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Toy With Me

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I’ve had my eye on Baba Sultan from when I only recognized him as that devastatingly hot guy with the body and the beard on social media. When I think about “my type” of guy, honestly, there’s a whole Rolodex of different types that I dial into, but my fingers linger long on the type of hunk Baba Sultan is. His stunning conditioning, those abs, that ass, those sensational pecs, that lush and yankable beard, and, holy fuck, that deep, lusty voice… they all flip on every switch I’ve got. About nine months ago he began populating his Watchfighters channel, and when I decided I needed to sample one, I spent days trying to decide what to taste first. I finally settled on one of his most recent videos, out just late last month, it looks like, featuring another growing infatuation of mine, NonoZ.

In Horny Submission Wrestling, the eye candy in this apartment mat match makes me immediately swoon. They’re both in assless singlets, and I have a seriously hard time tearing my eyes away from their naked glutes. The first match I watched with NonoZ was his apartment mat match with Matt Larsen, which was intensely competitive with a load-blowing finale. This match, though, is decidedly more along the lines of erotic submission. It’s super intense, but playful and persistently focused a lot more on the obvious mutual attraction between them than any technicalities about whose grappling skills are superior to whose. The tone is set within the first 15 seconds, when NonoZ manages to hoist Baba upside down into a handstand and immediately starts cranking on Baba’s cock (conveniently accessible in that singlet that’s also crotchless). “Yeah,” Baba purrs in that deep, hungry baritone of his. “Toy with me, I like that!” NonoZ likes it, too. So do I.

The match teeters back and forth in a way that successfully builds intensity and suspense, while staying on this side of the line of playful and erotic. They’re both aggressive, but again, it’s a lot more hungry than competitively oriented. Baba probably has an edge in terms of aggressive intensity. When he’s working his offense, climbing on top and going for a hold to control his masked opponent and to leave NonoZ open to being groped and possessed, Baba’s just a bit unstoppable. Even by the serious muscle and skills of NonoZ, which is saying a lot! At one point early on, Baba’s got NonoZ pinned underneath him. NonoZ has been furiously struggling to buck and writhe for a reversal, but Baba just rides him like bronco buster. Decisively, Baba grapevines his captive’s powerful legs, wrenching a grunting whimper out of his frustrated opponent. And then, Baba turns and smirks directly into one of the cameras and flashes a cocky bicep flex. That’s the vibe! It’s cocky and intensely hot and focused like a laser on possession and control for the purpose of sucking moans of ecstasy out of NonoZ with Baba’s lips clamped onto a nipple. And Baba mugging for the camera and occasionally talking to you and me keeps us right in the room with them.

It’s not pro at all, but with Baba’s relentless laughing and taunting and smirking and cocky flexes, he reads very much like an erotic heel. And don’t get me wrong, NonoZ is intense and mean and hungry as hell, as well, but he’s relatively quiet, contained, with a massive earnestness that comes across like a total masked babyface. Baba’s showboating and mugging for the camera are sexy as fuck, but so is when he gets too cocky, leaves himself open for a reversal, and that taunting baritone laughter is suddenly muffled with his face buried deep in NonoZ’s sensational ass sitting on his head. There are these super sweet technical moments that suddenly blossom into erotic sculpture, like when NonoZ controls his opponent in a toehold, figure-4’s Baba’s ankles, and snags Baba’s neck in a sleeper. NonoZ arches his back, showing off everything, but especially that naked ass flexed in concentration, and I completely lose my ability to keep taking notes on the match for this review.

The boys go to town on each other’s cocks. There are repeatedly these moments of tension where the guy on the bottom is obviously grappling hardest with his own ambivalence, torn between the desire to battle back on top and the impulse to melt under the relentless control of his opponent’s hand massaging his cock. In one scrambling exchange, Baba battles to top position, pinning his lucky opponent’s face under his ass, and immediately shoves a hand inside NonoZ’s singlet to really grab hold of that joystick. Just to put me right over the edge yet again, Baba bounces there on NonoZ’s masked face, and just like NonoZ, all I can do is go along for the swooning ride.

The hottest and most explicit moment of the match has to be when Baba’s on this back, controlling his opponent in figure-4 headscissors on top of him. Baba shoves NonoZ’s hips upward, arching the trapped hunk’s back and demonstrating the inspired wardrobe choice of those assless singlets again. Fishing around inside NonoZ’s singlet, Baba suddenly yanks NonoZ’s cock free, prying the gorgeous erection backward. Baba goes absolutely fucking nuts, laughing, nuzzling his captive’s gorgeous cockhead with his beard, and lapping and licking at it as it visibly throbs in his grasp.

The unfinished singlets get ripped off, leaving NonoZ in a fashion jock strap and Baba barely-to-not contained in a tiny thong. I realize I’ve said it already, but I have to say it again: fuck, these men are drop dead gorgeous! And it’s not just me who thinks so, clearly, because they are both tearing into each other like men on the edge of starvation getting their hands on a roasted chicken. Bad boy Baba uses his opponent’s purloined singlet to choke the masked hunk and tauntingly shove NonoZ’s face into a camera. “Look at beautiful NonoZ, boys,” he purrs, showing off his total and humiliating control. I swear, I’m ready to put the notch in Baba’s win column when NonoZ finds a whole new gear, trapping Baba’s head between his legs and rolling the recently cocky hunk into a humiliating ass-up foldover spadle. And he milks it so fucking sensationally! Baba’s thong is clinging for dear life, leaving nothing to the imagination as NonoZ smothers him with a sweaty singlet, cranks on his nipples, and slapping the fuck out of Baba’s balls.

There’s not a wasted minute of this nearly 28 minute video. That said, just a heads up that the match is filmed with two stationary cameras, and the editing has a vibe all it’s own that I had to get use to. Quite a bit of the action is shown frame-in-frame, with the same moment displayed simultaneously from the two different angles. I’m not sure that I’ve seen that style of editing before, but I love it! It has this loving attention to detail to let us savor every moment. There are several moments, though, when, instead of the frame-in-frame style, the editing cuts from one camera angle to another, jumping backward in time to replay a couple of minutes already seen from the other perspective. My first time watching, that was a little disorienting, but I adjusted, and sometimes, the replay prompted me to go back and watch the scene from the first angle again, to enjoy it knowing more about what was happening just out of sight. I’ve seen the cut-replays from different angles before (Sir Dark’s Rumble Match comes to mind), so it’s clearly a known editing choice. It does pull me out of the intensity of the moment and remind me I’m watching this on video, which fights with the immediacy of Baba Sultan’s style of mugging for the camera, talking directly with us watching, and making it feel like we’re there in the room with them.

I get the editing choice, though, because there’s just so fucking much to savor and enjoy in this match! I’m infatuated with both Baba Sultan and NonoZ more than ever, and amid a landscape of a lot of coded gay wrestling that leaves the viewer having to add the erotic eye to the drama, this is legitimately and gloriously sensationally sexy erotic submission wrestling done right. Check it out, unless you aren’t into gorgeously fit bodies and intensely sexy wrestling milked to perfection. Otherwise, this is a must-see.

Rear-View Mirror

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I totally missed the BG East Besties season this year. Literally, the flu hit me like a ton of bricks last week, and by the time my fever broke and I crawled out of my sweat soaked bed linens with enough working brain cells to engage with the world again, the voting was over and the winners were announced. In past years, I’ve spent weeks obsessing over these awards. I’ve openly lobbied for my slate of nominees from time to time, which, let’s be honest, turned out to be completely uncorrelated with actual votes. I’ve second guessed the nominations process and spread baseless conspiracy theories about vote rigging (just for fun). So, it feels sort of bewildering to discover the entire process played out on its own while I was hacking up a lung and feeling like my head was about to explode.

I’ve enjoyed seeing more lauds and awards for homoerotic wrestling in recent years. Other companies and other bloggers have been calling out their favorites, and I’m here for it. I seldom completely agree, of course. BG East fans never fail to break a different direction from where my fanaticism points me in the Besties, and the shout outs and laurel crowns laid out by other companies and passionate fans and commentators will typically overlap with many of my tastes, but definitely not all of them. Like, there’s that Zach Reno superfan from Wrestlefest NYC last year who regularly lobbies for me to lay down more love for lovely, lovely Zach. Don’t get me wrong, I’m totally dialed into Zach, but I’ll probably never be as devoted as this superfan. But that’s what I love about awards season. As much as it can be invalidating for passionate wrestlers who get overlooked (and I get that), the more shout outs from more perspectives reflecting a greater diversity of tastes and passionate opinions are hopefully getting the word out to wrestlers and producers about the range of what we like. I get my chops busted regularly for having “too narrow” of tastes and interests, but the solution isn’t me pretending to like stuff others like just to put them over. The solution is more praise from more people, more purchases, more enthusiasm and fan-wrestler-producer engagement.

I enjoyed a ton of sensational wrestling in 2025 that entertained and turned me on. In terms of Sidelineland-approved awards and my wrestling infatuations, I’m happy to lend my voice to heaping praise on the hot hunks who turned me on hardest this year. Here are my picks for the body awards:

Best Butt: Mickey Knoxx. I’m an ass aficionado, and 2025 shoved a whole lot of spectular glutes in front of me. I get why Monstah Mike took the Bestie, but for my money, the aesthetics of Mickey Knoxx’ gorgeous ass just can’t be beat. I’d probably pick Joey Mason’s bubble butt for 2nd place for me, but again, the field was rich.

Best Bulge: Bruno. I’m turning to the deep roster at Abs Art on WatchFighters for my pick for best bulge. I’ve been captured by Abs Arts’ turn to more full-on erotic content with their Bruno Extra channel, and getting an unobstructed view of what Bruno is packing has been a highlight of 2025. Second place bulge for me: Beau Jordan. Fuck, that scimitar is hypnotic!

Best Legs: Alexxwrestler. This masked man was haunting my dreams in 2025. His cockiness is an aphrodisiac all on its own, but it’s his gorgeous legs and, especially, how he uses them to wring opponents out like dirty laundry that sends me. Best Body Bestie Winner Chase LaChance gets my second place nod for his gorgeous tree trunks.

Best Body: Bruno. Yeah, 2025 was the year of Bruno-obsession for me. His body just makes me gasp every time I see him. It’s a lot more than the sum of its parts, and watching him use it to wrestle is an absolute fantasy-cum-true. Second place for me is Bruno’s sometimes-partner-in-crime, Roland. Get the two of them in a wrestling ring, and I may quit my job of never get off my computer again.

Pulling the focus back a bit from just the eye candy, there was a whole lot of wrestling in 2025 that made me swoon. In terms of wrestlers doing what wrestlers do best, here’s my list of shout outs:

Favorite Babyface: Dio Characi. Fuck, yes, every day of the week. For the third year in a row, Dio got the Bestie for 2025. He’s such a prototype for what I think of as a babyface… impossibly pretty face, rocking hot bod, with this impish edge-of-naughtiness about him that I can’t tear my eyes away from. And did I mention I met him at Wrestlefest NYC last February?! My second place choice would be Bobby Carter for all of the same reasons.

Favorite Heel: Brendan Byers. Yeah, I totally swing with the rest of the BGE fans who handed the title to Brendan for the second year in a row. In May, I did a retrospective review of Brendan’s debut match against BBW from back in the day, and I’m still in awe of the career arc he’s taken. In 2025, he was a fucking hungry beast. My second place pick is Sir Dark. He defies categorization, but really, let off his leash like he was when he fucking devoured KC Ryder at Wrestlefest Live last year, and I’m hard pressed to think of when I’ve cheered harder for a rabid heel.

Favorite Jobber: Mickey Knoxx. I always feel like I need to apologize for naming someone as a phenomenal jobber, but there’s a whole lot more to being a magnificent jobber than losing. Mickey is a sensational example of that rare art. He’s tough, with a seriously mean edge, fierce and gorgeous, and not idling for a second, deserving again and again the ire, fury, and hungry beating of one opponent after another. My second place is yet another gorgeous Canadian, Ryan Reilly, who I had the distinct pleasure of chatting up at the WrestleFest NYC kick-off party last year. Fuck, how I get off on seeing that boy hurt.

Finally, let me just call out some of the matches that rose to the top of my list. It’s always comparing apples to oranges in these types of shout outs, but again, in the interest of celebrating some sensationally hot wrestling entertainment that dropped in 2025, here I go:

Favorite Match Match: Characi vs. LaChance, BGE’s Wrestleshack 35. It sort of shocks me to agree, yet again, with the majority of BG East fans in calling out his super fun and sexy shack match that I reviewed in June. I adore both of these hunks, and putting together their phenomenal bodies and lush personalities and watching Dio being unable to restrain himself from worshiping and possessing Chase’s award winning body felt so fun, funny, and authentic. My second place mat match is the one I reviewed just a few weeks ago, in which Tarz Lando and Adam Stone get down to business in a semi-private backyard soaked in oil.

Favorite Ring Match: Jordan/Cruz vs Knoxx/Mortis, Wrestlefest NYC Live. This category is suddenly very challenging for me to narrow down, because it’s simply impossible for me to disentangle the thrill of being in the front row of that show from evaluating the relative merits of matches I watched on my computer. It was wild and immediate and sweaty and sexy, and I’m still musing over how homoerotic wrestling needs to see a whole lot more of a Chippendale Stripper Erotic Terminator. Second place is Canuck/Reilly vs MPJ/Bruno from the same show, for many of the same reasons. That classic babyface vs heel tag team beat down was so well told!

Favorite Erotic Match: Knoxx vs Sterling, BG East’s Ruff ‘n’ Raunchy 10. Normally, I’d insist on nakedness to really elevate a match as best erotic wrestling, but fuck, what these boys do in thongs (barely) is totally on fire. Fuck, the sweat, the ravenous lip locks, the possessing and grinding while keeping the battle for domination perfectly on simmer is a work of art. For my second place favorite erotic match, I’m pulling out one I haven’t yet reviewed, but I promise I will. Yjrgn vs Twinkfighter on WatchFighters is some of the hottest, most unapologetically mean-erotic wrestling I’ve seen in a long time. These guys go at it hard, and the harder they punish, the bigger their cocks get (particularly Yjrgn). No pretense. Just intensely hot submissions for the purpose of turning themselves and us on.

I think I’ll leave it there, because I could spend another week writing this and still find more gems from 2025 that I want to treasure. As always, this isn’t to slight anyone or anything by failing to shout out any of the rest of the hot wrestling action from last year. And, of course you disagree, in whole or part, because that’s the pleasure of being part of a diverse community of varied opinions and tastes. Congratulations and much gratitude to everyone who put out hot wrestling content in 2025. I hope you get all the strokes and lauds you so richly deserve!

Happy New Year – 2026

wrestlebard6 Comments

2025 was a shit show. And, at the same time, it included some of the most fun and fulfilling things I’ve ever done. Whenever I mention anything even obliquely political, I know that it’s going to grind the gears of some readers. However, after 16 and a half years, it’s still my blog. So, I’m fine to start 2026 shedding some followers who can’t tolerate hearing me say that 2025 seemed to me to be a complete dumpster fire when it comes to free speech, human rights, and the rule of law. Of particular relevance to what I write and obsess about here, the pendulum swing toward sexual repression and desperate conformity aren’t just politically ominous. They’re already having a direct and damaging impact on what has always been at the heart of this blog, namely, the celebration of homoeroticism and, specifically, homoerotic wrestling. It’s chilling, that explicit social project to transport us into a romanticized, puritanical re-imagining of a Reagan/Thatcher/Brezhnev world order (but with internet and social media-supercharged globalization and without the lip-service to democratic idealism). But, then again, my homoerotic wrestling self came of age in 1980s. I’ve witnessed the ways that we endured under the pall of cultural repression, and I honestly don’t think there’s any way to stuff the genie back into the bottle, no matter how much a neo-Falwellian moral minority tries to crawl into bed with the incoming tide of a transparently lascivious cult of personality. The first time around was scary and dark, and we’ve probably got scary and dark times still ahead. But, I believe we’ll march out of this moment in history like we did the first time, chagrined and with a shameful reckoning ahead, but with hard earned victories against provincialism and the persecution of sexual and gender diversity and, let’s face it, sexuality itself.

But, like I said, 2025 had some of the most enjoyable and rewarding moments for me in recent years, as well. My mind is already on WrestleFest NYC again. I’ve got my room booked and bags packed already for next month, but holy hell, WrestleFest NYC 2025 was pretty unbelievably fantastic. I regularly have flashbacks to the kick-off party last year, walking around the bar and feeling like my homoerotic wrestling social media feed had magically materialized in 3D before me. I mean, even if I didn’t recognize dozens of the homoerotic wrestlers I regularly get off to from my Smaug’s treasure of wrestling videos, the eye candy alone at that party, with all of these gorgeous men in singlets (+/-) would’ve been haunting my wet dreams all year long. I might have mentioned before that I chatted with Dio Characi that night, which has got to be near, if not at, my top, brush with fame for 2025. I actually don’t believe I’ve mentioned before that, after we were done talking, Dio turned back to his friends nearby, and I swooned every time his truly magnificent ass incidentally bumped against me in the crowded press of hot horny men packed into that bar. Fuck, 2025 definitely wasn’t all bad.

The WrestleFest NYC Live event was another absolutely spectacular highlight of 2025 for me. It was hot drama, without any effort to disguise that this wrestling show was entirely for gay eyes. It was earnest and larger-than-life in a way that mainstream pro wrestling shows don’t come close to for me. If anything, it was that much better for the authenticity and all-in brilliance of bringing homoerotic wrestling drama into the ring and in front of a sold out crowd with absolutely everyone in attendance being on the page. Sitting in the front row that night was fucking special for me. Not just because it was fun and sexy, but because it was this beautiful crystalizing of a community of us who, I bet, all quietly got off to watching professional wrestling on TV at some point in our lives. I’ve got my ticket to the sold out 2026 show already in hand, and I’m hoping to have another sweaty, nearly naked wrestler/wrestlers fall into my lap again.

Speaking of brushes with fame, I profoundly enjoyed wrestling with Scott Williams again in 2025. I continue to marvel at my life each and every time I stand in front of the Thunder. Talk about homoerotic wrestling fantasies materializing before my eyes… fuck, Scott is literally the fantasy muscle man of my dreams, somehow, improbable yet true, standing in front of me and demanding that I show him just how much my infatuation and fanaticism translate into crushing him into perpetually shocked submission. He confessed to me the last time we scrapped that, a couple of years ago, when we wrestled for the first time, he approached that meet-up in a spirit of “charity,” indulging a fan fantasy just to be generous. He keeps coming back for more, though, which makes me think he’s either the most charitable muscle man on the planet, or he genuinely looks forward to trying to earn back that Thunder cred he spends down every time I wring a submission out of him.

Another truly gratifying adventure in 2025 was finally launching a creative collaboration between me and my best buddy, AR. We’ve been writing and creating homoerotic wrestling fiction together almost daily for years now, and we’ve been discussing the possibility of formally sharing some of the art we co-create with other homoerotic wrestling fans. The precise recipe of our written narrative and AR’s gorgeous graphic art bakes up something that feels both entirely novel and thoroughly familiar to a homoerotic wrestling sensibility. In May, we began taking subscriptions for our original homoerotic wrestling serial, Heels & Heroes, an erotic pro wrestling fantasy told in entirely original graphics and text. We launched a roughed-out version of our vision directly on Patreon, and then an amazingly talented and generous subscriber and friend, JoseSustanciaP, constructed a stand-alone site for us to have even more creative freedom to build the Heels & Heroes universe. It was something I was genuinely proud of, not only because I love the quality and integrity of the content, but because it reflected this wonderful synergy that I enjoy so much with AR.

Much less satisfying, and much more in keeping with the zeitgeist of 2025, was what happened next with Heels & Heroes. After posting weekly updates for more than six months, we were nearly at the climactic end of the initial story arc, encompassing seven chapters centered on a traveling big-time international professional wrestling fed putting on televised wrestling shows down the U.S. East Coast… when abruptly, Patreon deleted our account and confiscated the $1,000 we’d earned through subscriptions thus far. This was as completely unexpected and out of the blue as it sounds. In a truly Orwellian turn emblematic of 2025, Patreon publicly announced one day in November that they had revised their community standards, and a day later, our account was deleted and all evidence of having every existed scrubbed from their platform. I hope that subscribers were, in fact, reimbursed for all of the money that they invested in Heels & Heroes, as Patreon implied they would. AR and I are deciding how to finish the final chapter of Heels & Heroes for fans to enjoy, while we consider the realities of a world in which censorship and gaslighting are increasingly mobilized to pretend that homoeroticism does not, and never did, exist. And doesn’t that just sum up a whole lot about the end of 2025 for all of us?

I’m still way bitter about how things played out with Patreon, but almost two months later, I’m more philosophical about it. This whole debacle happened literally at the same time that Can-Am was announcing they were closing business because of the patchwork of U.S. states who have enacted laws trying to outlaw internet pornography. These anti-pornography laws have been buoyed by the political tide of a head of state famous for (among other things) asserting that men with enough celebrity star power are entitled to grab women by the genitalia. Companies like Patreon, as well as purveyors of homoerotic content like Can-Am that we take for granted, are cracking down as the end result of a concerted effort to protect the sensibilities of a moral minority that’s gunning for much more than just pornography. They’re out to construct a world in which sexual and gender minorities and the celebration of eroticism don’t exist, or, let’s be honest, they’ll exist only behind closed doors and mostly for the benefit of those with sociocultural capital to keep themselves and their desires hidden. As we come to the close of 2025, I finally get all the romanticism about “the way things were” and hearkening back to a pre-internet, pre-social media world dominated by a U.S. president who refused to acknowledge the existence of AIDS, much less truly mobilize resources to fight the epidemic, because it was (mis-)understood to be “just a gay disease.” Yeah, it’s no coincidence that the puritanically romanticized re-imagining of the world they want to drag us into was in its hey day right around 1984.

Oh, wait. Did I get political again? Honestly, if you don’t recognize that your life, your passion, your homoerotic wrestling kink, your sexuality, and your very existence are political, you should should probably wake up right about now. Wake up. Act up. Keep yourself safe, but recognize that this is a shit show. New players. New technology. But this is a shit show we’ve seen before. And, while far from everyone survived the 80’s the first time, yet, we endured. So, join me in making a commitment to celebrate homoerotic wrestling in 2026. Not because someone else has given you permission to, but because we are fierce and beautiful and defiant and passionate, and we will continue to endure.

Asking for Promission

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I feel like I’ve been stalking Tarz Lando for years. But can you call it stalking if your object of lust wants to be watched? If he demands to be observed and admired? I enjoyed the opportunity to briefly meet Tarz in person at the Gay Wrestling History Panel at Wrestlefest NYC almost two years ago. The huge pecs, massive shoulders, and perfected salt-and-pepper beard are even more impressive in person. I loved his bear vs cub match with fierce provocateur Isaac Andrews. Last year, at Wrestlefest Live, I got to really see Tarz in his natural habitat, namely, a pro wrestling ring in front of a horny, roaring crowd battling for the the championship belt. Fuck, the man is a sensationally hot wrestler! I have a very long simmering crush on Ben Monaco since his BG East debut thirteen years ago, and honestly, I’ve got an extremely soft/hard spot for Canadian babyface beefcake, but holy shit, watching Tarz pound Ben into a quivering puddle on his way to taking the title of the inaugural Wrestlefest NYC Live champion was so fucking satisfying.

So, my expectations were high when I sat down to watch the November release of Tarz squaring off against Adam Stone in oil. I’ve been circling Adam’s previews for a while now, but this is the first time I’ve purchase one of his matches. This is also the first time I’ve watched Tarz wrestle a silky smooth babyface. There are strong notes of muscle daddy vs doe-in-the-headlights gym bunny, and fuck, that’s a delicious pairing. The match description calls it “thrilling and playful,” which is a halfway decent teaser, but undersells the sensational erotic tension.

The match is set in a secluded backyard with a busy world buzzing in the background just on the other side of a privacy fence. While I’ve definitely fixated on the value added for erotic wrestling in front of a rapt audience of fans, I’ve never really thought a lot about the element of eroticism in a randomly public context. But when Tarz and Adam start getting seriously erotic, I get this little extra pump of adrenaline when a car horn or siren or random voice drifts over the privacy fence from the unsuspecting world outside. I could see how that edge of exposure and the possibility of being discovered would give guys a hot twist on the balls to add to the erotic thrill of oiling each other up, wrestling hard, and getting naked. Honestly, though, watching Tarz and Adam oiling up, wrestling hard, and getting naked is entirely sufficient to make me completely swoon without that borderline possibility of impromptu exhibitionism.

Like I said, this is my third Tarz match, and he brings a similar heaping helping of sneering contempt and trash talk to marinate Adam in, along with all that baby oil. Maybe it’s the salt and pepper seasoning in his thick beard and chest hair, but I feel like Tarz’ opening ante is consistently that of a long-reigning alpha rolling his eyes at another pup stepping up to the plate to take a swing at unseating him. I mean, he’s obviously hungry for it. When he’s ripped off Adam’s shorts and exposed what has got to be one of the juiciest asses in homoerotic wrestling today, Tarz has a mature self-restraint about the way he manhandles Adam and gropes every inch under the pretense of applying the requisite coat of oil. But there’s an unmistakable eagerness about the way the champ muscle-bullies the tantalizingly pretty pup, mounting Adam, pec smothering the boy, and humping that ass with singularly focused intensity. He slaps Adam around with taunts and contemptuous slights to the blond beauty’s chances of coming out on top in this tussle, but there’s less a note of “so don’t even try” as much as there is an open challenge of “but give it your best shot, jobber.”

I’ve ever-so-briefly chatted with Tarz about his wrestling (hoping to do much more of that in the future), but he refers to his style as promission. I’ve seen that term used in various contexts by different people, and it seems to have a pretty flexible definition. However, in the case of this match, I think promission does a nice job of capturing the cooperative/competitive vibe between Tarz and Adam. It’s not a second-by-second battle for advantage, but rather an intense and sweaty dance back and forth, seeing how much erotic domination they can milk out of each other before they trade turns leading. It could be a little too cooperative for my tastes, if it weren’t for the spicy and contemptuous trash talk fueling the fire. They keep me sufficiently in suspense, so that I’m not just eye fucking the both of them, I’m also dialed entirely into the wrestling drama playing out between them.

This confrontation is billed as a two-parter. There’s Oil Match: The Wrestling and Oil Match: The Aftermath. “The Wrestling” is more back and forth, with strong elements of muscle worship and bids for ownership. Deceptively pretty, Adam is a tough fucker who uses his long, lubricated limbs, with such beautiful aesthetics, to wring some seriously hot suffering out of Tarz. Honestly, I’m a little surprised by just how turned on I am when I’m watching those moments when the cocky pup is riding roughshod over this snarling alpha dog. Isaac came pretty close to milking this much anguish out of Tarz in moments, but Ben was honestly nothing but prey in their WFNYC title match. As dialed in as I am and completely identifying with Tarz when he’s humping Adam’s ass, Adam makes a compelling case when he’s turned those tables and is pounding away at Tarz trapped glutes. Adam’s astonishingly perfect ass is nothing but hypnotizing, with his jock strap pulled down and his glutes flexing and crotch grinding. While I think the dividing line between “The Wrestling” and “The Aftermath” is a little arbitrary, I sort of get why part 1 ends with Adam humping the fuck out of Tarz’ ass and the champ seeming too exhausted to fight back (or not exactly hating the shocking turn this challenge to his dominance has taken). If you’re into babyface gym bunnies humbling a cocky muscle daddy and knocking him off his throne, savor part 1: The Wrestling.

If you’re like me and really, really want to see a muscle daddy absolutely crush and possess a cocky and way too pretty gym bunny, tuck in to “The Aftermath.” It’s misleading if the title implies there isn’t wrestling happening in part 2. It’s just that the tide has turned, and the waves are relentlessly crashing down on lovely Adam’s oil soaked muscles until Tarz has demonstrated he can do absolutely anything he wants with Adam. It’s still in that promission vein, but Tarz’ dominating charisma and familiarity with the role sets him up as the still-reigning champ, as he rolls right over Adam and lingers on the boy’s hot body with self-congratulatory taunts. At one point, Tarz has him in a wrist lock and makes Adam flex his impressive bicep on command, and fuck, yes, that’s putting me right over the edge! “A little advice to all you kids out there. Don’t try to take on Tarz. Especially in oil. Unless you’ve got biceps like this,” Tarz points out Adam’s gorgeous softball before he starts possessively sucking and making out with it, with Adam having nothing left to defend himself.

Adam loses his jock strap and finishes the last 80% of The Aftermath gloriously naked. His cock is as lovely as the rest of him. No jaw dropping monster or anything, which, honestly, I appreciate a lot. Just gorgeous, proportional, and growing harder with every second that Tarz is slapping him around, putting him in a dragon sleeper, and demanding that the trapped bunny pound one out. Which Adam does, with Tarz sitting on that almost offensively pretty face and flexing like the alpha muscle daddy I’m dialed in to watch do his thing.

Choose your own adventure. Ready to climax watching Adam’s truly award-worthy ass pumping as he grinds into muscle daddy Tarz at the end of hot, sexy, muscle worship and promission wrestling? Download Oil Match: The Wrestling. Aching to get off on the champ, muscle daddy Tarz Lando, overpowering and taking possession of a snarky and painfully pretty gym bunny until Adam’s covering his oil coated and heaving abs with cum? Enjoy Oil Match: The Aftermath. Or, if you’re like me, you’ll download them both and get off at multiple points along the sensationally hot promission drama, and feast for days.

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.