Category: Uncategorized

Dream Come True – Part 1

wrestlebard4 Comments

You know how they say that you should never meet your heroes? Well, whoever it is who says that, fuck them. Because I met mine, and it was spectacular. Meeting Scott Williams has been on my bucket list just about as long as I’ve been watching homoerotic wrestling videos. In order not to bury the lead, I’ll just say here that I can now check that off my list. I’ve been processing this for days now, thinking about what to say about it. I’ve got just SO fucking much running through my head, so this will NOT fit into one blog post. You’ll have to cope with the suspense, or check back in tomorrow to read this and part 2 back-to-back.

Scott Williams – Promotional Image for BG East’s Ultra Fight 2

I can’t be sure, but I believe that the first time I referred to Scott Williams (in print, anyway) as “the man of my dreams” was when I interviewed Shane McCall about 9 years ago. I’d been thinking it, though, from the moment I first caught sight of him in promotional material for Ultra Fight Two, probably at least 10 years prior to that, and then I studiously collected everything I could get my hands on with Scott in it. His body, his face, his attitude, everything about him just rubs me the right way. It’s borderline criminal that his entire BG East catalog contains only 4 matches (not counting that Spartans wrestling club release with Scott and Shane as babies, that I wish I could put my hands on again). I regularly run into wrestling fans similarly fixated on Scott’s hotness from just those 4 matches. When that happens, I promptly remind them that Scott deserves all the accolades, but I’m the undisputed president of his fan club. Don’t even try to test me on that, boys. I will beat you down mercilessly. Just sayin’.

Shane McCall (left) and Scott Williams backstage at BG East’s Wrestling with Pride 1

I’m not certain of when Scott first started commenting here on the blog, but I do know that I named it as my favorite blogging moment of 2015 when Scott sent me well-wishes in a comment to a post that year. In response to my lustful musings about whether he still wrestles, Scott assured me that he’s “still keeping in shape and wrestling privately here in Boston and when I travel…always will love it and will always make you proud on the mats or in the ring!” I melted when I read it. And then did again and again, when Scott continued to chime in over the last several years with his perspective on my reviews, sharing his opinions about new wrestlers, and reflecting on the homoerotic wrestling industry in general.

Scott with Shane McCall (center) and Brad Rochelle (right) at Wrestling with Pride 1

My longstanding simmering crush on Scott took an unexpectedly hot turn in 2017. There’s a slightly complex drama that I’ve documented elsewhere that led up to me receiving what might be the hottest surprise gift I never expected, namely a video of Ty Alexander working over Scott in private in a brutally merciless camel clutch, using the man of my dreams to challenge me to face Ty in a wrestling match. In the video, Ty just calmly trash talks me, as Scott whimpers and wails, submitting over and over as the Trophy Boy ignores him. The idea of Scott suffering because Ty knows how infatuated I am with him… fuck, that was fucking hot (sorry Scott/not sorry)!

A still from Ty’s torture of Scott, using the man-of-my-dreams to send me a message

I shamelessly appealed directly to Scott in May of 2020, penning a blog post addressed specifically to him, in which I asked him to weigh in on the hottest headscissors in the business, other than his. Honestly, we all had a lot going on around May of 2020, right? Well, Scott didn’t just reply, he broke down some of the science and aesthetics of punishing headscissors in just such a way that I immediately made a public commitment to never skip leg day again (which, no joke, I’ve pretty much kept!). In a follow up post, I concluded, “…if there’s ever a chance that someday I can slide Scott’s head between my quads, I’m determined to be ready to pack on enough pounds per square inch to make the man of my dreams gasp out at least 10 h’s.” In literature, we refer to that as foreshadowing.

Scott demonstrating his punishing headscissors in BG East’s Matmen 15.

Fast forward to my New Year’s Eve post just 6 months ago, when suddenly things heated up super fast. Having long teased me in his comments about the possibility of the two of us squaring off, suddenly Scott declared that 2023 was the year it would happen. Light trash talk ensued, in which I walked the fine line of reiterating how fucking hot I think Scott is, while at the same time speculating about the possibility of adding some of his tears to my treasured homoerotic wrestling souvenirs when he’s tapping out in my headscissors. Yeah, yeah, I know. Big talk from a very inexperienced wrestling fan. But, fuck it all, I love it when a plan comes together, because… holy shit, I’m writing this because it actually happened… I got to wrestle Scott the-man-of-my-dreams Williams!

Me, not skipping leg day

And it was perfection. Not to totally blow his cover, because fans know how much Scott likes to posture and growl and taunt like a tough guy, but he was incredibly considerate as we figured out schedules. Sure, sure, he repeatedly dropped in taunts implying that any scheduling conflicts on my part were just fear-based excuses. And, yeah, he relentlessly predicted that he’d handle me and my quads without breaking a sweat. But seriously, Scott fans back me up here: that’s just par for the course, right? In the meantime, I’ve been working out like a man possessed for the past 6 months in the hopes that this whole thing would actually go down. And, holy shit, just a few days ago… it did.

Not my face, but 100% my expression standing next to Scott.

In case you’re new to the blog or you don’t read the comments, you’re now pretty well caught up with how I found myself standing face-to-face with Scott Williams. Well, face-to-gorgeously-hairy-pecs, considering Scott is significantly taller than I am. Honestly, I’d have donated a kidney just for an autograph, but no, all of that trash talk back and forth sent this careening in the only direction that it possibly could go. I was standing in nothing but briefs and a shit-eating grin in front of the wrestler who makes my heart skip a beat unlike any other.

Holy. Fuck. This is happening!

So that’s part 1 of my story of meeting the man of my dreams. I’ll persist in combing through the jumble of excitement and reflections on the experience of meeting and wrestling him, and continue the narrative tomorrow. Suffice it to say, for now, I keep pausing in the middle of doing other stuff and ask myself, “Holy shit, did that really happen!?” Happily for me, I have photographic evidence that it did, and happily for you, Scott has given me unrestricted permission to share the pics and talk about the whole thing here. Unhappily for me, it just occurred to me that I forgot to actually get an autograph (fuckfuckfuck). But what I got is a thousand times better…

Je Ne Sais Quoi

wrestlebard3 Comments

BG East just dropped Catalog 169, and it’s full of exciting new matches and several new faces joining long-time favorites of mine. I immediately took a shine to the newbie babyface, so proudly from Canada, Mickey Knoxx, debuting in Jobberpaloozer 22.

This will sound like bullshit, but I’m going say it, and I absolutely mean it. The first thing about Mickey that entrances me are his eyes. They’re dazzlingly pretty, like impossibly so. Some joker who wrote the match description for the website calls them “piercingly ice blue,” but I’m not even sure if that’s right. They’re fluorescent gray somehow, but I don’t think that’s a physical possibility. Does he have white irises!? Is that anatomically possible? Fuck. I can’t stop staring at his eyes. And, fuck, yes, I’m the joker that wrote that match description, so I’ve been mulling this question over for a while now.

Okay, to say that I can’t stop staring at his eyes is, actually, bullshit. I definitely start with being riveted by his eyes, but, yeah, pretty quickly I’m staring at his ass. It’s a really, really beautiful ass. I’m not the only one who thinks so. In stars and stripes trunks, representing the classic American lack of even the barest wisp of cultural humility, even uber-patriotic Chase Addams confesses “You’ve got an ass that wants to make me sing ‘O Ca-na-da!” He drives home the point by spanking Mickey’s cheeks with each syllable, while our neighbor from the north is strung up helplessly in the ropes. Fuck, I get that, Chase. That is a spankable ass!

To start this match, Mickey is just exploring the place he’s long longed to be, BG East. Chase is already in the ring, nursing a little bitterness from being stood up for an earlier scheduled match. It all starts out remarkably cordial; so much so, that I start to wonder if these two are going to wrestle or just walk off arm in arm to grab a beer together. The first spark of heat is struck when Mickey, unsolicited, offers his opinion that he brings a certain “je ne sais quoi” factor to contribute to the BG East bench. “Someone’s got beginner’s ego,” Chase chides him, seemingly bristling at the French language. “Calm down there, Mr. Canada.”

The spark erupts into a full-blown wildfire (BTW, sending my best to all of you Canadian firefighters), around the time that Chase declares that the only worthwhile Canadian contribution to the arts is Celine Dion. Mickey asks, incredulously, “Celine Dion?! I hate her.” Somewhat hilariously, Chase is visibly offended, in defense of Celine. “She’s a national treasure,” he insists. Mickey snorts derisively and snarks back, “More like national trash.”

A legitimately hot shoving match sets off Chase, who unleashes 25 minutes of what Chase does best. Always innovating new ways to crush, cripple, and humiliate an opponent, woe betide the unlucky international visitor who finds his hot ass in Chase’s sights. Mickey munches on a lush, long dragon sleeper, with his face buried in Chase’s armpit, that shows off the newbie to perfection while demonstrating the veteran’s total command of his opponent’s body. Chase is fucking cruel when he gets on a roll, and he steamrolls right over hot bodied Mickey. Knees to the gut (and lower) repeatedly drop Mickey to all fours, only to be dragged back up by his ears a second later, to do it all over again. Mickey spends a boatload of time on his knees, staring at Chase’s crotch, struggling to catch his breath, teetering, dizzy on the brink of collapsing to the mat in a heap, and reconsidering a whole lot of life choices that led up to this relentless, soul crushing rookie wrecking.

Everything is classic Chase, from the expansive use of every corner of the ring, every rope, every turnbuckle to heap on piles of crushing punishment, to the speed-up/slow-down whiplash pacing of his blinding speed interspersed with long, lingering, luxuriously held holds. And Mickey sells like he’s been doing this for years. He rides that edge of helpless whimpers and blinding panic in a way that grabs me hard. There’s this almost betrayed tinge to his grunts and groans, as if he’s bitterly thinking “It wasn’t supposed to be like this,” as his dreams of taking BG East by storm come crashing spectacularly down around him. Like every babyface hero, his demolition is a brutal object lesson, disabusing him of the notion of justice. Ignore the brochures, Mickey. The U.S. is not the meritocracy we like to pretend it is. You didn’t deserve any of the insane punishment Chase doled out to you, and yet, that’s exactly what you got. Fuck clean breaks and fair play and Canadian nice.

Leaping off the top turnbuckle with Mickey in a headlock, Chase plants that handsome face into the mat in a decisive bull dog that finally puts the rookie out of his misery… at least until he wakes up and realizes he’s still stuck on the wrong side of the Peach Arch. And I totally agree with Chase’s (albeit sarcastic) assessment of the newbie, as he’s covering the sleeping canuck with an American-themed pride flag. “I think you’re going to do great at BG, kid!”

“You look great”

wrestlebardLeave a comment

I often wonder how much organization is churning away behind the scenes at BG East. I enjoyed getting to be on site during one of the weekend shoots several years ago, as a dozen or so hot wrestlers all descended on the BG East headquarters to squeeze in as much sizzlingly sexy wrestling as possible over a few days. Hot guys were everywhere I turned. There was wrestling happening somewhere all the time, often more than one match being recorded at the same time in different venues. And when they didn’t have the cameras pointed at them, there were idle wrestlers everywhere, in the kitchen, down on the dock, watching television, napping in the sunroom. It was so fucking busy, with so much eye candy everywhere, I quickly suffered from whiplash and a raging sugar high.

So it wouldn’t exactly surprise me if the oft-used premise for a match, that two wrestlers showed up to warm up and practice in a temporarily unclaimed spot in the compound, actually happens. A lot. That’s the premise for Ring Rookies 6, when Forrest Taylor walked into the ring room, expecting to find it empty, but instead found Jack Norwood already warming up in the ring. It was Forrest’s second release from BG East, and his first time stepping foot into the ring. It was Jack’s debut, and as of this posting, his only released match. So this was, indeed, a classic ring rookies set-up.

“Excuse me! Who are you? I reserved the ring for this time,” Forrest bitches immediately. “I got here first,” Jack snaps coldly with a sneer. I like the look of Jack. He has that combination of a pristine, pretty face and a hot, meaty body that works wonders for me. He also possesses chill confidence, to the point of being downright cold. He suggests that they can settle who gets to stay in the ring room by wrestling for it. With a whopping one match already under his belt, Forrest is way cocky and quick to accept the challenge. And in the opening flurry of action, fuck, Forrest looks like he was born in a wrestling ring! He breaks a collar and elbow lockup with a sharp knee to Jack’s gut, before scooping the newbie up in a full nelson. The red-headed lumberjack swings him around in the full nelson, letting centrifugal force add brutal pressure to his hands cranking on the back of Jack’s neck. He flings the newbie into a corner and punches the living fuck out of Jack’s tightly muscle, flat abdomen. “I told you to leave when you had the chance,” Forrest snarls with an evil grin.

Regular readers know I always enjoy a hotly contested, competitive match, and that’s what Jack and Forrest deliver. They both possess a curious quality of cocky confidence bordering on ring savvy, considering they’ve reportedly not battled it out in the ring before. But they both obviously have wrestling experience behind them. Jack delivers a snap mare that absolutely no rookie has a right to. Just when Forrest is crawling up to his hands and knees, shaken hard, Jack snaps his thick thighs around the red-head’s lean waist and squeezes. Forrest refuses to submit, even while he’s struggling for air. As the “rookie” Jack starts to roll them around the ring by the body scissors, Forrest wails and writhes like a fish on a hook. He desperately tries to pry apart Jack’s crushing legs, but the rookie’s smooth, rock hard quads are like a steel padlock, going absolutely nowhere.

Both ring rookies score submissions, and they both gloat big time. Forrest lays into Jack’s meaty pecs like a terrier with a bone, ripping, stretching, punching and prying them all over the ring. “Go ahead and quit,” Forrest demands with a smirk, working to rip Jack’s head off his neck with a chinlock while punching the muscle kid’s pecs a deep cherry red, until he finally submits,”Okay, okay!!!”

“You like that,” Forrest asks, catching Jack eye fucking him as he’s flexing his sweet, petite round guns in gloating victory. “You look great,” Jack admits on his hands and knees, staring unblinkingly at Forrest’s big tartan bulge swinging in front of his face. Then he’s laughing like a supervillain after he’s delivered an uppercut to Forrest’s balls, dropping the red-headed hunk to his knees hard. Once Jack notices how fucking pissed it makes Forrest to drag him around by his hair, he does it pretty much non-stop. The red-head gives away a submission to an abdominal stretch, a century into getting his alabaster abs pummeled hot, hot red.

I like the attitudes. I like the bodies. A lot. I like the suspense of two snarling, evenly matched, fresh and ferocious fighters wringing each other out, demonstrating both their potential to dish it out and take it. We’ve seen a lot (literally) of smoking hot Forrest since then, and I, for one, am down for seeing a lot more of him (in all senses of the phrase). I think it’s surely time to see Jack’s hot, muscled bod and cocky, calculated chill back in action, too.

The winner trusses his beaten rival up in the ropes, cooing in the loser’s ear as he bears down on a lovely sleeper. “I guess we both got to use the ring,” the preening, flexing victor monologues, his eyes admiring his own hot body on display with his vanquished rival slack and helpless behind him. “But we know who the winner is.”

You’re gonna catch a beatin’, brothah!

wrestlebard1 Comment

Back in the good old days, before streaming, before DVDs, there were things called “VHS tapes.” I know for a fact some of you young’uns are a little blurry on this point in homoerotic wrestling history. One of the things we’ve given up with the awesome leaps in technology and convenience that have transformed gay wrestling over the past 30 years or so is the extra tape at the end of a standard VHS tape. BG East used to record trailers for other products, that you’d find when you reached the end of the matches that you purchased. You can find these (and more recent ones) in the Arena now, but there was something sort of magical about not knowing what you were going to find at the end of those tapes. However much tape was left, you’d get these tantalizing little clips of products you didn’t buy, but maybe now you will buy. It’s just capitalism, but I swear, sometimes I keyed off at least as much on those trailers as the matches I just bought.

That’s how Zack Coleman and Brian Barnes first came across my radar. They caught my eye in a trailer for the inaugural Tag Team Torture. And honestly, it takes a lot to grab my attention in that collection, because fuck, the other two matches on that tape are deliriously hot. But even more “fuck,” tag team partners Zack and Brian are off the charts hot! So yeah, of course I bought that. I don’t think I’ve ever reviewed that match, though, but I thought, before I do, I’d review the only other match these two stunning hotties appeared in, namely Fantasymen 17, where they wrestled against one another before teaming up.

Zack and Brian’s faces appear in the dictionary under the definition of babyfaces. They look so fresh and pretty, in different ways from one another, but each perfectly babyfaced. Brian is adorable, somehow even more adorable with a few edgy tats and his nipple rings. He’s ripped, too. His washboard abs would steal the show if it weren’t for two things. The first thing that competes with his abs is his huge, pendulous package. At least 5 pounds of his 155 lbs have got to accounted for by the heft in his pouch. There are moments when he’s wriggling and writhing and bridging high off that mat, and it’s just breathtaking!

The other thing that draws the eye away from Brian’s phenomenally ripped abs is Zack Coleman. Holy. Fuck. This boy is dazzling! If I’m introducing you to Zack in this post, first of all, you’re welcome, and second, I’m sorry to report that this superhuman specimen appeared in only these two matches (Fantasyman 17 and Tag Team Torture 1). He’s reportedly 6′ and 195 lbs, and he’s ripped… to… shreds. He’s fucking gorgeous in a way that I’m struggling to find the words to convey. More than gorgeous, he’s so sizzlingly sexy. He just watches as Brian warms up by doing amateur wrestling drills, sliding and hopping and twisting and bouncing around. And then Zack pushes himself away from the wall, fills the mat room with his gargantuan shoulders, and does a front bend in which he folds himself in half, stretching the backs of his legs like a fucking yoga master. “That’s a nice stretch,” Brian snarls, “but it doesn’t mean nothing but that you can look pretty on the mat. Anybody can be flexible.” But, fuck, no Brian. Not anyone can be that flexible, and no one with as much thickly draped muscle mass as Zack can just be that flexible!

The size difference is striking. And hot. Zack towers almost a half a foot over Brian, and I believe the 40 pounds of weight advantage that the BG East website reports. “Someday, you can grow up and be big like me,” Zack taunts, flexing his huge, peaked biceps. “My calves are bigger than your whole legs,” he brags, but it’s not really bragging when it’s objectively, verifiably, obviously fact, right? Fuck. “Weight don’t mattah,” Brian snarls at one point. Zack’s Boston accent, swallowing his ending “r’s” even thicker, makes him that much sexier when he smirks back, “You’ll grow up someday, brothah.”

The wrestling is hot and surprisingly hotly contested. Both of these hunks clearly have extensive amateur wrestling experience. They’re fast and they’re decisive, sweeping legs, locking each other down, and exposing each other’s backs to the mat. About 10 minutes into the 30 minute match, it’s astonishingly competitive, and not in a roll my eyes and suspend disbelief kind of way. Brian is aggressive as fuck, and he takes it to the big man full throttle. He gets huge Zack down on the mat several times, and it’s damn impressive. Keeping him down on the mat, though? That’s another story. Zack is just too fucking big and too fucking strong. He repeatedly uses raw muscle and brute strength to escape and reverse, repeatedly climbing into the saddle on top of little Brian. And right there, that’s the entire story of this match, because Brian is having none of it, and he fights his way free with every ounce of strength and balance and flexibility. In short, he wears himself out.

As Brian is starting to huff and puff and suck down air, Zack gets cockier. The muscle man was tested in those first 10 minutes, but he can see exactly what we’re seeing: Brian burned through his reserves and he’s cooking on fumes. It organically turns into a sensationally sexy bully session, with big, gorgeous Zack absolutely manhandling his fiesty, full throttle little challenger. Several times, he swoops in from neutral, scoops Brian up in his huge arms, and flings him wall to wall across the mat. Sometimes he bothers to follow up and pin him, sometimes not. It’s not like it matters, because he is large and in charge and laughing and sneering at the fierce fucker who refuses to say die, even when he’s just getting crushed by 195 pounds pinning him effortlessly on the mat.

There are only a couple of editing breaks in the filming, so you can feel the heat rising in the room steadily. Zack is so contemptuous of Brian’s fading strength, that he voluntarily drops to the mat in the referee’s position, unsolicited. “Because, you ain’t got no chance, othawise,” he smirks, not looking back, with his top shelf ass waiting for Brian to do something. “Come on, bitch, mount that!,” he barks in irritation when Brian doesn’t immediately respond. Fuck, the pillow talk! Brian gives it everything he’s got left, which is enough to hold Zack in place about 1.3 seconds, before the muscle man escapes, taunting and sneering and flexing his perfect physique.

Zack revels in crushing Brian’s core in scissors. “Tell me when you give, you little bitch. Look at these quads!” Zack is milking the fight right out of Brian, knowing full well how stunning his outrageously hot physique is on display at every moment. He gets the little guy to submit a couple of times trapped between his sweaty thighs, and I could watch that happen again another dozen times and still be enthralled.

Brian’s got attitude, though. After giving away one whimpering submission trapped between Zack’s tree trunks, he audaciously challenges the muscle man to arm wrestle. It would be a transparent play for a low blow, if both of these bro-y guys weren’t so fucking earnest and ego-driven. But, yeah, Brian knew he was going to get crushed in that arm wrestling match, which is why he was poised to pounce on top of Zack and take advantage of the big man’s overconfidence. He pulls on his hair. He threatens to bite him. Fuck, when he rolls the coiled mountain of muscle up in a cradle pin, yanking the fuck out of Zack’s neck, it’s a super sweet submission the small guy earns sensationally.

So, yeah, there’s a lot of big on little bullying, but the intensity doesn’t let up for a second of the 30 minutes of this match. Brian is crushed and forced to grudgingly acknowledge he does NOT have what it takes to conquer the babyfaced beefcake flexing and flicking sweat down on him by the end. “You need an ambulance,” Zack asks, laughing heartily. Flat on his back, wasted and humiliated, Brian snarls petulantly, “You’re, like, twice the size of me!” So much for “Weight doesn’t mattah.”

I assume these two showed up on BG East’s doorstep together, because they’ve got buckets of chemistry in this sweat fest mat match, and the very next catalog they showed up in matching gear as a truly stunning babyface tag team. If this is all new to you, and I’m just now introducing you to these 2-hit wonder twins, don’t thank me. Thank VHS tapes!

Cultural Humility

wrestlebardLeave a comment

I’ve had my eye on Mason Brooks from his debut in Gazebo Grapplers 15 around 10 years ago. He’s so damn pretty and he wrestles smart. I love that combination. It’s been part of the package all along, but it feels like he’s grown meaner, snarkier, and more sadistic over time. Mason has always known how clever he is, but the longer he works his craft, he gets more and more condescending. I’m not sure exactly where it happened, but at some point he definitely veered over the center line, and he’s gone from fierce, savvy competitor to full on dickish heel (said with the utmost respect and love!).

Last summer, Mason hit peak condescending asshole level when he stepped onto the mat with Lobo Gris in Gear Wars 9. Mason is sexy as fuck, as always. “You’ve got nice pecs,” Lobo says what I’ve been saying for 10 years straight about Mason. “Um, no shit,” Mason deadpans back with a bored smirk. “Tell me something I didn’t already know.” It’s cocky and clever and, frankly, objectively true. But when Mason asks newcomer Lobo where he comes from, it starts to make me uncomfortable, with that white American assumption that people of color or anyone with an accent must be “a foreigner.” However, Lobo proudly explains that he’s from Mexico. Mason stops him, to correct Lobo’s pronunciation of the name of his own country. And right there, fuck, Mason’s clever condescension wanders into full on cocky heel asshole territory.

Mason plays the snarky upperclassmen well, taking the initiative to pick out some gear choices for the new guy. “Yeah, just a couple of things that would look really good on you, when I’m stretching you out, like hanging you over my shoulders.” Lobo is clearly pissed. “Yeah, that is not going to happen, but whatever,” he snaps back. But, like a rookie, he agrees to strip naked and try on the gray singlet (Lobo Gris signature color, after all) that Mason picked out for him. Hello, Lobo’s sensationally furry, meaty ass! “How long have you been planning this,” Lobo asks as he slips on the skin tight singlet, noticing the massive pile of gear Mason has brought with him. The scheming, smirking veteran with magical nipples smirks at him. “We can try a couple of different looks on you. You know, see what looks good on you when you’re lying face down on the mat.”

That awkward clash of cultures and social power continues to make me cringe, like when Mason suggests he knows a little conversational Spanish that he’s just “picked up here and there on my weekends in Cancun.” Like, fuck. I’m a diehard Mason Brooks fan from way, way back, but even I’m really aching to see Lobo kick his gringo ass now. When they lock up by collar and elbow, Lobo explains, “that’s a Mexican hold, by the way.” Irritated at being schooled in wrestling knowledge, Mason reverts to his go-to trash talking mind games. “Are you going to show me the Mexican way to lose,” he asks with that fucking annoying smirk.

In terms of wrestling, these two are seriously competitive, which I love. We all know that Lobo Gris arrived on the doorstep of BG East as NO rookie, and he’s fast and strong and gives back every ounce of offense that Mason dishes out. And Mason is just so fucking aggressive, in that takes-no-prisoners way of his. He also gropes and strokes Lobo at every turn, which apparently wasn’t the way the Mexican hunk has planned this whole thing would play out. Mason riles him up hotter and hotter, slapping and kneading his ass, stroking his hairy torso, and squeezing his balls. When he wrenches out the first submission, Mason insists that he gets to pick out the bitter rookie’s next gear selection for the second fall. I’m not complaining with Mason’s choice to squeeze him into way too small teal briefs.

Lobo is a force of nature on the mats. Having taken the measure of his snarky, condescending opponent, he gets delightfully nasty in return. He shoves his socked feet in Mason’s face and claws Mason’s balls in revenge. The rookie locks on an expertly applied single leg crab, wrenching and twisting on the captured knee viciously. He bends Mason’s spine so far backward that he literally steps on the back of Mason’s head while he throttles his crotch. “Say it,” Lobo demands. “Say, ‘me rindo!'” Mason is sputtering and whimpering when he snarks back, “What the fuck does that mean!?” Lobo rolls his eyes, and then explains, “It means ‘I submit’ in Spanish. I thought you knew Spanish.” Turns out cocky cultural insensitivity and cultural appropriation don’t end up serving Mason all that well. When he shouts out “I give,” Lobo laughs, as he replies, “Sorry, no hablo inglés,” finally making Mason dust off his Spring Break Spanish.

The boys cycle through several more gear choices with each submission. Well, with gear choices that are, substantively, less and less really. Mason always pushes the boundaries first, like stretching Lobo out in a bow-and-arrow and massaging his heel in Lobo’s pouch. “That’s not really my thing,” Lobo gasps. Mason laughs at him, as he explains, “That doesn’t really matter, because it’s my thing, and I’m in control.” Two minutes later, when Lobo has fought his way on top of a surfboard, shoving his socked feet in Mason’s face before taunting and kicking his balls, Mason is eating a healthy helping of humble pie, maybe(?) regretting his bullying ways.

Fuck, this match is intense and does things to me that surprise me. I love Lobo. I love/hate Mason. I adore their intensity and curiously evenly matched aggressiveness. And, yeah, I have to admit, I love the ending.

Even when he makes me uncomfortable, I’m still a HUGE fan of Mason’s. I love the way he goes there, full throttle, into every match he’s in. And I’m growing more more infatuated with Lobo Gris. He’s got that same tantalizing mixture of pretty and clever that instantly grabbed me the first time I saw Mason wrestle. I look forward to seeing more of both of these fierce grapplers, in and out of any gear they’d like!

“I’ll drown you”

wrestlebard14 Comments

I was chatting with a friend recently about Scott Williams, like we all do. The conversation turned to Scott’s Matmen 15 match against the master of sweat, Bud Orton. It occurred to me that I’ve never reviewed that match, which just isn’t right. Because FUCK, that match.

Like all of Scott’s matches, it’s fucking fierce. The intensity is off the charts from the moment their bodies touch. That first scramble for position is ugly. There’s nothing choreographed or graceful. It’s all gorgeous muscles and raging egos. At 6’2, Scott towers over 5’10 Bud, but he’s suddenly looking a lot smaller when Bud is wrenching on his long neck in a side headlock, muscling Scott to the mat beneath him. “Get it in now, Bud,” Scott snarls, “before I kick your butt.” It would sound a lot more intimidating if his deep baritone voice wasn’t so muffled, with Bud’s big, smooth pec smashed against his face.

The holds are long and mean, every second and every inch its own battle in a long, hard fought war. The escapes and reversals punctuate the marathon that each and every brutal hold is. When Scott earns an escape with a nasty knee thumping hard into Bud’s back, Scott is on top of him in an instant, stretching his sensationally hot body over top of him and yanking on his neck and shoulders viciously with a full nelson. “Nice start,” Scott offers faint praise. “Now, I’ll teach you how to finish, boy.”

There are exactly three submissions in this 35-minute match, though lesser men would have given up about 10 times for every one submission that these hunks wrench out of each other. I believe there’s zero editing here. This is 35 minutes of almost non-stop ripping into each other. Honestly, they give each other less than a minute between falls, all on camera, because they are obviously completely famished and can’t stop themselves from tucking in again as soon as possible. They hold the dramatic tension even when they’re silently sneering at each other, sucking down air in those stolen moments after one stunning hunk just choked out a desperate “IgiveIgiveIgive!”

Speaking of editing, the entire match opens with a dramatic fade-in close up on Scott’s gorgeous, hairy pecs. Personally, I think every match should start that way, whether Scott is in the match or not. Bud’s impressed, too. “Nice pecs,” he offers with a sly grin, while he’s stretching Scott out in a dragon sleeper, pinching his right nipple and clawing at the hairy hunk’s meaty chest. The camera also loves documenting every ounce of sweat that comes streaming off of Bud like a fucking river! Honestly, the stud is raining down sweat like he’s storm cloud. I mean, seriously, where does someone store THAT MUCH sweat?! At one point, he’s got Scott on his back, with Scott’s face between his knees, controlling his arms and just dominating him. “I’m going to drown you,” Bud snarls, and, yeah, I buy it. It’s like a superpower. An incredibly, intensely, provocatively sexy superpower!

I cannot emphasize enough the non-stop pace of these 35 minutes. There are no pauses between escapes and resets. They’re attacking one another and digging in every fucking moment. They’re also pissing each other off, which, again, dials the intensity way, way up. Scott takes three separate attempts to set up a Boston crab, and fuck it if Bud doesn’t thwart him every time. There Scott his, Bud’s ankles locked under his armpits, the Texan’s thick legs lifted off the mat, and Bud grabs hold of Scott’s ankles and deftly refuses to be flipped to his stomach. It’s really impressive, until Scott gives him an evil grin, spreads those captured legs side, and pounds his knee into Bud’s balls. HARD. Like, fuck, I felt that just watching it.

Unlike in his match against Brad Rochelle, Scott’s lock gets picked by tenacious, glistening, slippery Bud. You know I’m taking notes, as Bud takes Scott to the edge over and over, only to be thwarted by the man of my dreams stubbornly ignoring the risk to his own body by snarling “Fuck you,” repeatedly instead of submitting. So when Bud gets that last, decisive submission, and Scott veritably sings “IgiveIgiveIgive” like it’s one word, talk about climactic! Fuck, it’s desperate and fierce and so completely earned.

Seriously, the 2 minutes of denouement, after that last climactic submission, and the boys STILL maintain the dramatic tension that keeps my heart pounding in my chest. “There’s going to be a rematch,” Scott says, because it’s not a question. “Anytime. I’ll come back,” Bud sneers at him, both of them dripping and huffing as they lean exhausted against opposite walls. “Come back,” Scott snarls, “and I’m going to kick your ass, I promise you!” Bud literally, genuinely, delightedly laughs at him. Fuck, the drama is so sensationally intense and sexy.

There’s a reason that I remain so infatuated with Scott, despite him appearing in only 4 precious, deliriously sexy published matches for BG East. What Matmen 15 does to me is exactly the reason.

The Stash

wrestlebard1 Comment

My heart always pumps just a little harder when I get to see a newbie in action. All of that potential yet to be revealed, character yet to be discovered, story yet to be written… it’s super exciting. Of course, not all newbies turn out to be full of potential. They don’t all turn into a compelling character. Sometimes, they suck, frankly. I’m not naming any names here, but I suspect I’ve tipped my hand plenty of times over 14 years worth of posts. My mission isn’t to tear down around here, though, but to celebrate and lift up what I find delightful and sexy and sensational in homoerotic wrestling. What all that in mind, I’d like celebrate a hot newbie who just debuted with BG East in Demolition 36, Evan Sterling.

Fuck, he had me at the stash. It’s fierce and in your face. Frankly, I wouldn’t mind it being in my face. Or my crotch, for that matter. But more to the point, Evan’s got style and attitude that’s instantly apparent. He’s also got a rocking hot bod with a sensational ass and what has to be my early favorite for Best Bulge of the Year. Even before Gabe Steel shows up, while Evan is warming up and stretching out on the ropes, he has to pause several times and manhandle his crotch. I have to think it’s a sign that he’s excited, as he anticipates his BG East debut against rock hard rising heel Gabe. But it also has a little of that sense of Mr. Joshua, having to interrupt his thoughts and wrangle his elephant trunk every so often, because it’s got a mind of its own.

Gabe sees what I see. Once he’s arrived and the obligatory trash talk and bicep comparisons have played out, Gabe stares straight at Evan’s jiggling pouch and shakes his head. “That’s quite a target,” he says, not really explaining himself, but no explanation is really necessary. I instantly like Evan for all of the reasons mentioned above, but also because he’s done his homework. He asks if the rumors are true that Gabe possesses balls of steel. “It’s in the name,” the sneering veteran snarls back at him. “Now, let’s see what you’ve got.”

The first thing that’s apparent, is that Evan is a punishment sponge. Like, fuck, he soaks it up in the early moments of this match. When Gabe has him on his back, holding his ankles and spreading his legs wide, Evan takes a knee to the crotch that, I swear, looks like it bounces off. “Barely felt it,” Evan snarls. Like, fuck, Gabe may not be the only one in that ring with balls of steel! Furious, Gabe dives forward, pounding his forehead into the new guy’s balls. “Felt that, though, didn’t you,” Gabe asks rhetorically, as Evan is writhing and rolling across the mat, cradling his balls.

Gabe keeps applying finishers and demanding submissions, and holy fuck, Evan keeps telling him to go fuck off. Fuck, I love that ferocity. Gabe has him locked up in super sexy standing scissors, reaches around and grabs Evan by the balls, and lifts his legs in the air by them, holding him there in this gorgeously dominating reverse inverted bearhug, still clawing away at the balls. He’s fucked five different ways in that position, but still, when Gabe demands the submission, all he gets out of Evan is another snarling “Fuck you,” with just the barest whimper of agony at the edges.

“Now I know this is the game we’re playing,” Evan snarls after landing a breathtaking knee strike to Gabe’s (not so impervious after all) balls. “What happened to those balls of steel?” The hot rookie puts an exclamation point on it by pulling his singlet straps down, flexing his hot pecs, laughing and preening like he just sealed the deal. Fuck, like I said, he’s fierce, even when he’s digging his own grave.

Every second that he runs roughshod over Gabe, Evan is going deeper and deeper into debt. Once the seasoned muscle heel, now soaked in sweat (just one of Gabe’s superpowers), climbs back into the driver’s seat, he starts collecting. Evan’s pendulous package is in Gabe’s sights most of the time. At one point, the rookie is racked across Gabe’s huge shoulders, while the heel strategically positions him to let the top ring rope choke him. That super prominent rookie bulge is a sight to behold, quivering there so audaciously at the apex of the brutal arc Gabe is making out of his spine. Gabe does squats with his newbie barbell across his shoulder. He wrings out those big, bouncing balls relentlessly. And what does Evan say in reply? “Fuck… you!!!!”

“You’ve got a mouth on you, boy,” Gabe growls at one point, part irritation, with more than a little admiration mixed in. The heel’s attention turns to Evan’s ass eventually. Again, I get it. “Damn,” Gabe says what I’m thinking. “I might have to take that ass after this match is over!” And, fuck, Evan is in no shape to make a counter offer as Gabe grinds him down farther and farther, stripping him of his singlet and wedgying those designer trunks way up the rookie’s crack. Eventually, Evan burns through that ambition and stubborn ferocity, and he’s left crying and begging like a bitch, “No more! No more!”

But if the homoerotic wrestling gods are listening, I hope they hear this prayer directly from my lips. Please, let us see more of Evan Sterling!

“No One Likes a Quitter”

wrestlebard2 Comments

Jonny Firestorm has been clawing his way back into the hearts and fantasies of BG East fans recently, and I’m here for it. He’s got just a little salt and pepper in his full beard that’s fucking hot! Match by match, he’s honing his beefy body impressively. I’ve seen him on social media say that he’s roaring back into fighting trim after an injury, and, fuck, yeah, can someone forward me the name of his personal trainer? Because I’m still stepping up my own workouts in the hopes of getting a shot at making Scott Williams whimper this summer, and I could use even a tenth of whatever it is Jonny’s recent gains.

One of his newest releases is Jobberpaloozer 21, “breaking in” fresh faced new kid Leroy Blaze. When I say “kid,” I mean, fuck, dude looks young and still growing into himself. He’s 6’0 and 150 pounds, and frankly, sometimes, I strongly suspect numbers like those are exaggerations. But in Leroy’s case, I’m a believer. Super lean. When Jonny and Leroy do a little impromptu mini-pose off at the top of the match, no shit, Jonny’s upper arm is something like 3 times as thick as Leroy’s. Like, I’m seriously worried about this kid. Knowing Jonny’s repertoire like we all do, I’m genuinely concerned that he’s going literally break Leroy, probably in multiple places. Are you sure you know what you’re getting to, buddy?

“Hey, I think I know your name,” Leroy muses out loud once Jonny deigns to show up a few minutes late. “You’re that ‘legend,’ right?” Leroy puts air quotes around the word legend. Oh. Shit. “What was the name, oh… yeah,” he says with a smirk (like, fuck, literally a smirk!). “I think the name is Stormfire Jonny. You’ve kicked a lot of people’s asses.” It’s about 45 seconds into the match, and I’ve just done a complete 180. In that instant that Leroy pulls out the air quotes, I’m literally muttering at the screen, “Oh, fuck him up, Jonny!”

There’s something impressive about a jobber who can make me really, really, really want to see him get clobbered. And I really, really, really want to see Leroy take it hard. There’s something even more impressive about a jobber who makes sure that the legendary heel he’s facing knows just how much he deserves ever ounce of abuse that Jonny can serve up. I do give Leroy credit for doing his homework. He catches Jonny’s telegraphed attempt to sucker-clothesline him to start things and smoothly turns the tables. And by “turns the tables,” I mean he runs roughshod over Jonny for a good 6 minutes or so. Like, even I’m almost questioning if Leroy’s on to something when he implies that Jonny is over the hill, he’s stayed too long at the party, and he’s living off of former glory and diehard fans. At one point, as Jonny’s huffing like a steam engine, the ultra lightweight smirker tosses his ass through the ropes, and Jonny’s back hits the edge of the ring apron so hard it’s giving me a case of sciatica. When Leroy presses his advantage, leaping from the top turnbuckle to slam into the wounded legend on the floor below, Jonny gasps from underneath him, “Fuck you!” And holy fuck, 150 pound Leroy, making his BG East debut, snarls into Jonny’s face the prediction that he’s the one that’s going to do the fucking around here!

So, yeah, when Leroy presses is advantage once too often, attempting a flashy body splash off the top turnbuckle again, and Jonny impales him on his fist as he’s careening through the air, I think I speak for absolutely everyone in the homoerotic wrestling universe when I say that Leroy deserves everything he’s about to get. This is Jonny, after all. He can’t have stayed too long at the party because, let’s face it, it’s his fucking party! And holy shit, he pulverizes the new kid like a bug on a windshield. I mean, it takes about 20 minutes of unrelenting merciless punishment, almost entirely targeting those seriously impressive washboard abs on Leroy, but slowly ever so gradually, I come back around full circle to finally feel bad for the newbie all over again.

The punishment is 90% high impact and vintage Jonny nastiness. At one point, he suspends the skinny little fucker upside down from a ladder and proceeds to beat the living shit out of his wasted abs with fists, claws, a shoe, and a medicine ball. He rubs the smartassness right out of Leroy (and, let me just reiterate, there’s a lot of smartassness in this rookie!), until he finally forces Leroy to call him by name. “You’re Jonny Firestorm! You’re Jonny Firestorm!” Let’s face it, he deserved everything up to that point. But, again, let me just repeat the harsh truth that Leroy just pointed out to us: this is Jonny-fucking-Firestorm, so there’s an added gratuity of another 10-15 minutes of unhinged brutality. I feel confident Leroy’s still got a bald spot where Jonny kept peeling him up by off the mat by a handful of hair (and Leroy, let me just assure you that bald is beautiful). He slingshots the kid back and forth by the elastic in his trunks so much that I’m feeling strongly compelled to bring back my Trunk Pull Tuesday tradition.

Somehow, my journey from worry for Leroy, to aching to seem him get pulverized, to a return to sympathy for him, finally reaches perfect harmony around the time that Jonny hoists the unconconcious rookie across one shoulder and marches him out of the ring room, in order to help Jonny “clean up.” Like, fuck. Win-win-win, right? Will we see armor-cored Leroy again? If so, will he dare be even half as much a smartass next time? I have to disagree with Jonny’s announcement that “No one likes a quitter,” when he’s spitting in disgust as Leroy begs him to let him go. But I totally agree with Jonny’s prediction, “Jobbers never learn.”

“I Want More!”

wrestlebard1 Comment

I continue to get instantly turned on when I see Dio Characi has a new release. The newest has him appearing opposite Kayden Keller in the double-header X-Fights 58. I feel like the Brazilian bombshell must have had a rider stipulating that we don’t get to see his full frontal, because once again, even in an x-fight, the Brazilian’s power tool remains holstered. It’s a little cruel, to be honest, and I actually think that’s completely in character for Dio, despite his persistent casting as a babyface borderline-jobber in his (hopefully first of many) forays into competing for BG East. Catching his Instagram reels is like eating M&Ms, because he melts in the mouth so seductively, while coming across as a sensationally sexy purveyor of snarling, dominating raunch. Which, FUCK, works like magic coming from someone with an insanely hot bod and cherubic baby face. But in his incarnation as an award-winning BG East it-boy, Dio puts up a good fight, but gets plowed under a lot (Rocky Sparks notwithstanding).

X-Fights 58 features the fan-selected Top Babyface of 2023 squaring off on the mats against the six-time award winning Top Heel, Kayden Keller. Fuck, the sexual tension and drama just write themselves, right? During the opening match at Wrestlefest 4, while Kayden was absolutely eviscerating bleach blond bon-bon Nathan FX, Dio was right up front of the babyface bench in the audience, leading the taunts and jeers taking Kayden to task for being such a nasty, cheating, merciless heel. At one point, as Kayden is bouncing off the ropes, about to kick Nathan in the face for the 645th time, Dio stands up and grabs him by the ankle, tripping the dangerous heel. You can see the steam rise off of Kayden, he’s so fucking angry. He starts hurling threats and insults at the Brazilian over the ropes, daring him to put his hot bod on the line and face him once he’s done with Nathan. Dio sneers back defiantly, telling Kayden to fuck off, holding his gaze unflinchingly. Which gives Nathan time to peel himself off the mat, clear his head, and nearly decapitate Kayden with with a clothesline when the distracted heel finally remembers he’s got an opponent still to finish off in the ring behind him.

I even speculated in my review of that match that the exquisite tension between Dio and Kayden in that moment simply HAD to result in the two of them facing each other one-on-one. Clearly, I wasn’t the only one with that opinion. “There you are,” Kayden says, as if mildly surprised to find the Brazilian bombshell stretching out his award winning body on the mat. “I was a little worried you might not show up, that you weren’t ready to take me on.” Dio looks up with those big brown eyes, looking through his long lashes, like a Raphael painting come to life, and grins. “Me? I’m always ready.”

Dio possesses a can of whoop ass as yet unopened at BG East, I’m sure of it. I keep thinking he’s going to finally crack it open and let loose the vile, raunchy, ravenous erotic wrestler that I’m 110% certain he’s got chained inside of him, but Kayden is just too much. It plays like brutal strength and experience chipping away relentlessly at stubborn, raw ambition. They’re evenly matched in terms of size, but Kayden strikes at will, persistently putting Dio on his back. “I heard a rumor you like legs,” Kayden confesses casually, as he wraps his long, strong tree trunks and starts crushing Dio’s rock hard core. I LOVE the passing allusion to the behind-the-scenes locker room culture. These guys aren’t just punching the clock. They’re thinking about each other off the mats. They’re comparing notes with other wrestlers, talking with former opponents to catch some juicy insights into weaknesses and what to watch out for.

Dio suffers gorgeously. Kayden tags the Brazilian’s abs for demolition, pounding, grinding, clawing and squeezing that sexy-as-fuck washboard. When seriously pushed, Dio sounds like he’s practicing Lamaze, with quick, shallow, audible exhalations, struggling to breathe through the corporal punishment. With Kayden’s huge quads scissoring his body, the sexy cherub’s neck arches in agony. His hands rest on his opponent’s rock hard leg bearing down on his gut. “Go ahead, you can feel those strong legs wrapped around you,” Kayden instructs. The intense intimacy, watching Dio immediately start to hungrily stroke his open palms over the bulging, brutal muscle, turns me on so fucking much.

Dio gets some offense, because he’s fucking fierce and strong. Assisted by Kayden repeatedly becoming almost completely distracted by the seductive allure of sucking on his opponent’s mouthwatering lips, Dio displays his sexy, raw power, turning the tables and climbing into the saddle of a schoolboy pin. It takes some seriously sexy strength for an opponent to grapevine Kayden’s infamous legs and rip them open wide, and gorgeous Dio absolutely possesses that sexy strength. And it’s entrancing watching Dio enjoy his riding time. He flexes his meaty, bubble butt hypnotically, grinding his hungry cock into Kayden’s gut. While Dio, indeed, keeps his cock holstered, it’s awfully inspiring to see it grow with excitement, straining the tight confines of his green trunks.

Among the super sexy moments in this match, there are a couple that keep intruding on my thoughts as I go through my day. One of those moments is the quirky, sexy script-flipping of Kayden repeatedly smothering Dio with his pecs. I’ve enjoyed (“enjoyed”) watching Dio pec-smother several lucky sons of bitches in his Instagram reels, and it’s compelling as fuck. So watching him panting like he’s going in labor, his breath muffled as his face his crushed helplessly against Kayden’s chest, is a super sexy twist. But I think the sexiest gem in this entire match is after Dio has had a few super resentful submissions wrung out of him, and Kayden is perched on top of a schoolboy, his fingers laced through the cherub’s curly locks, smothering him in his crotch. The Top Heel asks, “Do you like the smell and the taste of it, Dio?” As if in response, Dio reaches up and starts to stroke his opponent’s muscles. He squeezes Kayden’s juicy ass and palms the heel’s bulging biceps. When Kayden shoves them in his face, Dio obediently worships those biceps and licks his opponent’s sweaty armpit. Kayden is absolutely seduced, unable to resist swooping in and making out with the deliriously handsome babyface beneath him. “There you go,” Kayden coos. “Now you know your place.” And then, Dio absolutely pushes me over the edge when he stares up at Kayden with that fierce, unquenchable heat of his, and absolutely demands, “I want more.”

Dio is voicing exactly what I’m thinking, in that moment, and more philosophically as I think about his incredibly sexy journey through BG East thus far. I love the sight of Kayden forgetting himself momentarily under the Brazilian’s insanely sexy spell. I’m turned on so fucking hard by the raging furnace that is constantly burning just beneath Dio’s surface, whether giving or taking, demanding more, so completely turned on and sucking down the pleasure that comes with his gorgeous body locked in competition with a worthy opponent. And despite my disappointment at not getting to enjoy seeing what Dio’s packing in those bulging trunks, when Kayden peels out of his trunks and pounds out a quart of cum across Dio’s thick pecs and rippling abs, I get it. I really, really get it.

“We’re Just Wrasslin’!”

wrestlebard3 Comments

I regularly get a taste for long, lean, limber bodies tearing up a homoerotic wrestling match. Christian Taylor always scratches that itch for me. Kid Vicious gets me there as well. Over at UCW, 6’3″ Harvey Dale just grabbed my attention for the same reasons. Somehow, he looks taller than 6’3. It may be the contrast as he stares way, way down his nose at 5’6″ Zack Reno in the opening pec-to-pec stare off for their oil match. Zack has a choice to look straight ahead and study Harvey’s sternum, or crane his neck at a painful angle to make eye contact with the smirking taltos.

It’s a 30-minute match, but be aware that the first 12 minutes are a curious study of the two of them bro-ing it up as they slather each other with coconut oil. The pre-match relational dynamics are fascinating. When Zack demands Harvey massage the aching arch of his left foot, Harvey obeys immediately. When he’s tugs Zack’s yellow trunks down, the better to oil those remarkably perky glutes, Zack leaves them there, not bothered. In fact, they stay there well beyond when the wrestling starts. But back to Harvey obediently following Zack’s instructions as he massages him down. I’m thinking, just for a moment, that the long, tall drink of water is here to job for the hunky homoerotic wrestling veteran. But, then again, Harvey’s got a not-a-jobber attitude when he finishes applying oil to EVERY inch of Zack, and he lies on his back, hands behind his head, and orders the beefcake boy to return the favor. And, fuck, Zack does! With some enthusiasm, actually. Where Harvey was a little coy about sliding his hands inside Zack’s trunks, Zack dives in head first and absolutely throttles the tall kid’s cock relentlessly, making Harvey both writhe and grin ear-to-ear.

It’s SUCH a curious vibe as they banter and joke back and forth, getting their hands all over each other unselfconsciously. I was actually wondering for a little while if this was a bait-and-switch, and it was just some friendly muscle worship sans wrestling. But holy hell, when the bell rings, both boys suddenly see red and go the fuck at it! As I mentioned, Zack leaves his trunks hanging well underneath the prominent shelf of his ass, barely covering his crotch. And the serious-as-fuck competition on Harvey’s youthful face instantly dials the heat way, way up.

Both boys have a tough time with the oil. Zack, bless his heart, keeps trying to stand up, only to slip and slide and crash back down again (once, face-first into Harvey’s crotch). Harvey, on the other hand, seems to handle the context better, capitalizing on his Mr. Fantastic long and flexible limbs to tie the beefcake up and wring him out relentlessly. Again, the heat jumps up several degrees when Zack manages to suck his opponent’s head in between his legs and give Harvey a long, close-up look at his bared ass. To free himself, Harvey rabbit punches the heartthrob repeatedly in the kidneys. “Stop hurting me,” Zack bitches in his bro-y baritone. “We’re just wrasslin’!”

Best hold of the match goes to Zack. There’s a tug-of-war back and forth for quite a while as both wrestlers work on stripping each other out of their trunks. Buyer beware: neither quite succeeds. Buyer rejoice: Zack’s thick, happy cock keeps spilling out, before getting stuffed back into this trunks, and then spilling out again seconds later, over and over. But the hottest move of the match for me doesn’t involve seeing Zack’s cock (shockingly). No, it’s when Zack smothers lucky Harvey in face-to-crotch headscissors, combined with hooking the tall boy’s briefs with Zack’s toes, in order to wedge them way, way, WAY up his crack. And right there, with Harvey’s sugary sweet, oil soaked, lovely, lean, sculpted ass cheeks on display, my itch for the long and lean homoerotic wrestler gets scratched just right.

Honestly, I buy Harvey’s earnestness and intensity more than Zack’s. Though, there is this moment where Harvey has the beefcake folded over backward, his hand slid down inside Zack’s pouch, jerking on his power tool for days, when Zack absolutely goes perfectly still and silent. Like, fuck, fuck, fuck, I think he was just about ready to let Harvey get him off, but, sadly, he came back to his senses and fought his way back on top. But no, Harvey brings the heat, the fury, and the intensity. And damn it all, as turned on I was by Zack leaving his trunks hanging off his ass for so long, it’s Harvey’s sweet cheeks in that wedgied face-to-crotch that’s haunting me now that the match is over.

Fun match. Fascinating, FASCINATING personalities playing off of one another. And gorgeous use of contrasting bodies, glistening in oil and delighting in the tactile pleasure of rolling all over each other. It takes me back to very fond memories of titillating oil wrestling in halcyon days gone by!