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

The Power of Purple

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Zip Zarella and Royce Perry bring the house down in Ringwars 26

You know how my heart beats harder in my chest when I get my first glance at a newbie. It’s all promise and potential at that point. In the opening moments of a debut, there’s as much my imagination of what could be at play as what is. For a little while, I can (and do, I guarantee you) overlay any homoerotic wrestling fantasy character over top of the initial impressions laid down by muscles and proportions and skin tone and hair and eyes and gear and vocal inflection. Not being cocky or anything, but I’d estimate 7 times out of 10 the fantasy I imagine for a brand-spanking newbie is more titillating than the reality. Newbies are typically a little rawer, more awkward, with less ring presence and focus on the combat narrative than they will be if they get promoted to sophomore status. But those 3 times out of 10, newbies wow me. They sell me. Occasionally, they even surprise me, surpassing my expectations and even hopes. So you can just imagine what a unique thrill it is to experience a double debut in which both newbies own it. The sensational final match on BG East’s recently released Ringwars 26 is just that, tossing the most rare combination of two newbies with the looks, the character development, and the ring skills to far surpass my hopes.

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Defiantly pretty Royce Perry

Alex already reviewed this match, and he pretty transparently signals that between Zip Zarella and Royce Perry, blond, blue eyed, mocha tanned Royce is his rookie crush.  I can totally see it. Fuck, this boy is so ridiculously pretty. Royce’s ass could very well be an early front runner for top contender spot with Kid Karisma by year’s end. And right out of the gate, he’s cocky, with astonishingly deep ring skills to back it up. He instantly crawls under his bro’s skin with a contemptuous smirk at Zip’s purple trunks. I’m not entirely sure what Royce’s hang up is with the purple trunks.  Maybe there’s a “purple is for sissies” implication, but it’s blessedly left unspoken. More likely, it’s just one young, ring-savvy pro wrestler getting under the skin of his competition with a bit of random hypercritical capriciousness.

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“Your arms are so big!” “Don’t I know it!”

It seems to work for Royce, at least early days. Zip is initially, verbally on the defensive about his choice of trunks. Having been psychologically knocked back on his heels, Royce opens up a magnificently brutal beat down. Damn, this kid looks like a Top Gun fighter pilot, he’s so insanely poised and steady. He latches hold on the advantage with speed and certainty, grinding gorgeous Zip to his knees with a wristlock before smoothly transitioning to a temple grinding side headlock. He yanks Zip around by his hair unselfconsciously and cinches tight a rear naked choke. “I… I can barely breathe!” Zip gasps. “Your arms are so big!” Royce doesn’t skip a beat. “Don’t I know it,” he replies. “The ladies love them.” After this match is over, I guarantee you the gentlemen do as well, Royce.

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“All day. Every day.”

Royce’s cockiness and viciousness are really, really expertly developed. Brutal bodyscissors. Insulting slaps to the face. He ties Zip’s muscled arms into the ring ropes and reigns down chops and kicks to his tattooed pecs. “You’re a monster!” Zip snarls bitterly, clearly rethinking if what started as a good natured bro-down about the color of his trunks was a fucking seriously wrong turn in his life choices. Royce drives down vicious, pelting elbow drops, one after another drilling into Zip’s sternum. Pausing to flex his dangerously pretty biceps, Royce smirks, “All day. Every day.”

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This much pretty has got to hurt.

I so get it. Royce dishes up about 5 times the personality and 20 times the expertly sold pro offense of any newbie I can recall at this particular moment. His cornfed Midwestern boy heads to Cali to become a surfer stud look is insanely hot. He’s a headliner with a destiny for greatness, clearly. And yet, if forced to choose which of these delightful newbies I’d want to be cornerman for more, I’ve just got to say, I’m team Zip Zarella.

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Hand me the baby oil!

I’m sure the tats play into the complex formula of why it is I’d kick Royce to the curb for a chance to give Zip a baby oil soaked muscle rub down. Pretty much every time I mention tats, I get comments from guys who categorically hate them. Which I respect the hell out of. And completely disagree with.  Zip’s pec tats are ballsy and beautiful. They signal that this kid can fully commit. As dazzlingly pretty as Royce is, he’s white bread next to Zip’s gorgeous, illustrated muscles. It’s most definitely not only the ink that holds my attention on Zip’s body, despite the pretty pin-up boy strutting and smirking his way around the ring next to him. But for me, the tats are definitely value added.

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Zip’s had just about enough.

And when Zip finally has enough of getting his sensationally hot ass bullied around the ring by this pretty boy sadist, I discover a couple dozen more reasons to be instantly infatuated with him. All of that pent up frustration from getting owned and humiliated the first five minutes or so power Zip up to absolutely ring Royce out in an exquisitely long bearhug. Royce collapses to the mat, and Zip smoothly goes down with him, maintaining every last ounce of pressure.  Sure, he probably wants to even the score. Zip surely wants to defend those purple trunks that got this whole thing started. But suddenly Zip reveals what he really wants most of all. “Scream!” he demands, rearranging Royce’s internal organs. “Fucking SCREAM!”

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“I’m going to tear you limb from limb, and look good doing it!”

Just like Royce, Zip is Top Gun cocky and steady on the joystick. He slides seamlessly into a full nelson, mounting Royce’s back, pulling him up off the mat, and then slamming him face first into the canvas. “Right where I want you, you little monkey bitch!” Royce is bitter and furious on the receiving end, but Zip starts to sort of transcend the brawl. This hunk is an artist, people. “I’m going to tear you limb from limb…” he growls, “and look good doing it.” Holy shit. This “newbie” gets the very heart of homoerotic pro wrestling.

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“Fucking SCREAM!”

Like Alex, I was a little surprised that the obvious talents of these two phenomenal rookies turns on basically just that one plot twist. Royce rides roughshod for the first five minutes, and then Zip fucks him up relentlessly for the rest of the time. These two could easily have told a much more suspenseful tale. Personally, I choose to interpret the simplistic narrative as indication that Zip just fucking would not be denied after sucking on that mouthful of humiliation shoved down his throat for the first 5 minutes of his introduction to BG East fans. I know, I know. I’m sure it’s much less transparent, but as for me, I like to believe that Zip really is just that much meaner, stronger, and more vicious. He just fucking wanted it more, so when he was supposed to pass the baton back, the sensationally handsome devil just left Royce hanging there.

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Zip is too hot to handle

Those repeated face plants into the top turnbuckle drive me nuts. Both hunks sell them like seasoned pros. They hurt just watching them, but at the same time, trying to pound the pretty right off of Royce’s mug is just so sensationally right. Zip has his way with the blond beauty, long after he’s evened the score. He drops his knee repeatedly across Royce’s throat until the smart ass surfer can’t respond when Zip tauntingly asks, “Got anything else to say?” He doesn’t even stop when he’s sleepered the bronzed beefcake out cold. He just slaps him around until Royce rouses again (barely) and then torments and taunts him, pretend arm wrestling, fucking owning his dazed and confused hot self just for kicks.

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Zip is out to make an impression on BG East fans (by way of Royce’s throat)

Honestly, choosing favorites between two instant rock stars like Zip and Royce is next level shit. My recommendation is just to leave these things to the professional bloggers like me and Alex who have nothing better to do with our time than obsess over homoerotic wrestling new releases and catalog and evaluate every last inch of detail. Because the real winner here at the end of Ringwars 26 is BG East fans. These guys are high class, dazzlingly hot, and you can’t really go wrong popping one (or twenty) with your eyes fixed on either one of them. The distinctions between them are superficial and practically (if not statistically) insignificant.

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The winner is clear

Though BG East did opt to make my favorite, Zip, their Catalog 117.1 coverboy, relegating Royce’s flowing blond locks, perfect skin, square jaw and button nose to get buried under submenus. Team Zip clearly got the best of this magnificent double debut.

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#TeamZip!

Homoerotic Wrestler of the Month

I have my favorites. We all do. I openly admit that I sat down to savor a particular gem fully expecting a favorite of mine to grab the title as homoerotic wrestler of the month. Yet, despite myself, despite my fully confessed biases, despite my lustful adoration of my pre-chosen favorite every second of the way, it was his opponent who grabbed me by the chin, demanded eye contact, and shockingly took the title with an annoying smirk and a wink. When it comes to who turned me on hardest in a new release in January, I sort of hate to say it, but it ended up being…

 

 

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Jake.

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Laugh it up, bully boy

I got a complimentary copy of Battlespace 91 from Thunder’s with a note saying that it wasn’t selling well, and Mr. Mike wondered if I could take a look and tell why. Well, I got off on it, so clearly I enjoyed it. However, I can’t find it listed anywhere on Thunder’s any longer, not under Jake, nor Scrappy, nor in the Battlespace listings.  Since I can’t find it, and can’t actually give you a link to it now, this review probably won’t help sales. Sorry Mr. Mike.

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Scrappy gets served on a platter

However, it did grab me by the balls in entirely unexpected ways. I know that it sounds paradoxical when I say it, but I HATE Jake! Yes, he’s my pick for homoerotic wrestler of the month, but as I watch this match, I just keep mumbling to myself, “I HATE that guy!” First of all, the name. How many fucking “Jakes” are there in homoerotic wrestling, and this guy decides to go Cher on us and claim that as his one and only wrestling-as name? The fucking balls on this kid.

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Best Bulge contender any year

And, right there, is the first strong, compelling argument to explain why, despite my intense antipathy, I can’t help myself but admit that Jake turned my crank hardest. This kid’s pouch is packed and, I swear to the homoerotic wrestling gods, excited. Fuck, put him in contention for best bulge of the year, people! I tucked in to lap up Scrappy’s magnificent ass, but kept getting distracted by Jake’s mammoth bulge.

 

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Scrappy suffers, Jake keeps laughing it up

I also hate him, and, at the same time, can’t help but be turned on by him, because he’s such a fucking bully. Now I’ve complained when matches turn too much into bully-fests. When it’s so one sided, so taunting and brutal, I actually get turned off. But this is fucking Scrappy we’re talking about here. Scrappy keeps this totally legit. I don’t feel sorry for Scrappy. In fact, despite my fully avowed crush on watching Scrappy in the driver’s seat, Jake somehow turns me on that much harder watching him own the Scrap-meister. And Jake taunts and smirks. He laughs like a slightly unhinged early edition Joker. He flexes mid-hold, easily keeping Scrappy all buttoned up while Jake amuses himself and eye fucks the camera, giving us a smarmy wink and big, gap-toothed grin. He literally gives Scrappy a noogie.  A fucking noogie. I so hate this son of a bitch, AND fuck it all, he’s turning me on sensationally hard demolishing one of my favorites.

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Jake’s like a poor man’s Aryx Quinn.  I don’t actually believe that, but I’ll say it just to piss Jake off. His body is fucking rocking, and he’s ripped and lush like Aryx on his best days, frankly. He’s not as smooth a trash talker, but he’s as enthusiastic and domineering and manages to deliver just enough strokes of Scrappy’s magnificent boy next door body to make all of his bro-down badassness (e.g., when Scrappy asks where he learned to wrestle so well, Jake smirks back, “In your mom’s bedroom”) sweetly erotic.

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Have I mentioned how much I hate Jake?  I suppose right there is the other most compelling argument for why he’s my new homoerotic wrestler of the month. He provokes me. A lot. I have instant and intense opinions about his character. I am no longer just rooting for Scrappy to win because I fucking love Scrappy pitching, but because I fucking ache to see Jake’s smart ass grin rubbed off his face, preferably across Scrappy’s gorgeous backside. Scrappy delivers a few tasty moments on offense.  There’s a strong hit of choreography about them, like honestly, Jake could easily have fucked him over, but behind the camera they knew I would have bitched and moaned about it being too much of a bully session. But, whatever. when Scrappy hoists Jake up into a full nelson and shakes him around, making all that pendulous junk swing and bounce, I literally cheer out loud. Because I hate this fucker. Have I mentioned that?

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And ultimately, that’s the sign of a fantastic pro wrestler, in my estimation. Jake provokes me. He’s a smart, gorgeous, ripped, fucking annoying villain, and the tension that brings to this relatively antiseptic garage mat match at Thunder’s is everything. Well, Scrappy suffering, selling it, is also everything. But I just had no idea that Jake had it in him to look that good, and make Scrappy look so tasty, and to crawl right up under my skin and drive me fucking nuts like that. Well played, poor man’s Aryx Quinn. Well played.

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Jake aka the Poor Man’s Aryx Quinn – Homoerotic Wrestler of the Month, January 2017

Muscle and Class

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Mark Muscle is hard to ignore

Clearly I’m not the only one who was instantly infatuated with Mark Muscle. His popularity has ended up getting him featured spots on Wrestler4Hire, Muscle Domination Wrestling, and Thunder’s Arena. As far as I can tell, his initial recruitment is credited to Cameron at W4H, where they describe Mark as 6’4″, 255 pounds, and 28 years old. Fuck, I love numbers. If you don’t, let me just give you some words: huge. Gargantuan. Ripped. Muscle giant.

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Cheeky

Clearly the kid is a bodybuilder. That fact alone lowers my expectation for watching him wrestle. Unless you’re Lon Dumont (who, let’s face it, was a pro wrestler first, then a bodybuilder, then a pro wrestler again), if you’re a bodybuilder, you likely suffer from limited flexibility, a dearth of wrestling skills, and you probably sell like shit. However, put someone like Austin Cooper in the ring with him, and my expectations suddenly spike. Because Austin is one of the most experienced homoerotic wrestlers across multiple promotions, on the mats, in the ring, and in my fondest erotic wrestling fantasies. Austin lends instant class to what could be a beautiful beefcake yawnfest of a pro wrestling match. W4H tosses these two remarkably different gladiators into the ring, and I’m eager to sample the goods.

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Mark is a fan pleaser

First, let me reiterate. Mark is HUGE. His brief black gear is probably an expansive square cut, but on his outsized physique, it almost looks like a posing strap. His muscled ass cheeks don’t come close to being covered. He’s darkly bronzed and dazzlingly beautiful. And as if in a nod to my recent comments about straight guys never turning their backs to the camera, Mark slowly and seductively gives us a straight on view of his magnificent backside, generously, slowly flexing what I think is his most intoxicating and very best side of an all-around sensational body.

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Austin is dwarfed

When Austin arrives, he doesn’t try to disguise the stark contrast between them.  He comically hops into the air to try to give a valid side by side comparison of their double biceps. “Just give me a couple of more years,” Austin protests the unflattering comparison, as if he’s the younger brother aspiring to grow into the man-boy next to him. “You’ll need more than that,” Mark smirks. Namely, a geneticist with bone and muscle growth technology not yet invented, because Austin isn’t going to just “grow into” being 6’4″ and 255 pounds of ripped muscle mass. Mark is a genetic anomaly. A mouthwateringly gorgeous one, but an anomaly, nevertheless.

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Mark kisses his bicep, easily overpowering two-handed Austin

It’s Austin’s idea that they should arm wrestle.  WTF, Austin?  Did you not see the size of this behemoth!? But, it’s a legitimate contest. They’re both working it, because let’s face it, they’re both incredibly built specimens. Austin’s huge right bicep is mouthwateringly luscious, straining against the giant. But come on, people! Mark overpowers the veteran handily.  Austin even tries to use both arms at the end. No love. He’d be humiliated, if it weren’t for the fact that the seasoned pro rolls around and mounts the slow, stunned genetic masterpiece before Mark realizes what’s going on.

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Mark sells an ankle hold with that face

As I’d figured, Austin brings about 90% of the wrestling narrative. In the beginning, Mark just repeatedly outmuscles him and tosses him across the ring. When Mark pulls him to the mat in a sloppy rear naked choke, no shit, Austin’s lush, thick muscles are nearly swallowed whole by the bronze beast wrapped all around him. Then Mark lets go with one hand so that he can smirk at the camera and flex his bicep for us again.  Honestly, the other hand mostly just rests on Austin’s huge left pec. There’s not really a hold anymore, because the muscle rookie is crowd-pleasing. Rather than try to sell a product that just isn’t there any longer, Austin slips free like the experienced pro he is and climbs on board to (attempt to) power those 255 pounds of Mark’s into a camel clutch. Fucking rookies.

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Mark showboats incessantly

I do like that Mark is explicitly here to be gazed upon by adoring gay fans. Like I said, he shows his glorious backside generously.  He flexes for the camera repeatedly, clearly too often in fact, because Austin keeps taking advantage of the distraction. But I don’t exactly begrudge those moments of watching Mark Muscle flex his gargantuan biceps and slowly, salaciously lick and suck at them. He strokes the palms of his huge hands slowly across his pecs, down his abs, over the huge, bulging beef of his quads. He’s not the first muscle narcissist that I’ve forgiven for letting the wrestling side of the story go slack, but he very well could be the biggest.

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Penetrating the impenetrable defenses of Mark Muscle

About a third of the way in, and Austin hasn’t seriously, successfully laid a hand on the giant. They’ve tussled back and forth, mind you, but the story has been all about Mark’s magnificent physique. I worry, momentarily, whether this could be the entire story: seasoned pro squashed by such superior muscle mass (and nothing else). Austin’s breathtaking ball rack from behind signals that there’s a significantly more complex narrative about to unfold. Even as Mark crumples the 6’4 inches to the ground in a heap of beautiful, gorgeously desconstructed muscle, Austin saddles up and takes the reins, and I’m instantly fully engaged in this drama.

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Scream, bitch

If you’re a fan of either of these guys, or of rookie wrecking, or of muscle on muscle, or big versus ginormous, watch this match.  Austin does some fucking incredible things with a muscled body as huge as Mark Muscle’s. Mark submits to a seriously jeopardizing arm bar. And to a bow and arrow. And to a sensationally intimate crotch-pillow figure-4 choke. The last submission is phenomenal. I usually don’t get quite so turned on by an abdominal stretch.  I like the hold, mind you, but as a submission, it isn’t one of the more exciting or titillating. But watching Austin manage to use every inch of his 5’9″ body to muscle massive Mark Muscle into a legitimate, jeopardizing abdominal stretch (ropes aided, albeit), is pretty incredible human sculpture. When big Mark refuses to submit at first, Austin digs his knuckles into the giant’s ribs, and Mark starts whimpering and wailing and choking into an all out humiliated submission.

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Choke on the humiliation!

The biggest surprise here, however, are those whimpers and wails and choking tears of Mark. It’s a little rookie-ham-handed at first. He awkwardly narrates “Oh, my pecs, you’re hurting my pecs,” when Austin is slapping on a nasty looking armbar, for example. First of all, it’s your elbow that’s being threatened with getting snapped off. And, yeah, a literal accounting of the body parts that are hurting seems a little less than a genuine sell.

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Taming the beast

But bless him, Mark starts to fucking suffer! Again, I credit the class that Austin is bringing here, but credit where due, Mark ramps up the intensity between light groaning to panicked screams to gasping, shocked whimpers.  It’s those whimpers. Fuck! A muscled specimen like this, who absolutely dwarfs his competition, with the biggest, most ripped muscle physique I think I’ve ever seen (definitely in a ring), whimpering… fuuuuuck, that’s hot. The big man sounds like he’s on the verge of honest tears, and I absolutely fucking love him for it. I believe his vulnerability. I believe his humiliation. I believe every magnificent inch of him just got owned by a handsome hunk well over half a foot shorter and upwards of 80 pounds lighter.

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Coop classes up the place

“Austin Coop, the champ,” Coop sneers, flashing us a double bicep as he flex pins a 3 count to drive home the total humiliation.  Officially, I say Mark Muscle still has a boatload of learning and practicing to do before I’ll even start calling him a homoerotic pro wrestler. Learn some more holds, you magnificent beast you. Bodyslam some lucky punk, for gods’ sakes, you’re 6’4″ tall!!! Bounce some devastatingly handsome face off of a turnbuckle, at the very least. But, in the mean time, stick close and take notes from harsh taskmasters like Austin Cooper.

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Keep showing your best side

And keep showing off that spectacular muscled ass of yours.

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Weep!!!

And cry for us like a sniveling bitch, on your hands and knees. Whimper, just right. That’ll cash a whole lot of checks that your rookie wrestling skills (or lack of) couldn’t back up. Until they can.