan is and the hassles of travel. But at this point, the excitement and anticipation have taken over, as I think about a few hundred sexy men who all share the same passion for wrestling that I do suddenly concentrated within a few blocks of Penn Station. Meeting up with old friends, being shoulder to shoulder in a bar with wall-to-wall singlet-wearing hunks, watching a live homoerotic wrestling show, and, oh yeah, throwing down with opponents I’ve enjoyed wrestling before and squaring off against a few new wild cards… that quantity and quality of eager anticipation I used to feel as a kid for the approach of Christmas is now entirely transferred to Presidents Day (which, ironically, was probably my most forgettable holiday when I was a kid).

BG East’s recent release of Motel Madness 25: Revenge stokes that eager excitement for the sexy spontaneity of a Wrestlefest. There’s the public side of Wrestlefest that, honestly, I enjoy just about as much as the private wrestling side. Motel Madness 25 opens in the loud, crowded bar that’s hosted opening night live oil wrestling at WFNYC the past couple of years. You can hear the electricity in the air in the appreciative hoots and whistles when Mickey Knoxx and Bobby Carter are introduced. Watching a couple of EXTREMELY lucky fans/wrestlers get the honors of coating both of these gorgeous boys’ bodies in oil as the crowd roars with excitement punches that intensely hot button of public homoeroticism that has me turned on immediately. It reminds me of the BGE at Paradise matches that regularly pop up in the shuffle of wrestling content I get off to, when all eyes are on these barely clad muscle boys getting liberally lubricated with everyone simmering with envy for the hands that get the honors of applying the oil.

I probably should disclose again that I am completely biased about both Bobby Carter and Mickey Knoxx. To be completely honest, I love both of these guys. As I’ve mentioned before, I got to know them a bit online before meeting them in person, and they’re just solid, genuine, good people. I probably over-identify with Bobby’s encyclopedic knowledge and passion for homoerotic wrestling videos, although, as proud as I am of mine, Bobby’s familiarity with every gay wrestling video produced in the past 30 years puts me to shame. And Mickey’s combination of introvert/shyness and uninhibited debauchery absolutely charms the pants off of me. I’ve since enjoyed hanging out with both of them, and they both feel like friends I’ve known all my life. Honestly, when they started showing up in BG East releases, I sort of worried that feeling a personal connection with them off camera might be an obstacle to me lustfully objectifying them on camera.

I need not have worried. Fuck, they’re hot as hell! When they start wrestling in that way-too-small blow-up pool in the bar, it’s homoerotic poetry in motion. Bobby’s body blows my mind. He’s got the tapered-V torso of a competitive bodybuilder, with that tiny waist and magnificent muscled ass that belongs on a comic book superhero. I know for a fact that Bobby is way cerebral, but there’s something just raw and carnal about this gear he kicks into when he’s wrestling. And I’ve never NOT swooned at the sight of Mickey, especially when he wrestles, but, yeah, any fucking time. He’s got those supernatural fey king eyes that are almost as paralyzingly gorgeous as his perfect ass. Like Bobby, he’s also got that sensational ability to be nowhere else than in the match when he’s wrestling. Neither of them seem to have an ounce of self-consciousness about them. They’re just going at it like there’s nothing else in the world but a super hot opponent vying for control. The oil wrestling is perfectly balanced between eroticism and wrestling. It’s not like the tight confines of the pool lend themselves to serious competition, but fuck, they pull off some astonishingly beautiful wrestling despite the geography and oil. Like, how in the hell does Mickey hold that suspended bearhug with so much glistening lubrication? I’m genuinely gritting my teeth in concern for both of them when Bobby hoists Mickey into a stunning erotic sculpture of a torture rack, but holy hell, he locks Mickey down as if they weren’t confined to a 6’x4′ plastic rectangle and coated in oil.

No one’s a loser, but Bobby owns Mickey’s gorgeous body to the delight of the bar crowd before all is said and done. Mickey doesn’t appear to hold a grudge as they make out in exhaustion, but looks may be deceiving. Because the second match of Motel Madness 25: Revenge picks up the story at WFNYC a year later. Mickey’s invited Bobby to his hotel room for a rematch, and his preternaturally fog-colored eyes look fiercely determined. The erotic tension is instantly thick in the air as they check out each other’s phenomenal physiques poured into tight singlets. Their scrap continues to teeter on that lust/competition edge, until right around the moment that Mickey suddenly grabs Bobby by the ankles and viciously stomps on the bodybuilder’s balls until Bobby submits. Bobby is clutching his assaulted testicles and gasping in shock when Mickey finally lets him go. “I don’t remember you being that mean,” Bobby observes. “It’s the new me,” Mickey snarls back like a boss.

The action continues to be mean and intense in a way that only makes it that much sexier to me (and, quite obviously, to Bobby and Mickey, as well). The scrap on the portable wrestling mats is rough, like that super sexy camel choke where Mickey grabs one of the stripped singlets and uses it to strangle his trapped opponent. It’s when the action spills onto the bed, though, that things get serious. Honestly, wrestling on a mattress typically slows things way down for me, but these two dial it up as soon as the sheets start flying. Bobby sits on Mickey’s face in a foldover pin and wedgies that Tauwell singlet so deep Mickey’s choking on it.

You can tell who’s the loser in the hotel room based on who’s screaming and begging and obediently saying the winner’s name on demand. But it’s all just poetry at that point. The pain and pleasure are just delicious notes in the lustful concoction Mickey and Bobby brew up in that Manhattan high rise hotel. The product is subtitled “revenge,” but this dish is served steaming hot and both gorgeous men are savoring every mouthful with an open genuineness that just can’t be faked.

Fuck, now I seriously can’t wait for Wrestlefest NYC!

Hypermasculinity

New blog post about masculinity, hypermasculinity, and, of course, Scott Williams.

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Scott Williams pointed out to me recently that, despite continuing to reign as my favorite wrestler, his name hasn’t appeared in the history of this blog as much as some others. I’ve been warned about overfeeding Scott’s ego, but honestly, his cocky attitude that soaks up praise like a sponge is just one of the many qualities that turns me on so hard about him. Of course, it’s also his gorgeous muscles, his handsome face, his relentless baritone bluster… apart from his wrestling, I’d fixate on him in a crowd of hot hunks every time. But of course, I fell in lust with Scott the first time I watched him wrestle. His full throttle aggression, with the cocky delight he takes in doling out precisely measured doses of meanness, made me start to refer to him as “the man of my dreams.” Seriously, I bought Ultra Fight 2 because, at the time, I was so completely infatuated with Brad Rochelle, but after watching about three minutes of it, I just couldn’t take my eyes off of Scott.

So finding myself face to face with Scott these many years later continues to feel surreal. While I extensively documented my first wrestling match with him, I haven’t detailed how often we’ve wrestled since. We were recently wrestling again, and we were both marveling how it’s just been about two years, and yet feels like we’ve known each other much longer than that. I mean, Scott’s been inhabiting my brain for 20 years, but it hasn’t been nearly that long since we first actually met in person. For quite a while, I was treasuring the running tally of how many times we wrestled, but I’ve lost track at this point because there’s been that many. And every encounter has been sensationally hot and enjoyable, and every time, I’m thinking to myself, “Holy shit, this is actually happening. I’m literally wrestling Scott Williams!”

So, like I said, I was recently wrestling Scott. I had him locked up tight in face-to-crotch headscissors. His handsome face was flushed purple with pain as he struggled to breathe with his mouth and nose buried against my balls, when I asked him what my next post about him (to increase his hit count/ego strokes on the blog) should be about. He did that adorable thing where he pretends he’s never going to submit, flipping me the middle finger as if he’s not starting to panic. Of course, that’s just the signal for me to pump on the accelerator and increase the pressure. Soon enough, he was tapping. By this point, I’ve learned to ignore Scott’s first tap. He doesn’t really mean that one, and if I let him go then, he’ll just immediately start a fresh onslaught of blustering trash talk. After the second tap, though, I finally let his head go, leaving him a gasping and wheezing. When his dizziness and disorientation had faded and he was back in command of his breathing, we had a fascinating chat about masculinity.

I made the observation that Scott’s brand is “hypermasculinity.” Adorably, he had to think about it a few seconds, because I think it comes so naturally to him that he isn’t even conscious of it. But finally, he agreed with my assessment that he brings a hypermasculine vibe to his wrestling, with his deep baritone voice that makes everything sound like a taunt. He maintains this astonishing level of physical fitness that showcases his classic, athletic build and proportions on his 6’1 frame. Seriously, I’m frequently referring to him as “hey, muscle man,” in a match (e.g. when he’s snarling and snapping helplessly in my leg nelson that he hates so much). But calling him a muscle man isn’t sarcastic in the least. He’s got those sensationally sexy, hairy pecs. And he’s got that super square jaw and that Cary Grant slightly dimpled chin that makes it pretty effortless to slot him into the “classically handsome masculine ideal” category (at least as far as I’m concerned).

But far beyond just Scott’s physicality, his wrestling persona also comes across like his engine is perpetually fueled by unusually high octane testosterone. He’s as aggressive and mean in defeat as he is in victory. He has that SW-patented pump move that makes my cock twitch whenever I’m watching him wrestle, when he applies a hold, and then ratchets up the pressure on it in rapid succession. Every inch of a match with Scott is a battle to conquer, to possess more territory, to build momentum, to bury or be buried. It’s entirely gilded in that construct of masculinity applied to every corner of modernity that argues that whatever you can take by force belongs to you. Honestly, I sort of despise that construct… and… fuck, it makes punishing Scott so fucking sensationally pleasurable.

So, we were mulling over the concept of hypermasculinity around the time I was threatening to knock him out with a figure-4 choke. And we agreed that while it definitely features for both of us in terms of a turn on, it’s just one flavor palette, rather than the substance of homoerotic wrestling. We shared the opinion that the wrestling community is much richer for the diversity of bodies and attitudes and gender expressions that are all part of the landscape. And the play between gender expressions and typologies of wrestling roles makes the combinations that much hotter (like the fey twink heel and the hypermasculine jock jobber).

And all this talk of gender expression and homoeroticism gave us an opportunity to confirm how important we both find it to keep our gay cis-gendered attention on stepping up to the plate and standing alongside and advocating for our transgender siblings today. Honestly, so many minority identities feel like they’re in the crosshairs these days, it could be easy to back away from those at the front of the line taking the brunt of reactionary bigotry and vitriol. As for me and the man of my wrestling dreams, at least, we’re in agreement that the courage of our convictions compels us to speak out, to vote, to show up and call out the swing of the pendulum so viciously working on erasing the diversity of gender identities.

If you’d told me 20 years ago I’d be repeatedly wrestling with Scott Williams and getting to know him at this level, I’d have never believed it. Can’t wait for next time, muscle man!

What I Know

New blog post about how very very much I know about very little.

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The older I get, the more it occurs to me just how incredibly much I know about a very few things. For example, I was recently binging on old episodes of the BBC comedy “Would I Lie to You,” in which celebrities try to guess if each other is telling some far-fetched truth or just out-and-out lying. It’s fun British comedy of the sort of like. No one has to be bitterly insulted or degraded. They enjoy laughing at themselves as much as each other’s jokes. It’s clever and crass, and they swear and flip each other off (good-naturedly) in a way that would be banned from broadcast TV in the intensely repressed US. In one segment each episode called “This is My…,” they bring out some random person and three celebrities tell the story of who this person is to them. But only one of them is the real story, and the other team of celebrities have to figure out who is telling the truth.

So I was watching WILTY with some friends recently, and they bring out this drop dead gorgeous, super fit lean hunk for the “This is My” segment, and I immediately blurt out, “Holy shit, that’s Brit pro wrestler Terry Frazier!” And, yeah, I ruined it for my friends, because the real story among the lies was the (also hot) comedian Jack Whitehall told the story that this guy was Terry “Mean Machine” Frazier who was teaching him how to wrestle. The other team couldn’t believe it. They guessed one of the other stories was true, and still they were sort of not quite believing it when it was revealed that the guy really was a pro wrestler giving lessons to Jack Whitehall. To prove the point, Terry picks Jack up and bodyslams him to the set floor, and absolutely everyone loses their shit. Though, of course, I’m over here unable to stop myself from saying, “I told you so.”

What this demonstrated to me, other than that I have no problem smugly bragging about what I know to my mostly disinterested non-wrestling obsessed friends, is how remarkably much I know about a particular segment of professional wrestling. I have a somewhat encyclopedic body of knowledge specifically about wrestling for gay eyes, including most gay-oriented wrestling and those mainstream pro wrestlers who, let’s face it, are such gorgeous gay bait. Like Terry Frazier, who I have gotten off on countless times over the years from his Brit pro wrestling matches I treasure on YouTube. I’d pick him out of any crowd, and before watching WILTY, I never expected that the absolute lock I have on that bit of trivia would ever come in handy other than helping me satisfy the occasional itch for an intensely sexy, lean babyface twunk jobber to watch.

I’m sure that’s one of the big reasons I enjoy having gay wrestling friends. Like, if I’m in a mixed group and professional football comes up in conversation, I’ve got nothing to contribute. Hell, if most mainstream pro wrestling were to come up in conversation, which it really doesn’t that often in my non-gay wrestling friend circles, I still have precious little to offer. Unless Finn Balor or L.A. Knight or Josh Woods pop in the conversation, at which point I have to check the crowd I’m in to decide whether or not to reveal that I know the back catalog of gay-oriented wrestling companies so well that I can point out their underground gay wrestling-as names from back in the day.

But I feel like I finally get a little taste of what it might be like to grow up as a boy obsessively immersed in boy-things like sports stats that honestly bored me to death when I was, in fact, a boy. When I’m hanging out with gay wrestling fans, suddenly the embarrassing wealth of knowledge I carry around with me from the thousands of hours I’ve spent watching and writing about wrestling from a gay perspective turns into something useful. More than that, that shared body of gay wrestling knowledge connects some invisible dots between me and my wrestling-obsessed friends. Like, we don’t need to explain how we happen to be able to name every opponent Alexi Adamov wrestled in Who’s Next… we know that we all know because we spent delightfully hot and sweaty moments of profound pleasure watching them.

It brings to mind that powerful moment I wrote about from the Gay Wrestling History Panel I co-moderated at Wrestlefest about a year and a half ago, when I asked the wrestlers on the panel who they wish they’d have had a chance to wrestle from the past. And I swear all 150 of us in the room turned glassy-eyed and introspective as the wrestlers started shouting out names that strummed the nostalgic strings of lust in all of us. And, spontaneously, people in the audience began shouting out the names of their favorites, too. And after ever name, there was these deep, primal, corporate grunt of lustful acknowledgement. We’d all invested ourselves in experiencing and cataloging those private moments of pleasured appreciation, and when given the opportunity to all come together in one place and name them, those gutteral gasps and grunts conveyed something we’d shared all along, even if we’d never met each other before.

I used to spend a lot energy wanting to be the smartest person in the room. But these days, I know enough to know that on most topics, I’m seldom the smartest person the room. And at this point in my life, I’m really (really) okay with that. What I don’t know about auto mechanics or the NBA draft or pharmacology or quantum physics (or any number of things about which there are so many other people with such greater expertise than I have), it’s left me with so much room in my brain to store tens of thousands of pieces of titillating trivia about the subject that I spend so much time exploring and writing about here.

Mayhem

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Watching Watchfighters Rumble Match – Part 1 gives me so many vibes of being at a Wrestlefest. Actually, it specifically gives me vibes of being at Wrestlefest Canada. I swear I stayed in that hotel room! Well, I’m pretty sure it’s at the hotel I stayed at when I enjoyed attending WF Canada three summers ago. But the vibes are about a lot more than the accommodations. There’s this serendipity about the pop-up community that forms at a fest. My best analogy is to summer camp, where you look forward to getting thrown into this community of people outside of your regular life, and the proximity and shared interests and just everyone stepping outside their lives and into this chosen community creates this incredibly fun esprit de corps. The (no shit) 13 wrestlers who join Sir Dark’s rumble in WF Rumble Match – Part 1 all look like they’re having a fucking blast.

It was at Wrestlefest Canada I experienced my first of many group mat matches. The rumble has all of those elements, but bigger and more intense and with an even more out of control feel of a melee. The premise is, like a pro wrestling rumble, a new wrestler is added to the mix every so often, and wrestlers are eliminated when they submit. And that’s it. Like, that’s all the rules. So the wrestling drama depends entirely on the luck of the draw, pacing, and the fickle alliances and betrayals that play out depending on who happens to be on the mat at any given time. It’s absolute chaos AND it’s got this compelling momentum that I can’t take my eyes off of.

I’m tuned in for my favorites featured, of course. Sir Dark appears to be the mastermind of the mayhem, which, honestly, is so on brand. If you could bottle chaos, I think he’d guzzle it daily. He’s got this constant edge of unpredictability about him, I think showcased never more clearly than in his Wrestlefest Live match last February in NYC. But he’s souped up and riding the feral edge about him as this rumble starts up, but holy shit is he in there with the yin to his yang. Ethan Axel Andrews is the other wrestler to kick off the Rumble, and he’s more like a cruise missile. Their opening scrap against each other is one of the most intense of the next 20 minutes, which sort of makes sense because all their attention is on each other, and their both fresh and primed. Ethan is rolling, exploiting his size advantage for a bit when he latches on a leglock and threatens to snap the Dark one at the knee. Sir Dark screams at him with total bile and adrenaline, “Fuck off, NO!” Fuck, that guy rocks me.

Every minute (or so, the timing isn’t entirely precise), a countdown signals the arrival of a new wrestler to join the fray. In these raucous 20 minutes, favorite wrestlers of mine show up in the mix and I’m unable to stop myself from cheering at my screen. Mickey Knoxx comes in hot, flexing and strutting and wasting no time tearing into Feroce in a completely unfair double team with Demonflex. Isaac Andrews comes in looking gorgeous as fuck with his hairy chest and beard. Kayden Keller and Chase Addams turn the heat way, way up when they take each take their turns as the fresh man diving into the mix.

Just like it works at a fest, though, there are also these unexpected finds, wrestlers I don’t think I’ve ever seen before but once I do, I can’t take my eyes off of them. The fourth entrant is introduced as Mischief. He’s adorable, with this gentle giant feel about him as he strides onto the mat. And then, holy fuck, there’s nothing gentle about Mischief! The guy is grinning ear to ear the entire time, so transparently loving that uncorked chaos Sir Dark is serving up. Two things in particular about Mischief make me swoon. One is just how much delight he takes in muscle bullying a smaller opponent. No apologies. No giving a little guy a fighting chance. He just licks his lips and tucks in to the bite sized morsels with relish. The other thing that catches my eye and turns me on about Mischief is this go to move he has of buttoning an opponent up and just clamping his huge hand over the guy’s face and refusing to let the fucker breathe. He does that more than once, and it’s such a fucking BOSS move.

There are some other new-to-me wrestlers that instantly impress me. I’ve seen Feroce DeLeon on Watchfighters before, but I was not expecting just how much absolute abuse his hot body can soak up. I met Kevin Nova at that fest in Toronto a couple of years ago, and he’s buffed up and gotten super aggressive in a way that makes him fit right into this wild melee. I’ve followed Demonflex on social media for what seems like forever. We’ve had near-misses at scheduling a 1:1 for the two of us, and watching how much fun he has swimming in this chaos makes me want to make sure that meet up happens soon. Veneno is this tasty little masked scrapper who looks like he should get submitted super fast based on nothing but size, but there’s a short king under that mask who is taking on everyone and in the center of the fray at all times and holding his own like a terrier. For some reason I think I have seen Neil Rey somewhere, but I’m not placing him, but he’s fascinating to watch come in and join this big boy gang triple teaming the little guy on the mat at the time.

That little guy is the other new-to-me wrestler epiphany that caught my attention out of everything happening at once in the maelstrom. Honestly, I was worried about pretty boy B Sprite when he first showed up. I mean, this kid is pretty. Too pretty, and lithe, and lean, and he ends up in the turbulent waters right when there’s the likes of big, burly bad asses ripping into each other like Isaac and Kayden and Neil. I have to immediately reassess lovely B Sprite, though, when he doesn’t skip a beat, and half a second after stepping onto the mat he’s got a claw working on twisting Mickey’s balls off. Lovely B Sprite is fucking mean and skilled, and sure, maybe I’m just identifying with him because he goes after Mickey like he’s got blinders on.

Writing a review of the Rumble is a bit like trying to film it, I suspect. There’s just so many mini-dramas playing out, it’s impossible to see them all in one viewing. Actually, it’s impossible to see them all upon repeated viewings, because the camera misses some of the action on one side the mat while documenting the grappling on the other side of the mat. Like, I’m not sure what drove terrier-like Veneno to actually submit, because the camera and I were enthralled with watching Kayden lift Mickey by the balls, cradling the wailing Canadian across his chest, and then slamming Mickey down in a brutal gut buster. If you like clean edges and drawing within the lines, the Rumble may not be for you, because it’s super raw and spontaneous and messy. And I’m convinced every single one of those wrestlers is having an absolute blast because he loves wrestling, and he’s exhilarated by the chaotic brew Sir Dark is serving on tap.

I’m going to towel off and settle in for the Rumble part 2, now. I had no idea this was exactly the international wrestling drama I needed to take my mind off the end times!

Priceless

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Bruno from AbsArt released a video almost exactly a month ago announcing the launch of his own channel on Watchfighters, Bruno Extra. Bruno says that he plans “to go bigger and harder” there, sharing “more spicy content,” although he assures us that he’ll happily continue working with the AbsArt team as well. There’s definitely a demure edge to AbsArt. I mean, it’s sexy as fuck and fits entirely within the boundaries of erotic content that turns me on. The creativity and production quality at AbsArt continue to make it a standout in homoerotic content as far as I’m concerned. I haven’t watched even a small fraction of the (holy shit) over 1,400 videos they’ve posted to date, but their brand is about insanely hot bodies with world class, sculpted abdominal muscles getting punished. I’ve primarily sampled their wrestling-featured content, a bit of their muscle worship fare, and just little of their all-in scenario-based fantasies set in the world of soldiers, spies, and organized crime. They showcase their mind blowing fitness physiques with the eye of someone who knows exactly what turns me on, displaying nearly every inch of oiled up muscle on their top shelf talent. Nearly every inch. There are just a few inches that don’t seem to make it into the otherwise boundlessly creative homoerotic fare at AbsArt. Bruno Extra offers to uncover those last impressive inches for us.

The price point on Bruno Extra videos jumps a lot more than the Euros-per-minute rates of AbsArt and more than most of the homoerotic content I buy. Honestly, as instantly hungry I was for seeing Bruno (and friends) in truly all of their glory, I debated back and forth the price tag that includes a fully-monty mark-up. I actually rewatched Bruno’s intensely sexy wrestling match against Armin for AbsArt a few times again before concluding just how much I wanted to see what those minuscule yellow briefs of Bruno’s barely managed to cover. Finally unable to resist any longer, I pulled out my wallet, among other things, and slapped down the cash to own a bigger, harder, and spicier look at the phenomenal talent of Bruno.

What the title of “Bruno – creepy owner lurks and attacks in rented apartment – cum” lacks in finesse, it makes up for in truth-in-advertising. The plot centers on Bruno renting an Airbnb apartment from “creepy owner” Andrew. What makes Andrew creepy is that he has hidden cameras in his apartment that he uses to watch an unsuspecting Bruno. Whatever reluctance I might have to buy into the genuinely creepy pretense disappears when Andrew shows up in the video with his phone in one hand, watching Bruno over the hidden cameras, and Andrew’s cock in his other hand pounding one out. I’m not sure how I feel about the “creep” in this story literally saying what I’m thinking as he marvels at Bruno’s magnificent physique and he jerks on his thick joystick. “Some nice fucking muscles right there,” Andrew purrs with this Bond villain accent that, on its own, could probably get me off. “Look at that,” Andrew marvels as Bruno strips to underwear and gets in a light workout in the living room, “getting real pumped up with those push-ups!” Andrew starts stroking faster when Bruno makes to tug off his underwear. “Yes! Take of your fucking pants,” the creepy landlord channels exactly what I’m thinking (again, I’m not sure how I should feel about that). “Yeah, good boy,” Andrew says breathlessly as he watches/we watch exactly what Bruno was referring to in terms of “spicier content.”

I’ve mentioned a few times recently the curious value-added for me to shower scenes. So, imagine my pleasure when Bruno takes a long, slow, soapy shower that makes me melt. And talk about fucking inches… fuck, Bruno’s cock is nothing short of a work of art! There’s no angle, no feature, no detail from head to toe on him that is anything short of physical perfection. I was already solidly a fanboy, but, holy fuck, I am in awe of what must be incredible genetics, phenomenal conditioning, and likely a touch of divine intervention to craft a man this beautiful. And that’s without me mentioning what I’ve referred to before as his “luscious, sweet-as-honey ass.” Fuck, yes.

The plot device to this scenario hinges on Bruno being carelessly messy, and owner Andrew possibly having a stitch of OCD. The potato chips all over the couch and the dirty dishes and half eaten food Bruno leaves on the table interrupt Andrew’s jerk off session watching on from his hidden camera. In what could be considered an overreaction, he pulls out a handgun, strips to a red thong, and sneaks back into the apartment once Bruno is asleep to teach the hard-bodied cherub a lesson. The final 2/3rds of the video is the curiously intense confrontation between Andrew and Bruno, with neat-freak Andrew equally torn between wanting to punish the messy young renter and wanting to possess him. That’s really where I know that I’m definitely NOT like creepy lurker Andrew, after all. I’m solely here for the possession. Bruno can be as messy as he wants, as far as I’m concerned.

There are some hot beats as Bruno awakes to the terror of being held at gun point by the hungry apartment owner. Andrew makes Bruno flex for him. Andrew peels Bruno’s underwear off of him. He climbs into bed with him and strokes and strums Bruno’s rocking hot body and pounds his six-pack abs. He orders Bruno at gun point to go to the living room so he can tie the indignant, gorgeously naked hunk to a chair and pour baby oil over his body. Apparently, Andrew’s OCD doesn’t preclude his upholstered chair getting baby oil on it. Or cum.

As I mentioned, I was swooning over Bruno’s magnificent cock already, but it still took me by surprise just how stunningly beautiful it is when he’s oiled up and stroking himself hard. I catch myself holding my breath as Bruno beats himself off, awed by just how gorgeous he is, how gorgeous this moment is, how beautiful it is to get to enjoy an all access pass to Bruno’s extras. I don’t know if Bruno learned to be any neater the next time he rents an Airbnb (perversely, I hope not). I’d loved to have seen just a bit more of Andrew, to be honest, because the glimpses we get of his hugely muscled glutes free ranging in that tiny red thong strike such a hot compliment to Bruno’s carved marble physique. I get how the lack of consent in the scenario is value added for a lot of fans, but strictly speaking, it doesn’t actually add anything to what’s turning me on. Also, the gun play is a bit distracting for me, as I live in a country with out-of-control gun violence slapping me in the face daily. But all of those notes are honestly secondary to the biggest takeaway for me from this video.

What I’m left with, after I’ve toweled off and re-hydrated, are a lot of thoughts about eroticism, nakedness, and porn. To be clear, this video is soft core, but sure, it’s art that emerges from the market demand for sexually gratifying content (as IG called it when they recently censored a recent GIF I tried to post of guys spanking, before banning me for three days for the offense). There is a pendulum swing toward prudishness sweeping a whole lot of public discourse these days. Adult content laws are being passed under the pretense of “protecting children,” while clearly intending to stifle the artistic expression of the erotic as something presumed to be shameful for everyone. It’s patently ideologically-driven and cynical, often championed by the same people who, when their party isn’t in power, will lament the “nanny state” and government overreach into the personal lives and decisions of autonomous adults. It’s a flashback to Augustinian morality in which the physical body and its pleasure are lashed to pseudo-religious shame, valorizing self-denial as virtuous and the experience of corporal pleasure (not to mention the pursuit of the experience of corporal pleasure) as inherently subhuman.

I have no expertise in marketing, but I have to guess that the Bruno Extra team would net more from a lower price point. I feel like I have a little expertise as a long-time observer and commenter on the homoerotic wrestling market to be able to say that I’m certain there are a lot more Bruno fans out there who’d love to watch this video than can come close to affording it. But on the other hand, as I think about existential threats to artistic eroticism, and particularly threats to the availability of homoerotic content, I’m left wondering what it’s worth at this particular moment in history. What’s for sale at Bruno Extra is gorgeous and arousing and a stunning exploration of the aesthetics of beautiful bodies and the power those bodies have to evoke pleasure, particularly in the hands of talented and creative folks like the team behind Bruno Extra. I don’t know who can or can’t afford it, but I’m left pretty convinced that it’s priceless.

Bigger Body Count

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So at the start of summer, I enjoyed the much anticipated arrival of Joey Mason to the UKWH roster, taking on the institution, Tim World. As the summer is coming to a close, I’m delighted to discover their rematch, Joey Mason v Tim World – Summerslam on Joey’s WF channel. Sequels can be tricky, right? As beautifully explained in Scream 2, sequels have to deliver more than the original. Well, T-World and Joey deliver exactly that, and it’s hot and compelling homoerotic wrestling!

There’s no mention of their first match in the same ring, which feels like a missed beat to me. There’s nothing about Joey coming back for revenge. Their first match (delightfully) was not a squash, but at the end of the day, T-World used, abused, and humiliated the new kid hard. But still, both boys’ egos struggle to fit into the UKWH ring from the start. One of the themes this match is pinned to is contrasts. Joey taunts Tim for being a little soft around the middle. Honestly, T-World is fucking gorgeous, and he doesn’t have to excuse anything about his physique, despite him insisting he’s “on a bulk.” But there’s a stone cold truth about it when Tim fills the camera with his hot, beefy double bicep pose and smirks at you me when he says, “That’s what a real man looks like! That’s what they want to see!” Paradoxically, Joey delivers an ice cold truth shower as well when he shoves Tim out of the way and flashes his ultra lean baseball biceps, snarling, “Nice chunk of meat right here! They always love a younger boy!” So part of the thesis is this contrast of size, strength, build, and age, all of which adds sweet texture and dimension that I love to this rematch.

In terms of a sequel needing more elaborate drama, T-World explains that this is going to be a “forfeit match.” I’ve never heard of the term, but apparently it’s a submission match for stakes. Tim imperiously announces that the stakes are, in sequence, muscle worship, foot worship, pit worship, and ass worship (aka “stinkface”). Honestly, I’m agnostic when it comes to elaborate match rules like this. The tried and true through-line to what turns me on is hot wrestling, so the extra plot points are neither here no there for me. However, they give this match some added momentum and direction that weren’t there the first time these hotties wrestled. And genuinely, they seem to motivate Joey and Tim, especially when it comes to which of them is getting smothered up his opponent’s ass. But before I go there, let me just point out what I think is the most obvious and value-added innovation to this rematch. In under three minutes, both wrestlers are naked and remain that way for the remaining 23 minutes.

Fuuuuuck! There’s just a certain itch that only balls out naked wrestling can scratch. It feels to me like we’re living in a pendulum swing toward body and sex shaming in the world today, and I’m so here for these two hot studs pretty unselfconsciously holding the stage, pounding and prying and squeezing each other with every hot inch of them on display. T-World’s snarling condescension and muscle bullying just land differently, and beautifully, with the both of them being stark naked. Joey’s marble-gargling trash talk, and his delivery on his promises to humiliate this big, bad bully, just dial the volume up to 11. Both wrestlers are wicked hot in their own way (see my comments above about contrasts). It’s like T-World’s cock is carrying on its own monologue through much of this match as he visibly gets hard the longer he dominates his opponent. But holy shit, the total scene stealer here is when, just a couple of minutes after Joey loses his briefs, T-World scoops him up in a bearhug and parades him around the ring. Holy FUCK! I know I’ve heaped mountains of praise on Joey’s ass before, but seriously, this bad boy’s glutes are a work of ART!

Like the first time they wrestled, this is (delightfully) not a squash. They each score falls and revel in the accompanying aforementioned stakes along the way. There’s a lot of “whinging” as T-World derisively calls Joey’s bitching and moaning about being forced to linger long, muscle worshiping Tim’s naked bod. However, it’s not like either of these guys fails to enjoy himself. While T-World bitches about the smell of Joey’s feet, he fucking makes OUT with Joey’s right foot like Joey’s toes have been dipped in Swiss chocolate. And although Joey seemed skeptical about the “stinkface” round, he sure seems to take a whole fucking lot of pleasure smothering Tim’s face way, way up between those magnificent cheeks of his. As do I… fuuuuck, as do I.

There’s a fifth fall, in which the “winner” of this scorching hot rematch treats the out-hustled loser to a reprise of all 4 prior falls, and it’s rawer and more aggressive and hungrier than anything that’s happened before between these two in either match. If T-World is passed over for the much anticipated new James Bond (he’s got my vote), he’s still got to have condescending muscle bully roles galore in his future. And if I had any doubt that Tim “likes” wrestling the way I do, the performance of his cock raging hard with excitement when he’s rolling over his opponent has certainly put that to rest. But seriously, I feel like Joey Mason could own homoerotic wrestling some day. Not yet, but some day, maybe. Like countless rookies before him, he has a tendency toward inconsistent and overdone sell. He’s got a shit ton more to learn about wrestling, pacing himself, and maintaining momentum. And sure, T-World isn’t exactly wrong when he tells Joey, “You need a meal, mate!” But if all those chips fell into place, and he kept that astonishingly hot ass of his in the perfectly pristine form it’s in today, Joey Mason could have this entire industry in his back pocket.

This match follows ALL the rules of a sensational sequel, and then some. I *feel* like there’s got to be a line around the corner waiting for their turn to bend Joey over the knee and spank that naked ass like T-World does in this match, and/or get pounded into a corner and smothered deep between those perfect globes. I’m keeping my eyes out for whichever turns up next.

Main Course & Dessert

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I’ve been seriously impressed with Killian Ocampo. As I’ve mentioned before, that combination of boy next door beauty along with a powerful physique built to punish will always catch my eye. Lately, I’ve been deep into old World Championship Wrestling and Mid South Wrestling videos on YouTube, enjoying that nostalgic bump from watching matches I saw as a kid when they originally aired. Killian has an aesthetic that would’ve fit seamlessly with the likes of 80’s wrestling hunks like old school Jeff Jarrett, the Von Erichs, Tommy Rogers, and Jeff Gaylord. It’s not just what he looks like in still frame, though. I love Killian’s fire, too. He exudes attitude and character that take up more than his fair share of the wrestling ring. He’s hungry and aggressive, and fuck, he wants to beat the shit out of six-pack abs wherever he finds them.

In Undagear 41, he sets his sights on the award-winning six-pack on stunningly ripped Kal Connor. Kal’s conditioning is just mind-blowing. He’s perennially in peak form. Honestly, if you’re studying for an upcoming anatomy and physiology exam, just pull up Kal’s pics and take a crystal cut tour of the human musculature on display without an ounce of body fat. Don’t get me wrong. Kal’s got a beautiful face that’s perfectly poised at the border of cute and handsome. But I can’t take my eyes off of that fucking incredible body! Yes, this is the phenom who won the awards for Best Body and Best Abs in his debut year with BG East. He wrestles fierce and mean, but if you look up the term “heel bait” in the dictionary, you’re going to find a photo of Kal. Big, mean heels are just lined up to fuck up that super fine physique.

But Undagear 41 reads like a super intense babyface brawl. I was totally expecting Killian to be the one to bring the heat in this match, but Kal’s out to defy expectations. He instantly starts pumping on a side headlock, and Killian looks about as surprised as I am that Kal’s taking charge. Killian has to fight his way to the starting line in this match, but once he does, he gets some of that hot, mean offense in, instantly targeting Kal’s top shelf abs, of course. Kal patiently takes a solid beating, waiting for a break. Just as he’s getting whipped from corner to corner, that break comes when he reverses a whip, catapulting a clearly astonished Killian and pounding him hard into the corner. Maybe Killian’s rethinking his tunnel-vision offense on Kal’s abs as the anatomy chart takes revenge on Killian’s gut. Solid punches and kicks pound the air out of Killian, and then smooth as a silk, Kal executes a gorgeous, spine-bruising suplex. Hell, yes, this is a fucking wrestling match!

The character of this match really evolves around two elements for me. One of those elements is Killian’s journey. The babyfaced strongman’s cocky swagger gets chipped away until he’s sputtering and screaming like a kid suddenly reconsidering the wisdom of trying to bully a rival. Kal goes for his knee in with this vicious laser focus that’s just devastating. Killian’s pleading wail of agony is fucking compelling, as his knee is draped over the middle rope and his opponent starts wrenching the joint to shreds. Killian gets pushed down so hard that I’m just about ready to believe this may be the first time we see Kal deliver a shockingly unexpected squash. But fuck, no, do NOT count out Killian! I love the drama of him roaring back into contention, and then delivering an almost unhinged, brutal beatdown to make it clear he’s not about to be the rung on anyone’s ladder up the ranks. Killian’s signature move continues to be gut busters, and he dishes out a dozen or so of them on Kal’s proud abs in a way that leaves me breathless.

Killian’s screaming, sniveling pleas from 15 minutes earlier are thoroughly forgotten around the time he has Kal trapped between his tree trunk thighs, rearranging Kal’s internal organs in crushing side scissors. It’s strength versus strength, with Killian’s massive quads pitted against the Best Abs at BGE for the past two years. It would be super sweet and sexy drama if it were just Killian crushing the screams out Kal. But when Killian starts twisting at the waist, slamming his trapped opponent back and forth, there’s just no doubt who’s the fucking boss here.

The other element of this match that can’t be unseen is the image of both of these gorgeous hunks getting their trunks ripped off, and thank the homoerotic wrestling gods, they’re wearing nothing but thongs underneath. Fuck, fuck, fuck, that’s two sets of delicious glutes! I cannot emphasize enough the climactic reveal of the final five minutes of this match as these exhausted, ego-bruised babyface hunks tear into each other with their phenomenal asses out. Like their physiques in general, the showcase of their asses is a gorgeous study in contrast. Kal’s ass is solid muscle. Like everything else on him, his glutes are rock hard, functional, and sculpted. Kal’s rump is main course fare, whereas Killian’s ass is more like a mouthwatering dessert. I’ve commented on Killian’s ass (adoringly) before, but I haven’t seen this much of it. And fuck, the reveal does NOT disappoint. This is bubble butt perfection, thick and clawable, stacked like too many library books on the top shelf of Killian’s huge thighs. Fuck, if you put a gun to my head, I don’t know that I could decide which beautiful ass I’m turned on by more. I’d have to study them in person, up close. You know, a really hands-on inspection… probably with other body parts involved as well.

With so much hot wrestling and gorgeous babyface beauty, I’d be tempted to repeat my overused conclusion that everyone’s a winner in this match. But, fuck, no. One of these HOT-assed hunks definitely loses hard, destroyed and disrespected, literally trampled over like a doormat. The resolution of the wrestling drama is deeply satisfying, as far as I’m concerned, in a way that leaves me seriously hungry to see both Killian and Kal in future matches, preferably with those stunningly gorgeous asses out and those bulging egos and fierce wrestling skills put to the test again. And again. And I feel like both of those thongs, unwashed, could go for a pretty penny at auction.