Sidelineland

WrestleFest Canada

July 25, 2023July 25, 2023 wrestlebard8 Comments

I’m at the airport as I type this, waiting for my flight to Toronto. I’m a little nervous. Traveling always makes me a little nervous, but this time, I’m also nervous because I’ll be participating in WrestleFest Canada, my first WrestleFest experience. Getting together with dozens of wrestlers (current count at 80 confirmed) is both super intimidating and super exciting at the same time.

I grew up feeling way isolated. First, I was isolated as a gay kid in a small, working class town with absolutely no representation in sight. My only points of reference for far too long were offensive jokes in which “fags” was the punchline. I remember coming across references to same-sex sex in science fiction (big, big, big sci-fi geek here), and combing through books to learn more. All the while, wondering to myself if I was the only person in the world who experienced attraction the way I did. I’d linger at the magazine rack in the grocery store to ogle the muscle hunks on the cover of fitness mags, desperately turned on, but under the (certainly mistaken) impression that the content there wasn’t intended for a male lustful gaze like mine. I carried this inner world around with me, growing to understand myself more and more as someone aroused by men, and under the impression that was extremely rare, perhaps to the point of unheard of. Like, am I the only one?

Once I started owning (internally for the most part, at first) that I’m a guy who gets turned on by guys, I then grappled (pun intended) with what it means to be a gay guy who really gets off on wrestling. I remember my first boyfriend making a snarky comment about weirdos who get off on watching guys wrestle. Like, it was something laughably freakish to him that someone’s primary hot spot is wrestling, significantly more so than just sucking and fucking. I sort of melted inside a little, thinking, fuck, there must be something really off about me… though I was intrigued that my boyfriend had heard of other guys with a wrestling kink. But I figured that maybe I was one in a million, at best. I pictured myself going through life knowing there might be a handful of others out there, but being pretty likely to remain in my own head, watching pro wrestling, providing the erotic subtext with my imagination, trying to figure out how to navigate how “gay” I am as opposed to how much into wrestling. I dated guys and never told them about wrestling, even though it was often imagined scenarios of wrestling that fueled my erections. It felt really isolating to be filtering the outside world and its rules of engagement (in and outside of gay culture) through my experience of myself and my orientation toward wrestling.

Finding gay wrestling companies online was a MAJOR epiphany for me. I mean, fuck, I’d discovered my supplier of masturbation content that didn’t require me to imagine an erotic subtext to hot guys wrestling. But more than that was the realization that there’s a market for homoerotic wrestling. I’m a target demographic, not an unheard of anomaly. This is a going concern, and I’m on a mailing list, meaning, holy shit, there’s A LIST!

I consumed as much BGE, BG, Can-Am, On Top, and other wrestling as my income would permit for many years. I poured over the mailers like a quarterly version of the Sears Christmas catalog, fantasizing about just how hot these matches might be. It was a further epiphany to realize that I DIDN’T get turned on by all of the content, but there was still all that diversity of content, meaning… fuck, there are different tastes represented on that mailing list. We don’t all like precisely the same things, even if we’re all clearly turned on by erotic wrestling in general. I started mentally cataloging what my tastes were, what kind of wrestlers and pairings turned me on, what gear and context and type of matches pushed my buttons. About 15 years ago, I started blogging, not even really sure what I was planning on blogging about, but wanting to put on the outside all of that internal world I’d been so immersed in on the inside for so long (not sure if that makes sense, but hopefully you get what I mean). I blogged about hot guys who turn me on and wrestling, which, let’s be honest, meant hot guys I wished wrestled, and all things wrestling.

I don’t know if you’ve picked this up about me, but I tend to color in the lines. I tried for a while to blog about homoerotic wrestling videos without using any copyrighted images from producers, so as not to piss anyone off and violate anyone’s rights to their creative work. But, FUCK, I wanted to show pictures to illustrate what I was finding so hot about matches, because getting off on wrestling is so fucking visual for me. I was SO nervous when I reached out to info@bgeast.com, hat in hand, asking if I could have permission to occasionally post images of the matches I was blogging about. When Kid Leopard himself wrote back to me, saying that he’d been reading my blog, liked my writing, and gave me permission to use their copyrighted images (with specific parameters explained… this is KL, after all), I would just sit and stare at that email over and over again for days. It was my first direct, 1:1, personal contact with someone who not only did I get off on watching wrestle, but I was 99.9% convinced that he, too, found wrestling a core turn on. I’ve reached out to all of the companies I’ve posted images for over the years for matches I review, and everyone has given a green light (some more generously than others), but it was that email-to-email point of contact with KL that really opened up my world.

And then, holy shit, people started reading the blog. I mean, I checked the stat counter from the start, wondering if I was pissing into the wind, and was truly amazed when this blog would get over 100 views in a given day. But when readers began commenting, it was just fucking wild. It was wild enough to have readers just sharing their opinions, bitching about my taste in men, agreeing with me about a particular hold or wrestler, etc. But when comments started showing up from people saying things like, “I never knew someone else experienced what I experience,” that my blog was that glimpse of person-to-person connection for someone else who’d wondered, once upon a time, if they were the only person in the world who got off so particularly to wrestling… fuck, that was wild. I was nervous about sharing an email address publicly, the first time I offered it, and I instantly started getting email messages from even more guys who wanted to compare notes, reflect on our respective kink(s), etc., even if they didn’t want to air it publicly in the comments section on the blog. I was recently trying to clean out my email archives, and found (and kept) hundreds of those messages that I’ve received over the years. Even the haters, even those guys who’ve been so offensive in insulting particular wrestlers or match styles or my tastes that I’ve not allowed their comments to get posted, even those guys sort of blow my mind, because they’re just as passionate as I am about the erotic power of wrestling (even more so… some of you guys are fucking over the top, even for me).

I’ve written about this relatively recently, so I won’t go into too much detail, but when writers started reaching out to collaborate on homoerotic wrestling fiction, that was yet another level of shared passion for homoerotic wrestling. It’s INTENSE going line by line with someone in describing a wrestling scene that turns me on, turns them on, turns us on, sometimes not even for the same reasons. I’ve watched homoerotic wrestling with a few guys, which is similarly intense, but actually writing it, co-creating and building a shared narrative vision… fuck, there’s sort of no hiding there. We’re naming something that moves us deeply, literally putting into words what our bodies respond to instinctively. My current writing partnership with AR is, by far, the most intense and rewarding experience in that vein, for all those reasons, but especially because we’ve explored our kinky edges that we haven’t really named for anyone else before (even me, 1,675 posts into this blog!). I’m not alone, not even close.

If you’ve followed this blog, you know that it was just a few months ago that I took this to another level and tried meet-up wrestling myself. Credit where due, Drake Marcos was the first hottie to drag my ass into a wrestling match and let me start exploring who I am not just as a a voyeur or writer, but as a wrestler. There was about 8 years between my super hot match with Drake and my venturing into meet-up wrestling again just this year. My last couple of posts document how that journey is going (short story: it’s going FUCKING UNBELIEVABLE!!!). Scott texted me a few days ago, letting me know that he was getting together with a whole cadre of wrestlers I’ve lusted over on the pages of this blog, namely Brad Rochelle, Jonny Firestorm, Shane McCall, and him. I think that Scott may even be angling for a second run at taking me on, after he got a bit more than he may have bargained for when he faced his #1 fan the first time (anytime, tough guy!).

Brad Rochelle and Jonny Firestorm enjoy a reunion with Scott Williams

And now, I’m going to my first WrestleFest. Getting ready for it has opened me up to just how NOT alone I am still more. The organizers use both MeetFighters and a devoted Discord server to help participants connect with one another and set up matches. Through my friend Scooter, who I technically met online only 6 months ago, but somehow feel like I’ve known for years (true story, we’re pretty sure we were probably on the same dance floor at a gay club 28 years ago or so), I was invited onto another Discord server of several dozens of great guys all exploring their wrestling fetishes and comparing notes with one another. I’m on those servers all the time, because it’s not just a bunch of isolated guys not wanting to be isolated any longer… it’s a community. Scooter is fond of calling us all brothers, because there’s a camaraderie and mutual support about all sorts of things that feel real… like health and fitness, negotiating wrestling meet-ups safely and sanely, lusting after random guys we encounter online and in the course of our lives. And all things wrestling. We don’t all have the same politics or preferences. We’re spread across geography, and diverse in age, race, and even sexual orientation (I’m fascinated by connecting with bisexual guys around all this!). But it’s community, in the exciting, reassuring, difficult way that it is to be part of community.

But holy hell, WrestleFest is next level for me, my friends. At this moment, I have a total of 3 matches under my belt in my lifetime (starting with Drake), and I am scheduled to more than double that in the coming few days. I’m especially excited for opportunities to meet and talk with guys off the mats, like at the bar social on Friday, and a couple of lunches I have scheduled just to talk with really interesting, cool guys who, like me, get off on wrestling.

I won’t post about every detail of this week, because I don’t want everyone I meet and/or wrestle to be worried what I’ll have to say about it on the pages of this blog. Though… I may ask if guys are okay with me sharing some details that I expect to be hard for me NOT to share. I’ll only share details with permission of all parties involved… yeah, let’s put it that way. I honestly don’t necessarily know what to expect, or how I’ll feel, or what I’ll enjoy or not enjoy. But I’m deeply excited to be part of a community, a brotherhood of sorts, of guys from around the world who probably think differently than I do about all sorts of things, but, in their midst, I won’t be alone in enjoying my passion for homoerotic wrestling.

Wish me luck!

Patriotism

July 6, 2023July 7, 2023 wrestlebard3 Comments

I’m not the most patriotic person. It’s not that I’m anti-patriotic, exactly. I appreciate my American citizenship, and I’m happy enough to have been born here. I just don’t really muster a “love it or leave it” kind of passion for the U.S. Like, for some really cool contributions the country has made to the world, it also has at least it’s share of bad shit that’s made a whole lot of people (including a lot its own citizens) really suffer unnecessarily. A wise friend told me recently that’s probably the case for every country, which sort of rings true.

My relationship to the Fourth of July holiday is similar. I like a day off and potato salad, but I really resent my neighbors insisting on setting off illegal fireworks that put my dog on edge for days. When I see a home flying an American flag, I don’t assume that the people who live there are the worst stereotype of insular, egotistical, homophobic, racist, hyper-nationalists… but I wonder. So, me finally getting around to post my Fourth of July post on Juy 6 somehow seems apt.

I do get a kick out of the occasionally clever twist on American patriotism that sometimes shows up when it comes to homoerotic wrestling. Hunks who don stars and stripes gear (which is actually frowned upon by serious patriots, right?) typically show up as the handsome, earnest babyface heroes who get their asses handed to them by nefarious heels. For some reason, that trope tickles me. It’s definitely not because I’m unpatriotic. But I just recognize how annoying over the top American patriotism can be, and there’s something satisfying about seeing cocky boys in red, white, and blue get the manifest destiny beat right out of them.

So, sure, go USA (!).

Dream Come True – Part 2

July 1, 2023July 5, 2023 wrestlebard5 Comments

As I was saying, a whole lot of threads somehow came together just a few days ago, leaving me standing in front of the man of my dreams, BG East hunk Scott Williams. Every morning since, I wake up and immediately ask myself, “Did that really happen?!” Then I pull up my texts with Scott and the pics and videos from our meet up, and breathe a sigh of relief. Fuck, yes, that really happened.

Scott is just 100% Scott. By that, I mean he’s as scorching hot as always, and he’s all snarl and smirk and trash talk, just like he is in his BG East videos. Like, literally, he is precisely as devastatingly hot as he was when he was wrestling Brad Rochelle in Ultra Fight Two, which was the first thing I ever saw him in. Someone has since asked me if I found his portrait in the attic that keeps him from aging. It’s not quite like that, but close. He’s distractingly handsome. He’s also in incredible shape. I was staring, a little slack jawed, at his sculpted pecs, when I asked him if he has to work at staying in such incredible shape. For just a moment, he dropped his snarky swagger and answered, “Oh, yeah.” And my respect for his mouthwatering fitness somehow grew even bigger, knowing that his physique is a labor of love.

Scott’s first words to me were, “I’m impressed, Bard. You actually showed up.” I get where that comes from, of course, but I also was thinking, fuck if I’d be anywhere else in the world, right now! I’ve got precious little direct experience wrestling, mind you. Of course, I’ve been obsessed with homoerotic wrestling my entire adult life (and more than a bit of my pre-adult life, honestly). But I was seriously in suspense about how this would go, facing down a fierce hunk with such an extensive, well-documented wrestling resume. So, just to break the ice and keep it real, I called attention to that fact. As we were both stripping down to briefs, I just breathed in deeply and named it, honestly admitting that this was a dream come true, and I was already a winner for getting to experience it. “You’re bigger than I am, and you have a boatload more wrestling experience than I do, obviously,” I said. He shrugged, like the it was no big deal. “Which makes me think,” I went on, “that the pressure’s really entirely on you. Like, how fucking humiliating would it be for Scott Williams to submit to a faceless blogger with almost no experience?”

Apparently, my effort to break the ice and express empathy for Scott didn’t land well. “Fuck you, Bard,” he snarled back with just a little heat. “You’re going to see a lot of this,” he flipped me a middle finger salute. “And this, too,” he emphasized, flashing both middle fingers at me, as I belatedly remembered to hit record on my phone. Still, trying to express my empathy for the pressure that must be weighing on him, I asked him again, “When they’re, like, suddenly collapsing, and you’re tapping out, how embarrassing would that be? Damn!”

“You know, Bard,” Scott snarled and snapped, taking a step back and trying to give me a little more perspective. “You made a big mistake, okay? Going right to the top, instead of working your way up. You’re a nice enough guy, but it’s my job to beat you boys down and keep you in your place.” He suggested I should have aimed lower, maybe call out a less threatening BG East wrestler to tackle first. He suggested maybe Jonny Firestorm might have been an easier opponent to start with, for example, which I thought was pretty ballsy of Scott, really. I can’t remember for sure, but I think he told me that he’d prefer I not repeat that directly to Jonny. So, let’s all just keep that between us, okay? No one tell Jonny that Scott thinks of him as less of a challenge, right?

Scott seeing what all those taunts about my legs get him.

I was honestly having a bit of an out of body experience when he suddenly grabbed hold of me and threw me down. It’s hard to focus on defense, offense, or much of anything else, when all I can think is fuck, Scott Williams just climbed on top of me!!! Somewhere, though, instincts that I wasn’t sure that I had kicked in. There I was, flat on my back, with Scott crawling on top of me about to dazzle me with some devastating submission hold. But sort of like time slowing down, I noticed his right leg was in reach of my left arm, and his neck was hovering just over my right arm. And suddenly, I had Scott locked up in a cradle, with his left arm neutralized between my legs. I asked him, “Holy fuck, what just happened there, Scott?” Like, sincerely, it took me by surprise, as the man of my dreams grunted and pried at my arms, futilely attempting to break out of the cradle. He jerked on his left arm, trying to free it from the steel trap of my legs locked around it, and got absolutely no love at all for his efforts. I asked him, “Holy fuck, Scott, did you just get buttoned up already by a lowly blogger?!” He rumbled out a few seconds of profanity and threats, but the direct answer to my question came when he tapped out. Holy. Fuck!

The infamous Scott Williams headscissors

If you’ve ever watched him wrestle, or if you’ve read anything I’ve ever written about him (including part 1), it will come as no surprise when I say that our wrestling match centered extensively on scissor holds. Scott has super long, strong (distractingly sexy) legs, and despite my by best efforts to avoid them, my head and neck kept getting trapped between them from multiple different angles. I remember one point at which he was asking me a question while crushing my skull in face-to-crotch scissors, and I could literally not hear a thing over the roaring buzz of pain in my ears. His crotch shoved in my face was also a huge (HUGE) distraction.

Scott’s native tongue is flipping the bird.

This newbie is a pretty quick study, if I do say so myself, though. Knowing that Scott really only respects blindingly hard headscissors, I made sure to spring that trap repeatedly. I’d prepped by studying hours (and hours and weeks and months) of homoerotic wrestling matches, and I particularly took to a figure-4 choke, reaching back and grabbing my ankle to lock it on like a vise. Scott flew his middle finger salutes a lot, staring up at me while his head turned purple.

Scott warned me ahead of time that I did not want find myself in his camel clutch. I’ve seen that camel clutch in his BG East matches, and, yeah, I get it. And yet, somehow, just when I was recovering from one of his headscissors variations, I lost track of where he was, and damn it all if I didn’t end up flat on my stomach with Scott on my back. I could see what was heading my way, and even still, I admit to strong ambivalence about the situation, because… fuck, Scott Williams was on my back. But he was absolutely merciless, as he yanked my arms up over his knees and wrapped his fingers around my chin, prying my neck way back. He helpfully narrated the entire thing for me, explaining to me why it hurt, and then transitioning from a chin lock to a choke, then to grabbing me by my overbite, to point out how each variation hurt a little different. Fuck it was devastating, and I couldn’t exactly argue with him when he explained that once locked in, there was no escape.

I learned a lot about myself when I wrestled Scott. For example, I learned that, while watching countless hours of homoerotic wrestling does not a wrestler make (no surprise), there were some transferable bits of knowledge and insight. Like, having watched Scott crank up the pressure on his scissors by leaning back on his hands and thrusting his hips, it turns out I could put that observation to good use. I also learned that I’m too stubborn for my own good. I should have given up sooner than I did on a couple of occasions, where the only purpose served in refusing was to sap my strength that much more. Definitely, stubbornness is the main component there, and something I want to reflect on further (live to fight another day, and all); however, I also credit my desire to savor every fucking moment of this dream match with everything I’ve got. I also learned about myself that, while there’s not a direct equivalence, there’s a clear through-line to being turned on by watching a wrestling hunk getting dominated on video to being turned on by watching a wrestling hunk getting dominated by my own enthusiastic efforts.

Whatever you do, DON’T pat him on the head

I learned a lot about Scott, too. For example, I learned that Scott hates it (fucking HATES it), when he’s trying to remember to flip the bird, trapped hopelessly in headscissors, and his opponent rubs his head condescendingly. “You really hate that, when I’m rubbing your head like that,” I asked him, when he kept swatting my hand away furiously. The middle fingers were his only reply. I also learned it absolutely infuriates him when an opponent, having acknowledged how much he hates getting his head rubbed when he’s helplessly trapped, keeps rubbing his head anyway. Oh, fuck, he hates that! I learned that it pisses him off when he’s getting owned, and his opponent sits back with a smirk and watches his face suffering. I mean, fuck he’s gorgeous and it’s not like I’m not going to soak in the sight of his sweet, sweet struggles, but, yeah, it irritates him. And, happily, I learned that Scott is genuinely a fierce, devoted, supremely accomplished fan and aficionado of homoerotic wrestling. He’s a master of his craft, even if a long-time fan is able to channel all of his enthusiasm into wringing out a little more than a handful of frustrated, whimpering submissions out of him. In a couple of breaks we took, I learned that Scott genuinely loves the homoerotic wrestling world, keeps up with new releases and hot new rookies, checks in with former opponents, and has a passion for the exact same things about wrestling that I have a passion for. At one point as we were chatting about current wrestlers floating both of our boats, it was just so familiar. I thought, fuck, it’s like we chat about this stuff all the time. And then it occurred to me that in our replies back and forth in the comments of this blog, we have been! Those glimpses of Scott in text and his insights and perspectives genuinely belong to a fan of homoerotic wrestling, not just a star.

Scott rethinking his decision to agree to wrestle his #1 fan

I honestly lost count of submissions, so I can’t tell you who had more. I think it was pretty damn close to even, though, and I’m not just saying that because Scott isn’t here to fact check me as I write this post. I do know who earned the final submission of the match, with a smirking, head rubbing, figure-4 choke, but I’ll just leave it at that. Honestly, I’ve got so many fucking words to say about meeting and wrestling Scott, that I’ve been tying myself up in knots trying to figure out how to pare it all down from the multi-volume tome in my head to a couple of modest blog posts. But another thing I learned about myself, is that even if I forget to pause and take pictures, if I forget to keep track of submissions, if I’m clearly a novice squaring off against a hardbodied hunk bigger and stronger than I am, with oceans more experience than I’ll ever be able to catch up with, this really fucking happened, and those memories are mine to treasure.

Scott knows how to hit reply and comment on this blog, so I’ll leave it up to him to fact check anything that I may have misremembered or misrepresented. This whole thing keeps percolating in my mind, as I relive and savor meeting and wrestling the man of my dreams, so it’s possible there might be a part 3 someday down the road when I find I have more I need to say about. In the mean time, that really fucking happened. I met and wrestled Scott fucking Williams, the man of my dreams. Now, I’m hitting gym, because it’s leg day, and if there’s ever a chance this might happen again, I’m going be fucking ready for it.

Dream Come True – Part 1

June 30, 2023 wrestlebard4 Comments

You know how they say that you should never meet your heroes? Well, whoever it is who says that, fuck them. Because I met mine, and it was spectacular. Meeting Scott Williams has been on my bucket list just about as long as I’ve been watching homoerotic wrestling videos. In order not to bury the lead, I’ll just say here that I can now check that off my list. I’ve been processing this for days now, thinking about what to say about it. I’ve got just SO fucking much running through my head, so this will NOT fit into one blog post. You’ll have to cope with the suspense, or check back in tomorrow to read this and part 2 back-to-back.

Scott Williams – Promotional Image for BG East’s Ultra Fight 2

I can’t be sure, but I believe that the first time I referred to Scott Williams (in print, anyway) as “the man of my dreams” was when I interviewed Shane McCall about 9 years ago. I’d been thinking it, though, from the moment I first caught sight of him in promotional material for Ultra Fight Two, probably at least 10 years prior to that, and then I studiously collected everything I could get my hands on with Scott in it. His body, his face, his attitude, everything about him just rubs me the right way. It’s borderline criminal that his entire BG East catalog contains only 4 matches (not counting that Spartans wrestling club release with Scott and Shane as babies, that I wish I could put my hands on again). I regularly run into wrestling fans similarly fixated on Scott’s hotness from just those 4 matches. When that happens, I promptly remind them that Scott deserves all the accolades, but I’m the undisputed president of his fan club. Don’t even try to test me on that, boys. I will beat you down mercilessly. Just sayin’.

Shane McCall (left) and Scott Williams backstage at BG East’s Wrestling with Pride 1

I’m not certain of when Scott first started commenting here on the blog, but I do know that I named it as my favorite blogging moment of 2015 when Scott sent me well-wishes in a comment to a post that year. In response to my lustful musings about whether he still wrestles, Scott assured me that he’s “still keeping in shape and wrestling privately here in Boston and when I travel…always will love it and will always make you proud on the mats or in the ring!” I melted when I read it. And then did again and again, when Scott continued to chime in over the last several years with his perspective on my reviews, sharing his opinions about new wrestlers, and reflecting on the homoerotic wrestling industry in general.

Scott with Shane McCall (center) and Brad Rochelle (right) at Wrestling with Pride 1

My longstanding simmering crush on Scott took an unexpectedly hot turn in 2017. There’s a slightly complex drama that I’ve documented elsewhere that led up to me receiving what might be the hottest surprise gift I never expected, namely a video of Ty Alexander working over Scott in private in a brutally merciless camel clutch, using the man of my dreams to challenge me to face Ty in a wrestling match. In the video, Ty just calmly trash talks me, as Scott whimpers and wails, submitting over and over as the Trophy Boy ignores him. The idea of Scott suffering because Ty knows how infatuated I am with him… fuck, that was fucking hot (sorry Scott/not sorry)!

A still from Ty’s torture of Scott, using the man-of-my-dreams to send me a message

I shamelessly appealed directly to Scott in May of 2020, penning a blog post addressed specifically to him, in which I asked him to weigh in on the hottest headscissors in the business, other than his. Honestly, we all had a lot going on around May of 2020, right? Well, Scott didn’t just reply, he broke down some of the science and aesthetics of punishing headscissors in just such a way that I immediately made a public commitment to never skip leg day again (which, no joke, I’ve pretty much kept!). In a follow up post, I concluded, “…if there’s ever a chance that someday I can slide Scott’s head between my quads, I’m determined to be ready to pack on enough pounds per square inch to make the man of my dreams gasp out at least 10 h’s.” In literature, we refer to that as foreshadowing.

Scott demonstrating his punishing headscissors in BG East’s Matmen 15.

Fast forward to my New Year’s Eve post just 6 months ago, when suddenly things heated up super fast. Having long teased me in his comments about the possibility of the two of us squaring off, suddenly Scott declared that 2023 was the year it would happen. Light trash talk ensued, in which I walked the fine line of reiterating how fucking hot I think Scott is, while at the same time speculating about the possibility of adding some of his tears to my treasured homoerotic wrestling souvenirs when he’s tapping out in my headscissors. Yeah, yeah, I know. Big talk from a very inexperienced wrestling fan. But, fuck it all, I love it when a plan comes together, because… holy shit, I’m writing this because it actually happened… I got to wrestle Scott the-man-of-my-dreams Williams!

And it was perfection. Not to totally blow his cover, because fans know how much Scott likes to posture and growl and taunt like a tough guy, but he was incredibly considerate as we figured out schedules. Sure, sure, he repeatedly dropped in taunts implying that any scheduling conflicts on my part were just fear-based excuses. And, yeah, he relentlessly predicted that he’d handle me and my quads without breaking a sweat. But seriously, Scott fans back me up here: that’s just par for the course, right? In the meantime, I’ve been working out like a man possessed for the past 6 months in the hopes that this whole thing would actually go down. And, holy shit, just a few days ago… it did.

Not my face, but 100% my expression standing next to Scott.

In case you’re new to the blog or you don’t read the comments, you’re now pretty well caught up with how I found myself standing face-to-face with Scott Williams. Well, face-to-gorgeously-hairy-pecs, considering Scott is significantly taller than I am. Honestly, I’d have donated a kidney just for an autograph, but no, all of that trash talk back and forth sent this careening in the only direction that it possibly could go. I was standing in nothing but briefs and a shit-eating grin in front of the wrestler who makes my heart skip a beat unlike any other.

So that’s part 1 of my story of meeting the man of my dreams. I’ll persist in combing through the jumble of excitement and reflections on the experience of meeting and wrestling him, and continue the narrative tomorrow. Suffice it to say, for now, I keep pausing in the middle of doing other stuff and ask myself, “Holy shit, did that really happen!?” Happily for me, I have photographic evidence that it did, and happily for you, Scott has given me unrestricted permission to share the pics and talk about the whole thing here. Unhappily for me, it just occurred to me that I forgot to actually get an autograph (fuckfuckfuck). But what I got is a thousand times better…

Je Ne Sais Quoi

June 29, 2023 wrestlebard3 Comments

BG East just dropped Catalog 169, and it’s full of exciting new matches and several new faces joining long-time favorites of mine. I immediately took a shine to the newbie babyface, so proudly from Canada, Mickey Knoxx, debuting in Jobberpaloozer 22.

This will sound like bullshit, but I’m going say it, and I absolutely mean it. The first thing about Mickey that entrances me are his eyes. They’re dazzlingly pretty, like impossibly so. Some joker who wrote the match description for the website calls them “piercingly ice blue,” but I’m not even sure if that’s right. They’re fluorescent gray somehow, but I don’t think that’s a physical possibility. Does he have white irises!? Is that anatomically possible? Fuck. I can’t stop staring at his eyes. And, fuck, yes, I’m the joker that wrote that match description, so I’ve been mulling this question over for a while now.

Okay, to say that I can’t stop staring at his eyes is, actually, bullshit. I definitely start with being riveted by his eyes, but, yeah, pretty quickly I’m staring at his ass. It’s a really, really beautiful ass. I’m not the only one who thinks so. In stars and stripes trunks, representing the classic American lack of even the barest wisp of cultural humility, even uber-patriotic Chase Addams confesses “You’ve got an ass that wants to make me sing ‘O Ca-na-da!” He drives home the point by spanking Mickey’s cheeks with each syllable, while our neighbor from the north is strung up helplessly in the ropes. Fuck, I get that, Chase. That is a spankable ass!

To start this match, Mickey is just exploring the place he’s long longed to be, BG East. Chase is already in the ring, nursing a little bitterness from being stood up for an earlier scheduled match. It all starts out remarkably cordial; so much so, that I start to wonder if these two are going to wrestle or just walk off arm in arm to grab a beer together. The first spark of heat is struck when Mickey, unsolicited, offers his opinion that he brings a certain “je ne sais quoi” factor to contribute to the BG East bench. “Someone’s got beginner’s ego,” Chase chides him, seemingly bristling at the French language. “Calm down there, Mr. Canada.”

The spark erupts into a full-blown wildfire (BTW, sending my best to all of you Canadian firefighters), around the time that Chase declares that the only worthwhile Canadian contribution to the arts is Celine Dion. Mickey asks, incredulously, “Celine Dion?! I hate her.” Somewhat hilariously, Chase is visibly offended, in defense of Celine. “She’s a national treasure,” he insists. Mickey snorts derisively and snarks back, “More like national trash.”

A legitimately hot shoving match sets off Chase, who unleashes 25 minutes of what Chase does best. Always innovating new ways to crush, cripple, and humiliate an opponent, woe betide the unlucky international visitor who finds his hot ass in Chase’s sights. Mickey munches on a lush, long dragon sleeper, with his face buried in Chase’s armpit, that shows off the newbie to perfection while demonstrating the veteran’s total command of his opponent’s body. Chase is fucking cruel when he gets on a roll, and he steamrolls right over hot bodied Mickey. Knees to the gut (and lower) repeatedly drop Mickey to all fours, only to be dragged back up by his ears a second later, to do it all over again. Mickey spends a boatload of time on his knees, staring at Chase’s crotch, struggling to catch his breath, teetering, dizzy on the brink of collapsing to the mat in a heap, and reconsidering a whole lot of life choices that led up to this relentless, soul crushing rookie wrecking.

Everything is classic Chase, from the expansive use of every corner of the ring, every rope, every turnbuckle to heap on piles of crushing punishment, to the speed-up/slow-down whiplash pacing of his blinding speed interspersed with long, lingering, luxuriously held holds. And Mickey sells like he’s been doing this for years. He rides that edge of helpless whimpers and blinding panic in a way that grabs me hard. There’s this almost betrayed tinge to his grunts and groans, as if he’s bitterly thinking “It wasn’t supposed to be like this,” as his dreams of taking BG East by storm come crashing spectacularly down around him. Like every babyface hero, his demolition is a brutal object lesson, disabusing him of the notion of justice. Ignore the brochures, Mickey. The U.S. is not the meritocracy we like to pretend it is. You didn’t deserve any of the insane punishment Chase doled out to you, and yet, that’s exactly what you got. Fuck clean breaks and fair play and Canadian nice.

Leaping off the top turnbuckle with Mickey in a headlock, Chase plants that handsome face into the mat in a decisive bull dog that finally puts the rookie out of his misery… at least until he wakes up and realizes he’s still stuck on the wrong side of the Peach Arch. And I totally agree with Chase’s (albeit sarcastic) assessment of the newbie, as he’s covering the sleeping canuck with an American-themed pride flag. “I think you’re going to do great at BG, kid!”

“You look great”

June 12, 2023 wrestlebardLeave a comment

I often wonder how much organization is churning away behind the scenes at BG East. I enjoyed getting to be on site during one of the weekend shoots several years ago, as a dozen or so hot wrestlers all descended on the BG East headquarters to squeeze in as much sizzlingly sexy wrestling as possible over a few days. Hot guys were everywhere I turned. There was wrestling happening somewhere all the time, often more than one match being recorded at the same time in different venues. And when they didn’t have the cameras pointed at them, there were idle wrestlers everywhere, in the kitchen, down on the dock, watching television, napping in the sunroom. It was so fucking busy, with so much eye candy everywhere, I quickly suffered from whiplash and a raging sugar high.

So it wouldn’t exactly surprise me if the oft-used premise for a match, that two wrestlers showed up to warm up and practice in a temporarily unclaimed spot in the compound, actually happens. A lot. That’s the premise for Ring Rookies 6, when Forrest Taylor walked into the ring room, expecting to find it empty, but instead found Jack Norwood already warming up in the ring. It was Forrest’s second release from BG East, and his first time stepping foot into the ring. It was Jack’s debut, and as of this posting, his only released match. So this was, indeed, a classic ring rookies set-up.

“Excuse me! Who are you? I reserved the ring for this time,” Forrest bitches immediately. “I got here first,” Jack snaps coldly with a sneer. I like the look of Jack. He has that combination of a pristine, pretty face and a hot, meaty body that works wonders for me. He also possesses chill confidence, to the point of being downright cold. He suggests that they can settle who gets to stay in the ring room by wrestling for it. With a whopping one match already under his belt, Forrest is way cocky and quick to accept the challenge. And in the opening flurry of action, fuck, Forrest looks like he was born in a wrestling ring! He breaks a collar and elbow lockup with a sharp knee to Jack’s gut, before scooping the newbie up in a full nelson. The red-headed lumberjack swings him around in the full nelson, letting centrifugal force add brutal pressure to his hands cranking on the back of Jack’s neck. He flings the newbie into a corner and punches the living fuck out of Jack’s tightly muscle, flat abdomen. “I told you to leave when you had the chance,” Forrest snarls with an evil grin.

Regular readers know I always enjoy a hotly contested, competitive match, and that’s what Jack and Forrest deliver. They both possess a curious quality of cocky confidence bordering on ring savvy, considering they’ve reportedly not battled it out in the ring before. But they both obviously have wrestling experience behind them. Jack delivers a snap mare that absolutely no rookie has a right to. Just when Forrest is crawling up to his hands and knees, shaken hard, Jack snaps his thick thighs around the red-head’s lean waist and squeezes. Forrest refuses to submit, even while he’s struggling for air. As the “rookie” Jack starts to roll them around the ring by the body scissors, Forrest wails and writhes like a fish on a hook. He desperately tries to pry apart Jack’s crushing legs, but the rookie’s smooth, rock hard quads are like a steel padlock, going absolutely nowhere.

Both ring rookies score submissions, and they both gloat big time. Forrest lays into Jack’s meaty pecs like a terrier with a bone, ripping, stretching, punching and prying them all over the ring. “Go ahead and quit,” Forrest demands with a smirk, working to rip Jack’s head off his neck with a chinlock while punching the muscle kid’s pecs a deep cherry red, until he finally submits,”Okay, okay!!!”

“You like that,” Forrest asks, catching Jack eye fucking him as he’s flexing his sweet, petite round guns in gloating victory. “You look great,” Jack admits on his hands and knees, staring unblinkingly at Forrest’s big tartan bulge swinging in front of his face. Then he’s laughing like a supervillain after he’s delivered an uppercut to Forrest’s balls, dropping the red-headed hunk to his knees hard. Once Jack notices how fucking pissed it makes Forrest to drag him around by his hair, he does it pretty much non-stop. The red-head gives away a submission to an abdominal stretch, a century into getting his alabaster abs pummeled hot, hot red.

I like the attitudes. I like the bodies. A lot. I like the suspense of two snarling, evenly matched, fresh and ferocious fighters wringing each other out, demonstrating both their potential to dish it out and take it. We’ve seen a lot (literally) of smoking hot Forrest since then, and I, for one, am down for seeing a lot more of him (in all senses of the phrase). I think it’s surely time to see Jack’s hot, muscled bod and cocky, calculated chill back in action, too.

The winner trusses his beaten rival up in the ropes, cooing in the loser’s ear as he bears down on a lovely sleeper. “I guess we both got to use the ring,” the preening, flexing victor monologues, his eyes admiring his own hot body on display with his vanquished rival slack and helpless behind him. “But we know who the winner is.”

You’re gonna catch a beatin’, brothah!

June 8, 2023 wrestlebard1 Comment

Back in the good old days, before streaming, before DVDs, there were things called “VHS tapes.” I know for a fact some of you young’uns are a little blurry on this point in homoerotic wrestling history. One of the things we’ve given up with the awesome leaps in technology and convenience that have transformed gay wrestling over the past 30 years or so is the extra tape at the end of a standard VHS tape. BG East used to record trailers for other products, that you’d find when you reached the end of the matches that you purchased. You can find these (and more recent ones) in the Arena now, but there was something sort of magical about not knowing what you were going to find at the end of those tapes. However much tape was left, you’d get these tantalizing little clips of products you didn’t buy, but maybe now you will buy. It’s just capitalism, but I swear, sometimes I keyed off at least as much on those trailers as the matches I just bought.

That’s how Zack Coleman and Brian Barnes first came across my radar. They caught my eye in a trailer for the inaugural Tag Team Torture. And honestly, it takes a lot to grab my attention in that collection, because fuck, the other two matches on that tape are deliriously hot. But even more “fuck,” tag team partners Zack and Brian are off the charts hot! So yeah, of course I bought that. I don’t think I’ve ever reviewed that match, though, but I thought, before I do, I’d review the only other match these two stunning hotties appeared in, namely Fantasymen 17, where they wrestled against one another before teaming up.

Zack and Brian’s faces appear in the dictionary under the definition of babyfaces. They look so fresh and pretty, in different ways from one another, but each perfectly babyfaced. Brian is adorable, somehow even more adorable with a few edgy tats and his nipple rings. He’s ripped, too. His washboard abs would steal the show if it weren’t for two things. The first thing that competes with his abs is his huge, pendulous package. At least 5 pounds of his 155 lbs have got to accounted for by the heft in his pouch. There are moments when he’s wriggling and writhing and bridging high off that mat, and it’s just breathtaking!

The other thing that draws the eye away from Brian’s phenomenally ripped abs is Zack Coleman. Holy. Fuck. This boy is dazzling! If I’m introducing you to Zack in this post, first of all, you’re welcome, and second, I’m sorry to report that this superhuman specimen appeared in only these two matches (Fantasyman 17 and Tag Team Torture 1). He’s reportedly 6′ and 195 lbs, and he’s ripped… to… shreds. He’s fucking gorgeous in a way that I’m struggling to find the words to convey. More than gorgeous, he’s so sizzlingly sexy. He just watches as Brian warms up by doing amateur wrestling drills, sliding and hopping and twisting and bouncing around. And then Zack pushes himself away from the wall, fills the mat room with his gargantuan shoulders, and does a front bend in which he folds himself in half, stretching the backs of his legs like a fucking yoga master. “That’s a nice stretch,” Brian snarls, “but it doesn’t mean nothing but that you can look pretty on the mat. Anybody can be flexible.” But, fuck, no Brian. Not anyone can be that flexible, and no one with as much thickly draped muscle mass as Zack can just be that flexible!

The size difference is striking. And hot. Zack towers almost a half a foot over Brian, and I believe the 40 pounds of weight advantage that the BG East website reports. “Someday, you can grow up and be big like me,” Zack taunts, flexing his huge, peaked biceps. “My calves are bigger than your whole legs,” he brags, but it’s not really bragging when it’s objectively, verifiably, obviously fact, right? Fuck. “Weight don’t mattah,” Brian snarls at one point. Zack’s Boston accent, swallowing his ending “r’s” even thicker, makes him that much sexier when he smirks back, “You’ll grow up someday, brothah.”

The wrestling is hot and surprisingly hotly contested. Both of these hunks clearly have extensive amateur wrestling experience. They’re fast and they’re decisive, sweeping legs, locking each other down, and exposing each other’s backs to the mat. About 10 minutes into the 30 minute match, it’s astonishingly competitive, and not in a roll my eyes and suspend disbelief kind of way. Brian is aggressive as fuck, and he takes it to the big man full throttle. He gets huge Zack down on the mat several times, and it’s damn impressive. Keeping him down on the mat, though? That’s another story. Zack is just too fucking big and too fucking strong. He repeatedly uses raw muscle and brute strength to escape and reverse, repeatedly climbing into the saddle on top of little Brian. And right there, that’s the entire story of this match, because Brian is having none of it, and he fights his way free with every ounce of strength and balance and flexibility. In short, he wears himself out.

As Brian is starting to huff and puff and suck down air, Zack gets cockier. The muscle man was tested in those first 10 minutes, but he can see exactly what we’re seeing: Brian burned through his reserves and he’s cooking on fumes. It organically turns into a sensationally sexy bully session, with big, gorgeous Zack absolutely manhandling his fiesty, full throttle little challenger. Several times, he swoops in from neutral, scoops Brian up in his huge arms, and flings him wall to wall across the mat. Sometimes he bothers to follow up and pin him, sometimes not. It’s not like it matters, because he is large and in charge and laughing and sneering at the fierce fucker who refuses to say die, even when he’s just getting crushed by 195 pounds pinning him effortlessly on the mat.

There are only a couple of editing breaks in the filming, so you can feel the heat rising in the room steadily. Zack is so contemptuous of Brian’s fading strength, that he voluntarily drops to the mat in the referee’s position, unsolicited. “Because, you ain’t got no chance, othawise,” he smirks, not looking back, with his top shelf ass waiting for Brian to do something. “Come on, bitch, mount that!,” he barks in irritation when Brian doesn’t immediately respond. Fuck, the pillow talk! Brian gives it everything he’s got left, which is enough to hold Zack in place about 1.3 seconds, before the muscle man escapes, taunting and sneering and flexing his perfect physique.

Zack revels in crushing Brian’s core in scissors. “Tell me when you give, you little bitch. Look at these quads!” Zack is milking the fight right out of Brian, knowing full well how stunning his outrageously hot physique is on display at every moment. He gets the little guy to submit a couple of times trapped between his sweaty thighs, and I could watch that happen again another dozen times and still be enthralled.

Brian’s got attitude, though. After giving away one whimpering submission trapped between Zack’s tree trunks, he audaciously challenges the muscle man to arm wrestle. It would be a transparent play for a low blow, if both of these bro-y guys weren’t so fucking earnest and ego-driven. But, yeah, Brian knew he was going to get crushed in that arm wrestling match, which is why he was poised to pounce on top of Zack and take advantage of the big man’s overconfidence. He pulls on his hair. He threatens to bite him. Fuck, when he rolls the coiled mountain of muscle up in a cradle pin, yanking the fuck out of Zack’s neck, it’s a super sweet submission the small guy earns sensationally.

So, yeah, there’s a lot of big on little bullying, but the intensity doesn’t let up for a second of the 30 minutes of this match. Brian is crushed and forced to grudgingly acknowledge he does NOT have what it takes to conquer the babyfaced beefcake flexing and flicking sweat down on him by the end. “You need an ambulance,” Zack asks, laughing heartily. Flat on his back, wasted and humiliated, Brian snarls petulantly, “You’re, like, twice the size of me!” So much for “Weight doesn’t mattah.”

I assume these two showed up on BG East’s doorstep together, because they’ve got buckets of chemistry in this sweat fest mat match, and the very next catalog they showed up in matching gear as a truly stunning babyface tag team. If this is all new to you, and I’m just now introducing you to these 2-hit wonder twins, don’t thank me. Thank VHS tapes!

Cultural Humility

June 5, 2023 wrestlebardLeave a comment

I’ve had my eye on Mason Brooks from his debut in Gazebo Grapplers 15 around 10 years ago. He’s so damn pretty and he wrestles smart. I love that combination. It’s been part of the package all along, but it feels like he’s grown meaner, snarkier, and more sadistic over time. Mason has always known how clever he is, but the longer he works his craft, he gets more and more condescending. I’m not sure exactly where it happened, but at some point he definitely veered over the center line, and he’s gone from fierce, savvy competitor to full on dickish heel (said with the utmost respect and love!).

Last summer, Mason hit peak condescending asshole level when he stepped onto the mat with Lobo Gris in Gear Wars 9. Mason is sexy as fuck, as always. “You’ve got nice pecs,” Lobo says what I’ve been saying for 10 years straight about Mason. “Um, no shit,” Mason deadpans back with a bored smirk. “Tell me something I didn’t already know.” It’s cocky and clever and, frankly, objectively true. But when Mason asks newcomer Lobo where he comes from, it starts to make me uncomfortable, with that white American assumption that people of color or anyone with an accent must be “a foreigner.” However, Lobo proudly explains that he’s from Mexico. Mason stops him, to correct Lobo’s pronunciation of the name of his own country. And right there, fuck, Mason’s clever condescension wanders into full on cocky heel asshole territory.

Mason plays the snarky upperclassmen well, taking the initiative to pick out some gear choices for the new guy. “Yeah, just a couple of things that would look really good on you, when I’m stretching you out, like hanging you over my shoulders.” Lobo is clearly pissed. “Yeah, that is not going to happen, but whatever,” he snaps back. But, like a rookie, he agrees to strip naked and try on the gray singlet (Lobo Gris signature color, after all) that Mason picked out for him. Hello, Lobo’s sensationally furry, meaty ass! “How long have you been planning this,” Lobo asks as he slips on the skin tight singlet, noticing the massive pile of gear Mason has brought with him. The scheming, smirking veteran with magical nipples smirks at him. “We can try a couple of different looks on you. You know, see what looks good on you when you’re lying face down on the mat.”

That awkward clash of cultures and social power continues to make me cringe, like when Mason suggests he knows a little conversational Spanish that he’s just “picked up here and there on my weekends in Cancun.” Like, fuck. I’m a diehard Mason Brooks fan from way, way back, but even I’m really aching to see Lobo kick his gringo ass now. When they lock up by collar and elbow, Lobo explains, “that’s a Mexican hold, by the way.” Irritated at being schooled in wrestling knowledge, Mason reverts to his go-to trash talking mind games. “Are you going to show me the Mexican way to lose,” he asks with that fucking annoying smirk.

In terms of wrestling, these two are seriously competitive, which I love. We all know that Lobo Gris arrived on the doorstep of BG East as NO rookie, and he’s fast and strong and gives back every ounce of offense that Mason dishes out. And Mason is just so fucking aggressive, in that takes-no-prisoners way of his. He also gropes and strokes Lobo at every turn, which apparently wasn’t the way the Mexican hunk has planned this whole thing would play out. Mason riles him up hotter and hotter, slapping and kneading his ass, stroking his hairy torso, and squeezing his balls. When he wrenches out the first submission, Mason insists that he gets to pick out the bitter rookie’s next gear selection for the second fall. I’m not complaining with Mason’s choice to squeeze him into way too small teal briefs.

Lobo is a force of nature on the mats. Having taken the measure of his snarky, condescending opponent, he gets delightfully nasty in return. He shoves his socked feet in Mason’s face and claws Mason’s balls in revenge. The rookie locks on an expertly applied single leg crab, wrenching and twisting on the captured knee viciously. He bends Mason’s spine so far backward that he literally steps on the back of Mason’s head while he throttles his crotch. “Say it,” Lobo demands. “Say, ‘me rindo!'” Mason is sputtering and whimpering when he snarks back, “What the fuck does that mean!?” Lobo rolls his eyes, and then explains, “It means ‘I submit’ in Spanish. I thought you knew Spanish.” Turns out cocky cultural insensitivity and cultural appropriation don’t end up serving Mason all that well. When he shouts out “I give,” Lobo laughs, as he replies, “Sorry, no hablo inglés,” finally making Mason dust off his Spring Break Spanish.

The boys cycle through several more gear choices with each submission. Well, with gear choices that are, substantively, less and less really. Mason always pushes the boundaries first, like stretching Lobo out in a bow-and-arrow and massaging his heel in Lobo’s pouch. “That’s not really my thing,” Lobo gasps. Mason laughs at him, as he explains, “That doesn’t really matter, because it’s my thing, and I’m in control.” Two minutes later, when Lobo has fought his way on top of a surfboard, shoving his socked feet in Mason’s face before taunting and kicking his balls, Mason is eating a healthy helping of humble pie, maybe(?) regretting his bullying ways.

Fuck, this match is intense and does things to me that surprise me. I love Lobo. I love/hate Mason. I adore their intensity and curiously evenly matched aggressiveness. And, yeah, I have to admit, I love the ending.

Even when he makes me uncomfortable, I’m still a HUGE fan of Mason’s. I love the way he goes there, full throttle, into every match he’s in. And I’m growing more more infatuated with Lobo Gris. He’s got that same tantalizing mixture of pretty and clever that instantly grabbed me the first time I saw Mason wrestle. I look forward to seeing more of both of these fierce grapplers, in and out of any gear they’d like!

“I’ll drown you”

June 2, 2023 wrestlebard14 Comments

I was chatting with a friend recently about Scott Williams, like we all do. The conversation turned to Scott’s Matmen 15 match against the master of sweat, Bud Orton. It occurred to me that I’ve never reviewed that match, which just isn’t right. Because FUCK, that match.

Like all of Scott’s matches, it’s fucking fierce. The intensity is off the charts from the moment their bodies touch. That first scramble for position is ugly. There’s nothing choreographed or graceful. It’s all gorgeous muscles and raging egos. At 6’2, Scott towers over 5’10 Bud, but he’s suddenly looking a lot smaller when Bud is wrenching on his long neck in a side headlock, muscling Scott to the mat beneath him. “Get it in now, Bud,” Scott snarls, “before I kick your butt.” It would sound a lot more intimidating if his deep baritone voice wasn’t so muffled, with Bud’s big, smooth pec smashed against his face.

The holds are long and mean, every second and every inch its own battle in a long, hard fought war. The escapes and reversals punctuate the marathon that each and every brutal hold is. When Scott earns an escape with a nasty knee thumping hard into Bud’s back, Scott is on top of him in an instant, stretching his sensationally hot body over top of him and yanking on his neck and shoulders viciously with a full nelson. “Nice start,” Scott offers faint praise. “Now, I’ll teach you how to finish, boy.”

There are exactly three submissions in this 35-minute match, though lesser men would have given up about 10 times for every one submission that these hunks wrench out of each other. I believe there’s zero editing here. This is 35 minutes of almost non-stop ripping into each other. Honestly, they give each other less than a minute between falls, all on camera, because they are obviously completely famished and can’t stop themselves from tucking in again as soon as possible. They hold the dramatic tension even when they’re silently sneering at each other, sucking down air in those stolen moments after one stunning hunk just choked out a desperate “IgiveIgiveIgive!”

Speaking of editing, the entire match opens with a dramatic fade-in close up on Scott’s gorgeous, hairy pecs. Personally, I think every match should start that way, whether Scott is in the match or not. Bud’s impressed, too. “Nice pecs,” he offers with a sly grin, while he’s stretching Scott out in a dragon sleeper, pinching his right nipple and clawing at the hairy hunk’s meaty chest. The camera also loves documenting every ounce of sweat that comes streaming off of Bud like a fucking river! Honestly, the stud is raining down sweat like he’s storm cloud. I mean, seriously, where does someone store THAT MUCH sweat?! At one point, he’s got Scott on his back, with Scott’s face between his knees, controlling his arms and just dominating him. “I’m going to drown you,” Bud snarls, and, yeah, I buy it. It’s like a superpower. An incredibly, intensely, provocatively sexy superpower!

I cannot emphasize enough the non-stop pace of these 35 minutes. There are no pauses between escapes and resets. They’re attacking one another and digging in every fucking moment. They’re also pissing each other off, which, again, dials the intensity way, way up. Scott takes three separate attempts to set up a Boston crab, and fuck it if Bud doesn’t thwart him every time. There Scott his, Bud’s ankles locked under his armpits, the Texan’s thick legs lifted off the mat, and Bud grabs hold of Scott’s ankles and deftly refuses to be flipped to his stomach. It’s really impressive, until Scott gives him an evil grin, spreads those captured legs side, and pounds his knee into Bud’s balls. HARD. Like, fuck, I felt that just watching it.

Unlike in his match against Brad Rochelle, Scott’s lock gets picked by tenacious, glistening, slippery Bud. You know I’m taking notes, as Bud takes Scott to the edge over and over, only to be thwarted by the man of my dreams stubbornly ignoring the risk to his own body by snarling “Fuck you,” repeatedly instead of submitting. So when Bud gets that last, decisive submission, and Scott veritably sings “IgiveIgiveIgive” like it’s one word, talk about climactic! Fuck, it’s desperate and fierce and so completely earned.

Seriously, the 2 minutes of denouement, after that last climactic submission, and the boys STILL maintain the dramatic tension that keeps my heart pounding in my chest. “There’s going to be a rematch,” Scott says, because it’s not a question. “Anytime. I’ll come back,” Bud sneers at him, both of them dripping and huffing as they lean exhausted against opposite walls. “Come back,” Scott snarls, “and I’m going to kick your ass, I promise you!” Bud literally, genuinely, delightedly laughs at him. Fuck, the drama is so sensationally intense and sexy.

There’s a reason that I remain so infatuated with Scott, despite him appearing in only 4 precious, deliriously sexy published matches for BG East. What Matmen 15 does to me is exactly the reason.

The Stash

May 30, 2023 wrestlebard1 Comment

My heart always pumps just a little harder when I get to see a newbie in action. All of that potential yet to be revealed, character yet to be discovered, story yet to be written… it’s super exciting. Of course, not all newbies turn out to be full of potential. They don’t all turn into a compelling character. Sometimes, they suck, frankly. I’m not naming any names here, but I suspect I’ve tipped my hand plenty of times over 14 years worth of posts. My mission isn’t to tear down around here, though, but to celebrate and lift up what I find delightful and sexy and sensational in homoerotic wrestling. What all that in mind, I’d like celebrate a hot newbie who just debuted with BG East in Demolition 36, Evan Sterling.

Fuck, he had me at the stash. It’s fierce and in your face. Frankly, I wouldn’t mind it being in my face. Or my crotch, for that matter. But more to the point, Evan’s got style and attitude that’s instantly apparent. He’s also got a rocking hot bod with a sensational ass and what has to be my early favorite for Best Bulge of the Year. Even before Gabe Steel shows up, while Evan is warming up and stretching out on the ropes, he has to pause several times and manhandle his crotch. I have to think it’s a sign that he’s excited, as he anticipates his BG East debut against rock hard rising heel Gabe. But it also has a little of that sense of Mr. Joshua, having to interrupt his thoughts and wrangle his elephant trunk every so often, because it’s got a mind of its own.

Gabe sees what I see. Once he’s arrived and the obligatory trash talk and bicep comparisons have played out, Gabe stares straight at Evan’s jiggling pouch and shakes his head. “That’s quite a target,” he says, not really explaining himself, but no explanation is really necessary. I instantly like Evan for all of the reasons mentioned above, but also because he’s done his homework. He asks if the rumors are true that Gabe possesses balls of steel. “It’s in the name,” the sneering veteran snarls back at him. “Now, let’s see what you’ve got.”

The first thing that’s apparent, is that Evan is a punishment sponge. Like, fuck, he soaks it up in the early moments of this match. When Gabe has him on his back, holding his ankles and spreading his legs wide, Evan takes a knee to the crotch that, I swear, looks like it bounces off. “Barely felt it,” Evan snarls. Like, fuck, Gabe may not be the only one in that ring with balls of steel! Furious, Gabe dives forward, pounding his forehead into the new guy’s balls. “Felt that, though, didn’t you,” Gabe asks rhetorically, as Evan is writhing and rolling across the mat, cradling his balls.

Gabe keeps applying finishers and demanding submissions, and holy fuck, Evan keeps telling him to go fuck off. Fuck, I love that ferocity. Gabe has him locked up in super sexy standing scissors, reaches around and grabs Evan by the balls, and lifts his legs in the air by them, holding him there in this gorgeously dominating reverse inverted bearhug, still clawing away at the balls. He’s fucked five different ways in that position, but still, when Gabe demands the submission, all he gets out of Evan is another snarling “Fuck you,” with just the barest whimper of agony at the edges.

“Now I know this is the game we’re playing,” Evan snarls after landing a breathtaking knee strike to Gabe’s (not so impervious after all) balls. “What happened to those balls of steel?” The hot rookie puts an exclamation point on it by pulling his singlet straps down, flexing his hot pecs, laughing and preening like he just sealed the deal. Fuck, like I said, he’s fierce, even when he’s digging his own grave.

Every second that he runs roughshod over Gabe, Evan is going deeper and deeper into debt. Once the seasoned muscle heel, now soaked in sweat (just one of Gabe’s superpowers), climbs back into the driver’s seat, he starts collecting. Evan’s pendulous package is in Gabe’s sights most of the time. At one point, the rookie is racked across Gabe’s huge shoulders, while the heel strategically positions him to let the top ring rope choke him. That super prominent rookie bulge is a sight to behold, quivering there so audaciously at the apex of the brutal arc Gabe is making out of his spine. Gabe does squats with his newbie barbell across his shoulder. He wrings out those big, bouncing balls relentlessly. And what does Evan say in reply? “Fuck… you!!!!”

“You’ve got a mouth on you, boy,” Gabe growls at one point, part irritation, with more than a little admiration mixed in. The heel’s attention turns to Evan’s ass eventually. Again, I get it. “Damn,” Gabe says what I’m thinking. “I might have to take that ass after this match is over!” And, fuck, Evan is in no shape to make a counter offer as Gabe grinds him down farther and farther, stripping him of his singlet and wedgying those designer trunks way up the rookie’s crack. Eventually, Evan burns through that ambition and stubborn ferocity, and he’s left crying and begging like a bitch, “No more! No more!”

But if the homoerotic wrestling gods are listening, I hope they hear this prayer directly from my lips. Please, let us see more of Evan Sterling!

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