Voter turnout for Sexiest Nipples has already been robust. I’ll report out “official” results as of tomorrow, so keep voting if you haven’t yet. But I’m also celebrating the close of 2016 with another niche category in homoerotic wrestling, one for which I have never seen a thorough vetting and careful consideration, but which I get into a lot: Best Ink.
Whenever I post about tattoos, I ALWAYS get comments from some readers complaining that they hate them. I respect the living fuck out of your tastes, but I don’t share them. Not all ink is sexy, of course. It’s not always aesthetically pleasing or complimentary to the body upon which it’s been installed. I don’t like all wrestlers’ tattoos, but usually I find them value added, and occasionally I evaluate them as outrageously sexy. Similar to what I said about nipples, while there are mechanics and geometry and proportion and color science involved, a tattooed wrestler works for me when I have an overwhelming desire to lacquer them up with baby oil and study them up close like the work of art they are.
So I’ve picked out my top five choices for Best Ink in 2016, perusing the homoerotic wrestling scene and, admittedly, focusing on those wrestlers who I watched most this year. I’ve restrained myself from posting multiple angles of each hottie’s canvas, for the sake of brevity. You may (or may not) want to do some due diligence on your part and study up every illustrated inch that may not be visible from the pics below. I know not everyone is into ink as much as I am, but if you are, feel free to register a vote for one of these fine works of art who appeared in a 2016 new release, or nominate someone else in the comments below.
Again, in alphabetical order, because AH appreciates that…
Carter Alexander (BGE)Eagle (TA)Calvin Haynes (BGE)KARN (W4H)Wes Richards (RHW)
Tis the season for year end retrospectives. I’m delighted to see Alex’s bold calls on his favorites of the year, drawing from across a wide swath of the homoerotic wrestling industry and reflecting some sensational wrestling. I’m keeping my fingers crossed that BG East will again do their Bestie Awards, so that I can obsess further about the highs and lows and gauge where I fall along the distribution of BG East fan tastes. Like the neglect of hot legs, I got to wondering what other categories of objects of my homoerotic wrestling lusts will likely also not be reflected in the mainstream polls and retrospectives. Since this blog is all about me (I keep repeating that because some people seem to keep forgetting it), I’m paying a little more attention to some of the niche categories that attract my attention, even if they don’t seem to be the subject of many/any other best of lists.
Even though this is all about me, I’m happy to have you chime in with your opinions (apart from nasty insults). So feel free to register your votes in these waning, dark days of 2016. I’ll report out the results of the polling, as well as let you know who I pick for top honors, in a few days. Today’s unsung hero category of homoerotic wrestling is Sexiest Nipples.
This category is tough to pin down the specifics, but I most definitely know what I like when I see it. The topic of attractive nipples pops up frequently in my posts, so it’s little wonder that I have opinions about who showed off the hottest nips in wrestling this year. If I have a criteria for judging sexy nipples, I’m sure size, symmetry, and placement are playing a part, but ultimately, it comes down to the nips that make my mouth water. I’ve picked my top 5 for you to vote on, but feel free to write-in a candidate in the comments below, as well as share your criteria for judging sexy nipples.
My slate of nominees for Sexiest Nipples in Homoerotic Wrestling for 2016 are as follows (in alphabetical order):
I think I may have become too serious in the past 41 days or so. Sure, I believe the very fabric of our fundamental social contract as a modern society is unraveling. And, yeah, I have to acknowledge that I’ve been feeling happy not to have children to worry about suffering in the coming new world disorder. But there’ve got to be some reasons to smile these days. As if reading the secret thoughts of my darkest hours, a long-standing, anonymous, yet dependable friend suddenly reached out and dropped a boatload of candid, behind-the-scenes photos smuggled off the sets of BG East, starring some of the most sensationally sexy wrestlers on the planet taking a little off the cuff joy in life.
Happy heels Jonny & Kayden
OMI (Our Man Inside) has long been aware of my pleasure at seeing candid images of the heroes, villains, and whipping boys who star in the homoerotic wrestling fantasies that I enjoy so much. Far too easily, we who are fans can forget that there are actual people behind the made-for-pro wrestling characters and storylines that we tune in for. Too often, we take our prerogatives as consumers too literally. We collapse the people who put in the time to craft their bodies for wrestling sport entertainment into the products they star in. So we too often feel free to critique not just the products, but the people. We act as if it’s our right, from the anonymity of our side of the computer screen, to trash people based on our tastes and preferences in wrestling entertainment, dismissing the people themselves as worthless if we judge their wrestling products or performances to be uninspiring. I delete comments from the pages of this blog when I think they’ve stepped over that line, because that’s not what this blog is about. People can, and do, do that anywhere and everywhere else on the internet. This blog is about celebrating the industry, promoting the best of what I enjoy in homoerotic wrestling, and encouraging producers and wrestlers alike to continue to titillate and innovate for a homoerotic wrestling sensibility.
Charlie, Kayden, Drake, Jonny, Chase and Ty are arm in arm after the matches
So I particularly enjoy these candid shots that give just a glimpse of the men behind the masks (whether literal or figurative). I know that there are some who would likely prefer not to see behind the curtain. I respect that. But these rare glimpses of these hot hunks’ humanity make me love this industry even more.
Brooks bakes
We don’t have to like them all. Fuck, that’s the whole point really. Some of the hottest wrestling happens when hunky characters who I despise lie, cheat, and steal their way into contention in the ring. The rules of polite (straight) society do not apply in the homoerotic wrestling universe in which these magnificent men show up and throw down, putting bodies and egos and sometimes even their asses on the line in these Greek melodramas that we enjoy so passionately. In that world, these men can fly. They can be broken to pieces and pick themselves right back up and battle on with nothing but sheer will stitching them together. In that world, they’re devious and diabolical. They’re naive and gullible. They’re virtuous to a fault and psychologically flawed to perfection. In that world, they may or may not even be aware that we are crushing on them, debating about them, pulling for or rooting against them. They are apart from us, operating by different rules, and the distance can make us imagine that our estimation of them, in this world, also need not abide by conventions of common decency.
Kid Vicious spies something delicious, whether it’s Christian or the cake (or both)
But in this world, they’re guys like you and me. Well, guys who probably work out more, eat better, and, if they’re any good, train to wrestle beyond what 99% of fans ever do. But in my experience, they’re just guys, most of whom are charming and complex, a patchwork of pride and insecurity, just like all of us who are afflicted by this human condition.
Austin & Jonny ham it up
And in these waning days of 2016, I could probably use with more glimpses of genuine humanity. I wish every one of these smiling studs success and good fortune in the coming year. I want them to know that they are appreciated, even beyond being adored by those of us who are fans. When they’ve peeled their bruised and battered bodies off the mats, when the cameras are off and the street clothes are on, when they clock into their day jobs where people don’t even know that they are phenomenally sexy fantasymen with superhuman strength and skill when they strip their hot bodies down to supertight trunks, I hope their lives are filled with happiness. They are beautiful and brave, powerful and provocative. They’re terrifying and titillating, inspiring and inciting. They turn us on and transport us to a world in which our fantasies of gorgeous gladiators locked in erotic combat play out, live action, before our very eyes.
OMI snuck out this tasty tease of as-of-yet unreleased, hardbodied newbies turning up the charm!!!
Wrestlers, when you’ve had your spine snapped in an OTK backbreaker and punched in the testicles until you’re a screaming, writhing mess on the mat, after you’ve gotten us off with your beauty and your might, I hope the world is kind to you in the coming year. Thanks for smiling. ~Bard
I want an invitation to the next slumber party with Kid Leopard, Jonny, and Kid Vicious!Vintage smiles from Ian Nesbitt, Jeff Jordan, Keith Sullivan, Dino Serra, DW and … who’s the tanned beefcake standing at the left?Just KiddingMason Brooks starring in Tom of Finland?Ty shares a smile and a shot of his backsideTy’s got to hand it to Nino “Baby Boy” Leone – that’s a hot ass and an adorable smileNino and Calvin seemed to be happy to join the party in 2016The rare glimpse of the Cheshire Cat NOT smiling!The Boss is happy to hit the town with young muscle in tow
Payton Meadows notices what Van Skyler is looking at.
It’s as if December new releases are extra titillating in an effort to sneak into the final spot of 2016 favorites when the retrospectives start to come. Another tasty offering from BG East’s catalog 116 surprised me by just how provoked I was. Making a regular diet of homoerotic wrestling for going on 8 years of blogging now, I’m probably one of the more jaded fans of the genre. So when something catches me off guard, when I catch myself saying, “I don’t think I’ve seen anything quite like that before,” it’s a notable delight. So I was thoroughly delighted by the opening match in Undagear 26, pitting phenomenal fan favorite Van Skyler against sophomore sex bomb Payton Meadows.
Van strokes
I was excited to read Joe’s take on this match already. As is the case 99% of the time, I agree with Joe in spirit. Like Joe, I found this match bawdy and beautiful. Like Joe, I was eager to take a long look (with many pushes of the pause button) at body-beautiful Van seeing if he can find his groove in a new wrestling context. Like Joe, the muscles and combat and power and sweat made “my pants itchy.”
I’m team Payton!
However, as is equally often the case, I had a slightly different take on some of the details. I find that seeing things slightly differently from Joe is reassuring for me, because otherwise, what would be the point of both of us blogging? In this case, whereas Joe pegs physique aesthete Van as “his” guy, my eyes are riveted almost from start to finish on the smoldering Quebecois. This takes me completely off guard. Payton didn’t grab me by the balls quite like this in his debut earlier this year. My hunch is that his first match and this one were both taped around the same time (same context, same general appearance), but somehow, it’s like I’m seeing Payton for the first time. And fuck me sideways, I like what I see a whole, whole lot.
“Feel that bicep on your neck, too tight for you?” “Just… just a little.”
Van seems about 20% more bad ass than in his first two matches, which is a relief. Someone who looks that pretty and gets bulldozed so commandingly can dig quite a rut for himself in this business. Most of us enjoy watching a superhuman specimen of muscular development like Van get knocked down to mortality, I think. In this business, there’s an inherent vulnerability to being that wildly pretty, with those perfected proportions, with that seemingly impenetrable muscled arsenal just begging to get penetrated. In Undagear 26, he’s noticeably more aggressive. He’s got a plan that doesn’t stop at a complete un-self-reflected assumption that because he looks like a live action version of a comic book superhero, he’s destined to win. In his first couple of matches, I got a sense that Van expected that someone who looks as fucking sensational as he does simply deserves to have victory served up on a platter, which was, of course, his spectacular undoing. But squaring off against Payton, there’s something more devious and determined about him, or, as Joe puts it, he tackles this new assignment with more brio.
“You like it, don’t you?”
Van’s vigor is remarkably well met by Payton’s sheer force of will. Having acknowledged that I found myself wholeheartedly on team Payton, it may seem paradoxical to admit that in their opening posedown muscle comparison, I objectively have to give the edge to Van. Payton’s legs are a fraction more petite. His lat spread may be a little more ripped, but Van’s wing span is simply broader. On sheer size alone, Van’s double bicep pose casts a long shadow across Payton’s nearly, but not quite as thick peaks. But the French Canadian doesn’t concede an inch. “That doesn’t beat this,” Payton snarls with that sexy Quebecois accent that always sounds supremely sophisticated to my provincial ears. “No way, not a chance,” he insists, stepping in front of the self-proclaimed “It-Boy” and dialing up his own blinding beauty an extra hard pumped flex, broadcasting his powerfully persuasive cocky certainty in his own superiority. I’m seriously shocked to discover that if I had the opportunity to get my lustful, worshipping hands on either of these magnificent men at that very moment, I’d be all over Payton despite Van’s piece by piece superiority.
We’re going to have an argument about these asses, aren’t we?
Well, there’s one piece of Payton that I would argue is superior: his ass. At the risk of calling down a mountain of heat from Van-fans, I just have to say, as magnificent and muscled an ass as Van possesses, Payton’s ass takes my breath away even more. Seriously, please don’t send me hate mail, because I freely acknowledge we’re talking shades of gray here. These are four outstandingly sexy ass cheeks. But I have to be honest here when I say that pushing rewind happened most frequently around my lustful appreciation of Payton’s derriere. And what angles we get! Holy fuck, I’m pretty sure an experienced physician could do a proctology exam on Payton just by watching the last 3/5ths of this match once he’s wrestling in a jock strap. The camera clearly loves that ass as much as I do. And he’s completely unselfconscious about showing it off, flexed, twisted, stretched, split wide… I get the impression that Payton knows that every hill and valley on him is intoxicatingly pretty. When he forcibly strips Van down to a thong, Payton requires that Van obey his command to peel off his own baby blue designer briefs, because no way in hell is the Quebecois stunner going to let Van show more skin for even a second.
Clearly I’m not he only one who enjoys a close-up look at Payton’s ass
I haven’t even really started talking about the wrestling, have I? The outrageous quantity of dazzling beauty in this match is hard to understate. But let me just appreciate the action itself, as well. It’s powerful and intense. For two bodies built like sprinters, the wrestling is actually quite focused on long-distance endurance. Van Pearl Harbors the International Delight mid-posedown because, I think, he recognizes that he’s getting out-prettied. Early days bodyscissors allow Van to demonstrate just how dominant his massive legs can be, grinding into Payton’s ripped, tanned torso. “That’s all you have?!” the Quebecois beauty taunts defiantly. He literally begs for more punishment, taking every ounce of pressure Van can muster and dismissing it with a smirk.
Sensationally intimate!
When Van exploits his advantage by reaching down and slowly, appraisingly stroking Payton’s gorgeously ripped torso, the erotic tension dials up about twice anything I’ve ever seen Van in before. I can’t tell if he wants to fuck Payton even half as much as I do, but he is clearly impressed with his body, finding it irresistible to refrain from from palming every bulge and divot. “You think you got muscle, eh?” Van taunts, his hands undermining his words. “They don’t seem to be working too much for you.” Payton muscles his way out of one predicament, only to be herded like cattle into a grinding, jeopardizing choke. “Feel that bicep on your neck,” Van crows, bearing down. “Too tight for you?” he asks tauntingly. “Just… just a little,” Payton grunts like a smart ass.
“Thank you, it was itching a bit, but that helps.”
Payton, it turns out, is a HUGE smart ass. Van is controlling him hard early going, working him into a very cool ankle choke. “How do you like those legs?” he asks rhetorically, because quite obviously they are punishing and possibly close to putting Payton out. “They’re kinda strong,” Payton coughs out like the smart ass I’m discovering that he is at heart. “Thank you,” he smirks when he escapes, rubbing his throat, “it was itching a bit, but that helps.” The taunting sarcasm is strong in this one, and I kinda love it. The combo of a rocking hot body, gorgeously innocent baby face, and over the top smart assness gives him a strong Ryan Reynolds vibe.
Van is just about to get fucked up
A couple of moments in the wrestling stand out as particularly hot. One starts with Van working some exciting momentum and that aforementioned planning to slide Payton’s baby face into deep, smothering face-to-crotch headscissors. Let’s see a show of hands of Van-fans who would donate a kidney to trade places with Payton right then and there? Perhaps all that smart assness is taking an emotional toll on Van, because he seems to particularly relish the way this hold finally shuts up that snarling, sarcastic, biting wit pouring out of the French Canadian. I for one am really, really pleased to study the erotic sculpture that is this tightly clenched mojo-stealer of a hold. But then, out of nowhere, Payton climbs up to his hands and knees, pulling Van’s hips off the mat. Fuck, I’m thinking, this pretty boy is strong! Then, up off his hands, Payton powers up to a kneeling position, rolling Van up to his shoulders, still clamped onto that face-to-crotch with everything he’s got, and perhaps a little twinge of panic added on. Fuck, I’m thinking again, this pretty boy is really strong! Then Payton pulls his feet underneath him and powers up out of the squat pulling Van completely off the mat, hanging from that face-to-crotch, dangling there, squeezing with everything he’s got, Payton’s head completely enveloped between those huge, thick quads. And then, BAM, BAM, BAM!!! Payton slams that huge, strong, thick back that Van was showing off earlier into the mat with authority. You can pretty much see the stars circling Van’s head as he loses his grip on the headscissors and for the next three or so minutes gets absolutely muscle bullied by the provocatively accented international baby face beauty.
“Pain is just weakness leaving the body.”
It turns out, in addition to being devastatingly beautiful and delightfully smart ass, Payton is also a vicious mother fucker on offense. He rips Van’s muscled legs open wide and pounds his knees into his hamstrings. “You like it, don’t you?” Payton asks in that cocky, aristocratic accent. “Feels good, eh?” he asks. Payton is wailing incoherently in response. “This is just too hard for you, my friend,” the Quebecois beauty taunts him ironically. He wraps himself around Van in an abdominal stretch, turning Van’s bulging muscle physique into taffy. Van gasps and whimpers, with a rising panic. “You like it? It’s fun, eh?” Payton beams down on his handiwork. “Just a regular day for me,” he coos, abruptly wrenching Van’s hot legs spread eagled hard in a spladle. Van can muster no other response than writhing in agony, gasping, silently clenching his teeth and, presumably, his sphincter. “Pain is not mandatory,” Payton mocks, reminding his opponent that his diabolical torture can end with two simple words. “Pain is just weakness leaving the body,” the French Canadian monologues like a supervillain. When he digs a claw into Van’s quivering abdominals all stretched out and helpless, Van cannot take it. “IgiveIgive!” he gasps in quiet panic. I, for one, seriously hate watching that magnificent torture session at the hands of perfectly, painfully pretty Payton come to an end.
“I kind of love it!”
When the first layer gets stripped to thong/jock strap, Van dials up the brutality considerably. Perhaps fearing that prettyboy rut I mentioned earlier, he starts muscle bullying the International Delight with renewed brio. They trade ass slapping, because this has got to be the sum total best quality ass match ever. Pretty quickly, Van snaps on a sequel, completely smothering, face-to-crotch headscissors, burying Payton’s pretty, pretty face deep into his big red bulge. Payton instantly slaps and strokes that fan-favorite ass of Van’s. “You like that ass, don’t you?” Van asks, “slap that ass!” he commands with a big smile, delighted to see that his charms are having as much an affect on Payton as vice versa. “You like that smell, that sweat?!” Van taunts, swiveling his hips, really stuffing Payton’s face in hard. Out of nowhere, the Quebecois accent muffled with a mouthful of balls, Payton snarls enthusiastically, “I kind of love it!” Oh, fuck, I am so on team Payton.
Payton digs deep.
The last moment I want to mention from this match is one that Joe, and the match description allude to as well. Van is starting to rack up submissions on my boy. You can tell Payton is getting buried under, because his trash talk turns significantly less smart ass and more ego bruised. Van has been bullying him hard and mean, clawing his balls for no good reason, not giving him a break between yanking out submissions. Van locks him up in a sleeper from behind, threatening to bring this battle of the beauties to an abrupt end. It looks like it’s heading that way, in fact, when suddenly Payton reaches behind him and claws the living fuck out of Van’s testicles. Needless to say, that sleeper hold disintegrates in a slack jawed, air sucking wash of panic across Van’s face. Van crumples, but Payton drags him back to his feet. Deliberately, the French Canadian shove his arm between Van’s sweaty, meaty thighs and thrusts upward, racking the beefcake’s balls hard. It’s a little breathtaking, watching Van’s jaw drop and his eyes widen in shock. But then Payton keeps thrusting upward with his forearm, literally picking the It-Boy up, racked across his forearm, and pins him against the wall, Van’s feet dangling inches from the floor. Joe nails the metaphor of a pinned butterfly specimen. Gorgeous. Stuck. Possessed. And if there were any doubt if Payton’s gorgeous muscles have the power to compete against a comic book superhero like Van, that question is put to rest in what very well may be the juiciest, sexiest submission I have ever seen. Ever.
Juiciest, sexiest submission I have ever seen?
So are you team Payton or team Van? It’s not like you can go wrong either way. Whether you’re keying off on Joe’s guy or mine, you will enjoy the intimate, high impact, super sweaty power and beauty of this match. I see something new and seriously unexpected from both of these dazzlers. And given the opportunity, I’d be first in line to coat every inch of Van Skyler with multiple applications of baby oil. Unless Payton Meadows was the other option. Then I’d kick Van’s stellar ass cheeks to the curb and worship Mr. International Delight in body and soul.
Team Van?
I am breathless in anticipation of getting to see much, much more of what I saw in those thrilling 3 minutes of supervillain monologuing and surgical, diabolical, merciless muscle torture from Payton Meadows in Undagear 26.
“What the fuck are you doing?” Flash LaCash demands as he climbs into the ring. Out of nowhere, adorkable Johnny Jobber has pulled out his lunch box and is wide-eyed with ecstatic anticipation at sticking his lovingly peeled banana in his mouth. He sticks it in.
“Ea-ing a ba-anna,” Johnny talks with his mouth full.
“Does this look like a fucking picnic table!?” Flash’s sense of professional decorum is assaulted. He’s incensed by this dumb ass kid who apparently is unaware that the wrestling ring is not public park. The question of what the fuck Johnny is doing in this ring remains a valid one from start to finish. The extremely brief profile description says that he’s a 24 year old who’s a “weak, twinky indy pro wrestler who can take a big beating.” That notwithstanding, I still say he’s got to be the most unprepared, inoffensive, ill equipped newbie to set foot in a wrestling ring, and that’s saying a lot. He puts forward nearly (nearly) no offense. But what he does do surprisingly well, is convey an oddly compelling and, as far as I can tell, pretty fucking novel wrestling character.
Not your average ass
Johnny is an everyman’s man (Freudian neurosis aside). Or, perhaps, he’s an every boy’s boy. He plays as incredibly young and lean. He’s fit, but soft in the middle, and without much visible muscle tone. He’s pale, with a thick pageboy and natural, lightly hairy legs and a dusting of dark blond chest hair. He’s handsome enough, but not in any standout way. If I saw him at a gay bar, I’d immediately put him in the “maybe” category and file him away for a backup plan, should more tempting game get away. But then, if he turned around, I’d reevaluate, because Johnny’s got a sensational ass. Seriously, a magnificent, all heredity bubble butt. Not much muscle tone. It jiggles a bit when he’s getting pounded like a round steak. But mother nature and fine, fine genetics gave him grabbable, slappable, succulent cheeks that answer for me the question of what doe-eyed Johnny’s doing in a wrestling ring catering to gay men.
Flash pounds Johnny senseless…
Johnny is also a tad… how shall I say it… fresh off the farm. He’s a simple boy who appears unable to hold too many thoughts in his head at the same time. Even when Flash is ripping him apart at the seams and asking what, I’m sure, are intended to be rhetorical questions designed to humiliate him, Johnny is a literalist, answering every one. In detail. “What else do you like to stick in our mouth?” Flash taunts the kid early on for being so fixated on that fucking banana. Anyone else would have heard the cock sucking reference. But not Johnny. He just starts listing the things he likes to suck on. Bananas. Popscicles. Cucumbers. Flash is mildly surprised as this oral fixation comes out in the open (under duress), but he rolls with it, without any hint of needing to turn things homophobic. “Let me ask you,” Flash asks, “have you ever tasted Iranian sausage? It’s quite humbling.” So now I know that Flash is Iranian. And apparently his sausage is humbling.
…and with Jonny, it’s a short trip.
The contrast between these two is visually stunning. They look roughly similar heights, but somehow Flash is twice the man Johnny is. He’s thick and bulging all over. His dark complexion, shimmering with a light coat of baby oil, makes Johnny’s lightly hairy paleness almost hurt the eyes. Flash’s magnificent full, thick beard is superbly masculine and mature. Johnny looks like a 19 year old kid who’s just a bit of a late bloomer. Flat chested, undeveloped arms, slightly meatier legs. And, as I said, Flash is a seasoned pro heel who has about 15 ways in mind to bend, break, and completely terrorize a simple kid with a magnificent ass.
Flash rips him apart, limb by limb
Wherever the fuck Johnny came from, he does one thing really, really well. He screams like a bitch. Damn, he suffers good. He takes a horrendous, lopsided beating like someone who most definitely is not new to this game, and he sells it like motherfucker. He’s dazed and weak in the knees when he takes blows to the head (which is often). He flops and shivers like a fish on the line when he’s getting squeezed between Flash’s gargantuan thighs. “I want to go home!” Johnny weeps pleadingly about 2/3rds of the way through the match. “Okay, go home,” Flash says, letting meat go, “and take your banana with you.” Johnny crawls on his hands and knees (again, that ass!!!), weakly trying to drag his average joe carcass to freedom. He screams and begs when suddenly Flash steps on his ankle, pinning him to the center of the ring, letting it slowly (sloooooowly) dawn on the farmboy that this is far from over.
Flash nearly knocks Johnny’s block off
The sexiest sequence by far is right around the halfway mark. Flash hooks the kid in a front facelock and grabs a fistful of trunks to hoist the kid up into a suplex. Somehow, Johnny marshals enough wherewithal to block it. Frustrated, Flash lunges low and starts over, but mid-lift, again, Johnny kicks and pulls his center of gravity back far enough to prevent Flash from taking him all the way over. A total of 4 times, Johnny shocks the beast by blocking that suplex, and then really blows me away by suddenly landing sharp fists into Flash’s gut. Flash is clearly as completely surprised as I am that Johnny does something, anything, on offense. Suddenly, the kid’s head pops free and he flings himself backward into the ropes, letting his momentum catapult him off the ropes and flying back toward his muscle bully. Flash has already lifted his right boot seriously high and straight legged. The timing and placement are absolute perfection. Johnny takes the heel of the boot squarely in the jaw. It looks like his head may have snapped off his neck for just a second. The kid drops lifelessly to the mat. And the whole thing is sold gorgeously.
Flash makes Johnny (banana) cream
Johnny’s oral fixation is the glue holding this relatively sketchy narrative together. As with so much of Wrestle4Hire, I’m dying to know more of Johnny’s backstory, but we get very, very little. What we do get is a running dialogue between the two combatants that drive home erotic innuendo of little Johnny’s “tastes,” and, by inference, centers the kink and eroticism that makes wrestling for gay eyes my (and your) thing. At one point, flash force feeds Johnny the remainder of his banana after kicking it around the ring a bit to make it nice and nasty. He takes a piece of the banana still in tact and precisely places it on Johnny’s impressive bulge. Standing over him, holding him by the ankles, spreading the newbie’s legs open vulnerably, Flash stomps on the banana(s). Kid screams like the wounded animal he is. And Flash taunts him from then on out about that messy “banana cream” that’s embarrassingly staining Johnny’s (now even tastier) pouch.
Flash shows off the newbie’s moneymaker
Another highlight is the sensationally trunk pull that signals that the producer, and perhaps Flash himself, knows exactly what I’m still watching this ring massacre for, because those lush, squeezable cheeks of Johnny’s jiggle free. There’s another 3 or 4 minutes of Flash mauling the kid relentlessly and giving us multiple angles to appreciate Johnny’s mouthwatering ass cheeks, with his banana cream-stained, stretched and ripped beyond repair trunks wedged really, really high up his crack. Like the crowd pleaser he is, Johnny doesn’t attempt to dig his trunks out of his crack until Flash commands him to, and even then, Johnny only bothers covering up one lily white cheek.
Johnny’s head nice and snug next to humbling Iranian sausage
While I’m not so big on squashes usually, and while I find Johnny’s character a little sketchy and troubling (e.g., should I feel guilty about fantasizing about relentlessly fucking a barely legal kid who may have just been riding the short bus a year ago?), I’m oddly satisfied and entertained by Flash LaCash vs. Johnny Jobber. I would love to see more backstory (on everyone at W4H, frankly), and I think Johnny is super ripe for getting sucked into orbit around some charismatic, domineering, big daddy pro mentor for some juicy drama (daddy would have to punish him harshly when, inevitably, Johnny fucks it up in his next match with daddy coaching from the corner). Honestly, about a minute and half into this, and I was expecting to not like this match or Johnny. In the end, after cleaning myself off and rehydrating, I have to admit, I’m a fan of Johnny, Flash, and this unflinching pairing of the two.
Banana cream-stained jobber
And if Johnny wants more banana, I’ve got one at the ready anytime, Lunchable Larry.
We’re at an even 150 votes cast after 5 days of open polls, so I’m calling it. The reader’s choice for BG East’s best legs in 2016 is none other than Logan Vaughn.
To be fair, this was incredibly close. Logan pumped out a victory of only 3 votes over big, beautiful, buff, bulging, blue-eyed beefcake Biff Farrell. Further fine print has to acknowledge that this is neverland readers’ choice, and there’s no telling who might have reigned victorious if BG East included a Best Legs category in their end-of-year Bestie Awards. It’s also true that the slate of candidates was entirely based on my own tastes and preferences, and in actual Bestie polling, there could have been someone entirely unrepresented in my poll who could have clamped their massive quads around the category and crushed out a victory. Even with all of those qualifications noted, however, I have to say I heartily approve. Logan Vaughn’s massive legs have been featured in my fondest wrestling fantasies before I ever actually saw him wrestle.
When I see Logan in porn, all I can think is “standing headscissors!”
When I first learned that Logan was going to wrestle for BG East, I screamed like a girl. He was grossly underused in JetSet Men’s Ultimate Top. His appearance in Naked Kombat was disappointing for me, because we never real saw those legs dominate the way they should. I have enjoyed seeing a couple of his Thunder’s Arena appearances, as they play more to the fantasyman that Logan so clearly is. But this beast and his monster quads were built for exactly one thing, as far as I’m concerned: fantasy pro.
Logan strikes terror in Catch Weight 7
I have Logan’s most recent new release, Catch Weight 7, in my cue, but what I always, always long to see is Logan in the pro wrestling ring crushing an opponent every which way with those tree trunks before bending and breaking his foe into an openly awed, slack jawed, zealous convert to the absolutely devoted worship of Logan’s quads. In other words, I cue up Florida Fights 5.
Perfection
In addition to Biff Farrell having an insanely passionate fan base, I also know for a fact that Kid Karisma is particularly proud of his legs and more than willing to put them up against anyone in the ring. And, of course, Chace LaChance was the Best Body winner last year, so it’s got to smart getting slapped down to third place for legs. And fuck, have you SEEN newbie Ramy Khoury’s huge, hairy thighs? That magnificent specimen deserves a much more competitive sophomore match up at BG East than his debut, and I would pay good money to see what he could do in this tournament of champions.
Logan makes art and he is art.
But even still, as much as I am passionately devoted in my following of Kid Karisma, as much as I adore Chace and swoon for big Biff, line them up side by side and give me just one pair of legs to get on my knees and worship, just one set of monster quads to oil down and frot fuck, one muscle god with twin towers to bury my face in and beg to get scissored, and I have to confess, I’m with the plurality on this one.
The first serious snow of the season fell around these parts this morning. Personally, I love it. I love it cold. I love it snowy. What better context to warm up with a smoldering hot homoerotic wrestling match centered passionately on the topic of fur.
Drake Marcos sports scruff
The topic of chest hair came up right in the middle of my match with Drake Marcos a couple of years ago. I think he was cracking one of my ribs with those fucking nasty scissors of his when suddenly he stroked my chest hair and made some comment about him having more. If I wasn’t sucking on a giant pain lollipop right then, I’d have shrugged. I’m pretty agnostic when it comes to most grooming choices. Shaved smooth or Grizzly Adams have an equal chance of turning me on. But I got the impression that Drake may have a little more of his ego strength wrapped up in the coverage of his chest hair. Like Samson, Drake seems to peg his power and virility on having the thickest coat of fur on when he’s stripped down and wrestling.
Nino “Baby Boy” Leone
I was reminded of that moment in the ring with Drake as I watched him dig his meat hooks into tasty little bon bon newbie, Nino Leone. Baby Boy Leone is just a little bit ridiculously cute. He’s petite. Thin even. But in that whittled down to raw muscle way. Drake repeatedly taunts him with disparaging comparisons to being a boybander from One Direction. I can see the Zayn Malik implication easily in Baby Boy. That adorable haircut must have cost him triple digits. It’s precise. It’s got boyband volume and height. It’s screaming out to get him dragged across the mat by it (don’t worry, Drake’s got that covered). And though little Nino may look like some adolescent girl’s wet dream, Baby Boy’s got luxurious, sexy, sexy, sexy ass body hair.
“I wasn’t sure they let One Direction boys have chest hair.”
So as Sexy Showdown 7 opens, and Drake sidles up behind little Nino while the newbie is stretching out on the mat, I for one am not a bit surprised to see the Cheshire Cat immediately reach over Baby Boy’s shoulder and start rubbing his fingers through that thick, rookie chest hair. “I wasn’t sure they let One Direction boys have chest hair,” he quips, pulling out clippers and clarifying that the loser of this match is going to walk out of here with a chest as smooth as a baby’s bottom.
Thick, wavy locks are probably more useful in a boyband than on the homoerotic wrestling mats
You know how much I’m always wanting to see adorable Drake redeem himself from getting his ass handed to him time after time (after time [after time]). And he’s got some extra fire as he tears into Baby Boy. He’s also got an extra 25 pounds and several years more BG East wrestling experience. So there’s something deep down satisfying about watching the notorious don’t-call-me-a-jobber jobber work up a hot head of steam on little Nino. There’s a strong upperclassman hazing vibe, with Nino’s baby face and the thick head of hair waiting to get yanked hard facing down big, imposing, bad ass Dra…. (oh, fuck, I just couldn’t finish that sentence with a straight face. Sorry.)
“You going to submit, you little bitch?”
Anyhow, imagine my lack of surprise when Baby Boy turns out to be quite a bit more than a handful for the Cheshire Cat to try to handle. He’s fucking strong! And mean!! And slippery!!! I mean, Drake fucking bullies him nice and sweet (seriously, no kidding). There’s this super hot, soul sucking bearhug early going, with Drake lifting little Nino way, way up off his feet. He milks it like a farmer and then slams Baby Boy to his back with authority. I’m surprised the newbie can breathe, much less fight back as the upperclassman climbs onto a schoolboy pin and ominously picks up those clippers. But then Nino starts bucking and squirming and sliding out from underneath. How can a man with that much hair be so goddamned slippery!?
“You know what your problem is? You just can’t keep control.”
It’s pissing Drake off, and I’m starting to get the whiff of the possibility of yet another humiliating Drake Marcos defeat. “It’s time for you to quiet down, BOY!” Drake snarls furiously, struggling to seal the deal. Drake is on him, cranking on a side headlock like he’s trying to unscrew the stubborn top off of a ketchup bottle. Suddenly, he slams little Nino’s head into the mat hard. You can practically hear Nino’s adolescent fans screaming in protest. And again, and again Drake pounds newbie’s head into the mat viciously. Honestly, I’m thinking he’s going to actually knock Nino the fuck out cold. But with a sudden burst of focus, Baby Boy pops his head free and clamps onto Drake’s back in a really, really lovely full nelson. “You know what your problem is?” Nino asks. “You just can’t keep control.” Oh, fuck, he didn’t just taunt the bigger upperclassman with unsolicited wrestling advice?!
The perfect use for Drake’s sexy legs
Despite Drake’s increasing frustration level and Baby Boy’s knack for thwarting the Cheshire Cat’s offense, this sexy showdown starts hurtling down hill. You know where this is heading, because Drake’s just too big, too hungry, too driven by the terror of facing the Boss after fucking up and losing to a petite little Zayn Malik wannabe. I can’t remember ever seeing Drake use those long, sexy legs of his to lock down chicken wings before, but he executes it perfectly on the shocked newbie. Little Nino literally whimpers in agony, his shoulders getting ripped out of their sockets. Baby Boy is looking ripe for the picking, and damn it all if it isn’t doormat Drake stepping up for the harvest!
Nino dials up the sexy in a jock strap
The singlets come off, thank the homoerotic wrestling gods. This action is just way, way too intimate to keep these boys’ bodies separated by that much fabric. Check out Baby Boy’s gorgeous fuzzy ass cheeks. Be forewarned that anybody who tries to drop a comment about hairy asses not being sexy will have their comments deleted posthaste, because although I’m all for a diversity of tastes, I just want to sit back and marvel at little Nino’s magnificent, bare ass in peace. Don’t change a fucking thing, Nino. You are perfect just the way you are.
“Oh, yeah, you’re my little bitch tonight.”
Well, except for Drake’s determination to shave your chest. Little Nino is buried under a crowing, gloating upperclassman when they’re both down to jockstraps. Baby Boy can do nothing but obey his instincts and suck on Drake’s cock through the jock strap pouch shoved into his mouth in that schoolboy pin. “Oh, yeah, you’re my little bitch tonight,” Drake coos in unfamiliar territory. “Yeah!” Nino gasps affirmatively, apparently not so bummed at taking a debut loss. The kissing is soooo sexy. I’m so into them being so into each other.
“After all, I do own you.”
Suddenly, Drake wraps his arm across Baby Boy’s throat and starts choking him out. “I’m going to hear another submission out of you,” Drake growls. “After all, I do own you.” Nino is squashed like a bug. He’s hopeless. He’s helpless. And he’s going nowhere. “So let me hear it, you little bitch, you fucking boyband wannabe!” Nino can read the writing on the wall. Drake Marcos just tagged and bagged a newbie. “I… I submit, Drake Marcos,” Nino gasps sincerely and totally submitting. “My hair belongs to you.” He repeats himself a couple of times, living into this moment of being owned his first time out of the gate.
The thrill of victory…
So “winning” is always a slippery topic in homoerotic wrestling. For example, Drake Marcos “wins.” He scores the most falls. He forcibly wrenches the most debased, dominated, humiliated bitch submission out of the newbie that I’ve heard in a long time. It’s climactic and and beautiful. It’s over. Until, mid-making out, lost in the celebration, Drake finds himself shocked to discover he’s just been slipped into an ass smothering figure 4.
…the agony of defeat
SMH. Drake, Drake, Drake. OMG, WTF? It’s Baby Boy who pulls out the clippers and meticulously, almost lovingly grooms his unconscious opponent to a silky smooth finish. “Victorious” Drake is slapped awake and forced to face his final humiliation, staring down at his naked chest.
Smooth as a baby’s bottom
I walk away with a few lessons learned from Sexy Showdown 7. First, Baby Boy Leone isn’t as innocent and in over his head as he first appeared. That lush, Mediterranean landscape and doe eyed beauty have got their eye on the prize, and I predict there are some big boys at BG East who are going to get pushed hard by little Nino. Second, Drake is just a little intoxicating to watch bullying the pledge. I mean, he’s always fun to watch, but there are moments when he leans back and smacks the living shit out of little Nino’s baby face that make my toes curl.
Drake looks damn good in the driver’s seat
And third, although I have no idea if Drake will ever just plain ride to an actual, uncontested victory, and even though I wouldn’t even hazard to guess if we’ll ever really see Drake unleashed, I do know one thing. Right then and there, at the end of Sexy Showdown 7, both Nino and I have a lot more chest hair than he does.
Continuing the theme of magnificent legs, I just watched Joey Angel take on Garrett Thomas over at Wrestler4Hire. Joey has caught my eye before, but I haven’t watched one of his matches from start to finish before now. The sparse color commentary and 3-D fan experience at W4H simply describes Joey as an “amateur bodybuilder with martial arts experience.” While both facts are self-evidently true, that doesn’t begin to describe what is equally as obvious, like he’s got to be over a half a foot shorter than Garrett Thomas, and he’s gorgeous as fuck, and those legs are nothing short of sensational!
Garret Thomas is the Pro here to school this Poser
There’s an oft repeated theme at W4H of the pro versus the poser. This match dabbles in that genre, with some sweet twists here and there. Garrett is the pro. He’s long and lean and rock and roll to Joey’s angelic, clean cut beauty. Garrett’s profile gives a few more details to inspire a fan’s fantasies. He’s 6’1″ and 205 pounds. He’s reportedly 28 years old and described as a “well-traveled pro wrestler looking to make a name in the underground scene.” Now there’s some drama that I love. There’s a little backstory to suck us in and make us ask questions. And I love knowing ages. I immediately picture myself at 28 and wonder what life would have been like in Garrett’s shoes. It will surprise no one who knows me that I love the details.
Shake that ass!
The match description signals to the novice Joey-fan that he is notoriously a babyface-to-slaughter in a singlet and a “fuck-you-up muscle god ready to conquer” out of his singlet. Again, I love the nuanced device. I love the homage to the way that wrestling gear sets the table for us. And I particularly love it when, in his pre-match warm up, Joey shrugs those gargantuan shoulders out of the babyface singlet straps and starts flexing for the camera with a little passion behind it. Based on the trajectory of my loving thus far, it should come as no surprise that I’m ready to propose marriage when Joey is celebrating a nice run of having his way, muscle bullying the shocked pro, and about 2 minutes into the match he steps back, bends over, and peels the singlet off his mammoth thighs. “Woah!” Garrett says in surprise. “You came here to party! Now that’s what I like to see, man,” he marvels unironically. “Those are shorter than mine!” he says with just a bit of enthusiasm. Honestly, I’m not sure I’ve ever seen a pair of super briefs as perfectly fitted and aesthetically ideal for a body. Joey scores points for wearing them to perfection, and Garrett scores a point for channeling his gay wrestling fan within.
“Now that’s what I like to see!”
Garrett is also obviously familiar with the pro versus poser motif. He quickly dismisses Joey’s cage fighting expertise and offers to show him a few pro wrestling moves to up his W4H game. He towers over the pint sized muscle stud, expertly utilizing leverage and muscle memory to work Joey’s fine, fine ass into vulnerable positions. He’s clearly putting on the harsh, unforgiving coach’s hat and calmly demonstrating his mastery, hoisting Joey way, way off his feet in a butt-beautiful bearhug. He rolls him into a camel clutch, describing the hold along the way for the ring rookie. He exploits some advantage to snag Joey’s ankles, hook them beneath his armpits, and squat low, explaining, “Now we’re going to go to the main street of Boston!” Thing is, though, this poser’s got muscle and moves. He spins and kicks free. He scrambles headfirst into the fray fearlessly, and about 4 times out of 5, he comes out of the full throttle scrambles on top, in charge, and instantly owning a seriously jeopardizing joint hold.
“I’m going break it.”
“Woah!” Garrett gasps with shock when Joey systematically neutralizes the pro’s offense and muscles his way into the driver’s seat. An exquisitely vulnerable arm bar from Joey makes the pro’s long, baby oiled body suddenly go rigid, not daring to move too far for fear of helping his opponent actually cripple him. “I’m going to break it,” Joey says. Calmly. Like an objective observation, more than a threat. “No, no, no, no!” Garrett absolutely begs, holding up his open free hand pleadingly, living into the terror of this moment of another man possessing the very real power of putting him in the hospital.
“I’m really sorry. I didn’t know you were going to be this good.”
Joey lets him go. I’m not sure if there was an actual submission. There could have been. There are a lot of unintelligible grunts and random tapping of the mat here and there, sometimes seemingly as signals for breaking holds. Nobody’s counting, either way. “Listen man,” the pro says pleadingly on his knees, having been granted the largesse of his muscle-tastic opponent. “I’m really sorry. I didn’t know you were going to be this good.” It’s pro crow eating time. I believe him, frankly. This turns out to be no pro versus poser contempt fest. Joey may be green, but he’s the real deal, and I believe him, and I believe Garrett’s grudging respect. Still on one knee (and therefore, nearly eye to eye with the gorgeous muscle kid standing in front of him), the pro extends a hand. Joey looks suspicious (see, not a complete poser!). Shockingly, Joey bats the hand away and lifts a heel to pound into Garrett’s baby oiled chest. Great instincts, Joey. Just a half second too slow, though. Garrett swings a nasty fist into Joey’s balls, like he’s clearly been planning all along.
“This little piggy went to market…”
“Ain’t got no balls of steel, huh?” Garrett taunts, climbing back into the saddle and riding this thoroughbred like the pro he is. He continues the initiation theme. “I was just trying to be friends,” he says disarmingly enough. “You really ought to invest in a pair of boots, though,” he thoughtfully offers unsolicited advice. “Because people can do THIS!” He stomps the heel of his boot down into the top of one of Joey’s bare feet. The magnificent muscle gladiator drops to the mat, clutching his foot. “And also, when you don’t wear boots, what else people can do is take your little piggies to the market.” Garrett sadistically toys with a toe hold, playing with each of Joey’s toes until he abruptly attempts to rip his little toe off his foot. “How’s that feel, brother? Let’s see you walk now, huh?”
Joey blows the rock ‘n’ roller away with sheer, divine, awe inspiring muscle.
I don’t know if this is really a match that will help Garrett make a name for himself in the underground scene. The other legit pros that Cameron Matthews recruits are surely docking Garrett’s cred for letting a muscle kid with next to no ring experience take him to the edge and back. When Joey is punching the accelerator, there’s nearly a script flip, with Garrett almost looking like the poser getting taken to school. Joey uses all of that incredibly juicy muscle to hoist the 28 year old off his feet into a breathtaking bearhug. He shows that he already knew full well what that full nelson was all about when Garrett was condescendingly explaining the hold to him earlier. “On your knees!” Joey growls. Fuck, who would NOT obey that command, that muscle, that force of will!?
“On your knees!”
Then, with astonishing certainty and deliberateness, gorgeous little muscle beast Joey locks the pro up in a magnificent, oil-rubbed, glistening abdominal stretch. “Where…where did you learn this!?” Garrett asks in open shock, grimacing with pain. “I took a few wrestling classes,” Joey replies coyly, before flinging the long haired bad ass to the mat in a heap and treating you and me to a truly delightful posing session, demonstrating each and every lovingly crafted, aesthetically marvelous, magnificently powerful muscle that just brought a 6’1″ pro heel to his knees with a whimper.
Garrett rag dolls Stretch Armstrong
Other bloggers are much, much more respectful of avoiding spoilers than I am, but in this case, I’ll leave you in suspense as to how this pro/poser versus pro/poser teeter totter turns out. I, for one, love the self-critical play on the motif. I enjoy precisely that suspense, sold with surprising clarity by both battlers, that has me honestly not knowing until the very, very end which abundantly skilled combatant will finally bring this to a climactic ending with an out-cold dragon sleeper finisher. I appreciate the respect for underground wrestling and for fans that Garrett shows us, channeling his inner Joey Lawrence by repeatedly gasping, “woah!” with sweet sincerity when he finds himself honest to god at the MMAer’s mercy. And I now have a huge fan crush on Joey Angel for being nobody’s poser, for fucking going to town on a much taller, much more experienced pro and making me believe every last second.
Joey’s no angel
Oh, and those legs. Those fucking sensational, power packed, monstrously massive, muscle worship-ready legs. I fucking love those things.
We’re so close to award season and nostalgic retrospectives of the year in review that I can taste it. Remember 2016, back in more innocent times? After Obergefell, but before Emperor Palpatine was elected as Supreme Chancellor by the gullible representatives of the Galactic Republic? I think I’ll always look back on 2016 as good old days. But as we prepare our hearts and minds for the supremely sobering task of registering our votes for homoerotic wrestling favorites in this era when winners and losers all admit that democracy is a sham, I want to offer a send up to a category that we seem to never get to vote on. Best legs.
Thunder’s Arena’s Steel may have the most massive quads in the business
I sort of assume I’m one of about 4 gay wrestling fans who seriously get off on hot, powerful legs. This assumption is based on several pieces of evidence. For one, as I mentioned, there’s never a category in the year-end polls for legs. Asses, sure, but anything at lower altitude is always neglected. Further, scanning the “muscle” section of BG East’s Arena galleries, I find that there are literally 21 galleries devoted to abdominal muscles, more than 15 galleries highlighting arms (and most of the generic galleries are all about biceps), and at least 10 galleries specifically about pectoral muscles. Look closely for legs, and I can find 2 galleries, and most of the pics don’t even include full length looks at wrestlers’ legs. I have to deduce that there simply is not a raging market obsessed with wrestlers’ legs the way that I am, because otherwise, the industry would pay much more attention to hot, sexy legs.
I’ve bitched before about the way that cameras consistently dissect wrestlers at mid-thigh or higher, as if the only objects of erotic lust exist north of there. There are billions of close-up pics of pumped, peaked biceps filling the camera frame. Side chest poses and most muscular poses draw the gaze irresistibly to big, bulging, pumped torsos, but 9 times out of 10, those pin-up beefcake shots crop out 75% of a wrestler’s legs (there’s lots of math there, sorry). So I concede that I must be a rare breed who swoons like a Victorian at the sight of full, powerful, pumped quads and thick, broad calves. When we’re treated to hot shots of scissors and leg chokes, apparently the rest of you are fixated on some element other than those sexy as fuck legs pulsing with punishing power. Clearly, I must be the only one with a running fantasy (starring an ever revolving cast for the male lead) of having my erect cock squeezed to climax between the rock hard quads of a wrestler with killer lower body credentials.
Thunder’s Arena’s Eagle dazzles with size and proportion
Of course, as with everything, beauty is in the eye of the beholder. Personally, I like legs strong, which means that hot legs can come in different proportions and sizes and still check my box. This also means that the degree to which a pair of legs may turn me on is likely (and I’m sure often is) enhanced by the sell of their opponent. But as for sheer aesthetics, I can’t get enough of big, thick quads with massive, low hanging tear drops. I particularly key off on legs with monster quads and multi-headed, shapely calves stacking up a rock hard foundation.
Mark Muscle is massive everywhere, but I particularly crush on those mile long legs.
For the 12 or so of us who would, if offered, lap up more focus on hot, sexy legs in this business, I thought I’d offer a send up to the homoerotic wrestling legs that grabbed my attention in 2016. Just for kicks, I’m including a poll on the BG East contenders highlighted below. Someone is going to bitch about the whole thing being rigged. Probably it’ll be the winner. What the fuck ever. Who did I miss?
So let’s take a look at the BG East boys whose legs made me do a double take and whip out my notepad. In alphabetical order. Vote below.
New releases last month included several surprises, not all of them good, mind you. My policy for several years has been about accentuating the positive, rather than harping on what I don’t like, though. That’s why I routinely don’t approve comments from readers that cross the line from constructive critique and comparison to personal attacks, body shaming, or just plain nastiness. It isn’t that I like everything I see. I just don’t want this blog to be a bitch session like 95% of every other inch of the internet. So whatever didn’t hit its mark last month, I want to focus in on a particular wrestler who did. For turning my crank, making me sit up an take new notice, and getting me off in a way I honestly was not expecting, the new homoerotic wrestler of the month around these parts is…
Richie leverages every last inch to control a bigger, stronger opponent
I was a Richie fan from the moment I first saw him debut a couple of years ago. He has a virginal quality. It’s that ephemeral vibe that a doe-eyed, dimpled chin man-boy can possess that gets us talking about him as a “boy next door.” Not that my next door neighbors have ever looked like this babyface beauty. Richie is more the boy I grew up wanting to live next door, and wanting to be best buddies with him, and wanting him to be as wrestling curious as I was.
Goren isn’t so big after all, once Richie puts him to his knees.
Richie’s Sunshine Shooters 8 match against Goren Ford fired on all cylinders for so many reasons that I’ve mentioned before. There’s a daddy/boy element to the pairing that’s phenomenal. I actually have no idea what the actual age difference may be, but Goren presents as a magnificently masculine baritone to Richie’s more delicate second tenor. Richie is 5 inches shorter and a good 30 pounds lighter, which regularly draws out 3 dimensional contrasts in the interactions between them. When Goren is towering over him and muscle bullying our boy next door, there’s a super sexy daddy’s home appeal that harkens back to Goren’s scorching hot Dark Knights 12 debut. But when Richie is shocking daddy to his knees, leveraging his lighter frame and calm, calculating skills to make this grown man weep, the daddy bashing is like an intoxicatingly delicious vintage made just that much more thrilling for how rarely it’s ever been bottled.
“Maybe.”
But Richie stands out in the match in no small part for turning a corner. I knew Goren was into brutal, erotic wrestling foreplay, but I was honestly just a little shocked when the big man is appraisingly squeezing Richie’s lush left pec, and our virginal boy next door just leaves his arms hanging at his sides and smiles up at him. It’s no nohomo machismo shit. It isn’t that he’s somehow failing to read the signals here, somehow missing Goren’s obvious interest in dialing this match up to fuck stakes. “So you like shoving your balls in a man’s face, huh?” Goren asks, calling out the boy next door for exacting a humiliating submission with his balls smothering Goren in a schoolboy pin. “You like that?” Goren demands that Richie say with his mouth what he’s been screaming with his sweat soaked golden body for the last 15 minutes. “Maybe,” Richie smiles brightly, taunting the big man with just a teasing hint of what he wants.
“I think you kind of like that.”
Goren drops to his knees and peels the soaked singlet off of his shockingly game opponent. He strokes Richie’s torso. He reaches out and almost lovingly cups Richie’s balls like a promise to be an attentive lover. “You like that kind of shit?” Goren coos, leaning in, towering over him, seducing him into making this Richie’s breakout debut in the unambiguously erotic ranks of homoerotic wrestling. “Maybe,” Richie replies, his eyes locked onto Goren’s gorgeous face, reading the carnal intent written at the twitching corners of his mouth. “I think you do kind of like that,” Goren posits, reeling this boy next door in another half an inch to shore. “So what if I do?” Richie asks rhetorically, his gaze unflinching, his hands relaxed at his sides as he permits the big man to fondle his hefty package.
“Why don’t you find out?”
“I wonder what else you like,” Goren muses, reaching around hand grabbing a huge handful of Richie’s sweet ass cheek. And then right here, right at this moment, Richie doesn’t just make the decisive move that makes me anoint him HWOTM. He sums up what I think is the heart and soul of homoerotic wrestling when he lays down the sexiest, sweetest, most raw and real challenge that I’m always longing to be at the heart of my favorite wrestling. “Why don’t you find out?”
Richie gives Goren what he wants.
It makes sense that Goren continues to be the sexual aggressor for the remainder of the match, for the most part. While lovely Richie does persist in shoving his ample package in Goren’s face repeatedly, it’s Goren who ups the ante by sticking out his tongue and hungrily licking up and down Richie’s inner thigh before opening wide and massaging his balls inside his mouth. It’s Goren who mounts the kid’s ass and breathlessly flexes his glutes, grinding his crotch into Richie’s virginal ass. This is familiar territory for the muscled Dark Knight, while, at least on camera, this is all new territory for little Richie.
Gagging for it
But what I love so much is that Richie lets him do it. He’s fucking fearless, not just in accepting this catchweight challenge, but in not even blinking when the content and implied stakes abruptly veer into unvarnished lust. It could have turned fumbling and embarrassed. He could have, understandably, let show at least a little fear that Goren’s beautiful, thick cock was aching for his sweet little ass. But he doesn’t, and in fact he drives big daddy to complete distraction and, with a mature, steady hand, absolutely rips Goren apart when he’s gagging for it and vulnerable.
In over his head
I was totally thinking that little Richie was in over his head, but it’s clearly the other way around. He makes Goren pay hard for wanting so much to be the first to plant his flag in unclaimed territory. Richie could easily cripple the screaming, wailing, writhing, completely shocked daddy. He nearly does. Goren has been his own undoing.
“Oh, YEAH!”
In a last gasp of concentration on victory, Goren nearly gets the decisive, final fall with a vicious, vengeful single leg crab. Richie kicks free, just barely. He’s on his back, with big daddy already climbing on top of him, sliding into place to return the favor for all of his ball-gag schoolboy pin smotherings. He can taste victory, or, more like, he can already see in his mind’s eye little Richie gagging on defeat shoved down his throat. But Richie agilely slides back and snaps his gorgeous thighs around Goren’s ears. He reaches down and grabs the back of his opponent’s head, pulling hard, entirely blocking both nose and throat from breathing in oxygen for the big, mouthwatering bulge grinding into his face. And then Richie leans back, smiling a huge, toothy, adorably ear-to-ear smile, knowing that his time has come. His eye lids flutter just a bit. His jaw loosens as he feels Goren start to go limp, buried in his crotch. “Oh, yeah!” Richie gasps, feeling deep down in his core the joy of his first victory in the unambiguously erotic end of the gay wrestling pool.
“See you in the showers”
Richie’s parting shot seals the deal for me. “See you in the showers!” he barks. In a different tone, it could have come across as “this was all water under the bridge.” It could have been a nohomo moment itself, walking away from the openly erotic text and signaling that they’ll never talk of this again once they leave this room. But Richie’s inflection is just right to communicate that the erotic content is far from over. All of those “maybes” from earlier are about to be amended into full on “fuck, yeses.” Someone’s sweet ass is still in the cross hairs. It just isn’t the boy next door’s ass. “Oh, MAN!” Goren gasps as he tries to clear his head. And again, there’s something metaphorical about the text. Richie Douglas may look like the boy next door, but just ask Goren and he’ll tell you: Richie is all man.
“Oh, MAN!”
And not only is Richie all man. He’s also my reigning Homoerotic Wrestler of the Month.
Richie Douglas – November 2016 Homoerotic Wrestler of the Month
Sidelineland 