Category: Uncategorized

Tan Lines

wrestlebard4 Comments

0401_lgThe first time I posted about my appreciation of the value added by tan lines, I received some surprising back channel heat. There are, apparently, some guys who find tan lines unsightly. I honestly had no idea. I’ve always found them provocative and tantalizing. There’s something that much closer to naked about tan lines. They signal something vulnerable, something delicate, to otherwise hard bodied beefcake. They allude to modesty unmasked, to an uncommon intimacy shared with those who get a glimpse of them. Tan lines serve as a literal and figurative boundary, and in the homoerotic gaze, they seem to inherently speak to disregarding boundaries and propriety and self-restraint. All my respect to the hot hunks on a quest for that all-over tan, but as for me, I get an extra hard heart pump from an impossible to miss tan line!

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Calvin Haynes’ sensational ass turns me on that much harder when Mason Brooks’ reveals his beautiful tan line in their match on Calvin’s Wrestler Spotlight.

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Drake Marcos, bless his heart, tanned like a mother fucker before getting his turn riding muscle cherub Gabriel Cross inX-Fights 34. The bike shorts he was soaking up the sun in left an indelible mark in my memory.

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When Alexi Adamov got to be the first at BGE to get his hands on Mitch Colby on Alexi’s Wrestler Spotlight, I was shocked by how enticingly distracting Mitch’s tan line is, even with all of that ripped, gorgeous, sweaty muscle everywhere to look at.

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Rhino taped several matches for Thunder’s Arena sporting bike shorts tan lines that somehow make his massively thick thighs look just that much more gargantuan. Here, he’s got Scrappy draped across his shoulders like wet towel in Mat Rats 105, and somehow all I can see are those sexy-as-fuck tan lines.

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I feel in my gut that Alex Oliver doesn’t really get just how crazy-sexy he is getting plowed under in a made-for-gay-eyes wrestling match. His deep, deep, dark tan contrasting with his lily white upper thighs on display in Cameron’s manhandling of the boy makes me want to lick him so, so much.

Help me out and let me know what more sexy-as-fuck tan lines to watch for in homoerotic wrestling!

Fantasy Match: Skrapper vs. Scrappy

wrestlebard1 Comment
Scrappy – 5’7″, 165 lbs
Skrapper – 5’10”, 145 lbs

Despite wrestling under similar names, Skrapper and Scrappy are a study in contrasts. To my knowledge Skrapper is a BG East exclusive, appearing in 15 matches between about 2008 and 2016. Scrappy, on the other hand, has wrestled in more than 50 matches for Thunders Arena, 9 matches for Muscleboy Wrestling, and 6 matches for Wrestler4Hire, to my knowledge. Scrappy is a luscious aesthete, whose curly locks and baby face contradict the erotic art of his luxuriously thick, impeccably sculpted, compact muscle physique. Skrapper, on the other hand, is severely lean, like a barely legal endurance swimmer, stitched together with homespun, taut muscle, bone, and sinew. Skrapper is as serious as a heart attack, with his deep, rumbling baritone layered atop the stunned whimpers of his opponents, who are absolutely never prepare for the mountain of merciless hurt he buries them under; whereas Scrappy’s 2nd tenor is irrepressibly playful, more unselfconsciously dangerous than driven. Both stunning studs make me swoon, but with Scrappy, it’s because he’s so frivolously fuckable, like he could make macrame dizzyingly homoerotic with nothing more than that impish grin and a knowing look over his shoulder as he catches the camera seduced by his relentless, cock tease ass cheeks. Skapper, on the other hand, seems unaware of his inescapable erotic allure, dripping with an intoxicating mix of aggression, passion for competition, and sexual pleasure derived from conquering a combatant, the bigger the better. Skrapper is like the meat and potatoes of the diet. Scrappy is the mouthwatering confection at the end of the meal.

This is the point at which, in past blogging experience, I would start obsessing over every detail of a fantasy wrestling match, struggling to get down in print the erotic pleasure playing out in my imagination. This would send me spinning for days on end, making every post a belabored (if loved) odyssey. In the interest of self-care and not burning out too, too quickly again on blogging, I will try to stick to just the broad strokes (pun intended) and overall outline of why this fantasy match is a winner.

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Scrappy and Skrapper would, most naturally, need to square off on the mats. Neither of these storied wrestlers ever hit their strides in a wrestling ring. For the sake of fair play, let’s just say the venue is a generic Florida sun room, since both hunks have abundant experience in that general genre. The opening minutes would epitomize the inherent conflict between their two natures. Scrappy would flex and preen and toss disposable trash talk all over the place, particularly expressing contempt for his opponent’s “swimmer’s build.” Skrapper would be happy enough to take in the spectacular sight, but would quickly enough grow impatient with the preener. Scrappy’s trash talk would bounce off Skapper unacknowledged and apparently unnoticed. Sooner or later, Skrapper would exploit the narcissist’s self-love, coming up from behind the bodybuilder’s dazzling double-bicep as if in admiration, only to grab him around his tiny waist and suplex the mother fucker to the mat unceremoniously.

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I see the first fall playing out in rapid fire succession, with Skrapper initiating offense every fucking second. There’d be a lot of scrambling across the mat. Skrapper would lock down full and half nelson’s, stretching the dumbfounded pin-up out viciously. Scrappy would repeatedly bear down in a flex, slowly, but surely, popping free from one Skrap-trap after another, but like a chess master, Skrapper would already be two steps ahead. The first fall would be all about wiping the cocky grin off of Scrappy’s cherubic face. Skrapper’s hammerlock on the hunk would press the bulging shoulder joint a fraction too far, sparking desperate screams to punctuate Scrappy’s petulant whimpers. Between cries of agony, Scrappy would snarl and snap out promises of retribution on the “skinny little fucker,” which would make Skrapper smile. He loves wringing astonished respect out of beefy muscle hunk like this. Skrapper would keep snapping shut traps, like an ankle lock transitioned into a bow-and-arrow, a muscle-wasting rear-naked choke, and an early-gambit camel clutch. They chip away at the bodybuilder by inches, making him suck down the humiliation and power free time after time, only to fall face-first into another trap. Skrapper would just be too fast, too focused, and too well-executed. Finally, I see the Skrapper-swarm landing Scrappy in a deep-seated Boston crab. Scrappy would refuse the demand that he submit, until Skrapper unhooks a leg to free one hand, and reaches down and throttles Scrappy’s dangling balls. The neighbors would hear those screams of animal agony, when Scrappy screeches out an enraged first fall submission, pounding the mat.

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Fall 2 would start out with a much wiser, more cautious Scrappy reassessing the situation. He’d still have that look on his face that makes Skrapper hard, namely the look of disbelief as the muscle hunk stares in shock at the ultra lean, juvenile-looking “skinny” kid who just kicked his ass at will. Scrappy would have broken out into a sweat after all of those hard-won flexing escapes. Skrapper would be chill as fuck, just returning the gaze with a look that says he knew all along he’d make this muscle hunk his bitch. Scrappy would bitch and moan about fighting dirty, as if there are any rules, as if Skrapper hadn’t mopped the floor with his sweat soaked body unchecked before he wrung the beefcake out with that ball claw. Scrappy would be the one with the unexpected lunge to start Fall 2, catching his gloating opponent flat-footed with a vicious knee into this balls that hits so hard Skrapper is lifted off his feet before crumbling to the mat. There’s nothing quite as tasty for a homoerotic wrestling fan as the sight of babyface muscleboy going dark and offensively offensive. This not being Scrappy’s first rodeo, he doesn’t give his winded opponent time to recover. He’d have to demonstrate that all of those endless hours at the gym were worth it, of course. Dominating hold after hold, power move after power move, the inherent message would be to demand respect for the muscle. He’d pick Skrapper up like a rag doll, cradled across his magnificent, broad chest, and parade the lightweight around the mat. He’d pound him down in an OTK backbreaker, but muscle him back up cradled across his chest the next second.  Down again, up again, down again. Finally, he’d leave Skrapper hanging on the line like wet laundry, prying his chin backward with one hand, and pressing down on Skrapper’s knee with the other to fold the grappler sickeningly in half in the direction his spine isn’t made to go. Skrapper isn’t one to vocalize easily, so it would take Scrappy wringing the trapped stud’s cock and balls out ruthlessly in hand to make the bass rumble gasp and bite back the words, “Oh, God, no.” Frankly, Scrappy could probably take fall 2 any time he wanted, once he’s low-blowed his opponent into a pulp. But Scrappy has a point to prove. No skinny kid, no matter how fierce an attitude, is going to dominate a gym-honed, genetically gifted, lovingly crafted muscle physique like his. He’d body slam Skrapper with authority, which is a serious bitch, because it’s just a couple inches of wrestling mat padding over slate tile to break the fall. Skrapper would arch and writhe in almost incoherent agony, but Scrappy would just stomp him down flat with heel strikes to his gut. He’d drag Skrapper up by his hair, just for the humiliation, before driving a knee strike to his lower abdomen (clipping his crotch intentionally), doubling the stud over before he snaps his gargantuan muscle quads around Skrap’s ears and squeezes. Scrappy would flex to the accompaniment of the low rumble of bass agony between his thighs, flashing double biceps and most musculars for the extravagance and gratuity. Skrapper would try to climb off his knees, but a fresh wave of quad flexing would repeatedly drive him back down again. Finally, Scrappy would bend forward and hook his arms around Skrapper’s midsection, pull him off his feet, upside down, and hoist him up in the air to suspend him across one massive shoulder in a backbreaker. Skrapper would bite down the pain for a while, refusing to give the satisfaction of a quick submission to the hold, but he’d give in the end.  Scrappy would fling him back to the mat in a heap and, of course, flex victoriously over his opponent’s motionless body.

To start fall 3, you’d have both wrestlers now wiser, more cautious, and with just enough of a taste of the decisive fall to make them salivate. Scrappy would be back to delivering taunting, laughing trash talk. Skrapper would be deadly silent, head down, eyes up, coiled. The taste of the second fall victory would still be on the tongue, making Scrappy a half a second slow to defend himself from a shoulder block to the gut. Skrapper would charge forward, lifting the bodybuilder off his feet and skewering him to the wall. Scrappy would fling the lightweight off of him, which would launch Skrapper across the room to land on his fine, fine ass. Give and take, back and forth, they’d trade gambits. Scrappy would feign a slow step to draw a single leg attempt, only to come down squarely with a brutal double fisted chop to back of Skrapper’s neck for the trouble. Skrapper would let the bodybuilder charge 3 words into a compound sentence of gloating trash talk, just to interrupt him with a jab to the gut and a huge uppercut to the balls. Scrappy would try to be telling the end of the story of might-makes-right, working to domineer over his slighter opponent with mountainous muscle mass. Skrapper would weave his hero’s tale of potently underestimated threat crushing oversized ego to match a superhuman physique. Scrappy would rip Skrapper’s tight trunks off first, with that locker-room bully chuckle, as if Skrapper’s nakedness would just further reveal his impotence in the face of a muscle god. Skrapper’s unsheathed power tool, already swelling with excitement, would give the muscle god pause, though. Skrapper would take advantage of his hypnotized opponent to grab him by the trunks and literally rip them off at the seams. By now, we’ve all seen Scrappy in that particular glory that is his beauty in nothing but sweat and a jock strap. Fuck, he knows how insanely sexy his naked ass is, and he’d have that twinkle in his eye as Skrapper soaks in the sight and smell of him. Scrappy would sense his victory at hand, his mere mortal of an opponent laid bare before him, his own divine muscles sucking his opponent into his thrall like gravitational pull. But fuck, have you seen Skrapper naked and backed into a corner? Shit. He’d sweep his legs and punch him in the balls before Scrappy’s back hit the mat. Talk about a swarm, just picture Scrappy on his back, taking knee strike after knee strike to his balls, sweat pouring down from the badger bearing down on him from above. A figure-4 leg lock would make Scrappy scream (scream!) a humiliating submission, but fuck that. That’s just to make sure the demigod doesn’t try to run away before all the fun has been had. Wrapping his lean, tightly coiled naked body around his legs, Skrapper would rip him open in a spladle.

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The submissions would start raining down like a thunderstorm, but they’d fall on deaf ears. Skrapper would coil his ripcord legs around Scrappy’s midsection to knead the air and fight out of him like bread dough. Then he’d work his way north, locking down face-to-naked-crotch headscissors, squeezing so long and hard that Scrappy’s alabaster visage would turn plum. This is all Skrapper’s story to tell now. It’s a story of tenacity and self-confidence that spit in the face of long odds. It’s the story of ruthless, merciless, depraved punishment that makes an invincible god shatter into a writhing mass of picture perfect helplessness. It’s the story of 7 throbbing inches of explosive power sliding almost frictionless between two of the most sought-after, rock hard, muscled glutes in the business, before erupting in a jet of ecstasy arching it’s path up an astonishingly wide back and into the sweat soaked curly locks of a downed angel.

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Oy. See what happens? Well, in case you’re a new reader, welcome to what passes for brevity and self-restraint from me. For the record, I’d see this fantasy match of contrasts heading inevitably into Skrapper’s advantage, and I’d picture him pounding out a cum shot victory having punished Scrappy’s delicious ass for having teased all of us gay wrestling fans for far, far too long.

Hair Pull Humpday

wrestlebard2 Comments

As I was saying yesterday, the process of curating the pics of Scrappy getting his trunks pulled prompted me to notice that he gets his hair pulled even more often than his trunks! He’s got a sensational head of hair, and those curls cry out for getting pulled. Heels cannot resist lacing their fingers through his cherubic locks and yanking him around. There’s clearly a huge market for humiliating Scrappy. With a physique that stacked, a face that pretty, and a smirk that cocky, it’s little wonder his catalog is populated by endless examples of him screaming in helpless agony, owned and abased. You’ve got to love seeing this musclebaby cry!

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In Scrappy vs. Chace LaChance vs. Gabe Steel, there are lot’s of trading allegiance double-teams, but watching beefy Gabe and Chace working over Scrappy is definitely my favorite constellation. Scrap whimpers like a crybaby when Gabe drags his fine, fine ass up by a handful of hair.

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In Ring Wars 83, Brute brutalizes the barefoot babyface every which way. Babyface bullying like this is classic, and Scrap’s screams as Brute pulls on his thick locks are compelling.

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It’s a surprising give-and-take when bearded beefcake Dax Carter steps onto the Muscleboy mat with Scrappy. Copious sweat and viciousness, like this screw-top hairpull-chinlock, whip these boys into quite a sexy froth.

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Pro bad ass Joey King strips, rips, and rides Scrappy hard in Custom Video 61. On his hands and knees, the terror in Scrappy’s eyes as Joey drags him around by his hair is such sexy drama!

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In Mat Rats 105, Joey comes back to pass on his veteran tips to hot hunk protege Rhino, including teaching that same maneuver, putting Scrappy on his hands and knees and steering him to complete humiliation with two handfuls of hair.

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Proving the point that fucking over Scrappy never get old, Joey also drags Scrappy’s sweat soaked hotness all over the Thunder’s garage mat in Mat Wars 74. Scrappy keeps working out, wracking up wrestling experience, getting smarter and meaner, and still, beefy heels like Joey tenderize him like a side of beef and humiliate him with laughing hair pulls.

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Little surprise that Scrappy takes out his pent up frustration so fiercely when he’s on offense, like in his rip-and-strip beach match against lovely blond bro Drew Harper over at W4H. Can’t you just see the ghosts of Gabe, Brute, Dax, Joey, and Rhino haunting him as he drags Drew through the surf by his hair?

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It’s little wonder he’s one of the top stars on the scene right now. Scrappy brings so much to the world of homoerotic wrestling, including such sensational handles to pull on!

Trunk Pull Tuesday

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scrap steel
Steel vs. Scrappy -Thunder’s Arena’s Bodybuilder Battle 146

It’s a theme set #trunkpulltuesday! I thought it might be my imagination, but when I examined the receipts, it turned out to be true: opponent’s love yanking on the back of Scrappy’s trunks. For obvious reasons, it’s got to be a crowd pleaser. He’s got one of the most muscular, perfectly proportioned asses in the business, so it’s not like any of us on this side of the camera are going to complain. He’s also such a sensational, smirky, smart ass character, that opponents clearly enjoy the little extra touch of humiliation that comes with wedging his trunks up his crack. When it occurred to me that I’d seen Scrappy’s trunks pulled on several occasions, I thought it might just be my imagination (because, you know the power of my imagination!). As my hunting and gathering demonstrates below, however, it’s a fact. Scrappy is a #trunkpulltuesday repeater.

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Cameron Matthews is always a crowd pleaser, so little wonder he goes the extra mile when he bearhugs the fuck out of Scrappy for W4H. He not only scoops the musclebunny way, way off his feet, crushing and squeezing he life out of Scrap’s insanely narrow midsection, but he manages to grab the top of his trunks as he goes. There’s no strategic reason for it. Cam just knows what he’s selling, and who he’s selling it to!

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At some point in my hibernation over the last year and a half, a new wrestling production has popped up, named Weekend Wrestling. BG East alum Cole Cassidy appears to be at the helm, so I’m expecting to find a ton of heels crushing jobbers. Cole has generously given me permission to add WW to my copyright permissions, and one of the first images I find is, of course, Scrappy’s ass (wrestling as aptly named Prince Adonis) exposed as Brendan Byers holds him across his body and digs his fingertips into that muscled glory.

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Back at W4H, nasty brute Donnie Dukes grinds Scrappy’s muscles to mush, testing the seams of Scrap’s dark blue  trunks severely along the way.  Honestly, though, that ass!

scrappy.pngAgain, at W4H, Drew Harper tested Scrappy’s muscles in the ring and on the beach. In their ring match, Drew pulled off the double humiliation of  a vicious trunk pull and hair pull, showing off the Scrap’s divine physique and totally owning him. Come to think of it, Scrappy sure seems to get his hair pulled a lot, too!  Hmmm….

Producer’s Ring: Roberts vs. Cuomo

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——-continued from The News Division: Match 4———–

The News Division: Match 5

Roberts vs. Cuomo

After everyone made it back up the cliff and got cleaned up, the six newsmen gathered in the living room.  As expected, the plasma screen sprang to life, with Eli Brody’s grinning face filling the screen.

“Fantastic fight!” Eli cheered.  “You do not disappoint.  In fact we have major new sponsors clamoring to come on board, due to the remarkable appeal you’ve tapped into.  Both semi-final matches will take place tomorrow.  At noon, Chris and Thomas will square off.  As soon as that match is over, Carter and Rob will take the beach.”

Rob grunted his approval at the match-up, glaring angrily at Carter across the room.  Carter smiled slyly back.

“Two of our sponsors have invested in some special challenges to help you earn a little more pay off during tomorrow’s matches.  Pore-Away acne cream will provide sponsorship of producer credits for a major film to one fighter.  The fighter who wins and displays the most popular victory pose will be awarded the film sponsorship.  One of you will enjoy the opportunity to move behind camera and get into the potentially lucrative film side of our industry.”  All six men looked very interested.

Eli continued, “The second sponsorship comes from Male Fitness online-zine.  They’re offering a quarter of your yearly salary to any fighter that takes off their speedos in this round of fighting.  Their consumers want to see the full-monty, gentlemen.”  There was uncomfortable shifting as each man measuring his price to go naked.  “Oh, and if any of you don’t fight au natural, your bonus will go to your opponent, if they take your speedos off by force during the fight.”

Eli paused, allowing the hidden cameras time to capture reaction shots from each of the men.  “I suggest you rest up,” he finally concluded.  “Four of you have a big day ahead.”

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At noon the following day, Chris and Thomas walked onto the beach.  Chris wore navy blue speedos, and Thomas wore black trunks.  Both men were tanned significantly darker than when they’d first arrived at the beach house.  They were closely matched in size and fitness. Chris had dispatched his first round opponent more quickly than had Thomas, but Thomas had taken the time to truly humiliate his opponent.  Both men were suitably cautious, respecting each other’s strength and fierceness.  Both men also noted that neither of them had yet chosen to accept the full-monty challenge.

The horn sounded on the cliff above, signaling the beginning of the fight.  Both hunks crouched low, slowly circling in the sand.  Thomas lunged forward a couple of times, quickly abandoning his try at a single leg as Chris danced away.  Both men cautiously extended their arms, locking together in a collar and elbow.  Pushing and jockeying against one another, Thomas managed to muscle Chris off balance.  He threw Chris onto his back on the sand, quickly dropping on top of his opponent.  Straddling him in the mount, Thomas reached toward his opponent’s head, but Chris grabbed his wrists defensively.  Muscles straining against one another, Thomas leaned forward, allowing gravity to add to his superior strength.  Chris’ arms began to quiver as he held Thomas suspended above him.  Slowly his strength weakened, and Thomas pressed his arms downward onto Chris’s broad chest.

Thomas slid his left arm sideways, slowly pressing his forearm against Chris’ neck.  Chris’ face began to grow red as he pressed back as hard as he could.  Releasing his right hand, Chris grabbed a small handful of sand and flung it into Thomas’ face.  Thomas instinctively brought both of his hands to his face defensively, wiping the sand away from his vulnerable eyes.  Chris bent his knees and pressed his feet into the sand, quickly arching his back up and off the beach.  Thomas sprawled forward, landing over the top of Chris’ head, still wiping at his eyes.

Chris wasted no time, spinning over onto his stomach and grabbing hold of each of Rob’s ankles.  Chris yanked Thomas’ legs out from underneath him, stretching him out over the sand.  Chris stepped his right foot around and over Thomas’ legs, straddling him facing backward still holding onto Thomas’ ankles.  Hooking Thomas’ ankles underneath his armpits, Chris squatted backward, folding Thomas’ body backward in a tightly locked Boston crab.  Thomas grunted deeply.

Chris strained, pressing his body backward, applying more pressure onto Thomas’ lower back.  “Give it up!”  Chris shouted.

Thomas chuckled.  Lifting himself onto his hands, Thomas pressed his upper body high off the sand.  Chris was thrown off balance enough for Thomas to twist his legs free.  He kicked Chris’ back sharply, sending him sprawling on the sand, his back arched in pain.  Both men rolled away from one another and came slowly to their feet.

After a second to catch his breath, Chris charged forward, grabbing Thomas’ outstretched right hand.  Twisting Thomas’ arm sharply, Chris spiraled his body powerfully around, applying full pressure on Thomas’ locked right arm.  Thomas had no option but to sommersault forward, rather than have his shoulder ripped apart.  He landed hard on his back, gasping in pain as Chris maintained his lock on his arm.

Chris kneeled next to Thomas’ prone body, wedging his knee against the back of Thomas’ hyperextended elbow.  With his left hand remaining locked around Thomas’ wrist, Chris wrapped his right hand over the top of Thomas’ palm.  Chris pressed the palm backward by the fingers, hyperextending it toward Thomas’ wrist.  Thomas gasped in pain.

Before Chris could react, Thomas pulled his knees to his chest, planted his feet against Chris’ chin, and kicked him away.  Chris flew backward, losing his grip on Thomas’ wrist.  Chris rolled to his side, but Thomas had already jumped on top of him.  Pinning Chris’ torso with his hands, Thomas extended his right leg straight backward, his weight resting on his left knee.  In quick, violent bursts, Thomas repeatedly drove his right knee into Chris’ abdomen.  Chris winced in pain, trying to double over defensively, but being held in place by Thomas muscled body bearing down on him.

Thomas spun around to Chris’ head, grabbing Chris by his knees and folding his body tightly, ass skyward.  Stunned and in pain, Chris didn’t realized what was happening until Thomas had reached his hand between Chris’ legs and grabbed the back of Chris’ navy trunks.  Pulling fiercely, with a grunt, Thomas ripped the speedos off Chris’ ass and up to his knees.  Chris began to kick and squirm frantically, but Thomas was able to stand and remove Chris’ trunks completely.  Backing away from his humiliated opponent, Thomas twirled the navy blue speedos around on his index finger, smiling.  “Lose something?”  he asked.

Chris pounded his fists in the sand angrily.  Now completely naked, he lay on his back in the sand.  Well endowed and smoothly shaven, where his speedo had been, Chris was pale white, starkly contrasted with his deep tan over the rest of his body.

Quickly, Thomas bent over and pulled off his black trunks, securing both full-monty bonuses for the match.  Thomas also had a contrasting tan line where his speedo was.  He was visibly excited by the turn the match had taken.

Chris rolled to his stomach and came slowly to his feet, watching Thomas cautiously.  “Nice… muscle,” Thomas said with a smile, nodding at Chris’ crotch.  “I may need to devote some special attention there before we’re done.”

Thomas lunged low, wrapping his arms around Chris’ waist and locking his wrists behind Chris’ back.  Just as Thomas lifted Chris sharply in the beginning of a bearhug, Chris defensively bent his right knee forward.  As Thomas hefted his opponent powerfully upward, he inadvertently drove Chris’ knee sharply into his own balls.  Thomas gasped and choked, wide-eyed, as he lost his grip.  Chris dropped harmlessly to his feet.

Without pausing, Chris grabbed Thomas’ hair in both hands.  Pulling Thomas’ head downward, Chris drove his left knee upward.  Chris’ knee crashed into Thomas’ jaw with a loud crack, and Thomas fell to his knees, dazed, clutching his jaw.  Furiously, Chris pulled Thomas by the hair, pressing his gaping face into his groin.  “Take a good look, smart ass” Chris growled.

Thomas weakly tried to push his hands against Chris’ thighs.  With a jerk, Chris shoved Thomas’ head tightly between his thick thighs, wrapping his arms around Thomas’ waist.  With a grunt of effort, Chris pulled Thomas off his feet, suspending him in an inverted, reverse bearhug.  High in Chris’ grasp, Thomas’ balls hung inches in front of Chris face, his legs spread wide.  Lips curled, teeth clenched, Chris dropped to his knees, driving Thomas’ already dazed head straight downward into the sand.  Thomas bounced shortly, then fell to his stomach, his head face down in the sand between Chris’ upper thighs. He remained motionless, except for his fingers slowly clutching uselessly at the sand.

“Not enough,” Chris mumbled, as he climbed to his feet and straddle-walked the length of Thomas’ body.  Grabbing Thomas’ ankles, Chris again hooked them under his armpits and squatted, pressing his full weight down and backward.  Thomas’ legs arched painfully backward, his lower back being folded in half.  Chris lowered himself farther into his squat, finally coming to rest, cheek to cheek, on top of Thomas’ bare ass.  Still dazed, Thomas struggled, but was too weak and disoriented to pull free.  Feeling his back locking painfully, vertebrae grinding against vertebrae, Thomas screamed in incoherent pain.  “How does it feel, fucker!?” Chris screamed.

Thomas shouted, “I submit!”  But Chris held the Boston crab, leaning backward as far as he could.  Again, Thomas screamed out in pain, fists pounding the sand in desperation.  Finally, Chris stood up and threw Thomas’ legs to the sand.  Turning, Chris stomped on the small of Thomas’ back with his right heel.  He spat on the back of Thomas’ head, and then flexed a sweaty, sand-coated double bicep pose as he glared at the back of Thomas’ head. “You had that coming,” Chris growled.

He dropped his huge arms and turned to face the other newshunks watching silently across the beach. His pumped pecs and cock bounced, as he stared defiantly.

—Read what happens next: The News Division – Match 6—

Asses Named

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It was great to see a lot of you playing along in this rebooted round of Name that Ass! As my stats instructor was fond of saying when handing back our tests, mistakes were made. But asses were also correctly named. No one accurately identified all four sets of mouthwatering glutes in this round, but three of the four hunks were correctly named, in the aggregate of answers. Of course, this is all just an excuse for me to worshipfully adore the gorgeous butts of some of my favorite wrestling hunks, so let me get on with the pay off and name those asses.

Ass #1 belonged to none other than underground wrestler gone way, way big: beautiful Finn Balor.

Since making it huge in big, box store corporate wrestling, rainbow ally Finn has fucking whittled his magnificent physique to insane tolerances. I actually prefer his beefier build from early career BGE appearances, but that g-g-g-gorgeous ass of his is top shelf in any weight class. There were a couple of incorrect guesses for Finn’s glutes, but eagle-eyed Jose instantly recognized one of his (and my) favorite wrestlers’ backsides.

Jose also immediately I.D.ed spectacular ass #2 as belonging none other than indy pro hunk Clark Connors.

Holy FUCK, I’ve got a raging infatuation with Clark. His body sends me swooning instantly. I’ve got it about as bad for him now as I have crushed for most of my youth and adult life on a young Billy Jack Haynes. His porn-ready ass has a YouTube fan video devoted to it, and I’m slightly irritated that I didn’t think of that first. I can guarantee you that you’ll see Clark starring in some homoerotic wrestling fiction on these pages soon, because I cannot get enough of him!

You can all be forgiven for not recognizing ass #3 as belonging to CMLL luchador, young buck and golden devil, Oro Jr.

I’ve been watching so much CMLL in the past year that nothing I say or do can convince all Google platforms that I speak fluent Spanish (I don’t). One of the top reasons I’m so into the Mexican luchadors is Oro Jr., and, let’s be honest, Oro’s unbelievably juicy ass. He jokes on his Instagram page about how fans only seem to ever take photos of him from behind. I can see why. When he’s in the ring, I’m obsessed with watching his magnificent glutes from every angle. When he’s waiting his turn on the ring apron in a tag match, I forget about the action and just stare at his glorious butt. I realize he’s pretty perpetually in prima o segunda lucha position, so he’s not exactly a headliner yet. But I fast forward through most everything else when I know his hot bod is going to step into the ring.

And finally, ass #4 belongs to none other than rising star and body beautiful, Angel Garza.

Tim Sheridan accurately identified Angel’s ass almost the instant I posted the game, because Tim knows his spectacular wrestling asses! Unnecessary Gay Character (awesome handle, by the way) also put his finger on the correct pair of glutes. Garza is just so ridiculously pretty, and like Oro Jr., he’s clearly abundantly aware of what the fainting gasps and screams are about when he shows up packed snug in a pair of butt-hugging wrestling briefs (or, better yet, when he arrives in tear away tights, and rips them off like a stripper halfway through a match). I LOVE a crowd pleaser, and the impish, handsome smile on his face says that he knows what we’re all lining up to see.

Finally, one more ass that was not featured in the original game on Monday. Kayden Keller chimed in on Twitter to chide me for neglecting to shine the spotlight on his jaw-droppingly sexy backside in this round. First of all, I’m loving that the multi-winning, reigning Best Heel at BGE is demanding my attention. Second of all, I will marvel at and adore Kayden’s fantasy man glutes morning, noon, and night. No one technically “won” this round of Name that Ass, but I think Kayden’s power play at slapping down his beautiful butt and insisting on its due makes him, and, really, the rest of us, the real winner.

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Name that Ass

wrestlebard7 Comments

One of my favorite little gimmicks in my 10 years of blogging about homoerotic wrestling was Name that Ass. It was modeled on the very old game show Name that Tune, where contestants endeavored to recognize a popular song with just few, isolated notes. In my homoerotic wrestling version, I challenged readers to identify a wrestling hunk with just an isolated, up close image of his hot ass. I strongly suspect it was significantly more pleasurable for me to curate the images than it was for readers to decipher them. But honestly, this blog is about me, so I’m dusting off the guessing game. I’ve offered a variety of prizes for winners in the past. The first to identify all of the beautiful butts from straight up pro wrestling below can choose the theme of an upcoming blog post or fantasy match, if you’d like. I suspect some of these asses will be easy (so to speak), while others will be considerably more of a challenge. Post your answers in the comments below. Good luck!

Ass #1:

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Ass #2
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Ass #3

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Ass #4

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Good Boy, Bad Boy

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For the past several months, I’ve had too little time to savor the homoerotic wrestling scene. One of the new releases that I’m circling back around to drink in, now that I have more time, is BG East’s Demolition 27 from catalog 140. The pairing of bad ass muscle man Joshua Goodman (that’s Mr. Joshua to you!) and perennial pin-up boy Christian Taylor is inspired. Like Mr. Joshua’s crotch, drama is busting at the seams with nothing more than the set-up. Christian is achingly innocent in his very first wrestling match climbing into the ring with the dazzling bulges and perfect proportions of Mr. Joshua right in the middle of his ascendency.

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Part of what makes this such a perfect pairing is what we’ve known of both wrestlers’ bodies of work. In his 30 previously released matches (yet taped after his initiation in Demolition 27), Christian distinguished himself as a fan favorite baby face heart throb with effortless eroticism. He’s wrested passionate kisses from about half of his opponents. Perpetually lean, Christian layered on matured muscle over the 14 or so years since he climbed into the ring with Mr. Joshua. Match by match, he’s grown more confident and dangerous. Starring in releases with superlative titles like “sexiest,” “sizzling,” and “hottest,” a seasoned Christian Taylor has demonstrated that he loves the erotic intimacy of fiercely fought, sweat soaked submission wrestling as much as you and I do.

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Goodman is a big, bad boy

Mr. Joshua, on the other hand, has distinguished himself as one of the most heartless cock teases in homoerotic wrestling history. In his approximately 45 previously released matches, Mr. J has ranged from narcissist muscle jobber to low-blowing, bulldozing bodybuilder heel. But a subplot in his ascendency has centered on fans’ unrequited love affair with his stunningly massive crotch. We’ve repeatedly voted his as the Best Bulge in BG East, and Mr. Joshua keeps teasing us with his wardrobe adjustments mid-match, rearranging his prominent bulge, shoving his hand down the front of his trunks, swinging his moneymaker all over the ring. Early on, his quick crotch adjustments seemed incidental, unselfconscious. But clearly word has gotten back to Mr. J how gay fans swoon for it, and he’s grown relentless about teasing and taunting his opponents/fans with his barely caged anaconda. Right around Matmen 21, he turned full on cock tease, bringing a breathless fan to the mat room to battle for the chance to conquer and claim his grand prize. Ever since, Mr. Joshua has been explicitly acknowledging the obvious fact that his smoking hot bod, and in particular that humungous, low-hanging bulge, is driving gay wrestling fans nuts!

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So Demolition 27 was taped before Christian evolved into a fully formed erotic submission wrestler with a penchant for locking his hungry lips on an opponent’s gasping mouth, and probably before Mr. Joshua had fully begun to exploit the power of his mammoth allure. Right there, in that moment, Christian is stretching in the ring in anticipation of his first BG East match, skinny, pale, achingly young, surely nursing the embryonic wrestling kink that would later blossom. And in walks Mr. J, packed into very brief golden trunks that never stood a chance at fully containing his overflowing abundance. “You look like a string bean over there,” Mr. Joshua immediately starts the trash talk. “You’re a dead giveaway as a rookie. You know how I can tell? You’ve got no tan!” Christian looks cool, unfazed. He’s got that James Dean upper lip curl suggesting contempt. But even if you didn’t know what an erotic wrestling enthusiast he would become, you can see the youngster’s eyes lingering, his feigned nonchalance worn thin in an instant as the stunningly gorgeous slab of beefsteak climbs into the ring with him.

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“What’s your name, rookie?” Mr. Joshua asks, just so he can make sure the kid’s next of kin is notified when all is said and done. “Christian,” his obviously unsettled opponent replies with a stiff upper lip. “Christian?! Well, I’m an atheist,” Mr. J clucks, “and the pope isn’t going to save your ass, so you’re in trouble now!”

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2017, 2018 Best Bulge

“Have you seen any of my videos,” Mr. Joshua demands to know. “Have you seen what I can do?” He flexes just a little. Christian denies having watched Mr. J’s back catalog, but no shit, there’s a sheepish grin on the kid’s face that makes me melt. His lusciously lipped mouth says no, but everything else about Christian says that he’s unzipped and studied the legendary wrestler’s body of work with more than passing interest. As if in confirmation, Christian’s eyes and the camera simultaneously zoom in on Mr. Joshua’s mountainous crotch.

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Supposedly, the story is about the veteran who goes a little overboard breaking in the young buck. Mr. Joshua does love his “lessons.”  “Keep the viewers entertained, Christian Taylor,” Mr. Joshua lectures, scooping the kid up and holding him across his huge chest for days on end, passively demonstrating his total control, lording it over his opponent, knowing what it’s doing to fans watching, before pounding long, limber Christian down savagely into an over-the-knee backbreaker. He holds him there, pinned like a butterfly, grinding his elbow into Christian’s crotch.

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“We have to put all this hair to good use,” Mr. Joshua continues his lessons. Christian is a worm on the hook, but Mr. J grabs a hand full of hair and keeps yanking the kid off the mat mercilessly.  But, when Christian gets a fleeting taste of offense, he hooks Mr. J’s boots nice and snug against his crotch and pries the bodybuilder’s arms backward viciously in a kneeling surfboard. “You want to tell me about those rules now, huh,” the bitter rook snarls. It’s a sweet little morsel of bully revenge fantasy as the rookie owns the bodybuilder. He lets go of the arms to rain down vicious fists into the muscled lower back of his captive. Mr. J is looking seriously ready to get fucked over by a gangly, lightweight Freshman. Finally, he reaches forward and grabs the bottom rope. “You’ve got to let me go because I’ve got the rope! That’s part of the rules!” Lovely, limber, adorable Christian lets him go, because… rookie.

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About 2 minutes later, Mr. Joshua is working up a head of steam all over Christian. He’s pounding and stomping out every last ounce of irrational courage in the newbie. Mr. J grinds the kid’s skull between his magnificently muscled thighs in standing scissors, leaning forward and giving Christian the atomic wedgie of the year (why is that not a category!?). He literally splits the kid at the seams, tearing open a hole up the crack of Christian’s square cut trunks. “I beat you so hard I ripped your underwear,” Joshua marvels. “You just couldn’t handle it.” He muscles the newbie all over the place, finally wrapping him into a deep-seated Boston crab, wrenching on Christian’s lovely, long legs and prying his spine severely backward. The rookie pounds the mat in agony and desperately submits. “But that’s another one of the rules. I don’t have to let go. I’m not finished. Just because you say you’re finished doesn’t mean I am!”

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“Christian Taylor,” Mr. Joshua contemplates, as he drags the kid to the ropes and forces him to see himself get manhandled in the mirror. “You sound like a good boy. You come from a good town, good family. What are you doing here?!” Here’s the money shot for me, my friends. It’s when Mr. J ties up Christian’s long, lanky arms between the ropes. He doesn’t need to, of course. He’s fucking demolishing the newbie like a stick of dynamite. Rather, Mr. J ties the kid up in order to have his hands free, in order to flex, in order to have an all access pass to Christian’s lovely, pale body stretched out and unable to even curl into the fetal position.

 

Mr. Joshua brutally pounds the impudent skinny kid trussed up before him. He yanks on those trunks again, hard, to lend that much more leverage to his fists punching Christian’s gut. He yanks so hard, in fact, that Christian’s dick pops out at one point, flailing helplessly in the aftershock of another gut punch (welcome to homoerotic wrestling, newbie!). Mr. Joshua pries Christian’s head backward over the ropes so he can hoist a leg over and straddle this kid’s handsome face. “That’s right, kiss my ass while you’re down there,” the veteran demands. Honestly, Christian’s face is buried so deep, it’s impossible to verify whether or not he obeyed.

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I sort of think he probably did. Because here’s the thing, while we can’t know whether Christian already had in mind his evolution into a full-on erotic submission wrestler, we can confirm (in that back-to-the-future sort of way), that following his demolition at the hands (and everything else) of Mr. Joshua Goodman, Christian has taken most every opportunity he’s been given to pucker up and lay one on an opponent.  Was Christian as erotically charged by wrestling before Mr. Joshua dismounted off his face, only to spin around and mount him again, this time with his legendary package basically smothering him? Only Christian knows, and I’ve never been able to get him on the line for an interview to ask him. I like to think so, though, that Mr. Joshua popping his homoerotic wrestling cherry (metaphorically speaking) brought babyface Christian back again and again to work up buckets of sweat wrestling nearly (and at times entirely) naked, and often buttoning down long, lingering lip locks on one hot bodied hunk after another. I like to think that Christian showed up that day a good boy, with just a little erotic curiosity, and Mr. Joshua’s unique brand of carnal depravity sensationally and irrevocably corrupted his innocence and spoiled him for anything but erotic wrestling.

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Of course, this could easily by just my imagination. But then again, at another telling moment in the action, when Christian is no longer St. Sebastian tied to a tree, Mr. Joshua hooks him into face-to-crotch headscissors, crushing the kid’s noggin for a while, before rolling Christian to his back, still bearing down on the scissors, and grinding his award winning bulge into Christian’s lush lips. There are a lot of ways a moment like that can go down, of course, but what does Christian do? He reaches up, strumming his fingers across Mr. J’s rippling abs, palming the muscle man’s thick pecs. What’s a good boy like Christian Taylor doing, showing up at BG East, squeezing his alabaster body into doomed, lavender trunks, and presuming to climb into the ring with a notorious heel with an ego nearly as enormous as the ballast in the front of his trunks? He’s willingly, eagerly, even, coming face to crotch with a bad boy and hoping that a lot of it rubs off.

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In the waning moment of the match, Mr. Joshua keeps yanking Christian by the hair and demanding that he open his eyes to witness his final destruction. I’m pretty sure Mr. J is reading his opponent’s eyes tightly shut as terror, or resignation, or a primal instinct to retreat to his happy place in the face of this horror show. I have a different theory, however. I suspect that Christian was searing the evocative sights, smells, and feels of this match into his memory. In fact, I bet Christian still lies in bed in the dark, these 14 years later, occasionally catching a whiff of Mr. J musk, a muscle memory cramp in his now-toned abs in the shape of Mr. Joshua’s fist, the exact feel of Mr. Joshua’s sculpted pecs in the palms of his groping hands as he struggles not to choke on the legendary crotch relentlessly grinding in to face.

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Mr. Joshua does that. He insinuates himself into the homoerotic wrestling imagination and absolutely owns a parcel of property there that no one else has come close to laying claim to. And he knows it. I think he’s systematically come to know it more and more, the more he’s molded hot, eager, gay opponents like Christian into putty. I still hate what a fucking cock tease he’s been all of these years, haunting my dreams (and Christian’s) with his taunting, terrorizing, tantalizing main course that’s never quite served.

0232_lgAnd then there’s Christian, 14 years later, looking like a movie star, sporting his own rippling abs and sensationally sexy physique. His been beaten and battered many times, but never split open wide quite like that first day at BG East when he climbed into the ring as just another good boy, from a good town, to lock up with one of the biggest, baddest, sexiest muscle men in the business. Would it all have turned out quite like this without that first ring encounter those years ago, when Mr. Joshua Goodman laid him bare and showed him just how far his wrestling dreams could take him?

0203_lg-1So, I loved this match. I’m still waiting to get a good, long look at what Mr. Joshua sees when he yanks on the front of his gear and stares down at the crotch monster squirming in his trunks. But what I’d really like to know is what Christian sees, smells, and feels when he closes his eyes and remembers his first day as a good boy, from a good family, from a good town, first getting introduced to the wide open world of homoerotic wrestling.

Wasted Wednesday

wrestlebard7 Comments

I’m trying out new hashtags for the rebooted blog. Today, I’m giving #wastedWednesday a trial run. It’s an homage to that spectacularly sweet moment in wrestling when a once bold, brash, cocky competitor is out-hustled and outmuscled. In straight-up pro wrestling, a hard-bodied hunk laid waste is probably just denouement. The camera centers on the pumped victor. The story is his story. But in wrestling for gay eyes, the camera frequently zooms back in on the vanquished, savoring the sight of his humiliation. It’s as much a story about his heartbreak as it is about the winner’s celebration. I think for many homoerotic wrestling fans, seeing a muscle hunk demolished can be pretty fucking climactic (at least it is in my pants). Bulging muscles left impotent. A swollen, cock-sure ego smashed to bits. Power and promise and danger pounded into a puddle of helplessness. For my tastes, the prettier, the stronger, the cockier the waste-ee, the better. So this is my little love letter to the hot, homoerotic wrestling hunks who gave it their all and, in the end, were left unable to lift a finger to defend themselves. Let me know if you think @wastedWedensday should be a thing.

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Crushed Gabriel Cross

Gabriel Cross is left upended (literally) by Van Ryder in their Muscleboy Wrestling match. Gabriel’s journey from twink to muscle hunk is one of the most dramatic transformations in homoerotic wrestling history. Seeing his spectacular physique laid waste and his cherubic face out cold is so, so sweet.

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Shattered Pet Sharp

Pete Sharp took BG East by storm there for a couple of years. Pete’s gargantuan package earned him an instant Best Bulge award 3 seconds after he arrived, but damn, was there even on inch of that 6’2″ blond, blue-eyed beefcake that wasn’t perfection? Show up looking like that, built like that, and you’ve got to expect some respect. But fuck, no. Not only did his one-time buddy Lon Dumont mercilessly maul the cocky hunk, but Braden Charron completed his titanic heel turn by dragging Pete’s gorgeous ass all over the ring. His tenure in homoerotic wrestling was far too brief, but damn Pete left a big impression!

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W4H’s Colt vs. Drago match is the paradigmatic #wastedWednesday story. Adorable Colt uses chloroform and one sleeper after another to repeatedly make Drago’s divine muscles go slack. All 6’4″ and 240 lbs of Drago are putty in Colt’s hands. Drago rouses, struggles, starts to fight back, but Colt clamps on another sleeper, wringing the tautness out of huge, flexing muscles. Rouse, ring, repeat.

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During my hiatus from blogging, Scrappy evolved from a naughty, pretty boy into a franchise player with the body of a god. It does not surprise me at all that he is wracking up one of the most extensive homoerotic wrestling resumes in history, across multiple companies. He’s such a fan pleaser. It probably shouldn’t come as a surprise that opponents all want a piece of him. The sight of Scrappy’s powerfully sculpted muscles gone slack and his little boy face out cold, like when Rhino makes a name for himself posing over top of him, is such a turn on.

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Ruined Gus Rowe – Bearhug Beatings 1

I was an instant Alex Oliver fan from the moment I laid eyes on him wrestling as Gus Rowe for BG East. He has a perennial look of a smirking frat boy accustomed to being the hottest and handsomest, which I assume the the very vibe that makes him such a target for getting absolutely thrashed over, and over, and over again. The method of his destruction varies, as do his opponents, but the match ain’t over until Alex is out cold and ass-up. Seriously, it’s his signature finishing move. This perennial jobber just can’t lose when it comes to turning me on, with his wasted, prone body, crushed, humiliated, and helpless.

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Overturned Alex Oliver – Alex Oliver vs. Joey Angel & Alvin James (double-teamed)
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Obliterated Alex Oliver – Alex Oliver vs. Sargent Stiff

So what do you think? What wrestlers never look better than when they’re worn out, rung dry, and laid out wasted? #wastedWednesday

Scott Williams’ Twink Demolition

wrestlebard6 Comments

 

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Scott Williams

At any one time, I’m typically nursing a throbbing crush on around half a dozen wrestlers. All it takes is a glimpse of one of them, and my heart pounds and my cock grows hard. It’s a rotating stock of sexy studs commanding my infatuation, but there are just a few wrestlers who show up on my shortlist and stick around long and hard.

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One of the first homoerotic wrestlers to instantly be elevated to crush status is BG East’s Scott Williams. I’ve written about my infatuation with Scott in the past, so I’ll just point out that if I were stranded on desert island and could only have 3 hunks with me for an endless round-robin of homoerotic wrestling, Scott is now, and almost always is, on that island.

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Rusty Stevens & Mitch Colby in Breaking Point

My homoerotic wrestling imagination has really been the theme of this blog for over 10 years. My musings have flitted from pro wrestlers, to wrestling-for-gay, to Hollywood hunks and beefcake journalists I’d like to see wrestle. But the real subject is always how my erotic imagination possesses my thoughts and inspires my cock. It’s just a thought-exercise that you’re invited to join me along, exploring my homoerotic wrestling fantasies that, for the most part, are solely playing out in my mind’s eye. But then again, there was that time I obsessed relentlessly for months about my fierce ambivalence between settling on Mitch Colby or Rusty Stevens as my reigning favorite wrestler, only to discover Kid Leopard had made my fantasy come true by pitting them against one another in The Breaking Point: The Sexiest.

I’ll keep nursing my regression to magical thinking and silently hope that I, just wishing it and naming it out loud, can make a fantasy match-up come true. I have some fantasy matches in mind, but I want to carve out what I intend to be a recurring series here, namely picturing tasty twinks for man-of-my-dreams Scott Williams to devour.

Scott has commented in the pages of this blog that he likes getting his hands on new crops of young wrestling twinks. That acknowledgment alone sent me pouring through the catalogs of new releases to decide who it is Scott should get his hands on first, at least in my imagination. For the record, Scott has not endorsed this series, nor has he approved any of the opponents I have in mind for him. If Scott wants a rewrite, or even a retraction, of absolutely anything I write about him, I’m his to command. Like, literally, Scott. Anything I can do for you, let me know.

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Kenny Starr – 5’9″ 175 lbs

The first twink I’m picturing that Scott should demolish is stunningly pretty, doe-eyed sexy boy, winner of the Debut of the Year of 2018, Kenny Starr. Just sizing the two of them up turns me on, because numbers are sexy. At 6’2″ and 190 pounds, Scott would tower over little Kenny, who stands at 5’9″ and 175 pounds. Kenny wears a playful smirk on his boyish face at the start of every match, like he’s just here for the fun and games and the free drinks and ready sex that come with being a young, ripped, erotic wrestling starr.

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So just picture Scott squaring off against Kenny in the BG East matroom, Kenny grinning and chuckling about “beating up grandpa,” and Scott staring back, deadly serious. Fuck, I love Scott’s game face. Glaring almost half a foot down at Kenny, his stone cold, humorless stare would  visibly unnerve the cocky twink.

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Scott Williams – 6’2″ 190 lbs

Kenny would take the initiative with a lightning quick lunge, taking a leg with a self-satisfied grin. Kenny’s plan would be to shock and awe the veteran with youthful speed and aggression. Scott would just watch, appraisingly. Even when Kenny sweeps the leg and slams the veteran to his back, I picture Scott just holding his hands out to his side, calmly, cooly studying the ankle biter quickly mounting his lightly hairy chest and sliding into a schoolboy pin. Kenny’s crotch dangling just over Scott’s face, the young stud would break out into that adorably exuberant shit-eating grin, flashing his baseball biceps and basically just waiting for Scott to admit that he’s outmatched.

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I think Scott would indulge the moment a while, because he enjoys the view and he knows he’s winding up the kid’s flawed sense of invincibility. But mid-chuckle, little Kenny would get bucked off and tossed across the matroom. Kenny’s certainty in his own superior speed would be shattered when Scott beats him to his feet, and then just flat out beats him. Scott likes long, strength-sucking endurance holds, so he’d start with a vice-like side headlock, dragging the twink around a couple laps of the matroom while crushing Kenny’s skull between a bulging bicep and his ribcage. Dropping to one knee, I can see Scott turning the crank in that magnificent way he has, pumping the headlock like he’s working to pry the stubborn lid off of a jam jar. Kenny would whimper and wilt sagging lower and lower until Scott takes him all the way to the mat, still crushing his skull relentlessly.

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Seriously, I can see Kenny tapping out to the patiently tantric headlock in the first 3 minutes of the match. It wouldn’t exactly surprise Scott, but it would sort of piss him off. The veteran relishes a test, and a cocky bro rolling over right out of the gate would inspire some serious punishment. Sure, he’d let go of the “submission” hold, but he’d give the kid exactly 1.5 seconds before sliding him into crotch-pillow headscissors and clamping down with his lovely, long, hairy legs. Little Kenny would writhe and whimper louder, struggling to pry the thighs away from his throbbing head.

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Scott would slowly transition to a figure-4 choke, then an armbar, then a tautly strung bow-and-arrow, patiently milking each crush and stretch. The matwork would be masterful, burying the increasingly desperate kid under joint wrenching torture from head to toe. A weak-ass 2nd submission would squeak out of the pretty boy to an incidental half nelson that Scott was using to set up a camel clutch. Scott would throw him down in disgust, exasperated by the would-be tough guy crumbling before him. As little Kenny whimpers petulantly, nursing his battered ego, Scott would call him a crybaby, all talk and no substance. He’d spank the kid’s ass with loud, cracking slaps that would make Kenny spasm and cry out.

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Scott’s patience would run out, waiting for his opponent to get up and fight like a man. Dragging him up by the back of his straining trunks, Scott would hook an arm between Kenny’s legs from behind, hoist him off is feet, and pound the gasping kid down in a gutbuster across his knee. You’d hear the air violently rush out of Kenny’s lungs, even as Scott would hoist him back up and slam him back down, again and again. When the kid doesn’t even squirm on the line, folded humiliatingly across Scott’s bent knee, the veteran would peel the back of Kenny’s sweat-soaked trunks down, exposing that lily white, perfectly round ass. I can see Scott squeeze the produce appreciatively for a while. It’s not like Kenny has any fight in him to complain. Until, that is, Scott starts spanking the naughty boy hard. Screams would punctuate the wet slaps, as the veteran hungrily studies the red palm prints he leaves behind. “Cry for me, crybaby,” Scott would growl. Kenny would weep in frustration.

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Kenny’s pleading submissions would fall on deaf ears. Hell, I’d bet Scott would crack some senior citizen joke about needing new batteries for his hearing aids, and not being able to hear this wailing twink. Of course, the truth is that the veteran would be tickled by every yelp, savoring every tear. He’d drag the kid up, demanding that the weak-kneed punk leave his ass cheeks hanging out. When petulant Kenny stubbornly pulls his short pants back over his red hot glutes, Scott would violently shove him into the wall face-first, pinning his head to the wall with one hand while using the other to yank his opponent’s trunks halfway down his quivering legs. You could just hear the twink’s impotent sobs grow more frustrated, then more desperate, as Scott pins the kid’s wrists to the wall overhead and grinds his crotch into Kenny’s ass.

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Kenny wouldn’t disobey when Scott demands, again, that he leave his trunks where they are. Even as the veteran throws him wall to wall and then body slams the kid to the mat, Kenny would leave his trunks awkwardly hanging mid-thigh. Scott would sit low and mean in the saddle across the kid’s bare butt in a Camel Clutch demanding that the kid cry, which he would. Loudly. Scott’s Boston Crab would be a little more work to cinch in place with Kenny’s trunks sliding most of the way to his knees, but all the easier for the veteran to transition to a single leg and reach down and squeeze the boy’s hanging balls.

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Kenny would submit again. And again. And again. With his tormenter’s claws ripping apart his perky lean pecs, Kenny would give. In an abdominal stretch hanging like a cut of tenderized beef on the hook, he’d cry out in submission again. Twisted, tossed, and tortured, the twink’s trunks would slide lower and lower, until he’d be swaying, barely standing unassisted, his pale white beauty marked all over with red welts turning angry purple, and his prettyboy designer trunks mid-calf. Panting, heavy-lidded, half out of it, Kenny would self-conciously start to bend forward when his gear finally drops to his ankles. Scott would just have to “tut-tut,” and the demolished twink would jerk back to attention obediently, swaying on his feet, eyes on the floor in humiliated subjugation.

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Scott would take one last stroll around his tamed trophy, offering light praise for the kid’s quick obedience, and promising to make a man out of him. Little Kenny wouldn’t say anything, because, really, what would there be to say? He’d just grunt in resignation when Scott shoves an arm between his thighs from behind and hoists the kid across his gorgeously muscled shoulders. If he pulled down on Kenny’s neck and legs, he’d wring more screams and tears out with a torture rack, but there’d really be no point to that any longer. Scott would just be wearing the kid like a wrap now, taking in the sight of himself in the mirror, soaked in sweat and in full possession of the adorable little muscle bro who’d been so filled with cocky overconfidence 20 minutes ago. With his conquest balanced across his wide shoulders, Scott would flex a little. He’d have earned the right to indulge in the self-congratulations, giving credit where it’s due, namely to his phenomenal physique and mat experience. Finally, he’d stride to the door and side-step through it, carrying his naked prize with him.

At least, that’s how I see it. It’s a lot more lopsided a match than we’ve seen Scott wrestle, but seriously, have you seen those huge, corded arms of his with veins popping out in his recent guest appearances at Wrestling with Pride? With the shape he’s in, and company he keeps, and boatload of experience to draw from, I just see tasty little Kenny demolished by the man-of-my-dreams!

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