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A Few Are Familiar With Me

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I’ve been flying a bit under the radar this year for Wrestlefest NYC, but I’m happy to report that I’m back to enjoy it again this weekend. It’s a bit wild how quickly events like this went from being crazy intimidating to me the first time to just cruising in and looking forward to seeing old friends. Reports are that this is likely the biggest fest by far, with more than 600 attendees having RSVPed. I know for a fact some of the RSVPs didn’t show, and there’s really no “registration” or check-in, so how many wrestlers have descended on Penn Station this weekend is unknowable. However, based on the opening kick-off party last night, I’m convinced there is a huge collection of wrestlers concentrated in just a few city blocks in downtown Manhattan right now, and it’s pretty exciting to be part of it.

The kick-off party last night was overstimulating in every way. Scooter and his tireless band of volunteer organizers put together an amazing event at a club devoted, for the evening, to just those of us here for Wrestlefest. Two floors were packed pec-to-pec with sensationally hot wrestlers in singlets, trunks, or less. The eye candy was dizzying. Bodies in all shapes and sizes were there, but one mantra kept echoing in my thoughts about absolutely everyone: “Fuck, wrestling does a body good!”

Photo Credit: Mickey Knoxx

Everywhere I turned was another homoerotic wrestling celebrity sighting. Many of them I count as friends, but are nonetheless members of the pantheon that set alight the homoerotic wrestling fantasies of so many of us. Canadian Mickey Knoxx was there wearing nothing but irony (i.e., an American flag leather jacket and star-spangled ultra briefs). I also got a hug in on Bobby Carter, showing off the body that’s been setting BG East and Watchfighters on fire this year. It felt like coming home, getting sweaty hugs from Drake Marcos, Chase Addams, and Ollie Watts.

Photo Credit: Sir Dark

Just as exciting was meeting some new friends for the first time in person. I may, or may not, have awkwardly insisted on giving Beau Jordan a hug. I mean hell, I can’t really start my day without a strong cup of black tea and Beau’s fashion singlet morning jerk off on Blue Sky, so I feel like I know him intimately despite having never met before last night. It was Sir Dark who gave me an spontaneous hug after figuring out I’m the guy he’s chatted with on social media and who’s been swooning over his Watchfighters matches. I unabashedly fanboy-ed on Steve Mason, who managed to be disarmingly and smolderingly magnetic despite being one of the few there in street clothes.

Photo Credit: Sir Dark

It’s hard to describe just how overstimulated I was, hoarse from shouting over the noise, packed in tight with acres of sexy wrestlers, some of whom I only managed to admire from a distance. I’m not ashamed to say I swooned over JJ Allen’s tree trunk thighs, Lobo Gris’ magnificent ass, and Tarz Lando’s huge, hairy pecs. I clocked celebrity sightings of Matt Larsen, Rocko Mortis, Nero the Beast, Isaac Andrews, and Ben Monaco. I introduced myself to Ryan Reilly, who’s been grabbing my attention on social media lately, and discovered that’s he’s as adorably charming as he is stunningly sexy.

At one point, I caught sight of this blindly hot hunk across the way waiting for a drink at the bar. I didn’t get a good look at his face at first, distracted as I was by his hot body poured into this absolutely perfect singlet. When I did finally get a look at his face, I knew that I know him… like, know him well! But, still, it took me a good half a minute before I realized who I was eye fucking: Dio Characi. Dio traveled as part of a herd of devastatingly sexy, gorgeous young hotties in singlets, but I couldn’t pass up the opportunity to fanboy. I blatantly interrupted his conversation with his hot, bearded companion (truly sorry, bearded hot guy), and managed to introduce myself. Now, I’ve chatted just a bit with Dio by DM before, but for some reason, I was nervous as hell. He’s almost ethereally beautiful. I mean, one of the epiphanies for me last night was that every single wrestler I’ve lusted over watching wrestle on video was even more stunningly beautiful in person by at least a magnitude of 5. But Dio was even more stunningly beautiful than he is on video by a magnitude of 12 (approximately). I honestly kept thinking that I should probably let him get back to grazing with his herd of gorgeous hotties, but no shit, his face lit up when he placed that I was “that guy” who writes about him. Turns out, he’s charming as fuck (sorry Chase), seemingly almost as delighted to be fanboyed as I was to fanboy. I had to explain to a friend who was with us who Dio was (I know, and I totally agree with you… I need to slap that friend upside the head someday for somehow NOT knowing who Dio Characi is). And I was explaining, in front of Dio, that Dio is a wrestling superstar. And Dio quietly, demurely shrugged his big, muscular shoulders and shyly corrected me: “A few are familiar with me.” Lest my poorly informed friend believe the grossest undersell of the century, I repeated more emphatically that Dio is a fucking SUPERSTAR! And I kid you not, Dio practically blushed, and again, humbly insisted, “A few are familiar with me.”

I say all this for a couple of reasons. One reason is to just fucking brag that I had a delightful, real life conversation with Dio Characi. If I die in the forecast blizzard on my way home tomorrow, I still say it was worth it. But really, my point is just what a delight it is to get to swim around in so much good will in this wrestling community of ours. I mean, sure, there are egos. There’s drama. Literally, I overheard in the deafening din of the club last night conversations about ageism and racism and body fascism. It’s not like being united by a shared delight in homoerotic wrestling breaks down all biases and barriers and makes us better human beings. However, I do suspect it might make us, on average, happier human beings – and not in just an “I’ve got mine” sort of way. I suspect a large majority of the hundreds in attendance last night shared, at least briefly, the same sense of wonder and awe that I experienced at the size and scope of the community gathered there, and the unmistakable fact that who was there was just the tip of the iceberg. It’s bold and ballsy and beautiful, and it’s something to be celebrated. What divides us doesn’t surprise me at all, and I don’t mean to minimize it, but what unites us and what seemed to infuse that loud, sweaty club full of wrestlers last night, was a shared passion and the remarkable good will that can emerge from being community together.

Reason to Grudge

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Another wrestling hunk I’ve crushed on from afar without watching wrestle yet is Matt Larsen. He’s intensely handsome, with a hairy, muscled torso and super sexy thick legs. He’s gives me this hypermasculine hit, with his scruff, shaved head, aversion to smiling, and preference for tighty-whities. I’ve cruised his social media for quite a while for his flexing selfies and occasional caps of his matches, but only recently really explored his WatchFighters channel to see the serious depth of his catalog. He’s wrestled pretty much every other wrestling crush of mine that publishes on Watchfighters, so I’m assuming he’s also got good taste going for him. So I decided to sample Matt’s intensely sexy cottage industry going on there on the mats, in some super tidy apartment with gorgeous wood floors.

His opponent for this “Sweaty Competitive Match” is a masked hottie I’ve caught sight of (and done double-takes at) just a few times, NonoZ. I can’t speak to what his face looks like, but holy shit, the rest of him is a work of art. It’s his lightly hairy pecs that I keep fixating on most, and I’m in good company, because Matt’s clearly into them also (again, good taste!). NonoZ is aggressive, initiating the intensely competitive mat tussle over and over again in this cold and cocky way that’s not quite swagger, but close. While his identity remains a mystery, I’m suspecting his name could be Reed Richards, because he somehow manages to stretch that 6’2 frame in ways that seem to defy what I learned in Anatomy & Physiology 101. He just sort of casts his sweetly muscled right arm at will and keeps catching an impressively tight and punishing front facelock on Matt again and again.

The vibe is intensely, intimately competitive. There’s not any 30 seconds of the first 20 minutes when both hot hunks are failing to work their asses off. It’s a battle for inches between two hungry competitors fighting hard for taps. I’m thinking early on that Matt’s got more than he bargained for. He’s on his back the majority of the time, and he’s having to fight hard to keep his masked opponent from ripping his head off. Matt’s clearly wicked strong, though, muscling his way free again and again in a way that keeps frustrating NonoZ. Matt also neutralizes any momentum the masked hottie tries to build by digging his knees into the masked hunk’s kidneys and keeping Mr. Fantastic unable to lock on the chokes he keeps pitching. But despite Matt keeping up an impressive defense, NonoZ persists in aggressively attacking, repeatedly wrapping those hotly muscled arms around Matt’s skull and working on screwing that lid off the jar again.

Over the entire 36 minutes, about 67% of them are devoted to that intense battle for inches, getting sweatier by the second, grunting with effort and frustration, twisting and scrambling across the mat. But that other 33% is this not-quite playful hunger that telegraphs that both of these grapplers want more than just taps out of all this skin-on-skin flexing chess match. NonoZ starts landing hard, cracking slaps on Matt’s gorgeously meaty ass when he’s got the no-nonsense handsome hunk locked up, if not able to get the submission. I’m also digging the masked man’s chuckles that sneak out. Again, they aren’t quite playful, but he’s having fun. He laughs lightly when he’s almost, but not quite, got an armbar locked in place. He chuckles when Matt manages to dig his way out from under the masked hunk’s avalanche of muscle. There’s nothing funny going on, but NonoZ is loving every second that Matt makes him work hard to try to find the key to that stubborn lock.

Personally, I’m totally turned on by the hungry, competitive back and forth wrestling here, but I’m not exactly complaining when, clearly, Matt and NonoZ also turn the corner to getting turned on, too. Somewhere after the second tap out, they venture into no man’s land where it’s hard to tell if this is still about wrestling submissions. They start grinding crotch to crotch. Matt can’t stop groping NonoZ’s pecs and bulging biceps. The masked hunk’s slaps on Matt’s ass turn hungrier, more claiming than punishing. The two of them seem to be as uncertain as I am as to whether their simmering lust is taking over, or if there’s another tap or two to wring out of each other. It’s an incredibly sexy tightrope they walk, building my suspense as to whether it’ll be another submission or an orgasm that happens next.

I’m delighted to offer the spoiler that it’s both. They careen back and forth between working for joint locks and chokes and just burying themselves in each other’s sensational muscles out of lust. By the time one of them is locked up in this sensational rear choke, the victor cooing in his ear as he whips out his enormous, gorgeous cock and starts pounding on himself, I’m perfectly in sync with what’s happening on the screen. Fuck, I can practically smell the sweat and cum, the passion is so spontaneous and genuine.

It’s about 36 minutes from start to finish. There’s an agile cameraman recording, who, I’m guessing, is also a skilled grappler. That’s my guess because, while the action is framed nicely, I’m constantly wanting the camera to linger longer on those tasty asses and the scorching hot aesthetics of these two sensational physiques. The way the loser stares into the camera when he’s blowing his load though… fuck, it’s like he’s looking into my soul and knowing exactly what I want to see! I like the respectfully dangerous vibe between them. I walk away pretty certain that either one of them would have been delighted to beat the living shit out of the other one if they weren’t so closely matched. The story of hard, sweaty wrestling burning so hot it erupts into the loser losing his load with the winner’s arm cranked tight across his throat is my favorite genre, and this is a sensationally satisfying example of hot homoerotic wrestling! Now, for that “erotic grudge match” I see they’ve since wrestled…

Accepting Help

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At BG East, Dio Characi has jobbed pretty hard. He always struts in with hot attitude dripping with erotic tension. There’s always a strong hit of just how much Dio gets off on intense wrestling. Like, there’s no doubt in my mind at all he’s totally one of us, not some casual traveler solely here for a paycheck. I always think he looks like he’s enjoying being on offense more than he’s enjoying getting buried under (his WrestleFest 4 match when he’s rolling on Jonny for a while being perhaps the best example). But he definitely suffers beautifully. In fact, his suffering just gets more and more intense and full throttle. I’m still having recurring intrusive daydreams of Dio’s shocked face as Manny Mendez rips him in half in Babyface Bash 3. I noted that Dio snagged runner-up for Top Jobber this last year in the BG East Besties, even, though it was Top Babyface he won for the third year in a row. But there’s something pretty intoxicating about watching this 6-foot, curly-haired Adonis with that boy-next-door innocent baby face getting thrashed on and owned. Still, though, his social media persona and glimpses of his WatchFighters content keep me hungry to see his lip-curling, sneering sadist show up at BGE. The cherub-Adonis getting nasty is an angle I’m here for. And happily for me, that’s who shows up to generously give perennially unlucky lightweight Sunny DeLeon some coaching in Undagear 40.

Sunny ties me up in similar knots as Dio does, frankly. He’s wicked hot, and he regularly leans in to the erotic end of the pool in this effortless and unselfconcious way that I love watching. I know for a fact Sunny’s no traveler here, having enjoyed the rare privilege of being on the mat with him once, then seeing him wrestle live at WrestleFest NYC last year, not to mention his quickly growing catalog of matches at BGE and on Watchfighters. Sunny’s got flashes of badassness that send me places, like the bro-battering domination he gets in on Nathan FX in Undagear 38. But there’s something that speaks to vulnerability about Sunny that keeps upending him in match after match. His coiled, hot body worked over and worn out is just too hot. Those flashes of BJJ fierceness are just too tempting for opponents to skip out on smacking him around and luxuriating in bullying the lightweight hottie. He regularly ends up on the wrong side of the stick, and I totally get why fans keep tuning in for it.

Dio has noticed how much Sunny gets bullied, as well. I suppose it’s in Dio’s babyface DNA to show up and offer to give the lightweight hottie some tips. “I was watching your last match, and I have some stuff to talk to you about,” Dio says, finding Sunny stretching on the mat. “I can show you some moves to make you better. And, as I am more skilled and more practiced, I’m here. What do you think?” I honestly can’t tell if Dio is intentionally being insulting, or if it’s some subtlety lost in translation, as the typically fluent Brazilian heartthrob occasionally stumbles over his English. Sunny, quite clearly, just hears the insult. “Well, I don’t think I need your help,” Sunny claps back indignantly. “I’m doing pretty good on my own!”

While Sunny’s boast is debatable, no shit, he’s doing more than just “pretty good” once this would-be-coaching session breaks out. True, true, Dio scores a lightning quick submission in under 10 seconds with an aggressive arm bar, but Sunny strikes back almost as quickly, submitting Dio with bodyscissors and a shoulder-threatening hammerlock. “I told you, I don’t need your help,” Sunny sneers.

Seriously, though, Sunny is giving away a reported 50-pounds to the mighty Brazilian It-Boy. And Dio doesn’t look like he’s happy to give away a second quick submission to his ripped little lightweight opponent’s revenge arm bar. Did I mention each submission earns the loss of an item of clothing? Oh, yeah, that deserves mentioning, as they are both is down to just jock straps about 5 minutes into this match. And then here’s where Dio kicks it into high gear. Sunny just cannot handle the avalanche of nearly-naked muscle crashing down on him again and again. He spends days at a time trapped between Dio’s thick, hairy legs, that the Brazilian is so appropriately proud of. “Once you’re trapped between my legs, you can never leave!” And, no shit, Sunny twists and writhes and shoves, and gets absolutely nothing but an even bigger sneer of contempt out of Dio in return. Dio wrings more agonized taps out of Sunny, but the Top Babyface is done being generous. “So cute, your suffering,” he taunts as Sunny clenches everything trying to survive the onslaught. “Now, OPEN YOUR EYES AND LOOK AT ME!”

Fuck, Dio starts seriously bullying, and the erotic tension (already high) goes through the roof. Burying Sunny under all that gorgeous muscle, he smothers the overwhelmed lightweight between his legendarily juicy pecs. He can (and does) get taps anytime he wants in the final 15 minutes or so, but taps aren’t what Dio is hungry for. “Suck my nipples,” he demands. When Sunny isn’t enthusiastic enough about it, he barks down, “Use your tongue! Harder!” By the look of bliss washing across Dio’s cherubic face, he gets what he asks for. He chuckles like a comic book villain as he makes Sunny nearly pass out, buried in his sweaty pit. He pounds the hot jobber’s washboard abs, perched on top of Sunny’s face deep up the Brazilian’s ass crack. He may be a champion at suffering hard, but holy fuck, I’m way into the way Dio clearly relishes possessing Sunny every which way he wants to.

The smothering schoolboy pins, the face sitting, the slow, lush stroking and savoring of Sunny’s tight body… of all the things that Dio can be, and that Dio is, our boy enjoys being in control. Whether he’s a heel on-the-down-low, or whether he’s genuinely just trying to be a helpful babyface and toughen hot little Sunny up, watching Dio unstoppable and voracious is incredibly hot and sexy!

Infatuation Shared

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Awards season always reminds me of the awesome diversity of tastes that co-exist among us wrestling fans. Sometimes my favorites get lauded. Sometimes wrestlers and matches at the top of my brackets don’t even show when the awards are dished out. And throughout the year, it’s not uncommon for wrestling fans and readers of this blog to give recommendations, some of which I’m instantly into, while others don’t do so much for me. I appreciate the evangelists who are convinced everyone ought to be as infatuated with a particular wrestler as they are. It’s that passion that’s at the fanatical root of what it means to be a fan, right? I’m totally okay with it, though, if others don’t dial in to Mitch Colby or Lon Dumont or Kid Karisma the way I do. And I respect the hell out of the passionate opinions of other fans that I don’t share. But sometimes, someone drops a recommendation in my inbox, and I instantly catch the fever.

That’s what happened when long time friend of Sidelineland, Alex, told me that I needed to check out one of Weekend Wrestling’s new finds, Stefan Stone. Alex and I have compared notes quite a bit, so it shouldn’t surprise me that one of his infatuations would totally be up my alley. And holy hell, Stefan Stone is way up my alley. He’s fucking pretty. Gorgeous, built, sexy body. He’s super handsome, with a tidy beard that frames a charming face and lends grit to his otherwise smooth, shaved, tanned and toned physique. I get it, why a Weekend Wrestling subscriber would pay for a custom match between Elite Eliot and Stefan. If you’re into hot jocks with serious pro wrestling skills to tell a story, this may be the most perfect casting possible.

I’ve been on the record as being way into Eliot. His attitude, his body, his face… Eliot’s got the corner on the market when it comes to being almost painfully pretty, as if born to be a babyface, but with sadist DNA that destined him to be a contemptuous bully. He’s almost immediately playing mind games, intentionally getting Stefan’s name wrong after specifically asking for clarification. Eliot is on brand from the start, smooth and punishing. He gets the jump on the handsome new hottie transitioning quickly and smoothly from a side headlock to a hammerlock, cranking on Stefan’s shoulder hard enough to make the handsome hunk dance on his toes.

Honestly, Eliot and Stefan are remarkably well matched on so many counts. Eliot may be a fraction more aggressive out of the gate, but Stefan’s got coldly confident escapes and reversals in his back pocket, and he milks a punishing hold with every bit of relish that Eliot does. They look nothing alike, but they’ve both got closely matched, gorgeously fit and toned bodies, smooth and aesthetic, with pumped and functional muscles that work up a sheen of sweat as testimony to their no-shit athleticism on display. The distance that distinguishes them is, on the one hand, super subtle. Like, Eliot sports that deceptively cute-kid face, whereas Stefan’s got more of a Colt male model masculine maturity. While I’ve argued in the past the Eliot’s ass may be the most underrated in homoerotic wrestling, I think (and I’m shocked to be saying this) that Stefan’s glutes may be even hotter. Eliot is, from start to finish, the contemptuous narcissist who can’t bother to remember how to correctly pronounce his opponent’s name. When Stefan points out that they’re all even at one pin a piece to start the third and decisive fall, Eliot rolls his eyes and snarks, “Maybe numerically, but calling us even is a stretch.” Stefan, on the other hand, is curiously complimentary. “Nice transition,” Stefan admits, grunting a little after Eliot has smoothly chained from a bearhug back to a side headlock. “I see why you’re elite.”

Fuck, I love so much the way Stefan hands out cred like that. On the one hand, it has this earnest babyface-ness about it, but on the other hand, there’s something hotly defiant about him measuring out precise quantities of apt praise. Eliot is slapping down “I’m out of your league” taunts, and Stefan just deliberately keeps offering these concise, totally legit, collegial gratuities that keep demonstrating he’s not buying it that he should just walk away with his tail between his legs after Eliot takes the first fall, like the Elite-One suggests. It’s all the hotter for those moments when Stefan starts building up a head of steam. He twists free from a hammerlock and winds Eliot seamlessly into a nasty wristlock, cranking on it like starting a stubborn snowblower in early winter. In the third and final fall, when things go off the rails and bruised egos demand satisfaction, I keep hearing those earlier, respectful compliments from Stefan echoing in my head as he crushes Eliot’s throat between his huge, sweaty thighs, milking it long a luxuriously, slapping Eliot in the chest and demanding the submission. Turns out a little respectful complimenting early on don’t cost a thing when you’ve got the strength and skills to put a major hurt on when it counts!

It’s the low blows that tip this battle of near equals over the edge. Stefan is literally begging, “Please, no more ball shots,” after he takes a solid jab to the crotch. Of course, his pleading earns him almost immediately a blindside knee to testicles from behind, that leaves the sweaty hot jock weeping, ready to get swept up and dumped in the trash can once Eliot’s soothed his threatened status as the nasty sadist in gorgeous babyface clothing. But holy shit, did Stefan Stone come from out of nowhere and out-pretty, out muscle, and nearly out wrestle Elite-fucking-Eliot!?

Like Alex, I am now officially a member of the Stefan Stone fan club!

Happy New Year – 2025

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I wasn’t planning on penning a new year retrospective, but then I sat down to watch the History of Gay Wrestling Panel that I participated in last February, and I got all nostalgic. That got me thinking about the panel, which got me thinking about my first Wrestlefest NYC, and then it was totally a slippery slope to reflecting on another amazing year of getting to enjoy wrestling in so many different ways.

BG East Arena members can watch the History of Gay Wrestling video streaming there in the Arena, if you’re interested. It’s not your typical homoerotic wrestling video fare, I’ll grant you. There are no nearly naked hunks throwing down and getting hot and sweaty trying to dominate each other in the video. However, in the video there are dozens of wrestlers who have been those nearly naked hunks launching a thousand fantasies, talking about their experiences as wrestlers, as participants in the wrestling business, and as founders and builders of the homoerotic wrestling community that I enjoy so much today. I blogged about it a lot early on the year, so I’ll try not to repeat myself too much. Honestly, my first time watching the video these many months later was mostly motivated by wanting to see if I came across as a dork. I’m happy to report that my dork-quotient was well within levels that I’m happy to own. But what stuck out to me when watching the video was the room full of good will and the genuine camaraderie and esprit de corps that was so evident and spontaneous and such a privilege to witness. We can make so much drama for ourselves, can’t we? But for about an hour and a half that Sunday afternoon in Manhattan, there was just a ton of appreciation for being part of something that gives us pleasure, but also joy. You can practically see the common thread running between every person who showed up on camera up front, and I promise you that same thread was visibly attached to the heart of the 100+ attendees behind the camera.

Wrestlefest NYC was a trip in 2024. I got a lot of wrestling in, happily getting my ass kicked and happily kicking ass in proportions that I’ve grown to enjoy. It was also the setting in which I got to attend my first live wrestling event. Yeah, I mean, like, any wrestling. I’ve never been to a mainstream pro wrestling show, though they’ve always been happening (and continue to happen) in proximity to me throughout my life. So it was a very special pleasure to get to enjoy a remarkable event pulled together by Scooter at WFNYC, giving a small audience the opportunity to watch live, hot, intense mat wrestling action within arms length. And like that history panel vibe, there was this intense common thread connecting everyone seated around those mats, grunting and groaning in unison, eye-fucking these drop dead gorgeous wrestlers going at it for our pleasure. Fuck, that was hot.

And speaking of fucking hot… like I said, I got in some super fun wrestling action at WFNYC, and managed to squeeze into the rest of my life a few meet ups over the rest of the year. The majority of my wrestling in 2024 was with Scott Williams, though. I don’t blog about every encounter like I did that first meet up, because I think we all know we’ve got to be careful about stroking that man’s ego too much. But I’m happy to report, for those of you following that particular journey of mine for so long, that Scott seems almost as eager to get another shot at his number one fan as his number one fan is to get another shot at him. I’m pretty sure it burns his ass that my passionate enthusiasm (“passionate enthusiasm”) for watching him get worked over translates repeatedly into his cocky bluster crumbling to just a fan. I’m happy to report that Scott’s already been texting me for a shot to redeem his cred as a wrestling star muscle hunk in 2025. Even when he’s whimpering and tapping, though, he’s always a wrestling star muscle hunk to me.

As I’ve mentioned for the past couple of years around the turn of the New Year, another highlight of 2024 continued to be co-creating wrestling fantasy fiction with my good buddy AR. We were recently trying to guess how many pages of wrestling fiction we’ve written together in the past two and a half years. I’m certain it’s in the thousands, with literally hundreds of illustrations AR has rendered with jaw dropping hotness. The creative process itself, and the sharing and refining and bouncing wrestling fantasies off of each other, is the real payoff, but we’ve both agreed to try to package some of this hotness up and share more of it with fans of the genre in 2025. Stay tuned.

The last thing I wanted to mention that was truly remarkable for me in 2024 was trying my hand/voice at some audio recordings for the blog that I called Sidelineland Sounds. The first time I mentioned the concept to my sounding board, AR, he clearly thought the idea was out there. And, honestly, so did I, but it sounded fun, and I ended up recording 3 episodes. Their fucking time-intensive, though, and time got away from me to keep recording some of additional episodes I’ve got planned. But the really remarkable part wasn’t just creating something entirely new (and having fun with it). The remarkable part was the reception that Sidelineland Sounds got. I was pleased and a little relieved when I saw on my stat counter that people were downloading them, presumably listening to them, and quite a lot of folks commented, added their opinions, asked questions. Once it was clear that Sidelineland Sounds wasn’t too out there of a concept, after all, I stopped tracking the downloads. As 2024 came to a close, it occurred to me to take another look. The first episode audio file has been downloaded 99,000 times. The second and third episodes were downloaded close to that. What the fuck?! I’m pretty confident that some readers/listeners have downloaded/listened multiple times, but still, I had no idea of the draw that me talking about and sampling hot homoerotic wrestling would have. I’m extra motivated now to get additional episodes created… when I can find the time!

As I sit here and type this, I’m going to be painfully honest and say that I worry about the future. The world was a fucking dumpster fire from day to day in 2024. At this point in my life, I can definitely say it was more so that than I can remember it being in a long time. I hope that, as a species, we get our shit together in 2025, but frankly, I don’t know that I have faith that that can even happen. There’s this intense counter-revolutionary vibe in the air, with a maelstrom of conformity and convenient lies and the clutching fingers of the privileged doing everything in their power to claw back the right to decide what’s normal for everyone else. I worry for the place of our little homoerotic wrestling community in the midst of that social discourse. But I also take heart watching those panelists from the event last year talking about finding each other, exploring that thread that connects us, back when the risks felt so great that guys rented PO boxes to exchange contact information for fear of being found out. I don’t think we’re headed into Handmaid’s Tale territory or anything, but the guys upon whose shoulders we climb are witnesses to the truth that the authentic draw to what turns us on about wrestling will find a way. Stay strong, folks, and wrestle on.

Going Dark

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I came across Sir Dark on social media as a recommended friend of a friend. Really, we’ve got about 200 IG followers in common, because holy fuck, everyone’s got their eyes on this wrestling content producer. I’ve been tempted for a long time to check out the long forms of the sexy-as-fuck trailers he posts, but when Sir Dark himself liked some of my posts and we exchanged some private messages, I knew it was time to go Dark.

But fuck, where to start!? I asked him that question, after pointing out he’s got somewhere over 200 wrestling videos on WF. He’s got a deeper catalog than some homoerotic wrestling companies! It looks like about 90% are of him wrestling, which is amazing when you think about it. This hottie is clearly deeply into hot wrestling. To prove the point, I asked his opinion about the relative merits of a few different matches in his catalog, trying to vet where I should start watching, and Sir Dark instantly had, off the top of his head, details of every match I mentioned to him. When I pointed out to him how remarkable it is that he can recall the details of any random match I mention out of nearly 200 matches, his response made me swoon: “I remember the taste of the sweat of each one of them, I remember how hot was their skin, the look in their eyes,” he replied. “When I wrestle, my whole soul is 100% in that match, in that moment, just me and him, nothing else.” Fuck. I wiped away the drool from the corner of my mouth and downloaded my first Sir Dark match immediately.

Battling my FOMO, I decided to start with a match that caught my eye because of Sir Dark’s gorgeous opponent and the evidence that it turned full-on homoerotic. His “Milk-His-Face” match against stunning grappler Claiton blew me away. It’s got super hot and unexpected notes to it, with a hot, cooperatively-competitive vibe that dances seamlessly into a hot erotic bullying session. The opening credits are sweet little character establishing montages of the wrestlers. Claiton flexes his incredibly delicious, hot, lean muscles and smiles at the camera almost shyly. He’s got sweet biceps, square shoulders, and peek-a-boo washboard abs. His lush lips and big, dark eyes make me melt just a little from the start. And then, Sir Dark’s montage strikes a totally different tone (to say the least). The Dark one is lean and sexy as fuck, with hot tats and a bad boy beard. He snarls and glares furiously into the camera, all business and no play, looking like wants to rip raw meat off the bone. This is immediately signaling a lush babyface demolition.

So, imagine my surprise when, no shit, Claiton absolutely swarms Sir Dark! Like, seriously, the lush little babyface sexy boy takes control and absolutely OWNS Dark like a master. It’s not like Sir Dark is giving it away, either. At least, Dark certainly looks like he’s straining desperately and putting 110% into unlatching the sexy kid from that rear naked choke Claiton traps him in at will. In fact, I’d say Sir Dark is putting in about 70% of the total effort of the two of them combined, because Claiton makes it look effortless and Dark is a grunting, groaning, whimpering mess as he frantically squirms and writhes and fights to muscle out of the kid’s long, indulgent holds. I’m not saying Claiton isn’t selling. I’m just saying he’s just that fucking in control of this spontaneous scrap, and Sir Dark does NOT have the combo to free himself from this sexy (SEXY) boy’s padlock.

Which makes it a bit of an awkward cut when 9 minutes into this 26 minute video, Sir Dark is suddenly in control and bullying the kid. Not that I’m not way, way into Dark sneering and bullying and working his craft. He absolutely demands revenge chokes and schoolboy pins to make the cocky babyface kid pay for running roughshod over him in those opening minutes. Honestly, Claiton doesn’t look like he’s suffering too, too much, though, until Sir Dark clamps his legs around the kid’s midsection and scissors the air from the kid’s lungs. Finally, fuck yes, Claiton is gasping, eyes wide, sucking a bit on the suffering as Sir Dark heaps on some gut punches to punctuate how he felt about Claiton’s blatant disrespect earlier.

Sir Dark’s riding time is relatively short lived, though. There’s this moment, not soon after Dark spanks Claiton’s sensational ass, when the kid just visibly has had enough of getting bullied by the bigger man. He taps his foot on the accelerator, and in a flash, he’s got a reversal and stays in the driver’s seat for the remainder of the match. Claiton’s cool… chill, even, and I might not have guessed how he felt about getting bullied for a few minutes by Dark if it weren’t for the punches that start pounding down on Sir Dark. Again, Claiton swarms the stunned badboy. As furiously and frustrated as Sir Dark fights it, Claiton is in total control of the Dark one’s body. For act 2, though, Claiton isn’t satisfied with just immobilizing and owning Sir Dark. He locks him down a half a dozen different ways and starts landing strikes for added value. There’s gut punching (for you gut punching aficionados), but Claiton pounds his fists all over Sir Dark. His gut, his kidneys, his back… all the while Claiton is locking Sir Dark down in increasingly cocky submission holds. Dark is fading fast around the 15 minute mark, and Claiton is punching away with the sole of his foot pinning Sir Dark’s face to the mat. This turns into a super hot and sexy mauling, with the babyface beauty in white completely owning the raw and raging tatted badboy in black.

You might think Sir Dark would resent getting his face stomped on along the journey to his brutal defeat, but you might be wrong. Because when he taps and Claiton lets him go with a cocky sneer on those lush lips, Sir Dark starts absolutely worshiping Claiton’s feet. I’ve talked before about not necessarily being all about feet the way some of you are, but, fuck, the almost feral puppy licking Sir Dark engages in is most definitely compelling! His tongue travels up and down Claiton’s hot, hot, hot body, and holy HELL, Dark is hungry for it. Claiton lets him worship him, but makes sure the pack order is clear by punching him down every so often with casual ease.

Act 3 (4? 5?) is also a revelation to me. Again, there’s an awkward cut, so we don’t see the transition from Sir Dark worshiping him to Claiton sitting on Sir Dark’s face with his trunks pulled down. But sweet FUCK, that’s hot. Claiton’s tan lines and his STUNNING ass smothering Sir Dark put me way over the edge. There’s this hot moment when Dark is submissively licking, but eventually he’s exhausted and turns his face to the side to catch his breath. Cocky Claiton, however, just bounces those lush glutes up and down, slamming Dark’s head with total disrespect. Fuck. Honestly, by the time Claiton’s got his impressive cock out and furiously starts jerking himself off in a schoolboy pin, I was already sold. The milk-his-face victory moment is wicked hot and humiliating, but half a dozen moments in the grappling and then the face sitting had already topped me off several times.

Hot drama here. Face sitting and foot worshiping fans will be in heaven, and for a totally straightforward told story of hot erotic wrestling domination, it’s golden. The fixed single camera format has some awkward moments in this impromptu living room setting. But it’s also curiously hot and intimate in moments, like when Claiton keeps staring into the camera from inches away, with a casual, cocky grin, while he’s got Sir Dark totally under his control and hating it. There are multiple cuts with pretty good editing to minimize the distraction, but between the cuts, the action feels spontaneous, raw, and authentic. That passion that was so transparently evident in Sir Dark’s comments to me privately is abundantly evident and beautifully showcased in this classic homoerotic wrestling match. I’ll be back to sample more of the 200 matches still to go in Sir Dark’s catalog!

About Beau

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I feel like Beau Jordan is someone I’ve been getting off to for years, but honestly, I only discovered him a few months ago. My favorite frustrated jobber, Drake Marcos, texted me a pic of him getting choked out by this naked, adorably dimple-cheeked, handsome hunk. After admiring how hot it is watching Drake in full-blown panic getting thrashed, I asked him, “Who’s the handsome dude putting you out?” Drake sent me a link to Beau’s social media, and my infatuation with Beau’s gorgeous body, his Glen Powell smirk, and his scimitar monster cock was born.

There’s just something familiar about him, as he flexes in the ring like he owns the place. Before his match with Drake, Beau talks trash in this unhurried, unselfconscious way that’s sexy as fuck. He’s wondering if that “jobber boy Drake is even going to show. I knew he was scared.” And fuck, looking at that bod on Beau, maybe Drake should be.

But this is Drake 2.0, determined to shrug off the mantle of the hottest jobber in the business. So, Drake charges the ring from behind, laughing like a comic book villain as the hot new hunk thrashes in his sleeper. It’s a long, slow milking that drags Beau down, his hot muscled arms flailing uselessly. Seriously, in under 3 minutes, Drake has put the hot jock out cold, stripped Beau naked, and groped the unconscious hunk like sizing up a fresh cut of sirloin.

I know I’ve mentioned before how much I LOVE a heel turn, and there’s no one’s heel turn that I’ve anticipated longer than Drake’s. Watching him own hardbodied Beau is such a vicarious bullied boy’s revenge fantasy, the handsome, skinny kid tormented in the past by the cocky hot jocks, now all grown up and unpacking some seriously hot baggage. Honestly, though, I’m yelling at the screen when Drake is claiming his trophy (Beau’s singlet) and ready to climb out of the ring when this match has literally just gotten started. Failing to take full advantage of that defenseless, rocking bod on Beau and milk that beautifully curved slice of meat hanging from the hot jock’s crotch is fucking criminal. Even I’m over here thinking Drake needs to be punished for this erotic wrestling party foul.

Happily for me (and you… and Beau… and, let’s face it, Drake), Beau rouses just in time to gather his wits and intercept Drake before my buddy has a chance to flee the scene. “Is that what you want, Drake Marcos,” Beau demands, smothering Drake with his singlet. “You want to smell that?” We never hear Drake reply, but as an old friend, let me be so bold as to answer for him: yes, yes, he wants that very much. Just like he’s not exactly hating it when Beau’s mounted in a schoolboy pin and dick whipping his face.

The real magic here is watching Beau’ beast grow before our eyes. There’s no cut scene, no fancy camera work. We just get to watch this gorgeous hunk, who clearly gets off on the same things that you and I do, get hard and hungry. And FUCK, that cock is mouthwatering. There’s some obvious honesty in marketing right there, because there’s just no faking the story Beau’s ferocious beast is telling us.

The remainder of this 32 minute match is all for the other side of that hot fantasy equation. This part of the story is for those are hungry to see a hot, cocky jock humiliate and absolutely own a paper tiger opponent. Beau snorts and rolls his eyes at Drake’s futile attempt to win an arm wrestling diversion mid-thrashing. “This would be funny, if it wasn’t so pathetic, little jobber boy,” he sneers. He challenge Drake to a full nelson contest and let’s the would-be heel go first. And fuck, watching Beau’s naked hotness stretched out and thrown around a bit is intoxicating, but it’s all just to add to the total humiliation when he effortlessly flexes free and makes Drake pass out in his full nelson moments later. What was I saying earlier about dying to see Drake heel? It’s all hazy to me now. All I can remember is Beau’s gorgeously fit naked hotness totally picking Drake apart and then flexing in victory over top of my vanquished Sisyphus of a friend.

But wait, that was just act 1. Act 2 picks up right there, when Rocko Mortis storms into the ring. “Beau FUCKING Jordan, what the fuck did you do to my boyfriend!?” Fuck, Beau’s gotta pitch a double-hitter, and Rocko seriously looks pissed. Rocko shoves an assless singlet at Beau and demands that the hot jock put it on and wrestle him. For the record, let me quickly just state that Beau’s magnificent ass will ALWAYS belong in an assless singlet. Like, FUCK, where in the fuck did that body come from!? But let me do my best to hold onto the thread of this epic story arc and say that whereas act 1 was a squash, act 2 is delightfully back-and forth.

There’s that hot jock bully vibe that continually blows the headwinds in Rocko’s face as he tries to tangle with Beau. Six minutes into their match, Beau has planted that magnificently bare ass of his on Rocko’s face and uses it to smother him into a limp dish rag. With casual, cocky grace, Beau spladles Rocko’s legs apart and helps himself to ring out screaming pain from the bearded avenger. And no shit, Beau’s monster cock will NOT be contained in the low-slung fashion singlet. I’m literally applauding the beast’s entrance to the scene when it comes out to play with a mind of its own.

Trading ball claws leaves Beau rocked by vicious Rocko, and at almost exactly 13 minutes into this 37 minute marathon (not quite 2/3rds of the way through the Beau’s iron man double hitter performance in both matches), Beau loses his singlet again. Fuck, this man should always wrestle naked! Again, it’s a back-and-forth battle, with both vicious low-blowers fighting mean. And speaking of blowing, it’s a fucking work of art when Beau’s got Rocko’s hands pinned over head in another schoolboy and he force-feeds the frustrated BF that curveball beast of his.

Honestly, I don’t blame Rocko one bit for how the tide turns once they’re both naked. It’s really a totally unfair handicap match, with Rocko doing his best to handle both Beau’s gorgeous muscles and that monster cock that, I swear, has a mind of its own. Flat on his back in another schoolboy pin, Rocko dials in Cleveland on Beau’s tasty nips, totally putting the hot jock over the edge and deserving the cum load that ends up painting face.

Fuck, fuck, AND fuck, this is scorching hot. And, again, I have to say I feel like I’ve been watching Beau work this N.E.W.T. level wizardry for years. He’s got an understated charisma that’s just so fucking at home in a full-on erotic wrestling match like this. I’m still stubbornly clinging to the fantasy of a bullied-boy heel-turn getting revenge on the high school quarterback, but no shit, if that all-grown-up hot jock quarterback is Beau, I will be seriously satisfied any way it plays out (as long as his cock slithers free and comes out to play). These days, my morning can’t really start until I’ve watched Beau flex and stroke himself in his daily singlet fashion show at BlueSky, and I am aching (ACHING) to get a ticket to see him at WrestleFestNYC this February, tag teaming with Mason Brooks and taking on Rocko again along with another fiercely hungry infatuation of mine, Mickey Knoxx in tag team match. Check out Beau’s swoonworthy videos on WatchFighters, and if you see me ringside at WrestleFest, I will beat you into the back row if you block my view!

Can’t Unsee It

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I’d seen Jakob Rawley only in passing before I sat down to watch Ring Rookies 9, but honestly, all I saw was the beard. It’s serious beardage. Like, honestly, sometimes I think Forrest Taylor’s beard is a bit distracting from the rest of his hotness, but the only thing I’d seen from Hunkbash 30 (Jakob’s debut) was the beard. To call it “bushy” doesn’t quite cover it. It looks like a wild animal is eating his face. Which, now that I’ve taken a close look at him, is a fucking shame, because I do believe, underneath that intensely aggressive edge-of-unkempt facial hair, there’s handsome young fucker.

In Ring Rookies 9, Jakob climbs into the ring with Stevie Suave. This is my second look at Stevie, and he’s exactly as I remembered him: obnoxious as fuck. I’m pretty sure it’s his shtick, the irrationally overconfident narcissist newbie. He’s all in on it, so that about two and a half minutes into the match, I’m aching for Jakob to punch him in the face. Hard. But here’s the thing… before they ever touch each other, Stevie pays Jakob a 20 dollar bill to keep away from Stevie’s face. “My face is my moneymaker,” Stevie claims. I’m shouting at my screen for Jakob to just punch him in the face then and there and take the cash anyway. Hell, I’d cover the $20 if he wanted to throw it back in the loudmouth’s busted face. But instead, Jakob just smiles (fuck, he is cute), and says “I got ya,” before stuffing the $20 inside his trunks (oh, to be a 20 dollar bill).

On the one hand, it’s hard to take Stevie seriously because he’s so over the top. But on the other hand, the curly haired anti-hero is a mean fucker. He’s the aggressor to get the ball rolling. A couple of quick, decisive arm drags put muscle boy Jakob down hard, and that nod of respect you can see from Jakob is exactly the same look on my face as we both reevaluate the pretty boy loudmouth. Stevie has repeated flashes of mean offense, like chopping Jakob’s meaty pecs in the corner, choking the bearded muscle boy on the ropes, and bearhugging Jakob long and hard. When he lands a swinging place kick to Jakob’s balls, I begrudgingly have to admit Stevie’s not just a pretty boy loudmouth narcissist. He’s doing some damage to Jakob’s hot muscled body.

And FUCK, Jakob’s hot muscled body sort of sneaks up on me. I tell you, it’s that homeless shelter beard that distracts me from fully appreciating his legit fantasyman physique. But after Stevie has kicked the fuck out of his balls and Jakob falls to the mat, clutching his jewels, kissing the ring with his ass in the air (and I almost can’t really see the beard), it occurs to me. Fuck, Jakob’s muscle boy body rocks!!! And then once I’ve seen it, I can’t unsee it. He’s got these gargantuan, multiheaded shoulders and bulging traps. His hairy forearms scream Popeye. But it’s those pecs that keep making me gasp. Fuck, that meat looks tasty, and I’m officially obsessed with his nipples. Not only will I cover Stevie’s $20 if Jakob punches the mop-haired loudmouth in the face, I’ll put up another $20 if he makes Stevie suck his nipples.

Happily, Jakob is also a hotly aggressive wrestler/brawler. Holy shit, Jakob pitching turns me on. He’s got these decisive and curiously skilled counters that suck the momentum right out of his opponent. He locks on this Boston crab that showcases those pumped pecs of his and, again, makes me swoon over wanting to see somebody work on his nipples. He makes Stevie scream like a sniveling bitch in a vicious ankle lock (“You’re going to break my fucking leg!!!”), and then snaps back, darkly, “No, I’m going to break your fucking back,” before executing FIVE vicious OTK backbreakers, milking the last one long and hard, again showcasing those hypnotic pecs until Stevie’s begging and pleading in a panic.

I honestly don’t think there’s as much distance between Stevie and Jakob’s wrestling as I might think at first glance. Jakob’s fucking mean, too. He’s got just as much un-rookie-like polish as Stevie, with even a bit more bar room brawler blunt force offense. He likes shutting Stevie up almost as much as Stevie likes monologuing. And when he’s scored a submission, he proudly, but maybe with just a twinge of incredibly endearing shyness, flexes that rocking hot muscle bod victoriously.

Very entertaining story telling from start to finish in this match. Hot tension builds with the sweet back-and-forth battle that concludes with me seriously satisfied and a bit dehydrated. I didn’t know I’d walk away from Ring Rookies 9 this infatuated with Jakob Rawley, but there it is. I’m hoping to see a lot more of him, including his naked chin and neck, but especially that hot, sweaty muscle bod put to the most perfect use the wrestling gods made it for: beating the living shit out of opponents and then giving us that shy smile perched on top of that sensationally sexy muscle boy physique, flexing proudly.

White Eagle

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I have a complicated relationship with mainstream pro wrestling. I religiously watched my local independent wrestling shows on television through my adolescence and young adulthood. Honestly, it was always primarily motivated by the erotic turn on I got from it. So, it was the matches with chemistry, with hot, aggressive drama, usually involving hardbodied babyface muscle boys getting manhandled and humbled in front of a stunned crowd. As I’ve mentioned before, I still blame a young Billy Jack Haynes, the babyface uber-muscleboy in his early career jobber stage in my local shows, for my erotic obsession with wrestling. When WWF/WWE started eating up the indies, I started getting bored with it. Maybe it was my changing tastes (or, the wrestling gods forbid, my growing maturity), but the stories seemed to get more obvious, more contrived, less spontaneous and competitive. I found the wrestlers less attractive, less compelling, the heat more scripted and less and less about the wrestling. Around the same time, I discovered homoerotic wrestling producers, and honestly, I took a long, long hiatus from pro wrestling for the masses.

Over the past 10 years or so, with the magic of YouTube, I’ve rediscovered mainstream pro wrestling. Well, I’ve mostly discovered independent pro wrestling produced outside the U.S. It’s not like I watch it religiously, and still, it’s the erotic turn on that fuels my search terms. But these days, I’d estimate about a third of my wrestling consumption is indy pro. It gives me a strong hit of nostalgia when I find myself doe-eyed and in lust with a pro hunk climbing into the ring in front of a roaring audience. I do catch some US indy pro, but at this point I’m pretty partial for productions from elsewhere. I still get about half my YouTube ads delivered in Spanish (of which I speak not a word) because I’ve watched so much Mexican lucha.

Sometimes, a particularly hot wrestler in a particularly hot indy pro match can top me off on his own. A lot of times, it serves as mood setting for me, getting me revved up before I pull up some erotically oriented wrestling produced for gay eyes. Discovering a new pro wrestling infatuation is a sweet delight that sends me and the YouTube suggestions-algorithm combing through often obscure, small wrestling productions across the globe. But I definitely have a short list of wrestlers I regularly use my date-added filter for to savor their new matches with almost as much passion as I used to hope and pray that Billy Jack Haynes would be wrestling on the Portland Wrestling’s Saturday late night weekly broadcast.

One of my current favorites is the French masked wrestler Aigle Blanc, who’s wrestled for a few different European productions. Physically, he’s just fucking stunning. I throw around the “physique like an anatomy chart” metaphor too often, I realize, but seriously, Aigle’s super ripped physique is like an anatomy chart. He’s ultra lean, in a way that honestly I’m not always into, but he wears it in such a mouthwatering way. He’s been tracked at 5’11 and 154 pounds, which is probably an exaggeration of how fucking lean he is, but I bet not by much. I always feel like I’m seeing him in double vision. Like, I see this super lean (bordering on downright skinny) dude (particularly in contrast with the solid as fuck beefcakes he’s typically facing), but almost superimposed on that is this lovingly sculpted muscle god with magnificent proportions and legitimate muscle thickness that takes my breath away. He’s skinny and stacked? Skacked? I fucking LIVE for glimpses of his face, like when he’s in a particularly vicious match when his mask gets partially clawed off. From that and the oblique angles partially disguising his face in his selfies on IG, I have this mental image of a handsome, angular face framed by his long, dirty blond locks. It’s probably totally a fiction, but I’m convinced I’d be as enamored with his good looks if I spotted him fully clothed in the wild as I’m infatuated with his hot body on display in the ring.

Hot bodies, while necessary, aren’t sufficient to satisfy what turns my crank, of course (see the past 15+ years of blog posts for further reference). Watching Aigle Blanc wrestle is a fucking kick! Like, literally, he somehow looks 6’11 instead of 5’11 when he delivers a straight kick to the face of a charging opponent. He goes by Aigle, so definitely, he’s a flyer, too, and fuck, I love that drama. He looks like he should be cannon fodder when he’s squaring off against massive muscle bear opponents with a center of gravity a good foot and a half lower than his, which makes it intensely entertaining to watch his wicked hot strikes and twist-tied submission holds more than just level the playing field. Sure, sure, I’m staring at his startlingly hot, ultra-lean, flexing glutes that nobody can possess and still be called “skinny,” but his speed, intense aggression, and elevation (the boy SOARS) get me going so hard.

And finally, I have to say Aigle Blanc’s social media game is a major part of infatuation, as well. There’s a shy narcissist vibe to the way he shared his workout vids and face-obscured shirtless selfies, like, fuck yeah, he knows how inhumanely hot he is, but he’s sort of low key about it. Like his captions are all about putting in the work juxtaposed against the images of his touched-by-divinity, genetic lottery-winner of a perfectly proportioned physique. He carries the babyface battler theme throughout his nicely populated IG profile, selling in out of the ring in this way that seems earnestly devoted to the craft of professional wrestling. And, no shit, not a single post that doesn’t get my blood pumping.

I’ll share some more of my global indy pro wrestling infatuations in the future, but who are yours?

Wardrobe Function

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After my first review of an Abs Art wrestling video, I had a couple of different folks recommend that I take a look at their boy Bruno in action. Honestly, I’m so fucking infatuated with Mario, I thought curly haired pretty boy Bruno might be too baby faced, too boyishly pretty by comparison. But I finally took the plunge and watched one of a few wrestling matches in which achingly angelic-looking Bruno squares off against solid as fuck Armin in their “Legends Long Awaited” mat match. And, fuck, this is why we have wrestling buddies who give us recommendations, right? Sweet fuck, this is an insanely hot match!

I’m tickled at how personality-forward this 22 minute scene is. Mop-headed Bruno is doing sit ups (of course), showing off his incredibly ripped body and the requisite signature focus on the abs of Abs Art. He’s an anatomy chart, sporting a infinitesimal percentage body fat that makes me just a little concerned for his health. I swear, seeing him there, eyeing big, hunky Armin when the bearded, tatted muscle man walks in, I’m wondering if this kid can actually defend himself. He’s just so fucking pristinely pretty. Armin must be wondering the same thing, as he circles Bruno and picks up a dumbbell. Armin’s got a sly grin on his face, sort of hungry and mischievous, as he puts down the dumbbell and kicks it, making it roll over and bump into Bruno mid-sit-up. Bruno chews him out, snapping threateningly, before going back to more sit-ups for us to eye fuck his hot bod. When the dumbbell gets sent rolling into him again, he sits up and snarls, looking seriously like a delicate kid with newly minted muscles trying his best to sound tough. When Bruno then starts doing push ups, a couple of things happen. The most explicit thing that happens is Armin taps him on the back, and then pours a bottle of water on the back of Bruno’s head, and the mat scrap commences.

The other thing that’s happening when Bruno is doing push ups is we’re getting our first glimpse of the star of the show, namely, Bruno’s luscious, sweet-as-honey ass nowhere near being contained in those magical yellow microbriefs. Whoever does wardrobe over at Abs Art deserves a fucking Academy Award for those tiny yellow trunks. I mean, literally they are fucking magical. Because the grappling is sensationally intense, back and forth and looking like the boys are seriously working hard, and somehow, impossibly, those yellow trunks manage to stay on Bruno’s deliciously perky ass. Seriously, we’re never getting an actual view of his asshole, which I’d bet money is also ridiculously pretty. Yet, somehow, those Harry-Potter-Fucking microbriefs leave absolutely nothing to the imagination. I’m spending almost the entire 20 minutes holding my breath, wondering if Bruno’s extreme exertions are going to make his trunks slide all the way down his ass (they don’t), but also marveling at how completely naked he can look while technically still clothed. Fuck, Oscar-worthy costuming!

I really don’t know what to expect of the wrestling as the confrontation begins to play out. Armin’s bigger and the obvious aggressor. He’s openly picked this fight, and I’m entirely convinced it is, at least in part, due to his interest in seeing what happens to Bruno’s trunks. He’s mean and taunting, wanting to claim this all-to-pretty muscle boy. At one point, he’s got a side headlock on Bruno, and he literally gives the kid a noogie. Total big brother hazing vibes, and he’s got the incredibly hot bod and obvious hunger to dominate Bruno that makes me think he’s probably the odds on favorite. I’d be gushing about Armin’s meaty ass in that sexy, skimpy red speedo, if it weren’t for the honest-to-the-wrestling-gods magic of Bruno’s microbrief stealing the fucking show.

Thing is, though, that although all the classic elements (size, tats, beard, aggression) signal that Armin is here to heel the boy, Bruno is a seriously tough, fierce, and wily scrapper who gives back everything Armin dishes out with interest. I’m a full halfway through this match when it dawns on me: Bruno’s a fucking honey trap! The curly-haired cherub legitimately is too pretty, and maybe, just maybe, he keeps up those appearances in order to attract beautiful bearded bullies like Armin, thinking his sensationally fine ass would be easy pickings. Bruno is most definitely NOT easy pickings. He takes a ton of punishment, and he’s got to be doing far more than his share of the work muscling the bigger man around, but no shit, Bruno just keeps countering, climbing on top, and literally throttling Armin’s throat with his bare hands. What was I saying earlier about Armin being the “obvious aggressor?” Holy fuck, the primal rage/hunger on Bruno’s babiest face is intensely hot to watch!

It’s a back and forth 22 minutes, and I love the delicate balance of advantage trading hands in this captivating way that cranks up the anticipation. 15 minutes earlier, and I was going to put money on Armin wiping the floor with Bruno, but down the homestretch, I have absolutely no idea who’s going to eek out the victory. But I am totally convinced that it’s going to be decisive, and I am not disappointed (to say the least). There’s heat and ego and snarling contempt heaped on when the victory is won, and every single second of this confrontation, starting well before the grappling started, makes the victorious taunting and threats feel totally legit.

Holding my suspense for a solid 20 minutes, keeping me guessing and totally aroused the entire time, is something I don’t come across every day. Incredibly hot bodies, delightfully compelling characters, and lovely, intense, hard fought back-and-forth wrestling make this a winner for me. But it’s those fucking magical yellow microbriefs that keep me coming back to replay this one over and over again, never walking away unsatisfied.

Fuck, that was hot!