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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.

Still More Olympic Spirit

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Closing ceremonies are this weekend, but the winter Olympics are just now seriously heating up. Of course the formal competition has been hard hitting, but I’m referring to stumbling across an homage to the beauty of the American winter Olympian bodies. In answer to the inspiring photo shoot of Canadian hardbodies, the Americans have this provocative answer.
The flag bearer for the team of American hunks is gold medalist snowboard crosser, Seth Wescott. Fantastic look here for Seth, with his low risers revealing the underwear and that solid, sculpted torso on display underneath his unbuttoned dress shirt. I simply have to imagine that Seth would be the one to slam Canadian snowboard crosser, Rob Fagan, in the center of the ring and then relish the joy of making him scream in pain as Seth drags him by his hair to have his head driven into each and every turnbuckle. Gold medalist, indeed.
Snowboard halfpiper, Louie Vito is built for pro-wrestling. Despite being only 5’4″, he’s got the look of a fabulous heel. He’s the champion sagger here, with his happy trail knocking at the door, and he’s displaying his fine ink with a cocky I’ll-soon-have-your-head-crushed-against-this-bicep look to him. In head to head, body to body competition with, say, naked Canadian freestyle skier Kyle Nissen, I’d have to give the edge to Louie delivering some acrobatic arial assaults that lay poor Kyle out cold. Then, of course, Louie would do an air guitar routine to celebrate, with his knee pinning the Canadian’s chest.
Silver medal ice dancer Charlie White has a seductive, sexy hunk babyface air about him here. Can’t you just picture him climbing through the ropes with his naive “good will win out” grin on his face as he pumps his fist, mugging for the crowd? How much more delightful it would be to see Canadian Warren Shouldice dive through the ropes and destroy the blond hero in complete humiliation. Warren’s over the knee backbreaker would set a fine table for a smorgasbord of torso punishment on the suffering babyface. Canadians would definitely claim a gold, bringing the medal count to 2-1 for the Americans.
Cross country skier Andy Newell also has a babyface hero look about him, which is ominous to see for those rooting for the Americans in this competition. Andy’s body looks lickable and good for light reading. He must have impressively sized balls to explain his showing off his modest bicep so proudly. I think Andy would put up an impressive fight against Canadian freestyle skier, Ryan Blais. In fact, I think this would be a close fought battle that would grow progressively nastier as babyface heroes get increasingly frustrated and decide to take short cuts that bend the rules. In the end, though, I’m picturing Andy dazed and disoriented following a series of a half dozen snap suplexes, allowing Ryan to hook the leg, get the 3 count, and then spit in Andy’s stunned face. Who knew the Canadians could get so fierce and nasty? Apparently making the medal count even at 2-2 is driving the boys from the North to new lows.
Oh my. Talk about babyfaces. 19 year old American speed skater, JR Celski looks like a lamb heading the slaughter here. Sadly, this pic is prior to JR’s fantastic pec ink that he put on display after a race in Vancouver recently, but still, it’s provocative to see the young stud looking like he’s about to jump right out of those jeans. Unfortunately for eager-beaver JR, if he were to find himself in the ring with Canadian speed skater, Francois-Olivier Roberge, he’d be nothing but a plaything for the Canadian. This would have the crowd aching for Francois-Olivier to put the kid out of his misery, but the Canadian would be sadistically prolonging the humiliation by yanking JR up by the hair repeatedly on the 2 counts. I think the Canadian would finally and decisively deliver the message that Canada is in it to win it with a bouncing, smiling torture rack. Canada would be up 3-2.

The final hope for the Americans to keep this respectable would rest in the hands of figure skater Evan Lysacek. I have to admit, I was a little surprised at just how hot Even looks here, including the provocative lightening tattoo pointing to his moneymaker. As evidenced by Evan’s gold medal performance in Vancouver, he is one cool cat when under pressure. Face to face with young Canadian speed skater Denny Morrison, I’m picturing Evan launching a highly scientific breakdown of the Canadian with patience and precision. Babyface Denny would be struggling to keep up, but Evan would stay one step ahead of him, concentrating on high impact moves to the lower back to leave young Denny writhing in pain and helpless to defend himself. All the momentum would be swinging Evan’s way, as he schoolboy pinned struggling Denny to his back in the center of the ring. Denny would struggle to pull his shoulders free, but the ref would count: 1… 2…. But just as overconfident Evan pumped out a double bicep to seal the deal, Denny would hook his gargantuan legs under Evan’s shoulders, flipping the American to his back and leveraging his superhuman quads to pin Evan’s back to the canvas for a shocking 3 count.

Whew! This is the competition I’ve been waiting for! The Americans fielded a fantastic team, but the Canadian’s managed to come out on top in 4 decisive victories. Go Canada!

More Olympic Spirit

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So I don’t actually know what the magazine Chatelaine is suppose to be about, but it’s my new favorite publication in the world. You do not have to be a Canadian woman to eat up what they’re serving with their expose’ of naked Canadian winter Olympic hunks. Until I can find a similar treasure trove for other nations, Canada officially is fielding my very favorite winter Olympic team of athletes. Take freestyle skier Warren Shouldice shown above… better yet, leave him all for me.
Another Candian freestyle skier, Ryan Blais, is sporting that “oh-you-caught-me-in-my-underwear-and-ski-boots” pose. It turns out, Ryan didn’t make the Canadian team, despite kicking major freestyle skier ass (speaking of, I think Ryan’s got a fantastically muscled one). I would be willing to offer my consolation and sympathy in whatever form Ryan would like. But the ski boots are not coming to bed.
Rob Fagan of snowboard cross is made for the ring, if you ask me. Those pecs need some serious pounding, and that mop of hair is asking to get yanked as he’s dragged from turnbuckle to turnbuckle.
Kyle Nissen, seen here strategically placed behind his freestyle skis, looks to me like he’s got attitude… and that he doesn’t manscape too much. Both of those are hot qualities in a winter Olympian, if you ask me. Put down the skis, Kyle, and remove the gloves.

Finally, long-track speed skater, Francois-Olivier Roberge illustrates why speed skaters make me so delirious. Sadly, Francois-Olivier’s legs are cut off in this pic, but the thickness of his right quad and the shape of that left glute are hinting at the world class wonders of a speed skater’s anatomy that bring me such joy.

Only 7 days to go of obsessing about the best bodies that winter sports has to offer. Go team Canada (naked)!