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Independence Day

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I’m not the most patriotic American, by any stretch of the imagination. It’s not that I don’t like the country in which I was born and live. Not at all, in fact. I just find myself suspicious of people who seem to like it too much. I know people who defend it unthinkingly and uncritically, and generally those people stand for things that I’m opposed to. So I find myself holding the patriotism and the love of my country a little at arms length, so as not to be mistaken for someone for whom their love of the United States is synonymous with sexist, racist and religiously intolerant values.

While I’m pretty cynical about people who wrap themselves up in the American flag, metaphorically speaking, I have an odd near-fetish for hot hunks wrapping themselves up literally in the flag. Well, more precisely, I have a near-fetish for hot hunks wrapping up their barest modesty in the American flag.
I’ve spent a ridiculous amount of time today searching the web for a particular photo of porn actor Shane Steele in a hot American flag speedo. Jet Set used that image for their splash page for quite a while, several years back. It was so tasty. It never failed to make me come to attention and deliver that particular form of a salute that makes the heart beat a little faster (you know what I’m talking about).
Sadly, I can’t find the aforementioned pic. In its stead, I’ve mined several other images that circle the same theme. This is really the only context in which I’m a huge fan of the American flag. So on this federal holiday in honor of U.S. independence, let’s celebrate the hard, hung hunk in nothing but a hint of Old Glory.
Yes, yes.Yesterday was technically U.S. Independence Day. If you’ll scroll down, you’ll clearly see that I had much, much more important things to explore in yesterday’s blog post. So for today, here’s my very modest, cautiously embraced homage to the stars and stripes, and most of what it stands for…

R Space

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As regular readers will realize, I occasionally have a tough time keeping up with the demands of both work and play. Work sometimes slams me so hard I can’t see straight, impeding on my social life and, more importantly for some of you, my online musings. I’m closing in on completing my contract with myself to write a blog post a day for a year. It sounded like a simple, straight-forward discipline when I set to it about a year ago. It was just intended to get me writing more, putting my thoughts out there, and building up some thick skin when it comes to comments and reviews. But it’s been anything but simple.

I’ve hung onto the daily discipline by the skin of my teeth, frequently having to sacrifice my more intentional fiction writing for weeks at a time. So the idea of also keeping up on a MySpace page, Twitter, Facebook, or whatever is now cool (clearly I’m not), seems laughable. Still, I’ve set up a MySpace page and Twitter account for reasons still unknown to me. I haven’t worked them into my life, really, but they’re there.
Occasionally readers have found me on those sites and hit me up to be “friends.” I’m resisting that word these days. Virtual social networks have cheapened the concept of a friend a bit, I think. Take, for example, the dozens of big breasted women who keep hitting me up to “friend” me. Clearly they have no idea who I am, so the presumption of friendship just seems absurd.
Still, I’m happy to be socially networked with other homoerotic wrestling kinksters, if you’re entirely understanding that my presence is very, very hit-and-miss other than on the pages of this blog. So if you’re wanting to be socially networked further, look me up and let me know in your request that you read this blog, or that you’re a fellow homoerotic wrestling kinkster, or what you’re favorite wrestling hold is… just something that distinguishes you from the phishing, vile army of devious characters hiding behind profile pictures of big breasted women.
See you around…

Good Use

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Did you catch the story that the U.S. Health and Human Services Department advisory board has once again decided to retain the policy that any man who’s had sex with another man anytime in the last 33 years can’t donate blood? On the day after the debut of the new season of True Blood (more on that tomorrow), it begs the question of what’s the truth about blood?
Those of us who’ve been very, very happy to have had sex with other men since 1977 could find this profoundly insulting, dehumanizing, and humiliating. In a world in which people are literally dying because of a lack of available blood products, our blood is deemed not fit for human consumption. It’s no longer about an inability to test confidently for communicable diseases… we’re well past that problem. It’s not about HIV, regardless of what they say. There’s absolutely nothing prohibiting rampantly promiscuous men and women engaged in outrageously high-risk sexual activity from getting in the donor pool, as long as their high risk behavior was with someone of the opposite gender (which definitely still can transmit HIV). It’s about gay blood being treated as essentially suspect, inferior, and dangerous.

So perhaps the real “fuck you” message here isn’t directed at us. The real “fuck you” message is for all the desperately ill and injured straight people on the edge of survival due to a lack of my universal donor, coveted type O negative. So sorry. This blood ain’t for you. It could save your life, but because of social prejudice, the HHS would rather see you die than for you to possibly receive a transfusion of my blood.
From day to day, my blood seems pretty cheap, frankly. A paper cut here… some tender gums there… spilling a little doesn’t really amount to much. Full contact competition illustrates that blood outside the body even has an entertainment value to it. But blood for life, for the survival of those most in need, the ban on my blood being donated for the health of someone else shouldn’t just infuriate me (and you). It should absolutely appall everyone with a breakable, cut-able, illness prone body who could, through no fault of their own, end up in desperate need of a transfusion. To you, the HHS advisory committee says, “fuck you.” Protecting social bigotry is more important than your life.

Imagination Required

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I’m not sure why we needed an “American” version of the movie Death at a Funeral. The British version is just 3 years old. It was hilarious and quirky and… well, very British. Most importantly for my tastes, it starred Alan Tudyk (an American, by the way), getting involuntarily tweaked out on drugs and running naked on the rooftop. That, my friends, is a formula for a movie wanting to earn it’s way into my collection.
Sweet, ginger Alan is exactly what I want to see naked, soaked in a drug-induced sweat, and swinging his ass everywhere. There’s something about that man that makes him the stuff of homoerotic fantasy for me. The face and body are completely attackable (in the good way), but it’s the intelligence behind the eyes that turns him into an object of lust for me. I imagine him to be the sort of guy that, after wrestling him to a screaming submission, I’d like to just chat with about current events (both of us sweat-soaked, naked, and his head still captured in my figure-4 headlock).

The American version appears to be just about a screen-by-screen remake of the oh-so-recently made movie. James Marsden is the one ending up sweat-soaked and drug addled on the roof. By no means would I suggest that I wouldn’t like to see James stripped and shiny. Personally, I’d have preferred his nakedness to appear side-by-side with Hugh Jackman in an X-Men chapter, but whatever… James is a little obscenely cute-faced and beautifully shaped. Sure, I’ll be happy to see him naked on the roof.

But don’t expect me to be able to resist comparing him unfavorably to the joys that are Alan’s appearance in the original. Line the two of them up (on a roof, naked, sweat-soaked), and I’d have to say I’d kick James’ ass to the gutter for a chance at some full-contact throw down with Alan.

Is there so little imagination left in Hollywood that we have to “remake” widely available, already abundantly entertaining independent movies from elsewhere moments after they’re produced? Someone needs an injection of fresh imagination. For example, I can think of dozens of scenarios involving James Marsden sweat-soaked and naked that don’t require him appearing in a film originally produced just three years ago. For that matter, I’ve already cast Alan Tudyk in a homoerotic wrestling scenario, where he teams up with Nathan Fillion for some particularly sadistic action against the househubands, James Denton and Doug Savant. I need a producer…

Battles

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Happy Memorial Day! It’s a little obligatory these days to “support our troops,” but honestly, I’m awed and humbled by the memory of all those who have fought and died in service to their country.

Still, the thought of eager young men dying in the meat grinder of perpetual geopolitical pissing contests seems like such a waste. Bright-eyed 18 year old studs convinced of their invincibility shouldn’t be dressed up in scratchy uniforms and propped up in front of approaching bullets. They should be stripped and thrown into full-contact match-ups in order to do what the young bucks of most mammals do: compete against one another to prove their virility.
Seriously, I think the first to the front lines in any war should be the policy makers that decide that we have no option but to take up arms. The people who vote to authorize force, perhaps in the sincere belief that we have no option, should be sincere enough to be first in line to face the consequences. This would mean, pretty much by definition, that our front lines would be populated by a crowd of mostly middle-aged, pot-bellied white guys. In turn, this would leave our strapping young, naive, hormone-charged hardbodies for the battle that they were hardwired to engage in: non-lethal tests of strength and domination in order to bear evidence of the size of their genitals, their likelihood to contribute good breeding stock, and their ability to defend hearth and home from predators.

Classic AMG images of just this story never fail to please me. AMG always told the tale of boys being boys, engaging in naked/nearly naked combat with one another. Two young bucks puff up their chests, their eyes roaming up and down their opponents assessing the scope of the challenge in front of them. They strip out of their clothes to free themselves for the full range of motion that they may need to secure victory. Both brash, bold, gorgeous young hunks circle one another, both battlers sincerely convinced that they will overcome their challenger and prove themselves stronger, fiercer, more clever and more determined. Before the first touch of skin-on-skin, in the fraction of the second before they collide, grasping and twisting, in that instant before the battle is actually consummated, they are primal: youthful males announcing their entry into adult mating rituals.
Some hair pulling, bodyscissoring, and humiliating grinding of face to crotch, and one man has proven his mettle, dominating his opponent until he submits in body and spirit. That’s the battle of the ages for which hard, blustering, invincible young studs should be reserved.

Driver’s License, Please

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I’m STILL stuck in bed, and it’s not the good kind of stuck in bed. I think I’ll be presentable in a day or two, though. Thanks for all the kind wishes.
I’m not feeling particularly creative today, so I just thought I’d put a shout out to a series of amateur photos from Grapplers Planet that I keep coming back to… again and again and again. This “Hornets” wrestler is simply captivating. I swear, I thought this was a painting the first time I glanced at it, it’s such an iconic piece of art with such an iconic looking invincible, Aryan grappler. My hope is that, in whatever state he resides, he is of legal age. Since I don’t know that for certain, I’ll keep my comments restrained.
Holy.
Hell.

Incredible.

Tickled Breathless

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From the world of bizarre, comes a story of a disgraced U.S. Congressman who has resigned his office under allegations that he groped his male staff members. No, it’s not that the New York Democrat is married with two children that makes this story so strange (not at all, in fact). It’s not even that this guy has suddenly started telling the story of Rahm Emanuel cornering him, naked, in the shower to strong arm him into voting for the President’s health care agenda…

Just wait a minute while my heart stops racing from imagining Rahm Emmanuel naked, in the shower, strong arming someone…. I’d wrestle that man for the soap anywhere, anytime.
Okay, no, no, it’s not any of this that makes this story truly bizarre. The truly bizarre bit is that this guy goes on a rabidly conservative [insane] television “news-ish” show to talk about the whole thing, in which he explains that not only did he grope a male staffer, but he tickled this employee “until he couldn’t breathe, and then four guys jumped on top of me.” And now he’s astonished to have been charged with sexual harassment.
Oh no, there couldn’t be ANYTHING sexual about that scenario (how’s that for sarcasm, Joe?). On an entirely unrelated topic, I was thumbing through Can-Am’s tickle-fetish catalog and thinking to myself, what sort of sick fuck gets into this crap?
I guess now we know. Should’ve guessed it was the straight guys with wives and children downstairs. (My apologies to you tickle fetish boys out there. You can tie me down and tickle me to teach me a lesson).

Runaway Train

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Just between you and me, I really hate the word horny. It lacks imagination. It suggests to me a state of hormonal overload that’s divorced from the most erotic tool that we have: our imaginations. I think of horny as a state of animal impulse that doesn’t necessarily even take pleasure in and of itself. It’s a drive that’s satisfied by emotionless physics and physiology: friction, blood flow, and the release of bodily fluids. The joy of eroticism for me is that it’s so much more than that. Still…

I’m so horny this morning! Holy shit, I’m ridiculously at the mercy of my libido. I can hardly type.
Is it the approach of Spring? Is it the cycles of the moon? Damn, I’m about absolutely nothing more than friction, blood flow and bodily fluids right now.
Before I blow a gasket, I’ll wrap this up with one final thought. Even at the mercy of my libido, I’m passionately drawn to the image of the erotic fighter. This runaway train isn’t about to stop for anything, but what seriously stokes the fire even at this moment is the muscled body poised for erotic combat. I’m always capable of taking care of these matters myself, which I will take my leave this morning to do. But tonight, my friends, I have a date with a musclehunk who has no idea that our regular grappling session is going to be supercharged.
Seriously, I gotta go.

New Kids on the Block

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I’m not sure when matmuscle.com came online, but they have three fighters featured in three matches. The $24.95 download price for a 16 minute bout is a bit too steep for my socioeconomic status, but more power to those who are happy to pay up. Fortunately, the masterminds at matmuscle have loaded some short teasers on YouTube to give me a taste of what I’m missing.

I’ll cut right to the chase. The match pitting tanned modelboy Aaron against pale, shaved head bodybuilder Bill immediately caught my eye. Matmuscle seems to have a quirky business model, in that they seem to take pride in finding guys who’ve never wrestled before (as well as mat veterans, though I don’t know if they’ve shown evidence of that yet). They promise that despite Aaron and Bill being complete novices, these muscle studs are full of promise.
By the look of the Bill v Aaron teaser, I can believe that neither of these guys have wrestled before. Aaron looks a little more mat savvy and quick on his feet. Bill looks like he has no idea what’s happening, which could make for a sweet story line if his huge, hard body was being set up for some intense initiation. My sense from the teaser is that this is not really the story here, though.
Still, these two bodies are fantastic, and the posing pouch gear is fun to watch. Aaron in particular has his pouch swinging for the rafters as he bounces and bobs his way along. Matmuscle is looking (and by the looks of it, need) more wrestlers. So I’m nominating you, fine reader, to sign up. I have no idea where these boys are located. I tried contacting them for more info, but their contact-server is a dead-end. But I think that you should remain persistent. Get on the roster and squeeze Bill’s bald head between your thighs until he gasps in pain. Maybe we’ll meet up there. And then both of us can tell the front office that $24.95 per 16 minute download isn’t a sustainable business model.