Our Man Inside

I’ve often written about just how titillating I find it to see behind-the-scenes images of my favorite homoerotic wrestlers. It’s like how I get off more on Clark Kent than Superman (true story, also related to why I get off on hunks in glasses). Several years ago, I received the first of several batches of candid photos of BG East wrestlers, clearly taken before, sometimes during, or occasionally after since-published matches. These photos come to me anonymously and shrouded in mystery, much to the annoyance of powers that be at BG East, as well as some of the wrestlers. I know for a fact that at least one wrestler, accused of being the mole, was threatened with bodily harm if he were discovered to be the one smuggling BGE intellectual property off site and leaking it to the media (I love being considered “the media”!). But thus far, Our Man Inside (or OMI, as I affectionately refer to him) has remained unmasked, and the plucky mother fucker has continued to sneak shots my way, risking life and limb, just to get me (and you) hard. Fuck, I love that guy!

Diabolical Dr. Cooper with a gorgeously sweet smile, perhaps just before fucking up Calvin Haynes in Undagear 33

I am thrilled to announce that OMI apparently continues to work among the crew at BG East, because he just dropped me a bunch of new contraband. As always, there’s absolutely no context given for any of these shots. Some of the look like they came from recent releases, and some of them look like they may foreshadow yet-unreleased match-ups. The men are all gorgeous, of course, but it’s the unguarded, half-shy smiles, that turn me on so hard. There are real life, beautiful young men behind the larger-than-life wrestling personas they put on to compete at the elite level of homoerotic wrestling. I love catching that glimpse of the wrestlers just being guys, playful, shy, quirky, and effortlessly themselves.

Ace Aarons chills in the ring, maybe around the time of Grudge Match IV (judging by the gear)

Thanks, OMI. You are truly my hero, and your courage and commitment to feeding my libido leave me owing you a debt I fear I will never have the pleasure to repay!

The Man of My Dreams, Scott Williams, IRL makes Poseidon look pedestrian! Why in the fuck is this gorgeous specimen not still actively wrestling on camera!?
Delicious Devil Devitt makes goofy look so, so fucking sexy! Judging by the sensationally tight, sexy gear, I’m guessing he was just about to put the devil eyes on and bash the shit out of Alexi Adamov.
Devitt looks just a little (adorably) self-concious showing off his magnificent physique. This look like the gear he wore teaming with Paul Hudson in Tag Team Torture 10.
Then he turns on the heat, and flashes those deadly eyes mid-fucking-up Paul Hudson in Pros In Private 13 (nasty divorce!)
Paul looks embarrassed of the camera. Fuck, he needs a cuddle.
Heartthrob Calvin Haynes first flashes blue steel, hanging out pre-match…
…then Calvin turns up the goofy factor. Fuuuuuck, I want to lick his thighs!

Bigger than Life

At some point in the past 12 years or so, I’ve probably mentioned that some of my earliest exploration of my homoerotic imagination happened in the form of drawing. It really started with tracing the images of underwear and exercise equipment models (the word Soloflex still gets me hard). As my poor artistry improved a little, I moved on to copying images, and then ultimately free form drawing muscle hunks built to the specifications of my deepest desires. When one of my sketch notebooks was discovered by an older sibling, I freaked the fuck out and trashed them all, which still pisses me off today, because I’d love to go back and look at what my adolescent imagination so lovingly crafted.

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When I returned from my hiatus from social media this Spring, I pretty quickly came across the IG and Twitter accounts of Marcus Wrestle. If you haven’t seen his work, you should. It appears to me to be the newest generation of graphic arts applied to the homoerotic wrestling imagination, and it’s fucking hot as hell!

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Marcus has rendered his wrestling universe using graphic technology that elevates this beyond the comic book-style art I was getting off on just a decade ago. It’s three dimensional and intimately textured. I’d say it’s got one foot in realism (at least when compared to the comic-book genre), and another foot in graphic fantasy. The realism strikes me in the lighting and shadows, the glistening sweat and pulsing veins, the anguish on the faces, the strain of the muscles and joints pressed and pried and crushed with loving attention to human physiology. I say graphic fantasy, because Marcus likes his men massively muscled, with disproportionately narrow joints. His fighters are whittled down to zero body fat. And their cocks are monsters that would make porn stars faint.

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It’s a narrative universe. There’s a story being told, but almost entirely graphically. As a devotee of the literal narrative, I long to know more about the fight club scene itself, the hot hunks shouting encouragement or derision in the background. How do these hot hunks find their way into this scorching hot combat scenarios? Will Rami go out on a date with me?

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The tag team bout between Jake and Ryan facing off against Lucky and Kyle appears to be the most extensively built out match on marcuswrest.com. Tag team jobbers vie to make their team heel turns. Lucky and Kyle are fierce in designer jock straps and nothing else. Jake and Ryan make me dizzy in go-go-boy style micro singlets. Lucky and Kyle get out to a quick lead with some vicious double-teaming on Ryan. By the time the Ref finally corrals Kyle in the corner, Lucky’s sitting pretty (so fucking pretty) in a single leg crab, throttling Ryan’s spectacularly hard cock and licking the prey’s lightly hairy lower leg. That lick, fuck. It’s a sensual detail that’s typical of the focus of all of the images you’ll find from Marcus.

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It’s not a squash, which is sensational, because a still-frame story like this could easily turn 2-dimensional. But no, in fact, when Ryan muscles his way on top and spladles Lucky’s legs open wide, he exacts some sensational revenge by pounding his fist up Lucky’s ass. Ryan and Jake’s double-teaming action on both of their opponents is gorgeous and dripping with melodrama. The sexy singlet boys are pissed. You can see it in their grimaces, as Jake holds Kyle in a full nelson and Ryan drives rabbit punches into the trapped hunk’s abs. They really start to have their way with the jock strap pretty boys. Jake’s standing headscissors on Lucky are gorgeous, flexing and signaling to the roaring crowd, setting unLucky up for a pile driver that knocks him out cold.

It’s looking ugly for Kyle, right? You think you see where this is heading, right up until Kyle blocks Jake’s suplex, reverses, and slams Kyle brutally down directly on top of Ryan. That’s right, with his partner flat on his face out cold, Kyle proceeds to single-handedly fuck up their opponents with panache! He mugs for the crowd.  He throttle’s Kyle’s balls and punches his abs with his ass planted across Kyle’s face, all the while crushing Ryan underneath the both of them. And again, it’s the fine details that make this so mouthwatering, because Kyle’s impossibly big, hard cock has long ago sprung from his micro singlet, and he’s clearly turned on getting plowed under.

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You can get tantalized like I did with the free access offerings Marcus puts out. Or sign up for different levels of access to more detailed, more erotic, and previews of the Marcus Wrestle universe. You can also follow Leon, one of Marcus’ wrestlers, who’s a 6’1″ blond German muscle god who also has his own subscription fan site (so… fucking… meta!) on Twitter, as well as see all of the meticulously beautiful details on marcuswrest.com.

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My crush Rami takes a boot to the face!?! Tag me in, Rami!!!!

It’s international, multiracial, and just so fucking spectacularly gay!  I don’t think rendered homoerotic wrestling could every replace my appetite for IRL homoerotic wrestling videos, of course. I can’t hear Jake screaming as Kyle’s clawing his balls. There’s no audible gasps or the twang of the wrestling ropes stretching. Thus far, there’s no real dialogue, and I’m a total sucker for hearing wrestlers trash talking, raging, begging. But fuck it all, I definitely get off on this, and there’s a certain 6’2″ Egyptian, ex-military pit fighter who I want to see a lot more of (DM me Rami!!!).

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So Rami may not need my tag in, after all, but I’d donate a kidney to be his corner man!

 

Two-On-One Tuesday

To keep things shiny, I’m trying out a new hashtag: #TwoOnOneTuesday. No one loves a little alliteration as much as I do. Well, I know of one particular homoerotic wrestling producer who does, but other than that, I suspect alliteration tickles me more than you (which reminds me, I think there ought to be more tickling in homoerotic wrestling!). In any case, Two-On-One-Tuesdays may, or may not, end up being a thing. You can let me know what you think in the comments. But so far I like it. There’s something particularly sexy about seeing a couple of mates manhandling and mastering a muscleman, making him moan and milking his misery.

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Possibly the first 2-on-1 match that I got off on was the Tag Team Torture 2 match where Jeff Phoenix’ partner was a no show. There was no mention of who the son of a bitch was who abandoned this bulging, blue eyed, blond beefcake to face notorious heels Jose and Cruz alone.  Wouldn’t that have been a sensational grudge match sequel, when Jeff beat the living fuck out of the traitor!? Jeff held his own for a while against this 2-on-1, just long enough to make the coverboy cocky, which turns Jose and Cruz’ double team demolition that much sweeter.

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The bitter divorce of Jonny Firestorm and Calvin Haynes’ tag team led instantly to the sensationally sexy double-team of Calvinby Jonny and his rebound partner, pretty-pretty Royce Perry. I’ve nursed this fantasy pretty much every time I’ve had a rough break-up. Seriously, I always have this exact fantasy of meeting my ex in a wrestling ring, revealing the mouth-wateringly hot new model I traded up for, and the two of us beating him down, turning him on, and leaving him with blue balls.  Just me?

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Over at W4H, sexy go-go boy Christian Thorn apparently took so many brutally one-sided beatings that Cameron arranged for him to take some wrestling lessons from pro  hunks Ronny Pearl and Teddy Trouble. What could go wrong?  The classy pros put the pretty boy through his paces, but perhaps it’s too much of a good thing. Double-teamers take notes: 2-on-1 babyface jobber crushing can go wildly off the rails if you can’t get on the same page with your partner.

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It’s another pro vs. Instahunk story when Joey King takes advantage of his extensive experience to humble bodybuilder Steel in Rough & Ready 103. But Joey’s simmering feud with that other Instahunk, Scrappy, comes back to bite him in his lovely, round ass, when Scrapster joins the fray. So, sure, I can totally tune in to pretty muscleboy posers working up a head of steam on a bad ass pro.

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Regular readers will recognize this tendency I have to get totally infatuated with a particular wrestler who may, or may not, be objectively more notable than anyone else. And there we have Weekend Wrestling’s Pretty Boy Assassin. I don’t know exactly what it is that turns my crank quite as hard as he does, but I’m screaming to tag in with him when he’s getting double teamedby his official opponent, Brendan Byers, and WW’s boss man Cole Cassidy. Fuck, now I’ve got a fierce rescue fantasy churning away. Just one more way a two-on-one can turn me on!

Let me know what you think about #TwoOnOneTuesdays, and if they should stay on the menu.

Producer’s Ring: Cuomo vs. Evans

—continued from The News Division: Match 6

The News Division: Match 7 (Championship)

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Following Carter’s victory, all six men made their way back up the cliff to the house.  Both boys from the Southern syndicate, Thomas and Rob, required help up the stairs after getting plowed under hard in the semi-finals.  Rob leaned heavily on Chris, and Thomas accepted the offer of help from Richard.  Both semi-final victories were stunningly decisive, and all four fighters were exhausted and naked as they reached the beach house.  Thomas and Rob immediately went to their rooms and slept the rest of the day.  Chris and Carter cleaned up and dressed, then joined Richard and Sam in the kitchen.

“Nice match,” Carter said with a smile, extending his hand to Chris.  Chris paused suspiciously, then shook Carter’s hand, nodding.   “I especially enjoyed the way you kept torturing that bitch long after he submitted,” Carter’s eyes flashed, and he smirked.  “That was pure art.”  Chris scowled and tried to draw his hand away, but Carter held it firmly for a moment.  Chris shoved Carter away with his free hand, and Carter released his hold, laughing.

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The next morning, all six men were in the living room after breakfast.  Low, anxious conversations populated the air with tension.  With a start, Eli Brody’s face appeared on the plasma screen over the fireplace.   “Gentlemen!  It’s truly my pleasure to congratulate our finalists, Chris and Carter.  And thanks to our generous sponsors, I’m pleased to confirm 1/2 year salary bonuses to Carter and Rob for baring it all in their match.  And a special full year bonus goes to Thomas for not only his own decision to go the full monty, but also for stripping his opponent out of his trunks.  That performance made me suspect you’ve had experience doing this, Thomas.”

Thomas blushed, but smiled to hear that he was being so richly rewarded.  Eli continued, “Our very eager audience registered over eight million votes for the winner of our victory-pose challenge.  I’m sure you’ll remember that the winner of our polling for the best victory pose will be awarded a producing contract.  I’m also sure that you’ll remember that after his prolonged submission victory over Thomas, Chris flashed a very impressive most-muscular.  Frankly, we had a million votes tallied for Chris before Carter was even done with his match.  Carter, of course, went with the classic double bicep pose, kneeling across his fallen opponent.  Carter impressed the voters with style, and Chris awed them with spontaneity and aggression.  When all votes were tallied, the winner was clear.  The winner is… Chris Cuomo.”  Rob and Sam slapped Chris across the back in congratulations.  Carter’s eyes narrowed as he smiled and nodded, conceding the battle to Chris.

“I want you both fresh for the final match,” Eli continued.  “So you have today to rest.  Tomorrow evening, the final match will start at 5.  No bonuses this time.  No gimmicks.  Just the two of you facing off, and one of you walking away the winner.”

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At 5pm the next day, all 6 men returned to the beach.  Carter and Chris walked out onto the sand, watching each other warily.  Chris had seen Carter’s surprise attack on Rob, and he wasn’t about to give him any opening.  Chris wore only his navy blue speedo, and Carter once again sported his yellow trunks.  Both men were darkly tanned as a result of their week at the beach.  Chris was a couple of inches taller and had a more thickly muscled upper body.  Carter was leaner, with a narrow waist, but he had bigger legs than his opponent.  Both men had seen each other battle twice before, and both men had a sense of what they were up against.

The horn sounded from the top of the cliff at precisely 5:00.  Both men crouched and circled one another, their palms raised toward one another defensively.  Carter snarled, “You never told me what you thought of the way I beat Rob.  Were you impressed?”  Chris showed no sign he even heard Carter, his eyes darting from Carter’s eyes to his hands, watching for Carter’s first move.

Both men lunged at one another at the same moment, locking up by the collar and elbow.  Chris enjoyed a height and weight advantage and pressed Carter backward, but Carter locked his powerful legs behind him and stopped Chris’ advance, his heels digging into the sand.  They strained against one another, neither man able to muscle the other out of position.  Suddenly, Carter shifted his weight,  yanking backward and falling onto his back, pulling Chris down on top of him taking advantage of Chris’ own momentum.  Chris fell to the sand on his hands and knees, and Carter quickly snapped his legs around Chris’ torso in a tight scissors.  Chris winced in pain, but maintained his steady breathing, flexing his core defensively and protecting his midsection.  Chris shifted his weight to his left hand, swinging his right fist into Carter’s face.  Carter’s head whipped to the side, a drop of blood trickling out of one nostril.

Carter twisted his body to the side, pulling Chris, trapped between his legs, over with him.  Chris placed his hands on Carter’s chest and locked his arms straight, prying their bodies apart.  Carter laced his fingers behind Chris’ head and pulled forward, wrenching Chris’ neck downward, forcing his cleft chin to press into his upper chest.  Carter rolled again, pulling himself up and on top of Chris’ body, his ankles still laced behind Chris’ lower back and his thick thighs still squeezing Chris’ midsection powerfully.  Carter punched his fists into the inside of Chris’ elbows, breaking Chris’ locked position.  As Chris’ arms collapsed under Carter’s body weight, Carter drove his forehead downward and butted it viciously into Chris’ nose.  Chris’ nose cracked audibly, and blood squirted from his nostrils.

Chris’ hands went reflexively to his throbbing nose.  Carter leaned his face close to Chris and said, “You know what I really enjoyed was making Rob scream.  Seeing a big man cry for mercy like that is hot, don’t you think?”

Chris snarled and shoved at Carter’s face with his bloodied hands.  Pressing Carter’s head and neck backward, Chris lock out his elbows again, prying their bodies apart.  Carter reached downward, unable to see exactly where he placed his hands due to Chris pushing upward against his head.  Feeling across Chris’ broad chest, Carter found both of Chris’ nipples and pinched them between his index fingers and thumbs.  Chris gasped in surprise, reflexively grabbing at Carter’s hands, trying to pull them away from his nipples.  Carter’s face, bloodied by Chris’ hands, was once again free.  Carter drove his forehead down again across the bridge of Chris’ nose.  Chris cried out in pain and twisted his body to the side, sliding in Carter’s scissors.  Chris’ hands again went defensively to his bloody, throbbing nose.

Carter unlaced his ankles and pulled himself free from Chris’ body.  Standing over top of his opponent, his feet straddling Chris’ midsection, Carter looked down at opponent writhing in pain.  Carter leaned down and grabbed hold of Chris’ trunks at the hips.  He yanked them violently down to Chris’s knees, as Chris’ body jerked in surprise.  Chris yelled, his voice garbled by his swelling nose and blood pooling in his throat, “There’s no bonus for the trunks, you bastard!”

Carter paused and grinned, then yanked the trunks the rest of the way off Chris’ legs.  “Fucking you up and leaving you naked in the sand is all the reward I need,” he snarled.  Chris kicked his feet, but Carter managed to pull the trunks around his ankles and off.  The battered big man crawled away from Carter on his hands and knees, blood dripping from his busted nose, his body naked.

Carter stalked his opponent from behind.  Walking up from behind, Carter grabbed Chris’ ankles and pulled them out from underneath him.  Chris fell to his stomach on the sand.  Carter twisted Chris’ ankles around one another, forcing Chris to flop to his back. Carter spread open Chris’ legs and carefully planted his right foot onto Chris’ exposed balls.  Chris’ hands darted to his crotch, as Carter leaned forward, placing his weight onto his right foot, smashing Chris’ testicles under the ball of his foot.  Chris groaned, “No, no, no, no, no!!!”, as Carter twisted his foot back and forth.  Chris began choking, the pain overwhelming.

Carter lifted his foot, and Chris’ hands cupped his abused balls.  Pulling Chris’ legs still farther apart, Carter then drove his knees into the meat of Chris’ hamstrings.  Chris winced in pain, still holding his hands protectively over his crotch, not daring to leave his balls exposed.  Carter hopped back to his feet, then dropped his knees again into the meat of the back of Chris’ legs.  Carter repeated the maneuver 3 more times as Chris groaned, his eyes shut tight in pain.  Carter dropped to his knees just in front of gasping opponent.  Lacing his left forearm underneath Chris’ right knee, Carter grabbed his wrist with his right hand and leaned backward.  Carter jerked and stretched Chris’ knee, prying the ligaments and tendons apart.  Chris screamed and sat up, batting at Carter’s arm.

Carter released the hold, then pressed Chris right knee down to the sand.  Kicking his legs backward in the air while pressing down on Chris’ leg, Carter lifted himself into a handstand, then drove his right knee downward into the side of Chris’ knee.  Chris screamed like a wounded animal.  Carter climbed to his feet and stepped back, assessing the damage he’d inflicted thus far.  Chris moaned and rolled over to his stomach, crawling to his hands and knees.  The moment he put weight on his right knee, though, he grunted in pain and lifted it off the sand.  Chris began to hobble away from Carter, dazed and damaged.

Carter rushed up behind Chris and swung his arm wide, smacking his open palm down on Chris’ bare ass with a loud crack.  Chris’ eyes went wide, and he tried to crawl away more quickly, but Carter followed closely.  Repeatedly, Carter swatted Chris’ ass cheeks alternately, which quickly grew bright red.  The naked muscle man was helpless to protect himself, blood dripping from his nose, his testicles throbbing, and his relentless opponent reveling in humiliating him like child’s play.  Finally, Carter stepped back and watched Chris’ continue to try to crawl away.  Carter licked his lips, then asked, “Are you done yet, pretty boy?”  Chris didn’t answer.

Carter swung a powerful kick into Chris’ ribcage.  Chris pulled one arm against his side protectively.  Chris was teetering, balanced only on one knee and one hand.  Carter planted his foot into the side of Chris’ midsection and shoved, toppling his opponent onto his side.  Carter dropped down on top of him, pressing him face down to the sand and straddling his knees across Chris’ broad back.  Leaning over his opponent’s head, Carter placed his left forearm across the bridge of Chris’ broken nose, then pulled backward with his right hand gripping his left forearm.  Chris again choked, tears streaming from his eyes, as Carter pressed his head backward and tortured Chris’ already damaged nose.  “How does that feel?” Carter taunted, gently biting his lower lip in concentration.  “Give it up, pretty boy, and put yourself out of your misery!”  Chris refused to respond.

Carter released his forearm from across Chris’ face, and a stream of blood poured down from Chris’ nose, pooling on the sand beneath him.  Chris’ head dropped to the bloody sand, and he began to pull his arms underneath himself.  Carter grabbed Chris’ bent elbows in his hands and pried Chris’ arms backward.  Carter then laced his legs around Chris’ arms, bending his knees and lacing his ankles over one another just behind Chris’ neck.  Chris’ arms jutted straight backward, squeezed in between Carter’s thick legs. Carter leaned backward, resting his hands behind him on top of Chris’ bare ass. Gradually, Carter squeezed his legs together, pulling Chris’ arms backward still farther.  Chris’ big shoulders stretched to their limit as he groaned desperately.

“Put a fork in it, pretty boy!  You’re my bitch now!” Carter laughed.  Chris held on, refusing to submit, completely immobilized within Carter’s relentless legs. His arms and shoulders were completely numb.  He tried to twist and jerk his body free, but he was entirely trapped.  Carter squeezed his legs still tighter, and tears poured down Chris’ blood soaked face. Carter chuckled sadistically, kneading Chris’ ass in his hands.  “It’s all up to you, pretty boy.  The pain will end whenever you say so.” Chris quivered all over with silent sobs, tears continuing to track down his bloodied face.  Something in Chris’ shoulder made a small snapping sound, and the big man finally cried out, “I give!!!!”

Carter released the pressure on Chris’ arms and slowly unwound his legs.  Straddling his defeated opponent’s back, Carter leaned down, placing his lips against Chris’ right ear.  “That,” Carter whispered, “was exquisite. Let’s do this again sometime.”  The champ crawled up to his feet and turned to face the cliff.  His body  caked in blood and sand, sweat pouring down from his forehead, Carter raised his arms to his sides and pumped his baseball biceps in a victory flex.

He Wore It Best

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I’m excited to declare Tyrell Tomsen the winner of the Who Wore It Best poll! I fell completely in lust with Tyrell the moment I saw his spectacular debut in Strip Stakes 1. It’s a rare debut that features a muscle hunk this aesthetic, this gorgeous, this ripped, who’s also ready to get naked in his first dance. By the time Tyrell put his superhuman physique on the line against big Joe Robbins in Gutbash 7 a couple of years later, he’d taken some hard knocks and bitter humbling, but honestly, he’s one of the relatively few hunks that doesn’t look dwarfed next to the mountain of muscle that is big Joe. Sure, I didn’t hold out much hope for Tyrell to deliver the upset against the steamroller, but just those few moments of seeing him pumped to perfection, staring Joe down, and flashing his spectacular cuts and luxuriously draped muscles that make Joe look merely mortal, got my heart pumping in anticipation.

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My hopes for a heart pumping babyface upset spiked when Tyrell took those mammoth, superhero, vein-mapped biceps and shockingly beat Joe in a best-of-3 arm wrestling showdown. It takes a lot to put big Joe in his place, so it was incredibly arousing to see Tyrell demonstrate that he’s up for the task.

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Joe is notoriously unflappable, so I was yet again excited by the way that Tyrell’s arm wrestling victory pissed Joe off. Joe impulsively, bitterly slammed Tyrell’s gorgeous face into the table (no!). The big man is unaccustomed to being humbled. He just doesn’t really know how to handle being outclassed by an opponent’s objectively perfect proportions. Normally unphased by a challenger’s cocky confidence, Tyrell’s top shelf muscle mass and mindblowing conditioning made big Joe lose his cool. Fuck, yeah, Tyrell!

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Of every stunning inch of Tyrell’s muscled perfection, it turns out it was his deep, carved 6-pack abs that Joe felt most inadequate next to. Thus, this became a Gut Bash bout. Joe pounded and pummeled those resplendent, ripped rectus abdominis.

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Joe trampled him under boot, which is serious as shit when you calculate the pound per square inch of Joe’s 240 pounds deep boring his heel into Tyrell’s lower abs.

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Tyrell was trussed up in a tree of woe for Joe to exploit new angles of assault on the affronting abdominals.

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Joe trapped Superman in the ropes and bearhugged the bodybeautiful beefcake from behind, digging his knuckles into Tyrell’s throbbing gut.

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He wrung him out in an abdominal stretch, making Tyrell scream in anguish as his pendulous bulge quivered seductively. But it was when Joe went in for the money shot, that signature suspended bodyscissors, that put me over. He snapped his monstrously huge thighs around Tyrell’s ripped torso and squeezed. That made Tyrell gasp in shocked agony. But it’s when Joe rolled up to his hands, twisting his body and pulling Tyrell off the mat, that Superman seriously started to scream.

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So. Fucking. Gorgeous! I think Tyrell has been an underrated star in the BG East catalog, so I’m thrilled that he got the nod from voters in this poll. I miss seeing his incredibly fine physique in the ring, and I wish his tenure in homoerotic wrestling had been much longer. But he was all class, spectacular beauty, and fearlessness while he lit up our screens, and I’m thrilled to confirm that he wore it best!

Who Wore It Best?

Big Joe Robbins has a pair of the meatiest, most punishing legs in homoerotic wrestling. To be honest, Joe had to grow on me. He’s too chill. He shows precious little/no emotion.The emotional range of a match almost entirely depends on the sell of his opponent. But over time, I realized the subtle, sexy truth about big Joe. He plays his opponents like a musical instrument. Like a virtuoso bowing a Stradivarius, Joe’s passion is evident in the timbre of the screams of his opponents.

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Joe’s signature hold is his bodyscissors variation, where he clamps those monstrous tree trunks onto an opponent’s torso and then rolls up to his hands, suspending a trapped hunk off the mat. The genius of this hold includes the  spotlight it places on Joe’s mammoth thighs. The position shows off Joe’s lovely, luxurious, round glutes. And it displays his opponent’s trapped muscles, complete helplessness, and exquisite agony beautifully. As Joe digs his knees into his prey’s kidneys, the suffering sings from way down deep. If they’re off key, Joe applies the precise pressure to wring the right notes out of them.  It’s always astonishingly dominant, a move that only a huge, powerful muscle hunk could possibly pull off. Every opponent looks helpless, completely dominated, and absolutely humiliated.

But when it comes to Big Joe’s kidney crushing, suspended bodyscissors, who wore it best? Check out my curated selection of nominees, and vote below.

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Suspended bodyscissors #1: Denny Cartier

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Suspended Bodyscissors #2: Tyrell Tomsen

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Suspended Bodyscissors #3: Eddy Rey

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Suspended Bodyscissors #4: Donnie Drake

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Suspended Bodyscissors #5: Jobe Zander

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Suspended Bodyscissors #6: Jonny Firestorm

Trunk Pull Tuesday

Today’s #TrunkPullTuesday is dedicated to the beautiful, muscled, round ass cheeks that are sometimes showcased with a hearty trunk pull and a strategic camera angle. I’ve curated this collection from among many of my very favorite asses in wrestling. Thanks to the pullers for so generously treating us, and thanks to those on the receiving end of these trunk pulls for looking so, so fucking fine!

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In Calvin Haynes’ Wrestler Spotlight, his standing headscissors are enough to get me seriously hard, but showing off Mason Brooks’ magnificent ass at the same time kicks this hot match up several notches for me!

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Apparently, we all owe Masked Menace an immense debt of gratitude for taking go-go muscleboy Van Skyler, in Masked Mayhem 17: Heel Training, and forcibly molding him into the breakout leather daddy heel star of 2019. Seriously, I had no idea Van had a match like Dark Knights 14: Birth of a Master in him, but I love to be surprised almost as much as a absolutely adore Van’s muscleman glutes.

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I’ve taken heat in the past for just how much I crush on featherweight grappler Charlie Evan’s beautifully munchable ass. I get it, in so much as he doesn’t fit my typical thick, bulging butt tastes. But Charlie is just so fucking pretty, and when Calvin Haynes uses a trunk pull assist to choke slam lovely little Charlie way, way, way off his feet in Tag Team Torture 26, it’s the reveal of Charlie’s aesthetic ass that makes me stand up and cheer.

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It’s hardly a mystery why buff bro Kenny Starr was voted the Debut of the Year in 2018. Physically, he’s the total package of a naughty fratboy dabbling on the homoerotic side of the tracks, bringing a smoking hot, ripped bod and a serious lack of inhibitions.  In Jobberpaloozer 17, I think Trophy Boy Ty Alexander makes a serious miscalculation when he wedgies Kenny’s trunks up his crack and makes the bro’s booty shimmy, hoisted up high in a bearhug. Kenny’s muscle carved glutes are so stunningly pretty, I daresay they threaten to upstage Ty’s pride and joy ass!

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I have yet to sink my teeth into Weekend Wrestling, but their promotional shots of Cole Casside nearly (?) ripping Zach Reno’s trunks off definitely make me sit up and take notice of this new company. I get the impression that Zach may not bat for our team, but he’s seems awfully game to give us a glimpse of what we like. Could someone ask him, for me, how he might feel about a muscle worship stakes match, putting his beautifully hot butt up for grabs, squeezes, and adoration, if an opponent beats him into submission?

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What the fuck ever happened to Marco Carlow? The fact that I can only see him wrestling in 3 matches is criminal negligence of my homoerotic wrestling lust. Honestly, his Undagear 23 match is the only time I think I’ve ever seen Kid Karisma wrestle when I’m seriously considering whether his opponent may be fractionally hotter. When Kid K nearly rips Marco’s undagear apart at the seams in this savage headscissors/atomic wedgie, I fell in deep, deep love with Marco’s absolutely perfect ass. But when Kid K finishes the match by stripping this muscleboy naked, and Marco does what every naked wrestling muscleboy should do in those circumstances (flex for the fans), I would’ve followed Marco for a long, critically acclaimed homoerotic wrestling career. Absent that, at least I can marvel at those luscious cheeks in that gorgeously nasty headscissorsl trunk pull.

Lights Out

Hurricane Isaias put my lights out like Kayden Keller knocking Chase Addams’ block off in Learning the Ropes the Hard Way.

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Seriously, though, I’ve been cleaning the ruined food out of my freezer and sweltering sans air conditioning for way too long. 2020 has had us all over a barrel, but a global pandemic, worldwide protests over anti-Blackness, murder hornets, and the dumpster fire of the executive branch of government weren’t enough. The curse of 2020 thought I was getting a little too cocky with surviving the national economic collapse and actually getting shit done in my work-from-home office. So Isaias slapped me down hard, like Braden Charron dropping Jake Jenkins like a boss.

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Even now, my internet connection is thready, so let me just reiterate how I’m feeling as I wait for the cable company to get around to my neighborhood.

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Producer’s Ring: Marciano vs. Evans

—-continued from The News Division Match 5—-

The News Division: Match 6

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As soon as Chris had defeated Thomas, Rob ran out to help his humiliated colleague off the beach.  As Rob reached the scene of the victory, he looked warily at Chris, still flushed with rage and adrenaline. Chris nodded at Rob, and the two of them knelt down and hooked their arms underneath Thomas’ arms, still dazed and unable to stand on his own power. They lifted him off the sand and turned to walk him back to the landing at the bottom of the stairs. Just at that moment, Carter reached Rob at a full sprint. Driving his shoulder into Rob’s gut, Carter lifted him off his feet and drove him five feet backward.   Diving on top of Rob’s falling body, Carter speared him with his shoulder as their bodies hit the sand.

Chris dragged Thomas toward the stairs, finally receiving help from Richard and Sam who helped carry the stunned hunk off the beach.

Rob gagged and choked for a moment, unable to catch his breath. Carter dropped a series of knees into Rob’s abdomen, pounding his full weight over and over again into the dazed hunk’s gut. Finally relenting, he allowed Rob to roll away onto his side, curled up, clutching his abdomen. Carter quickly peeled his own yellow speedos down his legs. His sun drenched skin sported no tan-lines, as the viewing public at home had enjoyed watching him sunbathe in the nude for the past week. Carter breathed deeply, steeling himself for the fight. His cock was thick and just beginning to swell, his crotch shaved smooth. He didn’t wait long to press the advantage on his much larger opponent.

Carter began driving his knee into Rob’s lower back. Rob arched his back, shrinking from the strikes. As the stunned stud tried to roll away, Carter stomped his right heel into the small of Rob’s back, then leaned down and grabbed hold of each of Rob’s wrists. Pulling back sharply, he stretched Rob in a stunning surfboard.  With his arms stretched straight behind him, Rob’s round shoulders and thick biceps stretched as far as they could go.  Rob moaned in agony. Confident of his control, Carter stepped his left foot onto Rob’s back, next to his right foot.  Balancing himself and leaning backward, the expert surfer rode his opponent like a wave.

Rob twisted his body instinctively, and Carter rolled off to the side, losing his grip on Rob’s wrists. Rob crawled up to his hands and knees, shaking his head to clear the cobwebs. Carter crept up behind him. In a flash, he grabbed the top of Rob’s red trunks and yanked them down, exposing his pale ass.  Rob grabbed at the front of his trunks with his right hand reflexively, falling to his stomach on the sand to avoid being stripped. Carter tried to pry the speedos backward, stretching them far beyond their limit. Rob continued to hang on to the front of his trunks, refusing to let go.

Carter gave up on the trunks for the moment. Squatting, straddling Rob’s upper back, Carter hoisted Rob’s arms up and hooked them over his knees. Lacing his fingers under the trapped hunk’s chin, Carter leaned backward, securing a Boston crab. Rob sucked down deep, controlled breaths, enduring the grinding pain twisting his spine. Carter shook his arms up and down, but Rob just grunted, sucking down the punishment.  Finally, Carter released Rob’s head and dropped his upper body to the sand in frustration.

Again, Rob crawled slowly to his hands and knees, as Carter circled him, trying to decide how to attack the big man. Carter planted his left foot and swung his right foot, in preparation for kicking his opponent in the side of the head. But before Carter could connect, Rob dropped to his stomach and pulled Carter’s left foot out from underneath him. Carter landed hard on his upper back and shoulders, stunned.

Rob rolled sideways and quickly crawled to his feet.  He tried to pull his trunks back up to his waist, but found that the seams were in shreds.  Reluctantly, he dropped the red trunks to the sand and stepped out of them.  Rob’s thick curly hair around his cock was covered in sand, and his cock bounced, semi-erect, as he crouched defensively.  If anyone was going to get the bonus for taking his trunks off, it was going to be him.

Carter swiftly rolled over and hopped up to a crouching position, his hands held up in front of him.  Seeing Rob step out of his speedo, Carter leered, “Now that’s what I’m talking about.”

Rob snapped back, “I’m going to make you pay, mother fucker!”

Both men circled one another warily in the sand. Rob finally charged forward up high and wrapped a thickly muscled arm around Carter’s head.  Holding Carter in a tight headlock against his side, Rob squeezed with all his strength.  Carter wrapped his arms around Rob’s waist and, thrusting with his powerful legs, he lifted Rob off his feet.  Falling backward, Carter dropped Rob on his shoulders and neck. Rob released his headlock, stunned.

As Rob lay stunned on his back, Carter grabbed Rob’s head by the hair and slid it between this thighs, face-to-naked-crotch. Lacing his ankles together, Carter squeezed Rob’s head between his thighs. Rob frantically tried to pry Carter’s legs apart, but the surfer’s quads were far too strong.  Grabbing a handful of Rob’s hair, Carter pulled Rob’s face upward against his balls, flexing his powerful thighs painfully around Rob’s head.  Carter pressed his eyes closed and leaned backward, his cock swelling with excitement.  “Mmmmm,” Carter groaned.  “How’s that for you, Rob?”

Rob pressed his shoulders forward beneath Carter’s upper legs, lifting Carter’s legs and folding him over, pinning him onto his back.  With his face still trapped in Carter’s crotch, he leaned his full bodyweight down on top of his opponent.  Carter squeezed his legs harder, his body piked beneath his surging opponent. Stretching his arms around Carter’s thighs, Rob managed to lace his fingers behind Carter’s neck. With a sudden burst of strength, he muscled his feet underneath him, then power-squatted up, his head still trapped, pulling Carter’s body off the sand. Arching his back, Rob lifted Carter high into the air, then drove him down, pounding Carter’s back into the sand. Carter flinched with pain, and he lost hold of Rob’s head.

Rob stumbled backward, his chest and abdomen heaving with gasping breaths. He was quickly tiring. Carter remained on his back, catching his breath with a wary eye on his opponent, his feet lifted defensively between them. Carter shifted his weight, pulling himself up on his elbows. At that moment, Rob lunged forward to mount his opponent before he had a chance to get to his feet. As Rob dove downward, trying to position his legs to the outside of Carter’s legs, Carter kicked his heel straight upward, catching Rob solidly on the jaw.  Rob’s teeth popped together, as pain lanced through his face.  He dropped awkwardly to his knees, dizzied by the blow.

Carter twisted his body, swinging his right heel around to crash into the left side of Rob’s face. Rob was flung to his side onto the sand, clutching at his jaw. Carter rapidly hopped to his feet in a low crouch, assessing his opponent. Rob’s breathing was labored, and he was covered in sweat and sand. Moaning in pain, Rob was oblivious to his opponent’s approach.

Carter dropped to his side, entwining his legs around Rob’s left leg while spreading Rob’s right leg in the opposite direction with his upper body and arms.  Carter stretched his body straight, prying Rob’s thick, lightly hairy legs apart.  Rob screamed in pain, feeling his crotch ripping.  His lower abdomen and hamstrings quivered, as his cock grew harder. Carter gently rubbed his hand from Rob’s right knee down his inner thigh, approaching Rob’s crotch. Rob screamed in fury, “Keep your hands off my cock!”

Carter laughed, prying Rob’s legs farther apart. The trapped hunk screamed again. He tried to pull his back off of the sand and reach for Carter’s face, but the pain, and Carter’s hold, kept him immobilized on his back. Carter shouted, “I think it’s about time you submitted!” Rob shook his head “no,” biting his lower lip.  Carter then pounded the knuckle of his right index finger into Rob’s quivering, taut hamstring.  The assaulted leg began to shake violently, as he screamed again. Finally, Rob gasped, held his breath for a moment, then screamed, “I give!!!”

Carter pounded his knuckle into Rob’s leg a few more times, then rubbed his hand up and down Rob’s upper thigh.  Rob groaned desperately, pleadingly, “Keep away from my cock!”

Carter released Rob’s legs and crawled to his hands and knees. Crawling over top of Rob’s prone body, Carter hung his head low, just inches away from Rob’s face, still contorted in pain.  Carter whispered contemptuously, “Get over yourself.  I have no interest in your cock, bitch.”  Then Carter turned around over top and sat his ass across Rob’s chin.  Smiling up toward the cliff, Carter flexed a double-bicep, his darkly tanned, naked body covered with sand, glistening with sweat in the afternoon sun.

After the victory ride, Carter walked away from Rob without looking back.

Fantasy Match: Connors vs. Vicious

Do you ever imagine a brighter, better world, in which a serious pro wrestling muscle hunk dips his toe in the world of the full on, no rules, homoerotic wrestling scene? Of course I do. All. The fucking. Time. Take Clark Connors, for example. Actually, keep your hands off of him, because that unbelievable ass is ALL mine. I’ve been obsessively checking the Upload Date filter on YouTube for new Connors matches since I was first stopped in my tracks by his made-for-porn muscle glutes. Fuck, this muscle hunk is a walking, talking, wrestling gay dream. But his erotic perfection will never, ever be appreciated in his indy pro wrestling circles like it deserves. So I’m irresistibly drawn to picture what would happen if Clark Connors knocked on the door of BG East, muscles bulging beautifully in gray sweats, with a duffle bag full of gear over one shoulder and an itch to ditch the training wheels and test himself in a truly no-holds-barred ring battle.

0000s_0010_-26-352x528I picture The Boss insisting on an interview with the would-be recruit. He’d listen to the muscle hunk’s pitch for a shot, slowly walking around and studying the stretch of his sweat pants from all sides. Clark would be abundantly accustomed to getting eye fucked, so he wouldn’t even blink when The Boss insists on seeing what he looks like in wrestling gear. He’d take just a beat when, in response to asking where he can change his clothes, The Boss would answer that he can change right then and there in his office. But it’s not like Clark has anything to be shy about. So he’d confidently shrug out of his sweatshirt. He’d pause a few seconds, watching The Boss’ eyes widen a fraction at the sight of his muscle-stacked torso. Unbidden, he’d gracefully strike an archer’s pose, flexing hard until he hears the light, impressed grunt of approval from his interviewer.

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Dropping his arms to his side again, he’d have a hint of a grin on his face as he bounces he pecs playfully. “So far, so very good,” The Boss would approve. Clark would pause just a fraction longer before digging his thumbs into his waistband and bending forward, sliding his sweat pants down his thick, gorgeous thighs. He’d leave them around he ankles, flexing his powerful quads in nothing but a heather grey jock strap. Seriously, 2 second later, at most, The Boss would say, “You’re hired.”

Newbies show up in the BG East ring room first. It’s a rule. There’d be Clark, in serious-as-fuck pro trunks, matching knee pads, and boots. He’d be lightly tanned and impeccably toned, stretching out in the ring, trying not to be distracted by his own, sensational physique screaming at him for acknowledgement from the wall mirror. On the one hand, he’d be cocky. He’d know enough about BG East fans to know that he’ll be an instant phenomenon the half second after this catalog is published. And unlike some pretty boys in the underground scene, he’d have years of international indy pro experience to back him up. On the other hand, this would be Clark’s first dabble into whole-hearted wrestling for gay eyes. His no-holds-barred challenge would mean something distinctly different here, than in front of crowds of screaming children and straight audiences. He wouldn’t know just how far his debut match might go, and that would make him both nervous and undeniably excited at the possibility of scratching that itch he’s never admitted to anyone. So he’d check himself a bit, scan down his muscled torso, adjust the elastic in his super snug trunks to barely, but not quite, manage to cover his astoundingly beautiful ass cheeks. I’m wagering he’d have done some homework, scanning the BG East website for likely challengers, sizing up the competition, making notes of other known indy pro stars in the stable. But his jaw would drop at the sight of his opponent who finally saunters in.

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Kid Vicious wouldn’t even have registered on Clark’s radar in his prep work on BG East. All Clark would see would be a 6’1″, super lean white boy with a shaved head and a curled upper lip. Honestly, the rookie would literally laugh out loud, so unimpressed with his challenger. When KV steps up to the ring apron, Clark would stop chuckling, more soberly assessing the 5 inches in height advantage that KV has on him. Then again, Clark’s 15 pound weight advantage would just look that much more imposing. He’d be put off by Kid Vicious’ fixed stare. He’d try to make small talk once KV climbs through the ropes. He might even try a little trash talk, referring to the BGE veteran as a bean pole. KV would just take a slow stroll around the ring, soaking in the sight of every scrumptious bulge and crevice. His silence would visibly unnerve the hyperbuff newbie, who’d try to keep his eyes on his opponent at all times, without looking too scared to turn his back on him.

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Kid Vicious would lash out first, with a drop to one knee and a silky smooth single leg takedown. The polish would totally catch Clark off guard. He’d be on his back before he knew it, and a half second later, KV would violently twist his foot in both hands. The indy pro would try to turn with it, but the notorious heel would stomp a boot into the side of his knee, pinning the yelping hunk like a butterfly.  Clark would jerk his leg free and scoot backward into the nearby corner defensively. Kid Vicious would just watch him, with that upturned lip that may be a smile, may be a sneer. When Clark climbs to his feet with the aid of the ropes, his knee would briefly buckle. KV would definitely smile at that.

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Cautiously, Clark would circle the ring, gingerly working out his knee, reassessing the threat. The pro newbie would break the tension with a swift lunge to one knee. Kid Vicious would take a half step backward to avoid the single leg attempt, but the savvy pro would suddenly rise from the feint and snap his massive arms around his opponent’s torso. With a grunt, he’d bear down on the bearhug, leaning backward. The height difference would mean KV would just rise up to the toes of his boots, but but when Clark really locks in and shakes him side to side, KV would lift his legs and defensively squeeze Clark’s hips between his knees.

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Clark would stomp around in a tight circle, grunting and growling as he digs in.  With curled lips around gritted teeth, Kid Vicious would fight through the pain, clench a fist, and be just about to punch the pro’s pretty face, when the muscle man would charge forward and pound KV’s back into a turnbuckle. As Clark steps back, the infamous heel would drop breathlessly to his knees, one hand clutching his lower back.

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There’d be a satisfied smile on Clark’s face when he drags Kid Vicious by the ears to the middle of the ring and shoves the heel’s rattled head between Clark’s huge quads.  The pro stud would just stand there, showboating, flexing his biceps, with Kid Vicious on his knees, helplessly stuck in the stocks. In his own good time, Clark would lean forward and drag KV’s hips upward with a savage yank on the back of his trunks. He’d lean forward and hook his arms around his waist, hoist him violently off his feet, and slam KV’s head and upper back brutally back to the canvas. With gloating deliberateness, Clark would drop to the mat, hook a leg, and slap down 3 slow counts. “Fuck,” Clark would sneer. “I thought this was supposed be hard.”

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Clark would take a breather perched on a top turnbuckle, oblivious to his shockingly unprecedented achievement. He’d just watch, unconcerned, as Kid Vicious painfully, slowly peels himself off his back, gingerly rubbing at his neck and shaking away the fog. When KV would finally reach his feet, fury would pulse off of him in waves. Clark would hop off of the turnbuckle to pace defiantly in front of him, hands on narrow hips. “What do you think you can even do to me?” he’d ask.

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Kid Vicious would answer with a sudden knee to the groin. Clark’s jaw would drop open silently. He’d start to fold forward, but KV would push him back upright to take another knee to the balls. The hunk’s knees would buckle, but KV would catch him in his arms and hold him upright, probably even pat him lightly on the back consolingly, before jamming his knee into his balls a third time.  Then I picture Kid Vicious letting go, allowing Clark to crumble to his knees, clutching his balls and whimpering, his face sliding down KV’s torso. On his knees, the stunned pro would be sucking air. KV could grab Clark’s head with both hands and slam his crotch into the handsome hunk’s dazed face. As Kid Vicious’ legendary billy club grows hard, he’d keep pounding, breaking out into a sweat, that look of sexual pleasure washing across his face. Welcome to the homoerotic wrestling ring, muscleboy!

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When Kid Vicious finally lets go, Clark would collapse in a heap on the mat. I picture KV landing boot stomps all over the pro’s magnificent body. Clark would bounce and writhe on the mat as his punisher makes a full circuit to tenderize every inch. KV would mount the hunk in a school boy pin, pausing to enjoy the view, before digging his claws into Clark’s thick pecs. Clark would cry out and clutch at his opponent’s wrists. Ironically, he’d cry even louder when KV releases the claws and just starts stroking his throbbing chest, teasing Clark’s taut nipples. As Clark athletically bridges high, lifting his opponent off the mat still riding his torso, Kid Vicious would smoothly slide to the side and snap on body scissors. The heel would knead the muscle boy’s internal organs savagely between his  knees. Clark would initially buck and writhe, shocked by the power in the crush, but as KV tightens the vise slow and hard, the muscleboy would grow still, choking and gasping. With closed eyes, Clark’s hands would absently wander across his opponent’s sweaty thighs, just feeling the flexed muscle punishing him. “Give up?” KV would finally ask, the first time Clark would have ever heard his opponent’s voice. Eyes squeezed shut tightly, through gritted teeth the muscle hunk would gasp, “no!” The answer would make Kid Vicious smile. He’d bear down that much harder with his long, lovely thighs. Sitting up, the heel would punch the trapped hunk’s pecs. Clark would cover his chest defensively with his thickly muscled arms. Which is exactly what the heel would have intended, because he’d quickly turn his attention southward, grabbing the hunk’s balls in one hand and yanking, stretching the seams of his trunks. Clark would scream. SCREAM. In a choking break in the screams, as Clark gasps for air, KV would demand that his opponent submit. Without pause, Clark would gasp, “IgiveIgiveIgive!!!”

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Kid Vicious would disentangle his legs and kneel next to his opponent. Clark would think he’d have a couple of minutes to recover… because Clark doesn’t know Kid Vicious. Instead, he’d take several vicious knee strike’s to his lower spine, making him arch and writhe on his side. When KV eventually climbs to his feet, his trunks would be hugely tented. He’d grab Clark’s ankles, spread those muscled thighs wide, and stomp boot strikes to his balls. Letting go of one ankle, he’d step over and squat into a single leg crab, leaning way back. Clark would pound the mat, clenching his teeth to hold in more cries of pain. That resistance would, of course, crumble when KV reaches down with his free hand and throttles the boy’s balls again. Clark would scream his second submission unprompted.

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The master heel would give him no break, just transitioning to a bow and arrow, stretching Clark’s magnificent muscles out from head to toe. When Clark’s whimpers die down, KV would wind them back up with stomps into his lower back. Every hold break would give the muscle pro false hope of reprieve, only to be dashed moments later with a new form of corporal punishment. KV would snap on crotch pillow headscissors that would make Clark see stars. The pro hunk would try to pry his opponent’s legs apart, but when that proved futile, he’d leave his hands resting on the punishing legs, just appreciating the astonishing power crushing his skull. A gasping transition to face-to-crotch headscissors would once again introduce the pro stud to KV’s daunting power tool. Every chapter and verse would grind forward at that deliberate, unhurried pace this heel enjoys. He’d roll his prey over, still locked up tight in the face-to-crotch, and press his hips forward, grinding his erection into the muscle hunk’s helpless face.

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Now, I’ve got say that I would fully expect a muscle rookie rally around the 15 minute mark of the match. Clark’s got too much pro experience to not have deep reserves. I’d say it’d be in one of a half dozen schoolboy pin positions, right as Kid Vicious tugs down the top of his trunks and pulls out that huge, gorgeous cock of his. It’s not like Clark wouldn’t have known this was on the table. He’d have done enough of his homework to know what no-holds-barred would mean. In fact, it’d be a prime reason he darkened the door of BG East, to get up close to the full potential that wrestling offers a magnificent specimen like him. But staring at KV’s gorgeous, glistening, naked hammer coming for his face would, understandably, give the pro hunk a turbo boost of adrenaline. He’d hook his huge legs and catch the heel’s arms. KV would try to lean into it, to hold him pinned to the mat, but have you seen Clark’s legs? Fuck, no. He’d flip KV to his back and roll on top, folding the heel over. Riding that wave of adrenaline, he’d muscle the heel into a cradle and just hold him there while he’d catch his breath. KV would obviously put up a fight, but with more than a little rage, Clark would bat away his hands and land a nasty punch to the face that would make KV’s eyes roll into the back of his head.

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Clark would drag him to his feet and catapult him slamming into a corner, only to grab his wrist off the rebound and catapult him slamming into the opposite corner. The entire ring would shimmy an inch that direction from the power of the impact. Off the rebound, Clark would scoop KV up and powerslam him with authority. He’d feel the momentum turning his way, so wouldn’t let up. Bodyslam after bodyslam,

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He’d use all of that muscle just right. Kid Vicious would be getting buried under, getting bounced off the ropes and bearhugged; bounced off the ropes and belly-to-belly suplexed; bounced off the ropes and clotheslined. When KV’s steel cable muscles start to soften up, the muscle pro would go to his signature fisher, climbing into the saddle of Boston crab. Clark would be so fucking proud, so fucking relieved to be snatching victory from the jaws of defeat. He’d squat low, planting his gorgeous, meaty, muscled glutes hard onto KV’s ass. He’d lean way, way back, sweat pouring off of him now, teeth gritted in effort and anticipation, feeling his opponent’s spine straining, stretched to the bitter limit. Clark would take that wide stance, placing his center of gravity right on his tailbone. You just don’t survive Clark’s Boston crab with your dignity in tact, and he’d just be listening to KV’s agonized grunts, waiting for an articulate submission to pop out. But KV would finally shimmy forward a half an inch and stretch his lovely, long arms forward. His fingertips would brush the bottom rope at first, but he’d finally latch on. “Rope,” KV would gasp. “Rope!” Clark may be a seasoned pro, but in the BGE ring, he’d be a total newbie tool, so he’d let go of the crab and throw KV’s legs down in frustration.

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Clark would be huffing like steam engine. He’d be disheartened that all of that high impact offense and his signature finisher couldn’t seal the deal. Visibly exhausted, it’d be a huge effort to circle back and drag his opponent off the mat. Out of sheer frustration, he’d land a windmilling slap to KV’s face. It’d just bring the heel’s eyes into laser focus. Clark’s follow up forearm to the chest would knock the heel back a step, but he’d come right back with a chop of is own to the muscle man’s meaty pecs. They’d trade chops in the middle of the ring, looking like they’re barely managing to stay on their feet. Finally, KV would rake Clark’s eyes savagely.  Blinded, the indy pro would be defenseless as he’s Irish whipped, at a full sprint, chest-first into a corner turnbuckle. He’d bounce backward and into his opponent’s waiting arms. Kid Vicious would scoop him into a cradle and plant him in a tree of woe, Clark’s knees hooked across the top turnbuckle. The rain of stomps and punches to Clark’s muscled torso would go for days.

Here’s where I think it’d get particularly interesting. Sooner or later, Kid Vicious would yank at the waist of Clark’s trunks. It’s not like you or I (or KV) didn’t see this coming, but up until this point, the likelihood of getting stripped in the ring would have been purely theoretical for Clark. KV would yank his trunks down (up?) the pro’s meaty thighs to reveal that heather gray jock strap now dripping with sweat. Clark would squirm and curse, but I picture him gasping, and then silent, when the heel slides his hand inside Clark’s pouch and starts massaging. In a twist no one might seeing coming (except Clark), I feel like his cock would spring to life in an instant. Seriously, as in seconds, KV would be manhandling a raging pro erection that would stretch right out the side of his pouch. Clark would groan and moan in time with KV’s hand pulsing around his meat. I just don’t think anyone is servicing Clark’s magnificence the way they should, so being brutalized, his rally dashed, strung up completely helpless at his tormentor’s mercy, I think it would take just a few seconds of tender enthusiasm from KV to get the pro’s concealed weapon locked and loaded. When KV slows down, the muscle hunk would quietly beg for him not to stop.

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But he would. Kid Vicious would suddenly release Clark’s legs from the tree of woe, dumping the wasted muscle man in a heap. Clark would take forever to peel himself off the mat and get to his hands and knees, during which time, KV would nearly rip the pro’s trunks apart at the seams yanking them off. Without a frame of reference for homoerotic wrestling, Clark would probably think of this as his moment of defeat, the laying bare his last vulnerability. He’d think this hell is over, but he’d be wrong.

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Kid Vicious would take a couple wet smacks at Clark’s fantasyman ass cheeks framed so perfectly in his straps. But he’d ride a tilt-a-whirl when KV scoops him up in a cradle and pounds him down into an OTK backbreaker. All that gorgeous muscle, glistening with sweat and fear, would be laid out before the heel like a feast. KV would hold him there, working the spine brutally awhile. Clark would scream, but it would be halfhearted, because he’d have finally figured out that no one is coming to end his terror. Again, the muscle monster would be lulled to moans when KV starts massaging his cock. Yet again, he’d be pushed right to the brink of cumming, wanting it really, but denied when Kid Vicious shoves him off his knee.

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Clark would lose his jock strap fast. He’d be clearly terrified, but he’d stay hard.  He never felt this much jeopardy in the indy pro ring. He never felt this vulnerable with an opponent. He just never felt this fucking alive before!  KV would drag him to his feet by his cock and lead him shuffling around the ring breathless, like he’s on a leash. Clark wouldn’t have much fight left to prevent himself from being strung up in the corner, spread-eagled across the middle ropes, taking knees to his naked balls.  Still fucking hard as granite. KV would stretch him out backward in a dragon sleeper, stroking the stud’s glistening torso, jabbing punches into his big pecs and upper abs. That big, liberated cock would still be at full attention.  When KV holds him up by his hair and makes him stare in the mirror, watching himself obediently flexing his internationally adored muscles, so utterly humiliated tears would be streaming down his face, without a doubt, he’d be awestruck at the simple truth told by his perma-hard erection staring back at him.

Kid Vicious is the master of self-control, obviously, but even he would finally reach the point where he’d peel off his own trunks and measure his own internationally adored cock inch-by-inch beside the pro hunk. Even there, fuck, especially there, the indy pro beefcake babyface would be put in his place like the jobber newbie he is. KV would have his run of the place, but I think it’d all reach climax on the mat. Clark would be prone, wasted, weeping. KV would straddle those glorious ass cheeks and lock on a full nelson. Feeling KV’s power wedged into his crack, there’d be a look on Clark’s face as his shock and despair melts into pleasure.

I think KV would shoot a massive load up Clark’s perfectly proportioned, deeply muscled back. Clark would be defenseless, just used and owned. When KV finally climbs off, the muscle pro would roll to his side and look up at him, resigned, trying to read on the heel’s unreadable face if this is over, or if he’s got more suffering ahead. He’d look long and hard at KV’s outstretched hand when the heel offers to help him to his feet. He’d know not to trust it, but in the ultimate sign of submission, he’d take the hand offered and whatever else came with it.  That’d be enough for KV, I think. He’d hoist the muscle beast up to his feet and let him lean against him as Clark gets his bearings.  Clark’s cock would still be rock hard, and he’d gasp when KV wrapped his fingers around it.  But there would be a look of hope on the hunk’s face as he realizes his opponent is just tenderly leading him from the ring by it, tugging him through the ropes, off the apron, and out the door. His huge arms at his side, Clark would follow willingly, wherever this leads.

clark

That’s where my imagination takes me, at least.