I think my favorite homoerotic wrestling superheroes are Power-Pecs and Flex from Eye of the Cyclone. Both sizzling hot superstuds have gone through “transformations” (shall we say), being reincarnated by different model/actors in the tradition of so many superhero franchises. And both babyface beefcakes have been brought back from the dead, thank the homoerotic wrestling gods, to titillate fans who are never satisfied with an unhappy superhunk ending.
To save the world, Power-Pecs let his foe snap his neck, leaving all of that mouthwatering muscle limp and lifeless. RIP Power-Pecs.
The newest return from the dead features Power-Pecs, who managed to thwart evil villain Cobra’s diabolical master plan in the issue “Sometimes They Come Back,” but only at the cost of his own life. It was one of those agonizing, deeply unsatisfying martyr climaxes, as gorgeous Power-Pecs let himself be killed in service to humanity. His phenomenal physique stripped, that huge lead pipe he swings hanging lifeless, the death of Power-Pecs was a bitter pill for his fans to swallow.
“The Clone Arranger” witnesses the return of Power-Pecs 3.0.
But this is a comic book plot. EotC got the beautiful blond beefcake model/actor back on the payroll for another go at the iconic character, with his super-geneticist doc finding a bit of body fluids on the fallen hero’s gear to clone a new, perfectly equally sensationally sexy superhero back to full form.
I’ve got another shot in the ass to make Power-Pecs feel better!
The newest chapter in “The Clone Arranger” has the handsy doc needing to check out how perfectly he managed to replicate every inch of Power-Pecs, because I’m sure he knows fans like I am would throw a fit if there’s even a hair out of place or an ounce of muscle mass difference in the Power-Pecs we’ve grown to know and adore.
Bulging biceps? Check.
Happily, everything about Power-Pecs, every last, luscious, mouthwatering inch of him is in place. You know that fantasy of the fabulously hot muscle hunk who’s tamed into compliantly allowing a mere mortal to feel, handle, and document every fabulous bulge? Yeah, this chapter of “The Clone Arranger” hits those notes fabulously.
Massive, perfect pecs? Check.
A less kind critique than I might knock the doc for being a bit too thorough in his examination. I’m sure there’s a harsh commentary on the objectification of the male body in there somewhere, a dangerous social signal of the decline of humanity in the perverse pleasure I take in the calculated, domineering measuring the geneticist engages in, reducing Power-Pecs to just the sum of his sensational body body parts.
Pendulous, swinging cock hanging halfway to his knees? Check.
But somehow any social critique and critical self-reflection I might ought to embrace flies out the window the moment Power-Pec obediently drops the sheet and the doc kneels down with a tape measure to assess the size and scope of this supersexy cock. I am a shallow, predictable man, aren’t I? Shut up and don’t answer that. I’m busy zooming in on that last pic.
Squeezable muscled ass? Check.
The implication is that doc has brought Power-Pecs back from the dead to get that fine, fine ass back into action defending the innocent and the good. So this detailed physical exam is merely a salacious diversion from the heart of my kink, watching a hunk like Power-Pecs wrestle.
Gorgeous, babyface hero in bulging-sucking tight singlet ready to throw down? Check.
This week’s chapter of “The Clone Arranger” ends by squeezing all of those gorgeous, bronzed muscles into an N2N wrestling singlet a size too small. Power-Pecs punches the heavy bag, reminding his clone muscles of what this sensational bod is re-built for. The plot points thus far in this issue are few, so I’m hoping that there’s a hunktastic sparring partner in Power-Pecs near future to really show what that superhot physique can do when tested in pec-to-pec combat. And if there’s a homoerotic wrestling god out there listening, that sparring partner will be as turned on by the prospect of winning control of this newbie-all-over-again beef steak. …TO BE CONTINUED…
Scott “Man-of-my-Dreams” Williams
Someone reminded me this weekend of my simmering wrestling crush on BG East classic hunk Scott Williams. Similar to how I recently mentioned that I have this distorted perception of Kayden Keller’s height (he always seems smaller in my mind), I think of Scott has having a much longer wrestling CV than he actually does. He stars in just 5 products between catalogs 14 and 25, including his ensemble appearance in the spotlight feature on Philly’s gay amateur wrestling club, Meet theSpartans.
It wasn’t always trash talk and derision between Shane McCall & Scott Williams
When I had the titillating pleasure of interviewing and being provoked by classic hunk Shane McCall, I mentioned my slackjawed crush on Scott, knowing that the 2 of them horsed around together in the Spartans. My reference to “Scott man-of-my-dreams Williams” got quite a rise out of Shane, who couldn’t resist dishing out some trash talk for his former rival. But I stand by the statement of fact that I have held, for quite a long time, and continue to hold a fanatical infatuation with the beauty, power, and wrestling style of hotty Scotty.
Classic wrestling hunk
Having been sent down memory lane, I’ve been browsing clips and pics of Scott and instantly getting that swelling feeling in my crotch. Aesthetically, physically speaking, there’s something both classically handsome and atypically tantalizing about his appearance. I say classically handsome because of his gorgeous proportions, his thick, ultra lean muscle mass, the jaw and chin of a Hollywood leading man and the nose of a toga clad Roman aristocrat. My tendency (certainly not 100%) to prefer smooth, lickable muscle men notwithstanding, there’s an effortless, masculine perfection about Scott’s thorougly coated, impeccably groomed hairy torso.
Hair, muscles and sweat in all the right places
At the same time, I say Scott speaks to me as an atypical wrestlng fantasyman mostly because of his bare pate, which is a downright novelty in homoerotic wrestling circles. There’s something effortless and real about a sizzling hot wrestling hunk with a bald head. Scott’s calm, sneering, underspoken confidence translates into over the top hypermasculinity, not just because of his rocking hot muscled body, but also because of that unapologetically muscledaddy smooth scalp. My hunch is that Scott isn’t all that much older than I am, but premature baldness made him always, from my earliest introduction to his wrestling, a mature, wise, worldly fantasyman that has always and will continue to make me infatuated with any “seasoned coach” wrestling character (hello, Mitch Colby).
Scott makes it hurt!
I’m sure I’ve mentioned Scott’s sell before, but fuck, I’m on a roll now, so I’m mentioning it again. I absolutely love the way he milks a hold. There are a lot of wrestlers (or at least guys wrestling) for whom I struggle to suspend disbelief. They apply an armbar or wristlock and we can all plainly see there’s no actual pressure on the joint. I never had to suspend anything other than my impulse to pull my hair trigger watching Scott Williams wrestle. He puts his opponents’ joints through their range of motion, so that when abruptly the lucky stud in his clutches goes from halfheartedly groaning to suddenly choking out a cry of pain an octave higher and 20 decibels louder, you can believe that shit just hurt. When any part of some fortunate fuck gets trapped between his wiry, crushing thighs, Scott works every inch of his body into screwing down those crushing scissors as tight as humanly possible. His hips twist to add pressure, he transitions his upper body from angle to angle to dig his legs as deep as possible into every available inch of flesh and muscle.
I can’t help but pucker up!
And then that face. Holy fuck, that face. When he purses his lips in concentration and effort, I’ve got a ravenous need to lock lips with the handsome hunk. He’s not the most demonstrative in his sell. There’s a slow simmer about him that doesn’t rely on a bullhorn to convey his emotional state. Rather, steering with such an even keel, every subtle smirk or gasp, every gutteral grunt speaks louder than most wrestlers’ screams and incessant monologues. You can see every fucking muscle fiber on his fabulous body because he’s just that amazingly lean, so Scott doesn’t need to growl like the Incredible Hulk to signal with complete clarity that he’s flexing, squeezing, pressing, or crushing.
Talk about a babyface hero!
And then that smile knocks my knees out from underneath me. Completely disarming. The kind of face that young, ambitious bucks would bust a nut to get the chance to see deliver an approving look, a nod of respect, a seriously appraising eye.
Like me right now, Scott looks like he needs to towel off
I’ve heard from the grapevine that Scott continues to wrestle in private, or in front of custom cameras in command performances only these days. Which is a crying shame, as far as I’m concerned. Because I’ve so many Scott Williams wrestling fantasies, and he’s got such an abridged catalog. So, yeah, I’m a big, big fan (getting bigger by the second just thinking about him). In a 2nd golden age of homoerotic wrestling, with classic comebacks like that of Christopher Bruce and Shane McCall, and the long-rumored return of the likes of Liam Ryan to competition, this fanatic will always carry a torch for one of my first, longest lasting, and instantly provocative classic wrestling infatuations, Scott man-of-my-dreams Williams.
“You really want to get beat by me, don’t you?” Mad Mykel asks as Ty Alexander leads him to the BG East ring in Ring Releases 3. “I wouldn’t say that,” Ty coyly replies. Because anyone with a passing familiarity with Ty’s resume has got to suspect that Trophy Boy is a total glutton for punishment. He’s had that fine ass of his beaten and battered, stripped and spanked, tied up and knocked down time and time again, leaving the unmistakable impression that, while Ty is no pushover, he very well may get off on getting owned.
Mad Mykel’s got a screw loose (and I kind of like it)
This is just the second time we’ve had an opportunity to see Mad Mykel in action. His dismantling of babyface bombshell Richie Douglas was no fluke. Coming from out of absolutely nowhere, MM is vicious, sadistic, and more than just a little touched in the head. It’s after midnight at BG East’s Florida facilities. The place is all buttoned up with no one but Ty, MM and some unnamed lucky fucking cameraman around, but Mad Mykel is repeatedly distracted from this wrestling match by the roar of crowds that only he can hear.
Mad Mykel likes the look of Ty locked up tight
Not that the unhinged one doesn’t deserve some cheering fans. In fact, count me in. I like this kid a lot. I wasn’t sure I would, when I first got a look at him, but the more I see of him, the more he makes me laugh and turns me on, which is a particularly intoxicating combination for me. He’s relentless, merciless, and viscerally titillated by witnessing the suffering of his opponent at his mercy. And then those skin tight red trunks come off and… oh… fuck! That is one beautiful, beautiful cock!
Like puzzle pieces…
Which speaks volumes as to the chemistry in this match because Mad Mykel’s mouthwatering member seems like the perfect compliment to that bouncing bubble butt that Ty shoves in every opponent’s face sooner or later. There’s a sly earnestness about Trophy Boy. I’ve watched him in match after match, I’ve chatted with him online, and not once, ever have I seen him break character as the super ambitious Eve Harrington determined to awe-shucks-and-dazzle his way into the hearts and pants of BG East wrestling fans. With some wrestlers I’ve connected with off the pages of this blog, I’ve come to see the men behind the wrestling personas, the insecurities, the foibles and quirks, the non-wrestling passions and pass times. But I’ve come to the conclusion that with Ty, what you see is what you get. And what I see is a hot little tanned twink babyface beauty with a singular focus on big, big wrestling star dreams and a bucket full of eye-batting charm and confidence. And that ass. If ever there were two puzzle pieces that you want to see fit together, take a look at Mad Mykel’s glorious cock and Ty’s bubble butt.
Ty can be pushed too far!
There’s a point in this match when Mad Mykel’s insanity defense seems to push its luck just a bit. He’s bullying Ty relentlessly. He’s worked up a head of steam and lording it over the Trophy Boy with something bordering between erotic sadism and just outright malice. He’s riding hard, then gets up, motions for Ty to peel his hot ass off the mat and get to his feet. But just as Ty goes to do so, Mad Mykel shoves the Trophy Boy in the shoulder and sends him sprawling back down. It’s subtle. Not anywhere near the most vicious maneuver or the hardest hit. But judging by Ty’s scramble, suddenly lashing out, sweeping the insane one’s legs out from underneath, and taking him down and CONTROLLING him completely, I’m guessing there was some unscripted passion poking its head out, brought on by MM’s dancing just a little too close to the edge.
Sexual tension starts to boil over
And speaking of heads poking out, have I mentioned Mad Mykel’s fabulous cock? He’s got such a babyface, that there’s something slightly shocking about his lovely member bouncing around unbridled once the trunks and the jocks are off. That burst of Trophy Boy offense eventually gives way to the successful heel assault of one of the newest sexy heels in the BG East ranks. And Ty gets worn down, muscle by muscle, hold by hold, and the more MM shoves that giant bulge in his opponent’s face, the more I get the impression that Ty’s not so secret desire all along as been to get a total beatdown that leaves them both gagging for a messy ring release.
Ty determined to cum out on top
And, well, you know the title of the product, so definitely, all of that unbridled erotic intensity, that intoxicating, aromatic mix of sweat, tears, spit and pre cum send this seriously hard bumping tussle into an oddly competitive full on foreplay session. Maybe MM is still under Ty’s skin, because the Trophy Boy refuses for a time to let the victor stay on top, even as they’re in a full throated make out session and mutual masturbatory fire stoking. Ty turns the tables, seemingly unsatisfied with the jobber role, no longer ready to let the winner of the match dictate the terms of surrender quite as fully as he did with, say, sizzling hot hunk daddy Goren Ford in Dark Knights 12. Soon enough, though, Ty erupts on command, followed closely by a Mad Mykel’s three count face slapping cock pin.
Ty’s master plan all along?
Yeah, Ty gets dragged by his wasted cock out of the ring by his diabolical new owner (someone get Goren on the line, because I want to see him win Ty back from MM!). But there’s a petulance, a raging, ego driven wrestling competitor who keeps popping out in Ty’s matches that says there may be a whole lot more to the Trophy Boy than we’ve seen yet. Maybe I’ve been wrong. Maybe there is much more to Ty Alexander then meets the eye!
You may think you know Leo Tomasi, but you don’t… yet.
Reminding myself of my new mantra not to obsess over saying everything on the way to neglecting saying anything, I want to reflect some thoughts and opinions on one of BG East’s most recent releases. Ring Releases 3 features 2 cum-to-victory matches that deserve some attention. For today, let me start with match #1, pitting notorious baby heel Kayden Keller against heel-bait beauty Leo Tomasi.
Get ready for some up close attention to Leo’s luscious ass.
If there’s a headliner star to this match it’s Leo’s awesome ass. Whoever the cameraman is, I’m placing a sizable bet that he had erection throughout the taping of this bout, because he’s giving Leo’s gravity defying derriere a zoomed-to-perfection eye fuck from start to finish. I first came across Leo watching him get beat to a (literally) bloody pulp by Dr. Cooper in full heel mode. Honestly, I was a little surprised that the doctor didn’t terrorize the gorgeous stud right out of homoerotic wrestling. But not only is he back, not only is he looking way eager to square off against rising full throttle erotic star Kayden, he’s somehow managed to squeeze his truly glorious ass into the tightest, most provocative, leaves-nothing-to-the-imagination-thank-God denim screen print super-super snug square cuts. Holy fuck, dangling that ass in those trunks in front of this opponent!? I had no idea that luscious Leo was this game. Based on his previous outings, I was totally assuming Leo was going to stay on the G-rated side of the action (well, PG-13 for suffering brutality that would terrorize small children).
My avatar in action.
And then there’s Kayden Keller. In my mind’s eye, I picture Kayden about 5 inches shorter than he is (then again, in my mind’s eye I picture myself about 5 inches taller than I am). So I have to gasp just a bit when he meets up with Leo in the middle of the ring, and he absolutely towers over the 5’8″ studpuppy. Kayden is quickly marching in line behind Kid Vicious as a wrestler who seems to read my mind, a heel whose eyes and hands seem to respond to my deepest desires, who somehow seems to be my living, breathing, sensationally sexy avatar. As they stand there, facing each other down (Kayden staring way down his nose), I’m thinking, fuck, grab that mouthwatering bulge staring back at you. And then, like he heard me, Kayden wraps his long fingers around Leo’s big package and says the words that I swear to the homoerotic wrestling gods are at that moment forming in my mind, “Real nice shorts there.” Kayden’s presence is massive, and it’s not that he outweighs lithe Leo by 35 pounds. It’s a deceptive maturity behind that beautiful babyface of his. It’s a confidence that he’s had in every match, but one that appears to me to really coming into his own, telegraphing with a glance and a smirk a whole arsenal of sadistic, erotic torture he has in store.
Good morning, Kayden!
The revelation in this match is that Leo isn’t just game to get his ass tagged in a balls out homoerotic cum-to-victory blowout. It’s that this is precisely the genre that he was born for! If I were his manager (services available, Leo), I’d insist every match from now on be in the Ring Release, X-Fight, Dark Knight end of the shelf, because the explicitly erotic content here brings out a side of him that we have not seen before and we must see again and again. Holy shit, he takes it to Kayden. Shorter, lighter, considerably less experienced, and still Leo works up a sensational head of steam on the veteran. He does exactly what he needs to do to hang in a match with the likes of Kayden. He’s mercilessly brutal, viciously attacking the big Wolf’s balls, and pairing almost hold for hold crippling combat with completely distracting erotic offense. Clearly Leo doesn’t fail to notice what I’m enthralled with, namely the fact that Kayden can’t keep his hands of that beautiful ass. So what does he do? He puts the heel down to his back and luxuriates as he plants those gorgeous glutes on top of his opponent’s face. There’s no disguising how turned on Kayden is, and like the erotic pro Leo most definitely is, he exploits every inch of his intoxicating body to debilitate the seasoned erotic warrior. Kayden gets so distracting, and Leo doesn’t miss a beat in bearing down harder and harder with each of the heel’s missteps. I’m nothing but shocked when suddenly the novice not only latches on a sweat soaked sleeper, but he holds it tight, fucking milks it for everything its worth, and again, I say holy shit, Kayden goes out cold!
Wake up and smell that humble pie, Kayden!
I LOVE being surprised watching a match like this! That even keel Kayden owns gives way to getting sensationally dominated in the sexiest of ways by babyface erotic prodigy. Like I said, Kayden is out. Way out. I’m thinking to myself, this is over and done with, because Leo can do whatever the fuck he wants with the big Wolf now. And what does Leo want, he wants to shove that pulsing, throbbing muscle straining the pouch of those instantly legendary trunks into Kayden’s slack jawed mouth. Again, my avatar proves he moves to my deepest desires by beginning to hungrily gnaw on the vacuum packed man meat before he’s anywhere near fully conscious again. What a way to wake up! Luscious Leo is in control. He owns this moment. He owns the shocked baby heel on his knees in front of him. And again I saw, Leo was born for this! And then seductively, with his eyes rolling into the back of his head just a little, Leo turns around, reaches behind him, and rams Kayden’s bewildered face into his top shelf ass. This is total erotic domination. Leo has paid for this moment with completely legit wrestling offense, aggressive seduction, and sweat. No one is begrudges this moment for the novice to shine, because Kayden is coming fully awake and in total ecstasy buried deep in those glutes.
Kayden digs deep to turn this around.
Like I said, this could totally have been over and done with the moment Leo put Kayden out cold. A lesser man would’ve just counted his opponent out and walked away. A bigger heel would’ve ripped of Kayden’s black trunks, gagged him with them, and tied the 6’2″ hunk into the ropes to own him body and soul. But there’s something poetic and copacetic about the turn in the plot when the big Wolf interrupts the beautiful boy’s victory celebration with a ball crushing reversal of fortune. With new respect for the erotic novice, Kayden sees it’s time to take Leo to the next level. No surprises really at this point, as Leo suffers long and hard, though I have to admit that I have a whole new appreciation for Kayden’s beautiful naked butt, now that I’ve seen him plant it across Leo’s face and take out a year long lease. This is another moment that I’m inexplicably shocked by the sheer size of the big Wolf. That baby, baby face (beard and all) is such a complete misdirection when it comes to me really integrating the fact that Kayden is a 6’2″ hunk of man.
The big Wolf takes the situation firmly in hand.
Both of these beautiful men want each other so hard you can smell it wafting off your screen by the end. Kayden holds him down and shoots his load across Leo’s torso. Before the lovely loser can reciprocate, his new daddy drags his sweat and cum soaked hot body off the mat by his balls, out of the ring, and out the door, with the cameraman yet again zooming in Leo’s wildly munchable naked ass.
“One of the perkiest asses in the business” in the crosshairs.
Let me just conclude by repeating myself. Leo is made for this type of match. Manage to squeeze those glutes back into that pair of painted on trunks and toss this erotic pro back into the ring again, please. Soon. And if he and Kayden walk out some day as a juggernaut, baby heel, full-on erotic tag team phenomenon, save me a seat in the front row. And I would offer a parting message to Kayden Keller, about how sensationally his heel career is taking shape, and exactly what and who I hope to see him doing next in my fondest homoerotic wrestling fantasies… but I guarantee you, he already knows what I’m thinking.
You know exactly what I’m thinking, don’t you Kayden?
It’s been ages, I know. I think this has been my longest absence from posting here at neverland ever. Thanks to those who reached out to check in. I’m well. Just candles lit at both ends. I miss the exercise of posting here, thinking through my erotic tastes, comparing notes with those of you who comment. I’m going to try to get back on the wagon here. Comment often. It’s positively reinforcing for me.
The news is dire.
My goal is to keep things concise in order to post more regularly. One of my traps is to overthink things, intending to say so much that it takes forever to get down on the page, if ever. I’m also going to work on reflecting on my homoerotic interests in vivo, spending time more on what’s turning me on as I trek through my days. And casual readers of these pages know that I tend to spend a lot of time worrying over politics. So let me handicap the U.S. Presidential candidates today based on the only measure that really moves me: who I’d want to see in a homoerotic wrestling match.
Martin O’Malley brings sexy to the Presidential candidacy!
Fuck. With every Republican and his turtle running, you’d think the field would be so much richer than it is. But, again, I say, fuck. So let’s start with the standout and most obvious choice over on the Democratic side: former Maryland governor Martin O’Malley.
Fuck yes, that’s a winner!
I’ve been hot for his muscles for years, mind you. The 6’1″ stud puppy is entirely fuckable, and adding to his allure is the fact that I’m pretty sure big Marty knows it. It isn’t by accident that you do charity appearances that require you to go shirtless. Of course, I’m not the only one with my eyes on big papa’s pecs. Jim Webb comes in a distant second place for the Dem I’d most like to see strip down, climb in the ring, and work up a hot lather in homoerotic combat. So sure, Marty’s got a snowball’s chance in hell of being our next Prez, but in the homoerotic wrestling rankings, he’s got the top spot locked up tight in a side headlock.
Sweaty, nervous, luchador doughboy jobber.
Finding anyone at all to contend with Marty is challenging. Assuming they wrestle with a ball gag locked in place so I don’t have to hear a word of their bullshit, it’s still a tough call to imagine any of the other side of the aisle making me consider even the slightest swell of support. Marco Rubio could be a ripe, young babyface jobber worth considering. I’ve never seen the senator shirtless, and I get the impression he’s a little doughboy underneath his Men’s Warehouse big boy suits. At 5’10”, the Cuban prodigy might make a compelling enough luchador on his way to getting unmasked, tied in the ropes, and totally owned. But I feel like I’m seriously having to stretch my imagination with that one.
Ugly, vile heel, sure.
Trump requires at least a mention (remember, the ball gag). It really requires no imagination at all to see him as a sloppy, underhanded, big bellied pro wrestling heel circa 1987. He talks shit constantly. He’s all bluster and overinflated ego built on cheating, lying, and stealing his way to the “top.” In the ring (let’s put him in extensive tights, because any more visible flesh than absolutely necessary on that putrid Baron Harkonnen-esque freakshow would kill any chance of a buzz), maybe, possibly I could get off on a high drama greasy, nasty, 6’2″ heel nearly cheating his way to victory of O’Malley with ball bashing and hair pulling, only to have the big, beautiful babyface hero battle back to leave the loudmouth screaming and crying and begging his way to loser-ville. Still quite a stretch for me, though.
Daddy’s little richboy needs a big, nasty beatdown.
I think my pick O’Malley’s opponent for the money shot, however, is Rand Paul. Again, I feel the need to emphasize that he’d have to wrestle with a ball gag. But daddy’s little (5’8″) rich boy is handsome enough, with curly locks screaming out to get dragged around the ring by. I see a catchweight match with Marty. Pasty white and soft in the middle, daddy’s little rich boy is all swagger and substance, certain of his manifest destiny to shoot his load across O’Malley’s bulging pecs. And I totally get off on a little guy working a big muscle hunk hard, so I’m giving Rand a ton of riding time, lots of shock and awe, high flying, bouncing off the ropes, schoolboy pins for days. Marty is pressed hard, soaked in sweat, looking like he could go down for the count in a munchkin figure-4 choke that makes both pols hard. But then dripping with melodrama, big Marty flips his opponent and the script, knocking the senator out with half a dozen gorilla press body slams, slapping him awake with his raging cock, and then forcing the ideologue to scream out his weeping submission wracked across the big papa’s bulging shoulders with one hand yanking down hard on his balls and the other pulling viciously on those curly locks.
I vote for Marty!
Yeah, I just don’t see anyone coming out (or cumming out) on top over big Marty so far. And as for the rest of the Republican field, I’d sooner pop wood watching Hillary wrestle, which is a complete impossibility. Mostly, though, I just prefer them all with ball gags.
Although my life has hovered around all new levels of bat shit crazy lately, I have relied on some recreational viewing of homoerotic wrestling to keep me entertained, and relieve a whole lot of stress. Thunder’s Arena recetly announced that new babyface bon bon Bolt has taken a commanding lead in their sales lately, so I hunkered down with former HWOTMMarco and Bolt in No Holds Barred 49 to see what all the fuss is about.
Bolt is young and hung!
Okay, I get it. I mean, no, Bolt isn’t the second coming of Brad Rochelle exactly, though I think he hits similar notes. He’s seriously young, and he’s both painfully pretty and unmistakably masculine at the same time. In other companies, he’d be a breakout star of the “Fantasymen” genre, almost definitely fitting equally well on a homoerotic wrestling mat and a go-go boy pole. He’s a tasty boy-next-door with sweet muscles, hairy armpits, and (be prepared to do a double take) a massive bulge making that blue singlet’s pouch hang low. Miss the pouch? No worries. The camera helpfully zooms in to let you study the hinted at man meat packaged underneath.
The star of the match: Bolt’s bolt.
When the porn-star-ready newbie encounters Marco on the mat in a low cut red singlet, there’s that fratbro give and take that is Thunder’s Arena’s bread and butter. Dripping with Southern gentility and a heat-stroked slow drawl, Bolt says he’s wrestling today to represent all amateur wrestlers everywhere. Marco shrugs those massive, muscled shoulders of his and reminds the newbie that he’s here representing Thunders. In other words, buckle up boys, this is going to be an initiation of a naive newbie at the hands of a seasoned homoerotic fan favorite.
“We may be small, big we’re big at the same time.”
“I’m here to tear you up!” Bolt boasts when Marco is predictably underwhelmed by the pretty new flavor of the week. The veteran points out that he has a distinct weight advantage over the rookie. In response, Bolt grabs that massive bulge and tugs on it hard. Fuck, that’s one big, hefty handful of newbie! “We may be small, but we’re big at the same time!” the rook slyly boasts about the relative size of his body to his eye catching pouch.
Marco wastes no time getting his hands on Bolt’s nuts and bolt.
So yeah, there’s the predictable innocence spoiled narrative here. They scramble on the mat. Bolt is seductively fast and confident. Marco is steady as a rock and waits for just the right moment to snap his tree trunks around the newbie’s head. Just to properly say hello, he also clamps on a ball claw, which I’m guessing is mostly just to test out whether that improbably massive mountain is all meat or some stuffing. My take is that’s 100% grade-A rookie meat by the look it and the sound of Bolt’s gasping whimpers.
So, so much camera love for Bolt’s bulge!
“You grab my dick!?” Bolt snarls, grabbing Marco back and then slapping him into bodyscissors. That plaintive disbelief in his voice sort of pisses off. Of course he fucking grabbed your dick, newbie. 99% of the audience is gay men. You know that. He knows that. We know you know that. You’ve been grabbing that anaconda stuffed in your pouch, shoving it in Marco’s face, bragging about it from the start. Shut the fuck up and do this thing.
Bolt gets a taste of Marco’s signature move.
“Did they warn you about my signature move?” Marco asks, sliding onto Bolt’s bulging chest in a schoolboy pin. He pulls newbie’s face hard into his balls, and here’s where Bolt sort of starts to redeem himself just a little for me. The kid laughs, somehow not exactly appalled, maybe just a little panicked, maybe just little intrigued. The obligatory pass at being shocked and offended is quickly dispensed with, and, well, yeah. Getting your face shoved in Marco’s crotch should make you somewhere in the middle of panicked, intrigued, and laughing with embarrassment. You’re getting owned, pretty boy. So thanks for skipping the gay panic defense and just enjoy the ride about 1/10th as much as I am enjoying watching it.
“Why don’t you get yourself another handful?” Marco invites.
As documented many, many times before, Marco is my favorite Thunder’s boy for not shying away from the homoerotic content (mostly subtext, but often pretty fucking explicit double entendre). So it’s pure Marco when Bolt defensively grabs the veteran’s cock to try to claw his way free, then quickly pulls away, like he’s a little shocked at the feel of the python beneath. “Why don’t you get yourself another handful?” Marco invites the kid to sample his meat selection again.
Bolt seems to enthusiastically enjoy Marco’s lesson in what makes this homoerotic wrestling.
Somewhere in the scrap, Bolt starts to blossom. His hands inadvertently claw at Marco’s big, bulging pecs, and the veteran instantly calls attention to the subtext. “You grabbing my chest?” he asks. “Yeah,” he coos seductively. “Feel that. You like that?” And then, with more enthusiasm than any of us had any right to expect, Bolt gushes enthusiastically, “I like it! I like it!”
“Kinda big,” Bolt marvels at Marco’s pecs. “I like it!”
Honestly, I doubt either of these body beautiful beefcakes plays for my team. Just a guess, and my gaydar has been known to be off before. But there’s a long and deep tradition of straight boys populating homoerotic wrestling products. And Marco brings Bolt along in one of the innovations at Thunder’s that makes me give them a lot more credit than I used to. They acknowledge the homoeroticism in this moment. They talk about what you and I are thinking, bringing into the foreground the sexual, sensual eroticism of two hot young hunks locked body to body. In an inexplicable break in the action, the two shrug their big shoulders out of their singlets and compare upper bodies. Marco is bigger. No contest. But it’s Bolt treating himself to an eager feel of his opponent’s pecs that make this much more than about size. “Kinda big,” Bolt’s Southern drawl curls the awed compliment out like molasses. “I like it!” the newbie concedes, again with more enthusiasm than I expect. Marco clearly appreciates the Adonis in front of him as well. “Little happy trail,” he grins, pointing at the kid’s flat lower abdomen, “Big package down there!” Marco acknowledges. Yep, that’s what I like about Marco. I don’t ever expect to see him sucking on any guy’s cock, but he’s stone cold unafraid to signal that this is homoerotic fare to you and me. There’s none of that old school “no homo” bullshit that drags too much “homoerotic” wrestling into the self-loathing side of things. Just some hot boys living in the moment and not backing down from acknowledging that all this muscled man-on-man friction is ridiculously sexy.
“I LOVE BALLS IN MY FACE!” the rookie screams.
There’s fratboy hijinks as well. This wouldn’t be Thunder’s without them. Sitting on the rookie’s face, the newbie’s hot, sweaty bod all wrapped up in a small package, Marco refuses to let him go until he screams the words, “I love balls in my face!” Trash talk, spanking, taunting schoolboy pins back and forth in less and less gear. Bolt is always following the veteran’s homoerotic lead, but it’s a tried and true hot lead he’s following.
“I’m going to kick your ass,” Bolt whispers hauntingly.
There’s one moment that haunts me just a little from this match. It comes after an awkward camera cut, so I’m feeling absolutely certain it’s completely scripted. But Bolt climbs on top of his supine hunk opponent, leans in, his lips pressed right up against Marco’s ear, and whispers “I’m going to kick your ass.” Fuck, that whisper is hot. If he’d screamed it or laughed through it, it would’ve been standard fratboy fare. But delivered just that way, in the context of Bolt seeming to grow more enthusiastic the more explicitly Marco draws attention to their hot bodies, that whisper grabs me by the balls.
Speaking of getting grabbed by the balls…
Both of these boys have stellar bodies that look better and better the more gear that gets ripped off. There’s a high lickability about Bolt’s baby smooth upper body and ever so lightly hairy peach fuzz legs. And Marco’s flexing, muscled ass… holy shit. Thunder’s has some of the hottest young physiques in the business, and the attention that both of these beautiful boys pay to each other’s bodies it pitch perfect for the best of what this match has to offer: hot, sweaty, gorgeous bodies.
The money shot: Bolt’s popularity in clear focus.
It’s an abrupt knock out finish to the match that brings this all to a close. The moment is sort of apropos of nothing else in the match. It’s sloppy story telling, as far as I’m concerned. It has a little feel of “we’ve got enough action recorded, so wrap this up.” So I’m a little bitter about that. So much raw material to work with in these two young men. But there’s some big picture perspectives missing.
Marco has to adjust his hand placement repeatedly as he goes for this gorilla press.
But for what it’s worth, for what it is and what it does, I’m significantly satisfied with Marco vs Bolt. Just like Marco, I really, really want to hear Bolt scream. And just like Bolt, I really, really (really) like the look of Marco’s hot, bulging, big muscles.
I love fresh, rare meat. Since I’m a vegetarian, I suppose I should clarify that I love fresh raw meat like BG East rookie Gus Rowe in Bearhug Beatings 1. Handsome. Lean. Superbly fit. Entirely game. Yum, let’s tuck in right now and savor the choicest slice of beef on this pretty, pretty boy.
That ass!!!
Dat. Ass. I often feel guilty when one particularly eye-catching feature captures me so completely. It’s not like gorgeous Gus is lacking in more than a dozen aesthetically notable features. Hand me a body of baby oil, and I’ll be happy to meet him in the ring and give you a guided tour. And he’s shown up in Bearhug Beatings 1 with a delightful earnestness, a naive confidence, and a bubbling cauldron of terror just beneath the surface. Gus deserves a first review from a blogger to be about more than his sensational ass.
Have I mentioned his ass?
But, fuck! I have a hard time tearing my eyes away from anything else with this cued up. The rookie doesn’t possess the outrageously built muscle glutes of, say, Best Butt winner many times over, Kid Karisma. The kid is lean, but his soft edges merely accentuate the palpable youthfulness, all that untested raw material. I have no idea whether Gus’ ass is literally virginal, but the quiver and give of those glutes are perfectly paired with his lamb to slaughter character as jobber-no-more Braden Charron beats the living shit out of him.
Braden squeezes the goods on behalf of us all.
Braden bearing down on a rookie like this is pretty compelling, I have to admit. I say that I have to admit it because I’m hit and miss with Braden lately. Often he puts me way over the top, but sometimes the story he tells feels too safe, too contained and well-worn. I’d hardly say he’s a raging heel in Bearhug Beatings. He’s vicious and merciless. He introduces gasping Gus to the shocks and awes of homoerotically inclined professional wrestling just fine. But his part feels much more to me that of the better endowed, more experienced, fan favorite hunk who gets to let loose on his achingly sweet rookie opponent.
“You gave me a wedgie!?!”
The years that Gus spends suffering in Braden’s bearhugs in this match show off his moneymaker to perfection. That gorgeous ass is center frame for ages, writhing and flexing, bobbing and shaking. Gus is stubborn early going, refusing to acknowledge the plain truth that he’s in way, way over his head. He gives Braden not an ounce of satisfaction. He somehow manages to submit without conceding anything. Until, that is, Braden seriously starts to fuck with his head. Up in one of those quivering bearhugs, Braden stretches his fingers down the kid’s right glute and yanks upward, hard, on Gus’ teal trunks. Those beautiful cheeks pop free. That word “virginal” screams like a siren in my head. The intimate vulnerability and the attention on baring that beautiful ass pulse with heat. And when the kid finally gives, again, and is thrown to the mat, he feels his bared cheeks, weeping in agony, and with disbelieving shock in his voice, cries, “You gave a wedgie!?”
Garnished with a side of sweat.
That’s my favorite moment of this match, the paradigmatic moment when Gus reveals that he was not expecting this. He realizes that he was not prepared for any of this. He has at least 10 more minutes of humiliating brutality left to suck on, and it’s just now dawned on him that he isn’t just going to lose, he’s going to be laid out and garnished like the prime cut of young beef he is. In my heart of hearts, I’m a little worried that having his eyes opened to the depths of torture and humiliation that he’s going to face in the BG East ring, lovely Gus may never darken the BG East doorstep again. But if there’s anything good in this world, then gorgeous Gus got up, licked his wounds (seriously, let me know if you need any help with that, Gus), and said to himself, “Fuck that was intense. I need more!”
I have a special message to all the killjoys who say wishful thinking is a waste of time: suck on this, bitches!
Gay or straight, one thing was always for certain: Gio is fucking hot!
I once pined away for shirtless pics of those bulging biceps and obviously meaty pecs straining the seams of Gio Benetiz’ fabulously tailored suit coats, and then, my whispered prayers heard, beefcake Benitez started sharing shots of most of his muscled glory.
Tommy DiDario started working up a sweat with Gio recently.
And of course I’ve been wishing and praying to the homoerotic wrestling gods for 2 years for the Latino beefcake news pin-up boy to be a certified ‘mo. And in recent weeks, like the rumble of the gods preparing to scatter manna from heaven, a certain sizzling hot hunk started showing up side by side with Gio in his Instagram photos, working up a lather of sweat and baby oil on the beach, sight-seeing, hiking. Sure, statistically speaking, it was probably likely that Gio wasn’t a member of the family, and that this was some hottie birds of a feather flocking together coincidence, because even young and pretty straight boys seem to gravitate toward one another.
On bended knee!?
Then emails started pouring in yesterday alerting me to the photo of Gio on bended knee at the Eiffel Tower holding said hunk’s hand. This is social media reality, of course, so we have Instagram photos and relatively vague captions, but, fuck, yes, and yes, it appears that Gio not only plays for our team, so does his ripped muscle hunk fiancee!
Yep, I think Gio very well may be gay…
As someone already commented on my last post obsessing about Gio, yes, this certainly would seem to demand a starring role for these two in a homoerotic wrestling tag team fiction playing in my mind already and, the homoerotic wrestling gods willing, on the pages of this blog soon. Merging so many of my fondest gay wrestling fantasies, can we linger just a little on the idea of Gio and his balls-and-chain, wearing nothing but jock straps and smiles, facing off against rising NBC news star Thomas Roberts and his prettyboy husband sporting itty-bitty bikini bottoms?
Patrick Abner (l) and his NBC Newshunk husband Thomas Roberts (r) need to sort out who’s the hottest newsboy lover on air in the ring.
I’m already there, of course, and given the evidence that if I wish for something hard enough, it WILL happen, I’m devoting hours a day to this fantasy starting now. If… nay, when this becomes a reality, which lovers would come out on top?
A winning combo?
Then, of course, there’s Sam Champion and his Brazilian hunk husband…
Clearly, gay newboys and their husbands love the beach.
I’ve been enjoying the Hottest of the Hottest series, and I swear, I’m getting back to the current match soon. Before I do, I’ve been tickled by several recommendations I’ve received from readers wanting to add someone to the roster of competitors. Now, officially, the Hottest of the Hottest is limited to those fashion pretty boys who Details magazine put on their cover celebrating the hottest 31 fashion models. And, of course, I’ve culled the field even further because I knew from the start I’d run out of steam before I managed to write an elimination tournament in which 31 different guys make appearances. But it’s that particular pretty of blue steel fashion boys that qualified this very small crowd to make the cut.
Sean O’Pry is a first round pretty boy fashion model winner of the Hottest of the Hottest competition.
Several of you have let me know that you’d really like to see some beefy slices of heaven that weren’t on the cover of Details climb into the ring in this round robin. It makes total sense to me that fitness models, gay muscle stars, and solo muscle site infatuations would jump to mind and pique your homoerotic wrestling imagination as you read about the Milan runway crowd throwing down hot and heavy. So far, there are three nominees who’ve gotten play in your imaginations.
Eliad Cohen – Papa Circuit Party maven and fantasyman extraordinaire, he was the coverboy a few years ago for the Spartacus World Gay Travel Guide.Underwear model and professional gay beefcake Colby Melvin could very possibly paralyze opponents with those baby blue eyes!Beefcake personified, Eric Lavin has a big fan of his All American Guys portfolio.
So yeah, I can easily see a follow up elimination tournament of beefy muscle stars, and if (and I mean IF) I maintain the fortitude, maybe the champ of the Hottest of the Hottest tournament, whoever he turnout out to be, will find his painfully pretty cheekbones tossed into the ring with the fitness model champ. The only question left is who else needs a shot at the fitness model homoerotic wrestling title? Let me know what you think.
So much to blog, so little time. The last quarter final match of the Hottest of the Hottest competition will have to wait, because I’m even more tardy in announcing a reigning homoerotic wrestler of the month to pluck the crown from last month’s winner Ty Alexander. So many long time infatuations of mine starred in August new releases, the choice was very tough. I nearly wimped out and called it a tie, just to squeeze in adoration of one more sensational wrestler. But I’m buckling down and making the tough call today, and speaking of adoration, my new reigning homoerotic wrestler of the month is…
I’ve been wanting this, longing for it even, hell, I’ve had some mystical certainty that fate would make this happen some day ever since I first saw Logan step into the ring in Jet Set’s The Ultimate Top. “The ultimate top” Logan was not, and for that matter, The Ultimate Top was also only somewhat satisfying for my wrestling kink tastes. But one thing that grabbed me hard and made my swoon was Logan’s gargantuan legs and that phenomenal ass testing out life as a homoerotic wrestler.
Ground underfoot.
My recent review of Logan’s August new release appearance in BG East’s Florida Fights 5 gives away everything I really need to say regarding my rationale for shoving adorable Ty off the podium and giving a hand up to hardcore muscle pornboy Logan. The story arc between his first BG East appearance getting ground into dust by pro heel brute Lane Hartley and his Florida Fights 5 unveiling is epic. His Florida Fights opponent is 55 lbs lighter than Lane Hartley. Logan goes from a 30 pound weight disadvantage to a 35 pound advantage over erotic wrestling specialist Trey Dixon. I’m pretty sure Trey’s waist is just about exactly the circumference of one of Logan’s upper thighs. This was essentially a fork in the road for Logan’s homoerotic wrestling career (long may it live), because if Trey had conquered the pornboy, it would have been time to tattoo the word “jobber” across his amazing ass.
Unleash the monster quads!
And while there would have been avalanches of humiliation involved, I say there’d have been no shame. I love a hot jobber. Even the ones who resent the label inhabit a time honored, essential role in pro wrestling iconography, and selling a crash and burn suffering is not something just anyone can pull off. But Logan took the way less traveled by, unleashing his monster quads in one of the most heart pumping, most satisfying matches I’ve watched in quite a while.
Trey’s tongue takes a very close 2nd place this month.
Full kudos to Trey for more than carrying his weight in this Greek tragedy of lustful ambition crushed, wrung out to try, and reshaped into a subservient, worshipful trophy of his new muscle god. I came so close to making him a tandem title holder, something I’ve done only once before. There’s that sizzling passion Trey embodies that, once finally bent to Logan’s will, makes me insanely jealous of his tongue. Even a shade less enthusiasm, just one square inch of Logan’s magnificent muscles left untasted, and this match would be significantly less compelling.
Like Trey’s body, this moment belongs to Logan.
But then Logan smiles. He chuckles at the sound of Trey’s pitiful whimpering, muffled from deep between Logan’s hairy thighs. The pornboy flexes his quads, and those incredible columns of granite seem to swallow Trey whole, as Logan props himself up on one elbow to soak in the glory of his power milking all fight and independent thought from his opponent’s rock solid body. I continue to say his supporting player is one of the hottest in the business. But this moment I just have to give to the triumphant coming out of a muscle god ring heel.
Get on your knees and prepare to worship, bitches!
Sidelineland 
