That’s Not What Your Mom Said Last Night

Austin Cooper is huge. Of course, that includes his muscles.  Check out the diameter around each of those gargantuan upper legs in his most recent BG East release, Mat Rookies 2. I repeatedly think to myself, fuck, Dr. Cooper can’t get bigger without popping at the seams. And then he shows up bigger and juicier.

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Dr. Cooper to the mat room, stat!

But of course, when I say Coop is huge, I also mean that his presence in the homoerotic wrestling universe is massive. He’s variously been an anchor headliner at RHW, BG East, Thunder’s Arena, and most recently W4H. I have a horrible habit of bitching about wrestlers being “over-exposed” when they show up in too many places at the same time. I’m not at all sure it’s fair of me to moan about a wrestler being so successful that every producer wants a piece. But when it comes to Coop, I somehow never get tired. I still think of Ripped Rookies as his career defining moment, ripping, stripping, and sweating buckets of sweat all over his dreamboat bromantic partner Jake Jenkins. But Coop has continued to entertain, in large part because he has continued to develop as a wrestler and a personality on the scene. Despite his obvious amateur wrestling background, he threw himself almost exclusively into the pro ring for a while, eventually turning into one of the most sensationally sexy muscle heels in circulation, by my counting. But lately, he’s been reminding the world that his roots are on the mats, and, most delightfully, he’s been executing a really beautiful, innovative hybrid of amateur and pro sensibilities.

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Kerry Cunningham is of the opinion that this is HIS mat.

Enter gorgeous, blond newbie, Kerry Cunningham. I mean, fuck, this kid looks like he was kidnapped from a frat house. He’s pretty without being delicate. He has a sexy-as-fuck body, without being ripped to shreds or magnificently huge. He has a 5-inch height advantage over Coop, and seconds into his arrival on the mat, he has me thinking that he could be a serious player. He’s so fucking loud. I mean, he’s barking at Coop, telling him that he should’ve asked permission before he showed up on “his” mat. Kerry sells it impressively. He comes across as cocky and accustomed to having guys fall into line behind him. My mind tells me that this hot newbie is about to broken into a thousand pieces, but my heart (/cock) is experiencing a rush of adrenaline at the thought of a complete unknown possibly dragging Dr. Cooper to the bitter edge and, perhaps even, scoring one of the biggest upsets in homoerotic wrestling history.

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Coop upends the tall newbie in a flash

If you hate spoilers, then you hate this blog, so I’m not going to be coy about what comes next. The balance of the universe is maintained as soon as Coop opens up a wrestling clinic and a can of whoop ass all OVER this fratboy next door. It’s lush and beautifully intense. Coop out-hustles the newbie as if Kerry is standing still, but not because Kerry is standing still. Coop is just that fucking fast!  He scores take downs at will. If he earned points for exposing the rookie’s back, it would be a total rout within the first 3 minutes.

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“Now, that’s the strongest bearhug in the state of Florida!”

My longstanding ambivalence about squashes aside, there are several elements that make this lopsided match compelling and suspenseful. First, Kerry is toasted about 15 minutes before he recognizes that he’s toasted. He doesn’t get it.  His ego won’t let him face the truth, even as Coop single-leg cradles him and rides his virginal ass to one humiliation after another. Coop demands that the kid acknowledge he isn’t a real wrestler. To you and me, the writing is in ALL CAPS all over the wall, that Kerry is going to be sniveling and groveling and conceding to anything Coop wants before this is all said and done, but in early days, Kerry is still stuffed with bluster and that delicate, swollen, youthful ego born out of being raised in a generation when it’s considered emotional abuse to tell a kid that he’s not the brightest, the smartest, or the best at something. Coop crows about how he’s annihilating the newbie. And he is. “Now, that’s the strongest bearhug in the state of Florida!” Coop brags about crushing Kerry’s ribs. But the newbie refuses to read that writing on the wall, opting for provocative trash talk rather than admitting he’s fucked. “That’s not what your mom said last night!” Kerry snarls defiantly, making his second yo-mamma joke of the match.

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“I’ll beat you WITH them!”

The other thing that makes this squash much more complex to the taste is the slow, seductive reveal that each of these characters makes to one another, and, vicariously, to us. I honestly didn’t know what to expect when Kerry goes down to a muscled lockdown of a single-leg cradle, absolutely pinning him and owning him. Coop hops up and demands that the newbie remove those retina-scorching pink shoes. It’s a total domination move. It’s easily read as just a bunch more trash talk to up the ante on the ego wager. A wrestler with even a couple days more pro experience would have told Coop to fuck off and punched the provocateur in the testicles instead. But, it turns out that Kerry is, for all his bluster, a TOTAL babyface. Having been schooled, he agrees to take off his shoes. It’s like he thinks there’s some accounting of debits and credits and fair play operating here. He’s not happy about it, but he pays up, as if he owes it. “Fine, I’ll beat you without them!” Kerry snarls almost petulantly, bending over and sliding his size thirteens out of the shoes. Again, you, me, and Dr. Cooper know that this kid is fucking toast.  The only one who doesn’t know it yet is Kerry. Coop suddenly attacks the kid from behind even as he’s still pulling off his second shoe. “I’ll beat you WITH them!” Austin promises gleefully, before literally beating the fuck out of Kerry with his own shoes.

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“This… this isn’t even wrestling!”

So the suspense turns out to be the anticipation building up waiting for that moment that Kerry Cunningham realizes that he’s bought, paid for, and owned by Austin Cooper.  Like I said, he has the willful ignorance and irrational gullibility of a Trump voter. “This isn’t wrestling,” Kerry bitches like a sniveling, snot nosed 7 year-old when Coop mounts his back, cinches the tallboy up in a sweaty camel clutch, and wrenches another gasping submission out of the kid.

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Settle down, or I’ll snap it!

Moments later, Kerry is flat on his stomach, with his opponent’s right knee digging mercilessly into his lower spine. He’s stuck like a bug on a pin. The rook tries to muscle his way up to his hands and knees, and Coop just muscles the kid back down flat on his face again. There’s a furious scramble as Coop slowly but surely positions the impotent young buck for another cradle pin. But this time, Coop uses his free hand to rip the singlet straps off of Kerry’s square shoulders. The rookie starts bucking and squirming in panic, as he realizes that his wrestling opponent’s agenda for the day includes stripping the new kid to nothing but his pretty-in-pink super-briefs. Abruptly, Coop locks up the newbie’s right arm in and armbar and threatens to snap it at the elbow if Kerry keeps resisting the forgone conclusion that he’s losing his gear.

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“You won’t get away with this!” the rookie snivels.

Right there. That’s the moment, I think. When Kerry lets out the air in his lungs that he’s been holding onto furiously for the past 30 seconds. When he doesn’t exactly go limp, but he acquiesces to his new master’s instructions to settle the fuck down and allow himself to get stripped on camera. Right then, Kerry Cunningham’s homoerotic wrestling cherry gets popped. It’s not that the kid stops whining and bitching. “You won’t get away with this,” the 6’2″ man-boy snivels when he’s been left almost naked and, astonishingly, defenseless. But the dialogue no longer conveys the swagger and threat of the newbie’s booming voice at the beginning of the match. It’s more like an implied threat to tell his big brother how Austin has totally bullied him, so that some day, some indeterminate day in the foggy future, Austin will look back and regret having so completely humiliated Kerry Cunningham.

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Digging for gold

However, that day is not this day. Dr. Cooper clocks in and starts absolutely terrorizing the fratboy.  He pounds the kid’s long, lickable body down in a gorgeous OTK backbreaker, digging his elbow long and deep into Kerry’s exposed abdomen. You can practically see the stars and whistling, cartoon birds circling the rookie’s dazed head when his eyes are spinning after a brutal snap suplex. A crucifix displays the kid’s helpless, long, beautiful body gorgeously. With a reverse bearhug, Coop applies just the right pressure in the just the right spot to let the once-cocky kid know that, should he want it, Coop can take his ass anytime. Anywhere.

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Please, stop!!!

It’s the figure-4 leglock that finally brings Kerry Cunningham’s world shattering down around him. He’s giving up left and right now. The rookie is nearly trying to submit before the veteran can apply a hold, because the kid is worn out. He’s terrorized. He’s a plate of meat, already carved, just waiting to be devoured. And then that figure-4 leglock starts to pry apart the muscles and tendons in the rookie’s knee. He isn’t just beaten. He’s about to literally be broken. “Stop!!!!” the rookie screams in panic. “PLEASE, stop!!!!,” the kid begs so desperately that it makes Cooper laugh out loud. It doesn’t, however, make him release the hold.

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Welcome to the world of homoerotic wrestling, Kerry Cunningham

Kerry Cunningham had no idea what a sick mother fucker he was facing off against. But rest assured, he learns. “What’s wrong with you!?” he screams at one point, somewhere both before and after being choked with Coop’s bare hands. I sort of wonder if, right then and there, Kerry Cunningham may be replaying in his mind’s eye those first 10 seconds after he stepped onto the mat and brashly, loudly, cockily demanded, “Austin Cooper, who told you that you could come in here and wrestle on my mat!?” Oh fuck, how the mighty have fallen, eh Kerry?

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Not a thing wrong with that at all

And, just for the record, there’s not one thing at all wrong with Austin Cooper. That bitter, screaming edge of terror he dragged you to, before tossing you over like the pretty boy chump you are.. that was fucking perfection.

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I see you there, Kerry Cunningham

As for Kerry Cunningham, I would guess that he does not count his debut BG East match as having gotten off on the right foot when it comes to his wrestling career. Rookies so often don’t quite “get it,” that pro wrestling is at least as much about the drama as the victory. I, for one, think that the tale of tragedy Kerry Cunningham tells in this match is sensationally sweet. He has all the raw ingredients to be an incredibly hot staple, and I, for one, am hoping we get to see him many more times walk this raw edge of big, tall, beautiful fratboy hijinks smashing face-first into the bitter, brutal, humiliating realities of homoerotic wrestling. Sooner or later, he’d have to cotton on to the lay of the land and either take early retirement or majorly invest in building the particular skill set required for homoerotic wrestling success. But, in the mean time, I would LOVE to see him try to strut onto the made and scream in the face of a few other forces of nature, like Kid Karisma, Jonny Firestorm, or Kid Vicious.

Thrashing

When I noticed that MDW has a recent release starring behemoth it-boy Mark Muscle and my long-standing infatuation, Matt Thrasher, I was instantly aroused.  So I tucked in to enjoy the marvelous sight of these two fantasy men going pec to pec (well, considering the height difference, it’s sort of like pec to forehead… or pec to navel). The quick spoiler is that I loved Oil Hunks 9, but before I say more, there’s a little more to the story I want to tell today. So, since Muscle Master Kevin takes my calls (at least 50% of the time), I felt compelled after watching Matt and Mark to reach out to let the MDW CEO know that this pairing and product was a super sweet treat. Halfway into the conversation, and suddenly I was offered the opportunity to chat briefly with Matt Thrasher, who happened to be handy to take a few questions.  So today, let me start with a brief review of Oil Hunks 9, and then conclude with my biggest thrill of 2017 so far, getting an off the cuff, but on the record interview with homoerotic wrestling’s reigning muscle daddy, Matt Thrasher.

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“Wow.”

“Wow,” Matt Thrasher says in his understated way, when Mark Muscle stands up and stares down at him. “Uh, yeah, you’re a pretty big boy,” Matt says. It’s faint praise for one of the most remarkably genetically gifted muscle boys to make a foray into our end of the homoerotic wrestling pool within the past year or so. My review of Mark’s W4H 2-on-1 match against the Ravaging Savages documented just how turned on I was by all of that lush, thick, juicy muscle hanging off of his 6’4″ frame. But whereas that W4H match tilted toward the gimmicky side, and, in the end, I found myself turned on hardest by the smallest man in the mix, MDW has centered the narrative on the most literal accounting of Mark’s assets for a homoerotic wrestling audience: muscle worship.

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Look at that muscle!”

Matt is basically licking his lips as he lays down the challenge to the muscle freak towering over him.  “You’re big. You’ve got some size,” Matt concedes, “but do you know how to use it?” As unabashed a Mark Muscle devotee as I am, I have admit that Matt has put his finger on the most pertinent question. Mark is visually stunning. In still frame, Mark’s achingly pretty baby face perched on top of his gargantuan, outrageously massively built muscled body is almost too good to believe. But as Austin Cooper demonstrated in his W4H match against him, Mark’s believability is precisely in question when it comes to turning the crank of a wrestling fetishist like me. A pretty body, even one as remarkable as his, will only get your foot in the door as far as I’m concerned. You’ve got to know how to use all that muscle. You can’t just pose your way into homoerotic wrestling stardom. You’ve to wrestle, and walk that line between competition and carnal delight, and inhabit our imaginations with character and motivation and salesmanship to suck us into the psychodrama of professional wrestling.

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Matt doesn’t mind this day’s work

It always helps a dazzling pretty rookie to have an opponent who knows the score. Frankly, it’s hard to get a rise out of Matt Thrasher. And that makes such total sense, because he’s a sensational muscle daddy. His whole thing is the unflappability that comes with maturity. So when Mark locks down a reverse bearhug with shiny, gritted teeth, the tension is thick as big Matt grimaces, then groans, then squirms in agony. In case you don’t get the premise here, Matt calls in his daddy dominant cred to spell it out for those of you who need to get hit over the head with it. Mid-bearhug, Matt stares straight into the camera, his huge, veiny forearms flexed in the futile effort to pry apart his opponent’s hands locked across his upper abdomen, and growls, “Damn, the boy’s a beast!”

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Putting daddy on his knees

Still not sure how to approach Oil Hunks 9? Having demonstrated his superior strength, Mark announces that he needs to take off his America flag square cuts. There’s no strategic advantage to peeling down to the leopard print (!?!?) g-string, other than to pry more stubborn, clearly appreciative praise out of muscle daddy Matt, and continue to center this as entirely about Mark’s worship-ready physique. Mid-arm wrestling, Mark turns his baby blues and says straight into the camera, “Look at that muscle,” as he points at his gargantuan, flexed bicep.  They hammer on the theme repeatedly. “Yeah, you’re a strong mother…” Matt growls. Mark drives this daddy to his knees in a test of strength, showcasing the startling, striking contrast in size between them.

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“You’re prettier than I am, I’ll give you that.”

“All right, you’re big. You’ve got some strength,” Matt gaspingly concedes again and again. That’s right, Mark mutters as he eye fucks his own hot body. “You’re prettier than I am, I’ll give you that,” Matt slips in a backhanded compliment that the rookie doesn’t even recognize. And younger, Mark chuckles, stroking his peaked biceps. “But that doesn’t mean shit,” Matt snarls, never, ever one to take an ageist insult without dishing out some muscle daddy punishment in reply.

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Muscle on muscle

Truth be told, there are basically about 5 minutes of relatively straight forward wrestling. As you might imagine, it’s all about power. Bearhugs, sleepers, side headlocks. The explicit stakes are based on the agreement that the loser will have to oil down the victor’s hot muscles.

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Dragging a big boy down to size

This is NOT a Daddy’s Home match, mind you, so don’t be surprised when this drama unfolds the same way every signal up to this point has implied. Daddy Matt isn’t exactly bitter about having to slide his oil soaked hands all over the expansive geography of Mark’s muscles. And he narrates the experience, voicing his awe over Mark’s ridiculous lat wing spread, delighting in feeling up the up-and-comer’s tight glutes. I get the feeling that Matt isn’t one bit unhappy with his duty as the ostensible “loser” in this confrontation. In fact, he enjoys himself so much, it leaves you wondering whether big Mark Muscle may very well be getting suckered into a rematch, only next time appearing in a Daddy’s Home scenario, where Matt bags and tags him along with all the rest.

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Oil Hunks 9 is light on competitive professional wrestling, but abundantly gifted in breathtaking demonstrations of strength and displays of gorgeous muscle. As far as wrestle-worship products go, I’d like to have seen a more competitive tussle. Mark is, as far as I’m concerned, still unproven when it comes to his capacity to genuinely sell his side of a pro match. But that insanely pretty mug and muscle freak physique can carry a product pretty fucking far, and with an unapologetic homoerotic gladiator like Matt on the other end of the teeter-totter, Mark is guaranteed to top off any muscle freak or size queen. Size differences, open lust, and oil across every inch of a muscled phenom. Of course I fucking love this match!

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So imagine my delight, fresh off of soaking in Oil Hunks 9, to get a quick exchange with top daddy Matt Thrasher. It went like this…

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Bard: I am beyond thrilled to get a chance to talk with mighty Matt Thrasher! I’m a huge fan of your wrestling. And your body, for that matter. Tell me about the path that brought you into the homoerotic wrestling universe.
Matt: I’ve always been a fan of pro wrestling, Growing up I watched Ravishing Rick Rude and Randy Savage, Hulk Hogan, the Ultimate Warrior and all those guys. I’ve wrestled throughout my life, and one day I went with a fellow MDW champ to watch a match and just thought to myself, Yeah, I’m in!
Bard: It seems like I’ve heard at least 9 out of 10 opponents of yours disparagingly refer to you as an “old man.” I love the fact that it never gets a rise of you you, though. Do you mind me asking how old your are?
Matt: Not at all, I’m 51 now and will never hide it or lie about my age. How many guys my age can look as good as I do and work as hard as I do, and reap the rewards in and out of the ring.
Bard: A precious few, I’m certain! Personally, I’m on the far side of 45 years old, myself, so I get a vicarious thrill from watching you pick apart these young, cocky punks and devour them. Does maturity give you a leg up when it comes to facing off against a younger opponent?
Matt: Absolutely! These young kids with cocky attitudes are all over-confident. They all seem surprised when they fall. My experience and maturity gives me the ability to back up my confidence. 
thrash10Bard: I’ve been a fan of your wrestling work from first time I caught sight of you at MDW. But I must say, you’ve really come into your own in the Daddy’s Home franchise. I think you’ve made that series all your own. When Muscle Master Kevin first pitched you the concept of being a dominant, silver fox muscle daddy who conquers and collects hot young muscle cubs, what did you think about it?
Matt: Oh, I was all over that.  They say art imitates life, and being a dominant muscle daddy collecting and conquering young pups is kinda my thing outside the ring as well.
Bard: In their rush to try to psych you out with ageism, it seems like every opponent you face somehow overlooks (or willfully ignores) your sensationally strong, gorgeously muscled body. Have you always been a natural athlete, or is being a muscle daddy a recent development?
thrasherMatt: I was always athletic in high school. I was a swimmer and a track star. I started lifting in college and just got addicted to size. The older I got, the bigger and better I got!
Bard: Personally, I love every muscled inch of your body, but if I was tied up and tortured until I confessed which part of you I like most, I’d have to say its your legs. When you lock those tree trunks around an opponent and crush the fight right out of them, it’s absolutely magnificent. Is there any particular part of your magnificent physique that you’re most proud of?
Matt: My legs have always been big and responded well when I started training, so of course they are a feature. But i’d say I’m proudest of these big daddy pecs, because they took the most work to grow.
Bard: And they’re sensational! You’ve faced the biggest and baddest at MDW, from Muscle Master Kevin to Morgan Cruise to every muscle punk and skinny bon-bon on the roster. Do you have a favorite match, one that you think showcases your best work?
Matt: I like any of the ones that show a really good match, that show our solid wrestling skills. I loved my early match with Chace LaChance. He’s a great opponent, and a good friend, so the chemistry was all there! But clearly my best assets were shown against Morgan Cruise.
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Bard: There was a collective gasp from every corner of the homoerotic wrestling world when you didn’t just beat Morgan, didn’t just score what oddsmakers would have to agree was the Upset of the Decade, but then you molded Morgan into a slack jawed, muscle worshipping daddy’s boy with his lips wrapped around your gorgeous cock. It was an epic moment in Morgan’s career and in the history of MDW, as far as I’m concerned. Will we get to see your impressive jack hammer again in future matches?
Matt: That was quite a satisfying moment to have Morgan brought down and call me his daddy! Will you see the jack hammer in action? I guess you’ll have to watch and see!
Bard: When you think about what gets you hardest, fastest, is it the heat of battle as you’re conquering some new, loudmouthed pup, or is it that moment that they bend to your overpowering will? Because I just want to know how much of a fight you really want when you wrestle your first blogger vs. wrestler match.
Matt: (Laughing) Daddy loves a good hard fought match, but what gets me hardest fastest is when I get this muscle punk that’s all talk and all attitude, but who drops to his knees right away.  They talk a big game, but they know who their Daddy is.
Bard: Duly noted.  If you could square off against a former opponent in a rematch, who would you like to take another run at, and what would you do differently?
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Matt: I’d have to say Master Kevin of course! Someone has to bring him down, and eventually it’s going to be Matt Thrasher!
Bard: I want front row tickets to that!  Again, I want to thank you sincerely for taking the time, and being such a good sport, with all of my questions. To finish up, is there anything that more that you’d like to say to your devoted fans?
Matt: Hell, yeah, Daddy is just getting started! Bigger and better than ever at 230 pounds and growing! Check out my Instagram and follow me (@Matt_Thrasher_MDW).

 

Homoerotic Wrestler of the Month

Busy-ness has been keeping me away from posting here, but not keeping me from enjoying a lot of new release wrestling. I saw a ton of fantastic matches in February, starring a deep, deep bench of outstanding wrestlers. So this is another month when picking a Homoerotic Wrestler of the Month poses a significant challenge for me. I’ve flipped back and forth a lot in mulling over my choice for which wrestler starring in a new release in February turned me on and entertained me most. But I keep coming back (in my thoughts and in my viewing) to one particular match, and one particular wrestler who holds my gaze riveted to his magnificent physique. So without further ado, I’m aroused to announce that my new homoerotic wrestler of the month is…

 

 

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Joshua Goodman (that’s Mr. Joshua to you!).

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Mr. Joshua’s got his hands full against Cole Cassidy in Ringwars 26

On the one hand, there’s a strong sense of righting a longstanding wrong in picking Mr. Joshua for this distinction. I’ve been naming HWsOTM for over 6 years now, and somehow, although I’ve spilled gallons of ink and cum musing over how much I enjoy his wrestling (and body), inexplicably, he has never held the title of HWOTM before now. He has secured the title of my overall favorite homoerotic wrestler in the past, but not for any one specific match, not qualifying him for the brutal month-to-month title. I don’t believe for a second that this is the first time he’s deserved it. No, I’m sure that this has been a ridiculous oversight on my part, entirely indicative of my own moral failings rather than a result of any deficiency or lack of merit on Mr. Joshua’s part.

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Mr. J ascends the throne

So let me just start off by apologizing to Mr. Joshua. I have sorely neglected and unjustly passed you over in the past. Your beauty, grace, and prowess as a homoerotic wrestler are not only praiseworthy, but they elevate you into the stratosphere of industry luminaries. You are the epitome of a wrestling fantasy man, and your ascendency to the HWOTM throne is long overdue.

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Cole shows off Mr. J’s best side

My adoring sidebar with Mr. Joshua aside, I will speculate that it’s entirely possible that Mr. Joshua is only now getting the laud he abundantly deserves because he has only now, in Ringwars 26, faced an opponent who bring out his full potential. I am also a HUGE Cole Cassidy fan. Give me Cole’s ripped muscles, dollar coin nipples, and a bottle of baby oil and I’ll be enraptured for hours. Even more at the heart of my fondest fantasies, Cole is a superb wrestler. More like a force of nature, he is a one man wrecking crew 99% of the time. Facing off against Mr. Joshua, Cole exposes nearly every succulent inch of him. He wrenches and pries him apart, muscle by muscle. It’s not as if Mr. Joshua’s legendarily gargantuan (and award-winning) package has not been targeted by opponents in the past, but Cole possesses an unselfconsciousness about his relish in manhandling Mr. J’s man-handle. Cole centers Mt. J in the frame in astonishing and innovate ways. He serves up Mr. Joshua’s meat on a platter, over and over again, in an obvious nod to pleasing their fans as well as a fighter’s instinct to exploit an opponent’s weaknesses. Mr. Joshua suffers at Cole’s hands in a way that I have very rarely seen before, and the depth of his agony, and the literal ball bashing brutality, milk out of Mr. Joshua an unmatched sincerity.

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Cole knows what we’re here to see

Another novel element in this Mr. Joshua match is his gear.  I cannot convey just how heartily I approve of his leopard print, supersheer, only marginally capable banana hammock. I think the “jungle boy” gimmick has been done so often that it’s a risky venture to gear up a wrestler, particularly a well-known one, into a Tarzan-esque patch of animal print cloth. However, not only does Mr. Joshua pull this off. He makes it his own.

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This wardrobe malfunction does not appear to have made it through post-production for the video (but is caught still frame in The Arena galleries)

I’m sure I say this every time, but I swear to the homoerotic wrestling gods, Mr. Joshua has never looked better. He’s not just fit. He’s a fucking work of art. That poor, overtaxed bit animal print somehow manages to polish off what is one of the most aesthetically beautiful physiques I’ve seen climb into the BG East ring, and that’s saying A LOT. Mr. J’s skin is silky smooth and bronzed all over to a perfect mocha latte hue. On the one hand, Mr. J’s working class Boston accent and sporty-Guido do, along with that wisp of a manicured soul patch between his chin and lower lip, provide stark dissonance with the wild man-of-the-jungle aesthetic of the gear. On the other hand, the overt sensuality and near-porn peekabo glimpses of baseball sized ball sac squeezing out the sides are spot on. It isn’t that Mr. J somehow comes across as a feral muscle beast raised by apes. But he nails like a mother fucker the part of the male stripper climbing off the pole and directly into the wrestling ring, bringing sensational taunting, tantalizing erotic cred to what turns out to be a legitimate heel-on-heel pro brawl.

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A fan-pleaser

There are about 30 distinct moments in the match when I’m aching to climb right into the ring and investigate with my tongue the erotic sculpture that Cole and Mr. Joshua create out of one another. The holds are just that provocative and long-held, like only two stellar pros with strong empathy for their audience could accomplish. And none of it feels gratuitous. It’s 100% brutal corporal punishment. It’s vicious and humiliating and veers full speed into open-faced sadism. They beat the living shit out of each other and, less like a performance than a documentary, the camera is simply there to witness the carnage.

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Stripper-turned-legimate nasty heel

Of course, Cole is lush and extravagantly muscled as always. But he’s the business end of the stick. He’s the one in relatively high-waisted MMA square cuts. He is (as he almost always is) humorless and calculating. The wild card is go-go boy turned pro ring badass Mr. Joshua. An ounce less intensity from Mr. J, even a shaving less vicious aggression on his part, and this could have been one of a hundred lopsided pretty boy massacres. But this time around, pretty’s got teeth. He takes the withering eye rolls and discounting by his opponent, and then throws every ounce of his gorgeousness whole heartedly into pounding the mats to make this legitimately suspenseful.

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By the Man Handle

Mr. Joshua grabbed the title of HWOTM as commandingly as Cole grabbed Mr. J’s testicles, over and over again, and tried to rip them off his dazzlingly hot body. I still long for more Mr. Joshua matches in which his opponents acknowledge what we’re all seeing, that Mr. J is breathtakingly gorgeous. Right at the beginning of the match, I get the impression Cole is understandably impressed with stunning heft of Mr. J’s most prominent attribute, but other than that, Cole largely has little but rage and contempt directed at his sultry opponent. The chemistry works exactly the way a heel on heel brawl ought to, but I will always long to see more narrative in which the inspiration of Mr. J’s muscles (every one of them) is what drives the battle, where opponents overtly crave to conquer and possess this mythical beast. Without going full monty, Mr. J injects some of the most potent, undiluted erotic energy into his matches. Now that he’s faced arguably his most brutal test, I’m hoping that we get to see him face more opponents who will pick up on their side of the erotic narrative. Mr. Joshua is as dangerous and deliriously gorgeous as we have ever seen him. One of these days, a truly appreciative opponent is going to give every taunting flex and crotch adjustment and impeccably groomed and coiffed inch of him the erotic run for his money that he’s got coming to him.

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I want to see an opponent who will NOT just walk away from this sight!

In the mean time, on your knees, mere mortals. The king is setting his hot ass down where, by divine right, it should have been a long, long time ago, atop the throne as reigning homoerotic wrestler of the month.

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February 2017 – Mr. Joshua Goodman

Long Live the King

I’m following the trail of one of my favorites and tucking in to watch Drake Marcos bring a fantastic new authenticity to W4H. Not that I think W4H hasn’t always featured sensationally authentic sell. It just hasn’t always read “homoerotic” as much as I think it’s supposed to. That’s officially old news as of right now, because Drake is the gay wrestling avatar for all of us when he stares down beefy Brad Barnes and muses out loud about playing “tops and bottoms” once this oil wrestling match is over.

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Brad is the self-annointed king of oil wrestling

“Brad Barnes here, master of the oil wrestling!” Brad lubricates his flexing muscles slowly and seductively, bragging about being the king of this sub-genre. No one can argue with his well-established position in the pantheon of homoerotic wrestling stars. He’s not as big nor as ripped as we’ve seen him in the past, but damn, he’s every ounce as tasty as always. The beard disguises his ridiculous beauty. Maybe he’s cottoned on that being too pretty is a liability in this business.

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Drake enjoys his work

Drake strolls in and shakes hands respectfully. Hell, he even offers (and is welcomed) to finish oiling up Brad’s bulging physique in those hard-to-reach spots where Brad’s massive muscles get in the way of him reaching around. You know how, when we’re watching wrestlers apply oil, you can tell when they aren’t into it?  How many times have we noticed probably straight grapplers look a little bored and engage in the least possible bodily contact while still, ostensibly, being able to claim to have oiled an opponent up? Drake, on the other hand, is happy to help. He’s the Cheshire Cat for a reason, so just watch the corners of his mouth curl in delight as he liberally coats Brad’s mile wide back, then drop to his knees to get the backs of the bodybuilder’s monster thighs (Brad’s meaty ass right at eye level, of course). Drake reaches around from behind and palms Brad’s abs, slides his hands slowly and expansively up and all over Brad’s juicy pecs. If a wrestling match wasn’t in the offing, I’d say Drake just might have kept this up until he was pounding out a load across Brad’s gorgeous muscles.

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“Is the ‘master of oil’ going to take that?!”

But Brad pulls away, looking uncomfortable. That bitch. Right then and there, I want to see Drake kick his mother fucking ass. Drake is the everyman on the mats here. More precisely, he’s you and me and every gay guy who’s been told he should apologize for getting turned on by a hot, cocky gym bunny flaunting himself provocatively and then pretending he wasn’t cock teasing all along. They shove each other in the chest, the aggression coming to a quick boil. Brad’s got a lower center of gravity and a ton of power advantage, and our gay avatar looks momentarily like he’s about to get muscle bullied (….again….). Then, suddenly, Drake swings his open right palm and lands a cracking, hard, wet slap across Brad’s way too pretty face. Oh, fuck yes, this is going to happen!

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“Looks like master of shit right now!”

I’ve wrestled Drake, so I’m not nearly as surprised as Brad appears to be when the Cheshire Cat deftly slides to the side when the muscle tank comes charing in a rage. Smoothly, Drake lassos a side headlock and efficiently muscles the bodybuilder to the mat. “Master of oil wrestling?” Drake asks, cranking hard and making the bodybuilder whimper. “Looks like master of shit right now.”

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Drake really, really enjoys his work

I’ve faulted Brad for being flat-footed in the past. I’ve chided him for lacking initiative, for rolling over and taking it too quickly. And, honestly, this match could have easily been pulled down by that same dynamic if it weren’t for one thing: Drake makes him hurt.

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Drake tenderizes the beef

Brad actually mentions out loud at one of his brief moments in the driver’s seat that Drake is working the match way stiffer than Brad expected. Read: Drake is actually, genuinely, pushing the pretty bodybuilder baby-ass right up to the point of seriously hurting him. He repeatedly tries to wrench Brad’s left shoulder out of joint with a severe hammerlock. He threatens to snap his oil-lubricated spine in multiple camel clutches. Hell, he looks like he nearly rips Brad’s massive pectoral muscles off the bone in long, deep, vicious pec claws. Fuck, Drake does us proud, gay wrestling fans.

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Squeeze the Charmin

Two things, in particular, Drake does that seriously bring excellent notes to the W4H catalog. One, he gropes the meat salaciously. The dragon sleepers lay Brad out best for Drake to use his free hand to slide his palm all over Brad’s fantasy man body. Brad bucks and kicks (more than usual, again making me believe the subplot that Drake is working this match harder than Brad is used to), and the Cheshire Cat just smiles brightly as he squeezes and feels up all of those bulging gym muscles. “You’re the kind of guy I admire at the gym,” Drake muses out loud at one point, treating himself to gently kneading, and then hard slapping, Brad’s muscle ass cheeks. “But, it looks like it should be the other fucking way around!” Drake narrates this drama beautifully, pointing out in both word and deed that Brad’s impressive muscles are nothing but fuel for Drake’s lustful fire. “This has got to be humiliating for you, right?,” he asks, mostly rhetorically. “I mean, look at your big ass! I’m destroying you!”  More to the point, the relatively average physique on Drake is equipped with everything he needs to not just neutralize the pin-up boy, but to so completely break him down as to leave him wide open for an erotically turned on opponent to familiarize himself with Brad’s body the way we’ve all fantasized about taking possession of those hot muscleboys strutting and grunting and posing for themselves (though, really, you and me) in the mirror at the gym. He strokes the writhing bodybuilder’s pecs. His hand slides down to Brad’s lower abdomen. He drags his hand, fingers stretched wide, down Brad’s quivering inner thigh, and then briefly, but unmistakably, takes an appreciative squeeze of Brad’s vulnerable crotch.

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“You’re about to be my favorite jobber!”

The other thing that Drake brings to the table that is a sensational addition to W4H is the narrative itself. It’s hard for me to describe this match without dipping extensively into the dialogue (Drake’s), because it’s accentuating and counterpointing every move and reversal. “You say you’re the king of oil,” Drake crows, saddling up across his upper abdomen and diving in deep with double pec claws, “but it looks like oil might be your kryptonite.” The reference to Brad as Superman, to the medium that the bodybuilder was convinced showed him and his skills off to perfection as his ultimate weakness, is multilayered and a loving nod to the comic geeks among the gay wrestling fan audience. “In some circles, I’m known as everyone’s favorite jobber,” Drake explains in an obvious reference to this blog. “But it looks like you’re about to be my favorite,” he sneers, nearly decapitating the man of steel with a camel clutch until Brad frantically taps out. Again. And again.

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“Good luck getting out of those monster things”

It isn’t quite a squash. Brad actually fights back, which isn’t always something we can count on from the pretty boy. His most successful offense is trying to snap Drake off at the neck with monster headscissors and an angry showering of oil. If he were half the wrestler Drake is, he’d have ridden those moments of momentum and the crushing weight of gravity all over the Cheshire Cat until he shut the prattling provocateur up decisively.

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Drake delivers the goods

But let’s face it, while Brad is undeniably gorgeous, while his muscles are magnificent, while that cleft chin is straight out of a comic book, while his body is the perfect, living rendition of my Stretch Armstrong doll from my childhood (which, yes, so got me off), he is not half the wrestler Drake is. I’ve long fantasized about Drake living into the moment and unleashing the heel within. I’ve told him, frankly, that he’s got all of the makings of a sensationally nasty, cruel, incredibly effective erotic heel. But this is the first time I’ve really seen that brilliance shine through quite this openly and directly.

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Your Drake’s gym bunny now, Brad

No shit, Drake accidentally sleepers the bodybuilder out cold. Now, if it were you or I, what would we do with Brad Barnes, flat on his back, unconscious and completely at our mercy? Yeah, Drake drizzles on more oil and feels this side of beef up one last time, just to make his own crotch swell that much more and enjoy the spoils of victory.

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At the mercy of the Cheshire Cat

Super sweet drama. The gayest thing I’ve seen on W4H, and believe me, I’ve been watching and hoping for them to highlight the “homo” in their bid to stake out more territory in the homoerotic wrestling market. Brad as the big, bulging, pretty muscle boy all shut up and humiliated and possessed by an unapologetically gay, obviously, superiorly skilled opponent is delicious. And seriously intense mat wrestling sold this hot and furiously is rare, and incredibly so when it comes to that most homoerotic of all contexts, oil wrestling.

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King slayer

The king is dead. Long live the king!

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Meat

 

Called Out

When I started blogging nearly 8 years ago, I had no idea it would come to this. There are a few moving parts to this little melodrama being played out in my life, so bear with me as I write some expository to try to set up the remarkable circumstances within which I find myself. I know that you’re used to me writing homoerotic wrestling fiction, but at the risk of ripping off the Cohen Brothers, let me just assure you that while I have skipped over some of the more trivial points in the story, the rest of what I’m about to tell you is described exactly as it occurred.

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The Classic, man-of-my-dreams, Scott Williams

First of all, as I say often, I have my favorites. Even casual readers can name the hunks who reliably, predictably, inevitably get me hard every time I watch them in action.  From Chris Cuomo to Mitch Colby to Rusty Stevens, there are a few names that recur with such frequency on these pages that I’ve been known to provoke irritation from some readers who tire of my infatuations. However, as I also say often, this blog has always been about me, so suck it up or move on. One of my longstanding fan infatuations that I’ve held for long before I started blogging is for The Classic, Scott Williams.

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Milking the fight of opponents for years

I swoon every time I watch Scott snap on headscissors, flex his glutes, and press his hips forward, threatening to crush some lucky son of a bitch’s skull. In an interview I did with another classic infatuation, Shane McCall, I referred to Scott as “the man of my dreams.”  It’s not an exaggeration. Scott’s devastatingly handsome hotness has always made him fantasyman material for me. Everything about him makes me weak in the knees. The square jaw, the bald head, the ripped muscles, the scorching intensity. His published work for BG East is comprised of merely 4 matches, and yet his presence in my homoerotic wrestling infatuations is so much more huge than that. When I recently learned that Scott still wrestles privately and in custom matches arranged through Jonny Firestorm, I started saving pennies immediately for another chance to crush on Scott’s hotness. I’m still saving (it takes a lot more pennies than I typically have on hand), but in the mean time, I regularly sift through the social media feeds of other wrestlers that I know also do similar work for Jonny, panning for that priceless glimpse of Scott’s gorgeous, hairy pecs.

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The Cheshire Cat, Drake Marcos

Now, let me shift my attention just a little, with the promise that, I swear, these various subplots will all collide before this post is done with. Another familiar infatuation that readers know well is my fandom for The Cheshire Cat, Drake Marcos. I was crushing on Drake’s handsome hotness since, literally, before I ever saw him wrestle. About four and a half years ago, Kid Karisma smuggled some behind the scenes snaps out of a BG East shoot. This was before The Boss started requiring non-disclosure agreements and my sources of up and coming BGE gosssip dried up, except for my very deeply embedded, super secret smuggler of back stage pic, known to me only as OMI (our man inside). In any case, I was already groovin’ on a candid, fully clothed shot of Drake at his very first BG East taping, before we even knew his name.  My fan relationship with the Cheshire Cat has taken several abrupt and unexpected turns. Drake reached out to me, turning up the charm even before his first match was released. Every time he wrestles, I repeatedly get off on his intensely erotic approach to the genre. I was thrilled to get to do a tandem interview with both Drake and Mason Brooks, soon after Mason crushed the Cheshire Cat like grapes and laid formal claim to his ass in Passion and Punishment 1. In that interview, in my sincerest effort to applaud Drake for looking so delicious getting pounded to pulp, he took umbrage at me suggesting that he’s an outstanding jobber. Words were spoken. Challenges made. And about 10 months later, there I was, getting a tour of BG East’s South Campus from none other than Drake.

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The end of Blogger vs. Wrestler

The tour was capped off with a settling of that brewing tension between us. Having no pro wrestling experience, I was unceremoniously tossed into the ring by my tour guide and worked over harshly, with that handsome, taunting grin beaming down at me every step of the way. Well, the grin sort of disappeared around the time that this “mere blogger” strung his tasty little meat sandwich up in the ropes, and then exploited his vulnerability in a tree of woe. And then stripped him naked, laid out flat on his back in the middle of the ring, snapping pics to document the priceless moment. There’ve been more words. Accusations of cheating and presenting “alternative facts.” I think Drake has simmered back down and finally acknowledges that in this blogger vs. wrestler battle, he was, in the end, my compliant plaything. I still pop my cork just knowing when there’s a new Drake match out (like now, so watch for my review of X-Fights 42).

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The Trophy Boy Ty Alexander

And now, for the 3rd tine of this complicated fork, let me just remind you of my ongoing enjoyment when watching the homoerotic wrestling career of Ty Alexander. Like Drake, my fandom for Ty began before we even got to see him wrestle. An OMI snap captured Ty’s hotness when he was all promise and potential and anticipation. In the intervening 3 years, the Trophy Boy has made quite a name for himself, owning social media, selling his sensational brand of fashion-forward wrestling narcissism, and managing to snag the Jobber of the Year title while demonstrating repeatedly that he is no pushover.

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Ty demands respect for his ass

And so here’s where all three of these strands of story start to entwine. I had the temerity to let it be known that I did not vote for Ty to win the Best Butt title this year. Regular readers were completely unsurprised that I, once again, threw my full support behind Kid Karisma’s behind. For some reason, this provoked Ty to take aim at making me pay for my “mistake” … corporally. I’ve since received challenges from Ty to face him in the ring, so that he can work out his frustrations all over my body. He’s promised to beat my blogger ass for the perceived slight toward his.

At first, I didn’t take this all that seriously. This is Ty Alexander, we’re talking about. Jobber of the Year. When a notorious jobber tries to pick a fight, it’s just because he’s aching to get owned, right? It’s not like I need to jump when Ty snaps his fingers, because a young stud as gagging to be dominated as Ty is in 90% of his matches is surely going to still be on the line whenever I get around to pick up. Right?

Well, the whole surprising heat from the Trophy Boy took a sudden and unexpected turn for the dark side about a week ago. I got a notice that I had a video from him waiting for me in my inbox. Now, Ty has sent me (and I’m not exaggerating), hundreds of pics and clips of him. He knows I like the look of his body, and he’s every bit the narcissist to get off on knowing it, so he scratches both of our itches. Often. So I clicked on this latest video expecting to see him showing off his 2nd place ass in the tanning both or in the gym locker room again. But no. This was unlike anything I’ve ever received before.

It was Ty, mounted across Scott Williams’ back, wrenching the man of my dreams in a totally fucked up, nasty ass, vile as shit camel clutch. Of course, my dick snapped to attention immediately. I thought, for a brief moment, this was just a little stolen snippet from another Jonny custom bout. But again, no. Ty was shoving Scott’s gorgeous face (mostly covered by Ty’s hands) into the camera and sending a very personal, very specific message, to no one else but me.

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Ty dangles Scott’s ripped body in front of me

“Hey Bard,” Ty says, like we were old chums picking up in the middle of a conversation we’ve had for years. “I just wanted to show you our friend, Mr. Scott in my camel clutch.” Uuuuuuuugh, Scott groans in obvious pain, Fuck you!, he snarls furiously, wailing and choking on the torture. There in a pro ring somewhere. “This is what’s in store when you face me, when you finally man up,” Ty continues, staring at the camera and smiling even as he wrenches that much harder on Scott’s neck, making The Classic whimper.

Fuck you, fuck you, shut the fuck up! Scott shouts, his voice muffled through Ty’s hands clamped around his leading man chin. “Last time I checked,” Ty smirks, “I pretty much fucked him today. Are you going to give now, Scott?” Fuck you, you fucking fuck, God damn it! Scott wails. Ty pulls back on his neck another 3 inches and Scott’s voice rises about 10 decibels and half an octave, God damn it, God damn it! No, fuck off!!!!  “Give!” Ty demands cooly, almost quietly, leaning back another 2 inches. I GIVE, YOU FUCKER! Scott screams in exquisite agony.

“Sorry, Bard,” Ty says to me, staring into the camera as he climbs off, revealing he’s been working that vicious camel clutch on Scott’s entirely naked ass. “Just look what’s in store when you finally face me,” Ty concludes, stretching out on top of Scott’s muscled back.

At this point, let me pause the narrative to make a couple of points. First of all, no. I won’t post the video. One reason is that I don’t have permission from all parties involved to publish it further. But an even bigger reason is that I am a greedy fucker, and knowing that this steaming hot 60 second vignette was made for my eyes only has made me get off on it repeatedly in the past week or so, and I’m savoring it as my own, my precious.

But further, can I just say what a mind fuck it is to watch Scott Williams, the man of my dreams, one of my longest standing homoerotic wrestling infatuations, get punished for no other reason than the fact that Ty knows I crush like crazy on Scott!? Scott’s whimpers and wails, his bald head flushing beet red, his bitter, tortured, agonizing profanity and naked humiliation have occurred for one reason only: for Ty to get at me.

So, there’s that. Fuck me sideways, this has got to be the sexiest call out in the history of professional wrestling. Well, it was the sexiest call out until just yesterday when I found a second video in my inbox.

This one is 3 minutes long. As it opens, Ty (completely naked) is climbing onto a hot, naked ass belonging to someone lying face down on a bed in front of the camera. Ty grabs this lucky loser by the hair and wrenches his face up and toward the camera, so that I can see…. that it’s Drake Marcos.

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Similar shot from their Babyface Brawl X, though Drake wasn’t enjoying it this time at all

“Hey Bard,” Ty chats with me again through the camera. “I just put Drake through the ringer. I’ve kind of owed him a little bit of a beatdown for a while, because of all the shit he talks about me.” Ty muscles Drake into a camel clutch, again shoving his prey’s agony-contorted face into the camera for me to watch up close.  Drake is wailing like a wounded animal. Ty suddenly drops him and flings him to his back, saddling up naked on Drake’s gut and throttling his throat with both hands. The Cheshire Cat is choking and spitting and struggling to shove Ty away, but Ty grabs my boy’s wrists and pins them to the bed.

“I think it’s time to finish up little Drake here,” Ty says, leaning back. Drake immediately lands a cracking punch to Ty’s left pec.  A half second later, Ty slaps the fuck out of Drake’s face. I mean, fuck, it hurts just watching it! Then Ty stretches across Drake’s chest and wraps him up in a Kiss of Death, locking down a sleeper while smothering Drake’s mouth and nose to speed things up. Drake flails and bucks in a panic. Ty just keeps riding until his mount goes limp underneath him.

“See Bard, you’re missing out on all of the fun here,” Ty smirks into the camera. “So I hope you’re ready for whatever’s going to come Drake’s way, ’cause I’ll just do the same to you whenever I wrestle you.”

So, I’m both titillated beyond belief to see if a new ransom video shows up in my inbox, and a little worried for all of the favorite wrestlers I’ve gushed about over the years (Mitch, Mason, Brad, Kayden, Rusty… watch your backs!). I had no idea Jobber of the Year Ty had this level of sadistic cunning. He’s picking off my favorites, one by one, and video documenting their humiliation as a means of provoking me to accept his challenge and show up for Blogger vs. Wrestler, The Sequel. There’s something downright diabolical about it. It manages to inspire adolescent rescue fantasies, me the superhero breaking down the door to save the day for these hot slices of beefcake getting stacked like cordwood by this supervillain. And, on the other hand, it piques my curiosity as to just how far the Trophy Boy will take this, and will he dig himself in too deep and bite off more than he can chew before I’ve finally had enough and show up to redeem the heartthrobs whose only offense has been to get me hard and inspire me to write about them?

I’m sure you’ve got advice for me, so let me have it in the comments below. I repeat, no, I won’t share the videos with you. But I will, most certainly, let you know how this twisted plot of suffering and shocking torture continues to play out.

 

Playing the Hero

Magnifico is hot. Sweet pecs. Somehow I can swear he’s a handsome fuck even behind that mask.  The Finisher strolls in, domineering, hairy pecs bouncing, looking for a fight. He’s brawny and bulging to Magnifico’s smooth “swimmer’s body.” The hero is unimpressed, unperturbed by this villain infiltrating his lair (despite what the match description says). Magnifico cooly keeps pumping iron, doing push ups, not really paying attention to this hot, hairy muscle hunk getting all up in his face with more than a shrug and an unconcerned eye roll.  And there’s this tasty do-gooder’s fatal flaw, as far as I’m concerned. As a performer, he’s underselling, but as a hot, horny homoerotic wrestler, he’s deflecting the heat that the Finisher is bringing.

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Magnifico can’t be bothered

“You think you’re so strong,” the Finisher monologues as Magnifico just keeps pumping out push ups, seemingly oblivious to the threat circling him. “So tough. You think you’re better than me. But today I’m here to show you that I’m the man!” The Finisher’s intentions get off to a rocky start when he tries to do dumbbell curls with the same weight Magnifico was just pumping out effortlessly. The Finisher huffs and puffs and grunts his way to one rep, as shock washes across his masked face, realizing that this silky smooth, tall drink of icy cool water clearly possesses some form of super strength that puts all of the Finisher’s hot, hairy, bulging muscles to shame. Magnifico takes the dumbbell and smirks as he pumps out another set without so much as raising his heartbeat.

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Magnifico smirks at his weakling challenger

This is a sweet set up. I’m so often prattling on about motivation and character and narrative tension missing in the bulk of homoerotic wrestling, but once again, Muscle Domination Wrestling is ahead of the curve when it comes to plot. Two and a half minutes in, and sure, they haven’t put a finger on one another, but I’m already hard in anticipation. It’s not the tease; it’s the foreplay. It’s setting the scene. It’s defining the edges of the characters and inviting me to pick sides. As for me, nine times out of ten I  get off on a flawed, but super sexy superhero taking charge and tapping into his inner bad boy when it comes to superhero themed homoerotic wrestling. This is probably ironic, considering the ratio is about the same for my allegiance to pro wrestling heels in the ring. However, demonstrating my fickle loyalties, I have to admit that right out of the gate, I’m hoping for the Finisher to kick blue boy’s cocky ass. Magnifico is too cool. He’s too confident. He’s a little too understated in selling this drama. And the Finisher is just vulnerable enough to prime me for keying off on him overcoming the apparent odds stacked against him by the superhero’s superior super strength. He’s somehow both vile oppressor and outmatched underdog at the same time. I want to see him severely spank this Dudley Do-right’s hot ass.

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The Finisher’s got a surprise waiting in his trunks

The initial lock up between them is messy and awkward. Magnifico is clearly a rookie IRL. But true to the narrative, he outmuscles big, hairy, hot Finisher and grinds the masked villain’s temples in a side headlock. He pulls them down to the mat and wraps his long, lean, hotly muscled legs around the villain’s torso and grinds his knees into the suffering hunk’s kidneys. The Finisher squirms his way to his knees, and just as Magnifico shifts to snap his superthighs around the villain’s head in a face-to-crotch (excellent instincts, hero boy), the Finisher digs into the pouch of his trunks. At first I’m thinking he’s about to pull out his dick and concede that Magnifico is too sexy to handle. But no, he pulls out what is apparently Magnifico’s version of kryptonite, using it to suck the super strength right out of the boy in blue. “That’s right, Magnifico,” the Finisher taunts, “I know all of your weaknesses.” And with the word “all,” he starts stroking the superhero’s crotch, and already, the swollen, obviously excited head of blue boy’s supercock peeks out the top of his trunks.

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Bumping. Grinding.

Even knocked down to mortality, Magnifico is serious competition for the bulging, sexy menace. He claws the Finisher’s balls to break the bad boy’s spell. They scramble across the mat for the advantage, ending up in tandem 69 headscissors, the Finisher on his back, staring up at his nemesis’ ass. For a moment there, I consider switching allegiances, right around the time that Magnifico starts flexing his ass cheeks, grinding his hard cock with obvious excitement into his opponent’s huge pecs. Dudley Do-right is randy, and maybe I might not mind so much if he rides a wave of erotic passion all over the hairy muscle hunk trying to break him down to size.

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Magnifico’s got his own shocking surprise in his trunks!

The 69 goes on for a sweet, slow, suspenseful long time. Incredibly, Magnifico’s pelvic thrusts give him the advantage. His hips buck more and more violently, and his supercock apparently starts beating the life out of the Finisher. It’s do or die time for the Finisher, and he does. Specifically, take control with a ball claw, setting up elbow strikes to our hero’s lower back, as a way to soften him up for a torture rack across the Finisher’s super-wide shoulders. Magnifico’s cockhead can no longer be contained in those trunks of his. Somewhere between dry humping the Finisher’s pecs and getting hoisted up onto his shoulders, the superhero secret weapon (or weakness?) is no longer a secret. Up in that rack, the Finisher strokes his opponent’s balls, incrementally tugging the trunks down, revealing an honestly gorgeous, meaty, much more than a mouthful of a super-heroic cock.

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Our hero fights fire with fire

I love that Magnifico keeps fighting on. I definitely wouldn’t call this a squash. The superhero fights fire with fire, alternating between punching his opponent in the balls and stroking his villainous cock. The Finisher’s pile driver knocks the wind out of his sails, as does the cock punching the supervillain subjects him to. But Magnifico refuses to submit. His thick, glistening, fully aroused cock is clearly saying “yes, yes, YES!,” but the handsome hero’s mouth keeps saying no.

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Bearhug frot

At the halfway mark, I’m starting to cotton on, and appreciate, where the plot is careening. The Finisher hoists the blue boy up into a hot bearhug, crushing the superhero’s meat between their abdomen’s. It’s a bearhug. It hurts. So of course, the masked hero’s face screws up in pain. But as his jaw drops open, there are other notes. Even suspended off his feet in that bearhug, Magnifico’s glutes flex and squeeze. His hips bump out what is obviously an approach to ecstasy, grinding his super-heroic cock into his punisher’s hairy, hot, ripped wall of abdominal muscle. That magnificent Magnifico cock almost certainly makes him popular with the spandex clad gym bunny set back at the Hall of Justice, but here, in the Finisher’s clutches, his calm, cool veneer is getting crushed as his opponent drives him seductively, inevitably over the edge of self-control.

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“This is something that, well you could say, I’m passionate about.”

“You know, I really like what I do,” the Finisher monologues, saddling up between Magnifico’s thighs and grinding his crotch into that superheroic, out of control cock of his. “Being able to play with you heroes, this is something that, well you could say, I’m passionate about.”

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Super intensely erotic!

Some of you are going to wait to enjoy the forced to cum finisher to this match, but as for me, the money shot starts right around the 11 minute mark. The Finisher pulls his prey up into a wheelbarrow position. I honestly have no idea where this is heading, until the supervillain leans back and pulls Magnifico up erect, his taunted and teased rock hard cock at full mast in front of him. In an incredible feat of strength and balance, the Finisher holds him there, pinned against his body with one hand, and reaches around and starts stroking the superhero’s shocking secret weakness with the other. Magnifico’s jaw hangs open. His arms flail about, as if he’s about to try to defend himself, but can’t quite convince his limbs to intervene in the milking session. Blue boy is completely owned at this point. He’s the Finisher’s bitch, but more importantly, his instrument is getting played so expertly that he wants it. He needs it. There’s not an ounce of aloofness left in him. He’s ripe for the Finisher’s picking.

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“How about now, what do you say to that?”

“Try to fight me off,” the Finisher whispers when Magnifico blindly tries pushing him away. “I like it when you do that,” the supervillain groans. At any point that Magnifico gets too rambunctious, the Finisher grabs that heroic cock and starts pumping, and Magnifico goes limp. “Yeah,” the Finisher growls, “this is all mine, isn’t it?  Say it!” Magnifico can’t catch his breath for a few seconds, but finally gasps, “no.” It’s hardly convincing. The Finisher slides into a schoolboy pin, ramming Magnifico’s face into his crotch as he reaches back and continues pumping on the blue boy’s powder keg of a cock. “How about now? What do you say to that?” Magnifico’s eyes stare up at his erotic master, mouth gaping wide, and he silently nods affirmatively. “Who owns this city!?” the Finisher demands. Breathlessly, Magnifico concedes, “You!”

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“Are you in ecstasy?!”

There are six minutes left in the narrative. They maintain the momentum marvelously. Typically, I get way bored when there’s no more competitive drama and a scene turns strictly to sex. That’s why I fast forward through 75% of every Naked Kombat sex round. But this MDW super match keeps the dramatic tension high, even as Magnifico is toast. An OTK backbreaker spotlights Magnifico’s Achilles heel, as they take turns rubbing it out. Magnifico’s half-lidded eyes stare into his master’s as the Finisher demands to know, “Are you in ecstasy?” The nearly wasted superhero nods submissively. “Do you belong to me?” More submissive nods. “That’s right,” the Finisher explains. “I fucking own you. Your cock is mine. And your powers are mine.

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Owned

There’s a moment where the Finisher is throttling Magnifico’s cock, there near the end. The vanquished superhero is flat on his back, his face smothered up the Finisher’s ass. The supervillain really starts to wring that cock out, faster, harder, and honest to the homoerotic wrestling gods, Magnifico’s entire body spasms. It’s completely vulnerable, and I believe every second of it. His legs twitch. His arms sort of flail halfheartedly, pointlessly. His entire body is about to orgasm, and he’s completely the Finisher’s fuck puppet, getting his strings tugged. Maybe Magnifico learned to sell somewhere in the last 17 minutes, but I’m believing that this hot stuff superhero genuinely is, at this very moment, completely, totally, erotically getting owned.

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New depths

This is the first time we’ve seen Morgan Cruise in action since that tectonic shift of a match he had, getting owned and for the first time sucking cock against silver muscle daddy Matt Thrasher. When I reviewed that match, I said that MDW simply could not reset the clock. That there’d be a massive revolt (led by me), should they attempt to pretend that Morgan never went there, that he didn’t just jump with both feet into the explicit end of the homoerotic wrestling pool. This new match is a magnificent follow up. It’s set in an entirely different universe, of course. Morgan is a masked supervillain, and not daddy’s little muscle boy. But even as he rubs his opponent out, getting a mouthful of superheroic cum front and center in an HD close up, I’m applauding both Morgan and MDW for delivering what continues to be one of the most successful and innovative turns in homoerotic wrestling storytelling. This is so completely gay (and of course, I mean that as the highest compliment I can offer). It’s sensationally hot, erotic wrestling, harkening back to the early days when the rules included loser’s shame to the warrior first forced to cum. The drama, the sculpture, the text… it’s all a bullseye when it comes to what I think of as the fantasy potential of homoerotic wrestling entertainment.

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Score

Nicely done, MDW. Standing ovation to Morgan. And Magnifico? I apologize for ever doubting you. That gorgeous, ravenous cock of yours can star in a homoerotic wrestling fantasy of mine any day.

When Stars Collide

I’m going to keep singing loud praises for Ringwars 26, but I want to make sure and acknowledge that this is a seriously inconsistent collection. It ranges from the sublime to the passable, and in keeping with my policy over the past several years, I’m not going to harp on the weakest links in this chain. But I feel like it ought to be mentioned that there are weak links, in my estimation at least. On the other hand, there’s that climactic final match I gushed about a couple of days ago pitting two of the hottest, smoothest, most accomplished newbie wrestlers I’ve ever seen in one BG East match. Stacked up on that sublime side of the scale is also match #2 in the compilation, featuring the dream combination of Cole Cassidy and Joshua Goodman (that’s Mr. Joshua to you!).

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That’s “Mr. Joshua” to you!

I know that I say it far too often, that some favorite wrestler has just appeared “in the best shape of his life.” It’s not that I’m trying to overstate how supremely fit and sexy these gladiators look, but I just repeatedly fall head over heels in lustful adoration again and again when I see gorgeous hunks show up again in something new. But this time, I mean it. Seriously. Mr. Joshua and Cole are in the most perfect shape I’ve ever seen them. In particular, Mr. Joshua is just flawless. His skin is without a blemish and baked perfectly to a healthy, lightly bronzed hue. There isn’t an ounce of body fat apparent, and the leopard print ultra-brief (nearly a g-string) reveals more of his mouthwatering physique than I think anything else I’ve ever seen him in. His perennially magnificent aesthetics are simply amplified. His ripped abs are a fraction more ripped. His teardrop quads are just that much more defined. His peaked biceps and muscled ass and bulging, broad shoulders appear just a tad more peaked, muscled, and broad than a long-time infatuated fan like me can remember seeing before. The repeated musclemag coverboy poses he strikes are strongly reminiscent of vintage AMG softcore.

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Always dangerous Cole Cassidy

Cole isn’t as regular an object of my blogging obsession, but he is always homoerotic gold for me. We’ve seen Cole beefier, with a hotly muscled belly, and we’ve seen him even leaner than this, practically whittled to bone and muscle. But I think his fitness in Ringwars 26 is perfection. His muscles are incredibly thick and broad, and he’s sporting the impeccable proportions and gorgeously tapered-V of a fitness model. His mid-rise square cuts suit both his dangerous MMA style of fighting as well as his no-nonsense, absolutely functional, built-to-fuck-you-over body.

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Digging deep

What makes this a match of my dreams isn’t just the lucky moment in time when both of these beauties are in perfect shape, however. This is also a fantasy match for me because I crush like hell on heel-on-heel action. Unlike the newbie-on-newbie match in this compilation, these are both known quantities, with 3-dimensional personas and long-established skills not just in wrestling, but in selling the melodrama. Even someone with passing familiarity knows that Cole is like a coiled viper, always deadly dangerous and incredibly stingy in giving away even a submission, much less a match loss. It’s not like Cole is passionless, but he’s sort of sociopathic in his cruelty. We seldom see spikes of rage or adrenaline-pumped victory celebrations. Rather, he’s like Michael Myers, taking his hits here and there, but bearing down with an air of destiny. He’s cruel, but more a force of nature than a classic sadist.

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Saddle up

Mr. Joshua is a far more complex ring heel. He’s always been a raging narcissist, of course. I defy you to find an ounce of fault in that, because Mr. J’s body is just sexy as fuck. Of course he adores his own reflection. His reflection is dazzlingly, effortlessly erotic. And at times in Mr. Joshua’s career, he’s paid the price hard for just how distracting his Magic Mike-ready body is. He’s been harshly brutalized at times, particularly in those moments when he’s lost focus on the fight because his muscles demand his attention, or because his legendary mammoth bulge requires rearranging. But over the trajectory of his career, Mr. J has emerged as a surprisingly adept pro heel. Once he really started exploiting the devastating potential his magnificent muscles have in a wrestling match, Mr. Joshua’s narrative started veering decisively away from just being all about the pretty, and increasingly centered on the mean. He doesn’t mind so much being underestimated for his beauty, because it makes it that much more satisfying to take some new, smirking punk to school. His wrestling repertoire has expanded exponentially. He mentions in his match with Cole that he’s spent some time at the Snuka Wrestling Academy (whether that’s just bullshit to warn Cole against thinking Mr. Joshua’s leopard print banana hammock is a signal that he’s a pushover, or whether he’s actually been taking lessons, I don’t know). But Mr. Joshua is about 10 times more expressive than Cole. He’s agony is far deeper, and his pleasure exponentially greater. Rather than a force of nature, Mr. J is a profoundly complex, magnificently beautiful human being already mid-swing at Erickson’s final stage of human development: self-actualization. Like the Buddha himself, I half expect that we will simply see Mr. Joshua wink out of existence at some point near the end of a match, once he has fully, entirely, completely become the truest version of himself that he has been perfecting for years.

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Cole gets a handle on the situation

 

Fuck. I haven’t actually started even talking about the match, have I?  Let me try (weakly) to keep this concise. It is exactly what I hoped for when I saddled up for a ride here. This is heel-on-heel punishment. Both warriors are entirely themselves, their most genuine expressions of the wrestling characters they have been wooing fans as for so long. Cole is fucking vicious as shit. He is impeccably suited for the task of amplifying and exploiting this particular opponent’s most glaring assets and weaknesses, such as when he pounds Mr. Joshua down into an astonishingly gorgeous over-the-knee backbreaker and starts wringing the fuck out of the monster barely stuffed down Mr. J’s pouch. I thank the homoerotic wrestling gods that Cole’s hands are big enough for the task, but even more, I sing them praises that Cole dug in deep right there where so many opponents before him have tended to shy away. Sure, a lot (A LOT) of Mr. Joshua’s opponents have delivered barrages of strikes at his pride-and-joy bulge, but when it comes to really getting handsy, to daring to test dexterity and finger strength against the most notorious anaconda in competition, Cole really kicks it up several notches.

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Stand and deliver

Those unfamiliar with Mr. Joshua’s resume (shame on you!) may find it paradoxical that actually it’s Mr. Joshua who is first to deliver a low blow.  You might imagine that a guy with as gargantuan as a target as he has would want to avoid opening up a ball bashing competition. However, those of us who have long savored his work learned long ago the genius behind his insistence on striking first. Even if they don’t intend to, sooner or later every opponent ends up striking a blow below Mr. Joshua’s belt. Honestly, they can’t avoid it even if they try. So Mr. Joshua’s signature offense is to, literally, beat them to the punch and start the testicle torture. Cole is no exception. It’s very early days in this match, and Cole is starting to ride roughshod over the jungle boy. Cole has landed a jaw-splitting knee strike to Mr. Joshua’s chin, dropping him to the mat. Like the horror film antihero he is, Cole rains down leaping stomps to Mr. Joshua’s back, making the coverboy spasm. He rides a beautiful standing surfboard like Frankie Avalon, before bearing down that much harder on Mr. J’s lower back in a camel clutch and, eventually, a bow and arrow. There’s that familiar sense that Cole could send his opponent to the hospital here pretty quickly. Until Mr. Joshua takes a roundhouse swing at Cole’s balls. Watching Cole collapse in an impotent heap is amazing, but it’s nothing compared to Mr. Joshua climbing to his feet, grabbing Cole by the ankles, spreading his tree trunk thighs wide, and literally standing on his balls. We just don’t hear Cole scream often. But Cole screams.

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Spank that ass!

I love that this match stays true to the wrestling characters we’ve grown to know and crush on. Buckle up, because the reversals of fortune could easily give you whip lash. And the fact that both of these nasty heels, each in their own way, sells riding time so magnificently really speaks to every Cole and Mr. Joshua fan out there. Mr. Joshua slaps Cole’s granite-carved muscle ass repeatedly in such a contemptuous, domineering way that I can’t remember Cole ever suffering before. There are long, juicy spells of Mr. Joshua in total control over the writhing, squirming, humiliated MMA star. This could totally be a Mr. Joshua career-defining victory.

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Spread him!

However, Cole doesn’t just dissect his beautiful opponent, he lays him out with an obvious nod to the BG East fans masterbating at that very moment to the aesthetic wonders of Mr. Joshua’s physique. Crotch ripping spladles spread Mr. Joshua wide, his mammoth bulge quivering in fear just inches overtop of his barely covered hole.  In a stroke of genius, Cole maintains the spladle even as he climbs to his knees, giving us a vertical angle on every inch of Mr. Joshua’s bulging, beautiful all over tan and completely jeopardized ass.

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Time to face the music

On the other hand, Mr. Joshua feeds fan infatuation with his mouthwatering bulge by beating Cole into barely-consciousness and then schoolboy pinning him, grinding the beef-packed pouch into Cole’s face. He drags Cole up by his head and pounds his massive bulge into Cole’s dumbstruck mug as he kneels like a supplicant before his god. Back down to the mat they go, as Joshua holds Cole’s face in place, cock pinning him, smothering him in headscissors, jerking and pumping his hips like he could be just about to shoot a load across Cole’s face.

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Raise the roof

On the other hand, Cole battles back into contention, wearing Mr. Joshua out from the base of the testicles upward, and softening the rock hard fitness model up for a perfect Mexican ceiling hold. I mean, perfect. Both boys are fully extended, stretched out. Mr. J’s joints are hyperextended, quivering, muscles looking like they could snap. And right at the apex of his rainbow arch is Mr. J’s dream maker, bulging, straining his pouch, I swear almost whimpering of its own accord.

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Pucker up, Cole!

Honestly, I was still guessing who was going to win this match with about 2 minutes left. And not just because fortunes kept being reversed, but because I believed every second of the way that either of these dangerous, nasty, legendary heels could win.

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Hung out to dry

Check out Alex’s review for another take, though it sounds like we were pretty much on the same page on this one. The term “star” is probably thrown around too often, but these are two genuine homoerotic wrestling stars, and as Alex says, “These guys show why they’re stars.” Entertaining. Thrilling. Titillating. Suspenseful. And deep down homoerotically satisfying.

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Get ready for impact