Trinkets for the Holidays

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Just a few items of “business” before I head out to wade my way through the sea of fellow procrastinators today. First, I will shortly (later today) upload a new chapter in my superheroes homoerotic wrestling fiction series over at Sidelineland.

The first chapter introduced Hank and Brett, to young hunks auditioning to achieve their lifelong dreams to become superhero crime fighters. The seconds chapter focused specifically on Brett’s introduction to the training program of the Legion of Superheroes, and his slow realization that not only are the other recruits more remarkable then they first appeared, but he too is brining more to the wrestling mat than just his stunning body, championship skills, and fierce determination.



Chapter 3 will follow Brett’s brother, Hank, as he has a somewhat harder landing into the training program. Hank’s team of recruits is lorded over by a particular nasty sadist heel by the name of Sting.



It’s a little Lord of the Flies, I freely admit, as Sting and his two henchmen, Buck and Vapor, turn teammate-bashing into a science. Hank quickly finds himself a target of Sting’s machinations, and only the team coach, Barry, holds any hope of intervening on Hank’s behalf. In the end, Hank is forced to make a difficult decision regarding who he wants at his back within this team of backstabbers. The enemy he knows, in Sting and his boys, or the unknown quantity of his coach, Barry.



I’ll also be uploading a new reader contribution by Bearhugs, who’s challenged me to write a Part 2 to his excellent Part 1.



Finally, everyone’s weighing in on the relative merits (or demerits) of Tron. So apropos of nothing, I’d just like to say that I enjoyed it, but wouldn’t exactly pull for it to win any Oscars. And Zuse was “supposed” to be gay?! Perhaps there’s a critique there to be made of gender and gender stereotypes, but honestly, I did not see him as a “gay” character in the least, much less someone posing a cautionary morality tale about sexuality of any sort. Much ado about nothing, as far as I’m concerned. Enjoyed the movie. Think Michael Sheen is a genius of an artist. Will likely own it and happily watch it repeatedly to make myself feel more hopeful about things like net neutrality and Wikileaks (fight the power!).

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This morning I watched the live broadcast of the presidential signing of the repeal of “Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell,” the U.S. military policy that has insisted that military personnel remain closeted about their sexual orientation (if they’re gay, of course). The ceremony this morning gave me chills and brought a tear to my eye. Integrating the military was a major precursor to mainstreaming civil rights discourse and laying the foundation for civil rights legislation with regard to race in this country more than 60 years ago. It was hard to argue that our citizens should fight and die  in the trenches of war, side by side regardless of race, but then return home to legalized discrimination and inequality. Perhaps, hopefully, the same mechanisms will operate with the dismantling of “Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell.”



As is my way, I feel like pushing the rock uphill just a little on this historic moment. I bought it, of course: the argument that the repeal of “Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell” is a seminal and necessary achievement in the unfolding of full citizenship for gays. But I’m not exactly thrilled with what we’re left with now that “the battle” is basically over. Because what we’re left with isn’t a metaphorical battle for votes in Washington, but a literal battle, or more precisely, a raging war in one country and an ongoing occupation in another.



I find myself on the radical fringe of gay debates frequently. I’m entirely unconvinced that obtaining “equal marriage rights,” for example, is a step forward for gays or for society. Personally, I advocate for the government to get out of the marriage business entirely.  Consistently, I think that we, “the gays,” too easily buy into the arguments that things will be better when we get what the straights now have. If what the straights now have is broken and carcinogenic, why should we be so desperate to worm our way into a share of that legacy?



In this day and age, it’s even more politically incorrect to bash the military than I’m willing to be (and that’s saying a lot!). I honestly do have deep respect for the military and the function is serves in stabilizing civilian law and order and international peace. But I find it cold comfort that gays and lesbians will soon transition from dying in Iraq and Afghanistan while closeted, to dying in Afghanistan (and still, potentially, Iraq) while openly gay. I’m glad that so many servicemen and women feel that serving openly in the military permits them dignity and wholeness. From my perspective, though, I think we would show much more dignity toward all our military if we used them only as a last resort, and if we didn’t rely on them to achieve with bullets and bombs what only the elimination of abject poverty and disenfranchisement could ever legitimately achieve.

I’m eager for the day when we critique our arrogant, bullying approach to the use of military force all together. I think the queerest thing we could do would be to demand that any war worth invading another country (or two) over should be a war that demands a draft of the populace and a full mobilization of our wartime economy. Anything less, anything more palatable and politically expedient, just cheapens the lives of the soldiers and airmen and seamen who face down the guns and bombs that we act so astonished to discover when we’ve invaded another nation. If it’s not worth mobilizing our whole nation over, then it shouldn’t be worth the lives of our standing military force, gay or straight, either.

I’m eager for the day when the gay and straight soldiers in our standing military have nothing to do but sit at home and guard the borders, clean their weapons, and remain at the ready for a day that will never come because we’ve gone truly revolutionary and waged peace with the ferocity and determination with which we wage war today.

I’m eager for the day when the only combat our boys in uniform see is wrestling with their buddies. If fatigues should be forcibly stripped in the process, so be it. If underwear should be ripped to shreds as they continue to battle naked, the pseudo-pacifist that I am, I could still live with that amount of violence in the world. If losers should be required to suck cock, I could probably cope, and frankly, truth be told, the world would be a better place for absolutely everyone if that’s the amount of mischief required of our military might.

So, thanks, elected officials, for repealing “Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell.” You are truly brave and prophetic leaders to tackle this thorny, politically volatile subject. Now, how about doing something about alleviating misery, squalor, famine, oppression, racism, and the many other sources of suffering in the world that continue to feed the fires of extremism and bloodshed and “justify” the presence of our military around the globe? Bring our boys (especially the gay boys) home, give them absolutely nothing to fight about, and let them work out their aggression with some hot and sweaty homoerotic wrestling. Trust me. We’ll all be better off.

Re-Filling the Queue

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I’ve been SOOO pleased to be writing wrestling fiction again with more success in getting complete stories on the page! I expect to have at least a couple of new matches posted in the next couple of weeks, the way things are going. This has also coincided with a lot of new readers signing up at the Producer’s Ring and Sidelineland. As another public service announcement you’ve probably read already, Producer’s Ring is a site that represents an ongoing series of celebrity wrestling matches/fights in an apocalyptic version of the world that I dreamed up where capitalism has overthrown democracy, consumerism rules the world, and homoeroticism and wrestling kink are the currency of world power. Sidelineland is a sister-site to Producer’s Ring where I post my own wrestling fiction unrelated to the world of the Producer’s Ring, and where I try to drum up more of you to contribute your own original works of wrestling fiction (happily, with more and more success!). And just a reminder that the most effective way to access the sites and participate in discussions of story ideas and feedback is to sign up at the Producer’s Ring group and the Sidelineland group (the “sign up” process is just to weed out lurking haters).



Along the lines of my wrestling fiction, superherofan has posted some new caps of Gerard Butler from The Bounty Hunter. These are reminding me of one of my fondest storylines from the Producer’s Ring. As the story has unfolded, Gerard Butler challenged Sean Maguire to a grudge match in the Seattle bathhouse wrestling venue known as “The Focus Group.” Not to spoil things too much for those of you who haven’t read it, but suffice it to say that Sean’s smartass mouth comes in very handy in subduing the raging Scot, physically and sexually dominating him, and transforming him into Sean’s very own adoring, submissive cub (be careful what you wish for, Gerard!).

Not long afterward, Sean and Gerard maneuver behind the scenes with the brokers of power in the Producer’s Ring for a team challenge match against Jonathan Rhys Meyers and his own submissive boytoy co-star, Henry Cavill (backstory there, as well). By the end of the challenge match, Henry has been “stolen” from Jonathan, and from the looks of things, he’s not so unhappy about joining the new pack.



With this new inspiration of big-n-beefy Gerard dropped in my lap (now that’s an image that I need to linger on), and with recently clearing my queue of wrestling fiction projects, I’m feeling a hankering to see daddy Sean with his cubs in tow, mixing it up again with some new celebrity hunks. Perhaps a three-on match, or Henry and Gerard teaming up with Sean at ringside “coaching” his boys, or even Gerard in singles again. One way or another, though, I’ve got my sights set on a beefy Scotsman showing up in a wrestling fantasy soon!

Texas Beef

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I’m not the sort of histrionic character that runs around pointing fingers and calling people liars. But I’ve got my finger pointed decisively at the boys at BG East at this very moment, and I’m calling them liars, because there’s just no way in God’s green earth that Duncan Thomas from Boston to Austin 2 measured in at 5’8″ and 162 pounds. They’ve listed his opponent, Jay Grady, at a much more likely 5’10” and 180 pounds, and seeing these two boys face-off illustrates the undeniable fact that Thomas was notably taller (not by a little) and almost certainly heavier (100% of it hard, striated, sliced to shreds muscle).



I remember seeing this match hit the website as a new release 9 years ago. Picking up my recent theme of the relative allure of “pretty,” I readily admit that it was Duncan’s tanned, toned classically gorgeous body and pretty-boy handsome face that caught my eye. Anachronistically, I’d say he’s got a distinctly Henry Cavill look about him. I don’t remember, however, why I didn’t snap up Boston to Austin 2 that very moment. Perhaps I was paralyzed by the devastating beauty in Fantasymen 22, which was released at the same time (damn, that is one stunning collection of muscle men!). In any case, Duncan Thomas made a big impression, but I didn’t actually see him in action…



…until BGE posted his match as a video-on-demand in the Arena last week. I was like a cat watching a piece of string being dangled before my eyes. I was mesmerized, helpless to stop myself. I clicked “buy,” and then hunkered down to compare what I imagined this match to be with the reality.

I was delighted to discover that Duncan is no delicate pretty boy poser. He’s pretty, sure. But somehow, I couldn’t imagine calling him “pretty” to his face. As soon as he opens his mouth and that deep base voice with a rope-’em ‘n tag-’em Texas twang comes snarling out, “pretty” just falls off the table. He’s a cocky, supremely confident, strutting son-of-a-bitch from the Lone Star state with the swagger to suggest that all those eye-catching muscles serve some purpose other than being adored. When Jay walks in and Duncan flips into a rock solid handstand Capoeira-style strike pose, the message is crystal clear: this is not some go-go boy just yanked off the dance floor.



Duncan physically dominates in a way that drives home my point that someone’s measuring tape and scale were badly mis-calibrated when they sized him up at 5’8″ and 160 pounds. No doubt about it, Jay is a hot little scrapper who seems to genuinely delight in the prospect of turning this into a hunk bash. But Duncan throws his weight around and muscles the high-n-tight brawler into one compromised position after another. Nine times out ten, Duncan simply snaps his massive arms around Jay’s head and parades him around the mat, threatening to snap body parts off at will. In fact, for his flashy start, I’m a little disappointed to see no more creative fare from the tanned adonis. I get the impression of a martial artist just barely restraining himself from landing a roundhouse kick to his opponent’s face, so perhaps it’s the format of the mat battle that makes Duncan appear a little less than innovative throughout most of the match.




But the final fall in the best of 5 finally shows what all those highly coordinated, heavily trained muscles can offer. Systematically picking apart his opponent, Duncan unleashes slams, scissors and a final, decisive choke that reminds me, once again, that I wouldn’t dare call this hunk “pretty” to his face.



But what makes this match completely worth being the impulse purchase it was, is Duncan’s smart-ass mouth. I’m not a fan of overly misogynistic themes in my wrestling, but there’s something deeply arousing when Duncan looks like he’s about to rip Jay’s head off, and he snarls, “I can break your neck, or you can slap out like the little girl you are.” In that deep-chested Texas drawl, Duncan’s threat is completely believable, as illustrated by the fact that Jay almost instantly gasps out a desperate submission, proving Duncan’s point. With some hot verbal taunting that brings to my mind the opening salvo by Rusty Stevens upon facing off with Mitch Colby, Duncan paces around Jay after the submission, explaining, “I’ll give you some time for some beauty sleep. You need it.” If that line came from some muscle jobber, it would be such an eye-rolling cliche’. From this aggressive, confident Southern stud, though, it’s fantastic psychological domination. He can kick Jay’s military ass, humiliate him by questioning his masculinity, and then remind him that Duncan is heads and tails more beautiful to look at, to boot. Holy hell!



Best line of the match, hands down, has to be when they’re about to lock up after another submission, and Duncan spits out, “You wrestle like my sister…. that bitch!” Again, you have to superimpose a deep Texas drawl on this text, and then sit back and delight in the take-no-prisoners, smarter than your average bear banter that rolls off of Duncan’s tongue like a seasoned pro. In the end, Duncan kicks Jay when he’s down, and then tops him off with an inverted reverse bearhug into a skull rattling piledriver, delivering a COMPLETELY gratuitous splash while Jay is still clutching his throbbing skull defenselessly.



And see, I’ve made it to the end of this post without even mentioning his stunningly sculpted legs, fantastically asymmetrical pec development (an archer?), and his gorgeously shapely athletic ass and slice of Texas beef hanging from his crotch filling those unbelievably tight trunks to capacity! That’s got to prove it: this Texas one-hit-wonder is absolutely not just about “the pretty.”



P.S. If one of the BG East boys gets sent to my house to beat my ass for calling them liars, can I put in a request for it to be Denny Cartier? In his white trunks with blue piping? With his overnight bag?

Holiday Spirit

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Is it the holiday spirit? Whatever it is, suddenly I have an abundance of wrestling fiction to post. This past week Bearhugs and I finished off a short story over at Sidelineland featuring four hunks, a playroom, and plenty of morally questionable wrestling-sex play. In light of my comments on simulated rape in gay porn last Friday, this particular piece of fiction may seem a little… inconsistent. The less charitable among us might even call it hypocritical. I remind you of a point I’ve made consistently and repeatedly throughout the year and a half that I’ve been building neverland: I see no moral virtue in consistency, and I happily and regretlessly permit myself to contradict myself at will… and I copyright the word “regretlessly.”



Next up, from out of the blue, robeboy dropped in my lap his write up of a sweetly sexy boxing match between pro-football heart throbs, Brady Quinn and Tim Tebow. I mentioned over at the discussion list for Sidelineland that this story takes me by surprise. I don’t follow football, and boxing seems somehow… demure to me. Yet, robeboy’s set up and description of the fight are a complete turn on for me. This is another reminder that reading other people’s fight/wrestling fiction is invariably a major turn on for me. I’m hoping for more generosity from the imaginations over at Sidelineland.



Yesterday, I managed to post, at long last, the Werewolf Rumble. I started working on that project forever ago. I received a lot of encouragement, prodding, and poking to get it done. Most of the anticipation seemed to come from those looking to see Taylor Lautner’s debut in the Producer’s Ring. Coming in a close second in the pre-match hype, Joe Manganiello’s Producer’s Ring debut also had several readers holding their breaths. As I mentioned on the Producer’s Ring discussion list, I actually find beautiful Britboy Russell Tovey probably the most motivating character for me in this threesome. With so many competing interests, I suspect that the match was doomed to disappoint many from the start (since one can never please everyone). Still, finally wrapping up the match and polishing it off, the Werewolf Rumble managed to sort itself (and me) out just fine for my own tastes. Two submissions and one decisive victor claiming the spoils of battle equals a happy Bard.



So I’m already halfway through another collaboration in the BGE Fantasy genre, and as soon as I’m done with that piece, I think I’ve got the missing piece of the plot that’s been holding up my chapter 3 in the superheroes saga over at Sidelineland. I also finally found my visual inspiration for a key character I want to write up for chapter 3, modeled on the stunning beauty of Jay Byars. Lot’s of juices are flowing, including the creative ones, and I for one am eagerly anticipating a happily erotic SolsticeChristmasKwanzaHappyNewYear! Here’s hoping the same for you!

Brutal Critique

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My copy of the much-anticipated (at least by two people I know) new release from Raging Stallions, Brutal, arrived several weeks ago. There are so many quite excellent ingredients going into this recipe. My #1 favorite homoerotic wrestling pornboy, Rusty Stevens AND his #1 contender, working hard to chomp at Rusty’s ass and climb on top of the rankings, Trent Diesel (also reigning homoerotic wrestler of the month), are both star players in Brutal. Additional Naked Kombat alums who’ve tickled my fancy also show up, including Brenn Wyson, Tommy Defendi, Spencer Reed, Phenix Saint and Race Cooper. The story centers on a gym where fierce, hot hunks are in high stakes training to compete for glory in the world of competitive MMA.  The fight and the fuck go back and forth, twisting and turning in on each other in flights of fantasy and more literal interpretations. In other words, Brutal is front-loaded to tweak my kink and keep me aroused and dehydrated for days.



I don’t regret my purchase of Brutal at all. I must say, however, that the recipe doesn’t bake up quite as tastily as I’d hoped. As I feared, the actual combat element is shortchanged for my tastes. The climactic championship competition scene between Rusty and gorgeous golden boy, Angelo Marconi, is far too brief and stylized. This seems like such a waste, considering we know how fiercely and skillfully Rusty can grapple. Given the opportunity, he can work his ass off, quite convincingly beating the ass of just about every opponent he’s faced. Devoting a couple of minutes to Rusty and Angelo in the ring with mostly close-ups of grunts and grimaces disappoints me. On the other hand, I did find the setting highly erotic, with a crowd of hunks cheering on the battlers ringside, heightening the intensity and sense of the stakes. I’d pay for that vantage point at a Rusty Stevens competition (any day…).



I’m also a little mixed on the genre, frankly. By my count, there are 2 (or so) brief scenes of grappling-sparring, 4 scenes of grappling-turns-fucking, and 1 scene of straight-up competition-storyline ring combat. All of that is really what I signed up for. But I’m not as keen on some of the classic porn scenarios that also pop up, including 3 rape scenes and a public bathroom pick up at the urinal (seriously? Rusty needs to visit the public toilet to catch a trick?). I’m probably just a prude, but where I find a loser-gets-fucked competition fantastically erotic, a simulated violent assault-turned rape does nothing to stir my loins. Now, if the scene of Angelo getting raped in the shower by Phenix and Brandon Bangs (can we get anymore literal of a name?) were consensual, it still wouldn’t be wrestling kink in my book, but it would’ve been a thousand times hotter. To put one’s ass on the line in combat is fantastically erotic. To get beaten and raped non-consensually doesn’t quite do it for me. This is particularly a shame because all the moving parts in all three rape scenes speak directly to my cock: Trent (holy hell, looking hot) doubled by Jason Adonis (!?) and Spencer Reed; Draven Torres getting worked over by his astonishingly gorgeous prick boyfriend, hairy beast Alexsander Freitas; and Angel0 getting consecutively doubled by Phenix and Brandon. So much potential left on the table is just a shame.



I have to suspect that Tony Dimarco, who directed Brutal, was not the  director of the photoshoot for the promotional shots for Brutal. I say this, because the promo pics tell an undeniably different story than the flick itself (caveat emptor). And if the flick told the story that’s in the promo pics, I have to think I’d be writing an entirely different review. For example, hairy beast Alexsander never actually “wrestles” with Draven. If these two had an actual jockstrap wrestling scene in the gym with Alexsander slapping on a cobra clutch, Brutal would be significantly improved.



Same goes for the tragically untapped potential captured in the posed promotional pic of Rusty mounting Angelo in the ring, with Angelo’s ankles laced together behind Rusty’s back, Rusty’s tongue down his thraot, and Angelo pinned. This scene isn’t quite from the movie, but in one captured still, it tells a story a hundred times hotter than the miserably brief combat scene between these two gorgeous hunks on film.



Porn is all about imagination, though, isn’t it? And happily for me, I have a very active one. I can rewrite the script in my head to pit Angelo, Phenix and Brandon in a consensual three way rumble (preferably in the ring), with the stakes being that the first man to submit sexually submits to the domination and humiliation of the other two. Suddenly, some replayed snippets of Phenix capturing Angelo in an armbar while surprisingly hot slice of white bread, Brandon, plows Angelo’s absolutely perfect ass from behind… and things are firing on all cylinders for me. In any case, if you’ve been tempted to take a bite out of Brutal to fuel your wrestling kink, be forewarned. It’s a mixed bag, and if you’re like me, the product may take you only halfway down the path, requiring your imagination to drive you the rest of the way home. But if you’re like me, you can probably still manage to be pleased with the purchase of Brutal.

Authenticity

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Recently, I’ve been feeding my growing infatuation with BG East wrestler Denny Cartier. I just saw Denny’s Mat Hunks 8 match against classic, classic (way classic) BG East veteran Mikey Vee from last spring. Because I love a through-story, I was delighted to discover that this match picks up immediately following Denny’s highly entertaining tussle of age/experience vs. youth/beauty, when he lowered the hammer on another very classic veteran, Chris Bruce in Backyard Brawls 6. 


Denny’s match with Mikey is absolutely awesome. No hedging on my part here. It was completely wrestling-kink satisfying. And no hedging on Denny or Mikey’s part, either. This is the highest quality of wrestling I’ve seen from two opponents in the same match for a long time. Somehow I don’t remember Mikey being quite the shoot expert that he clearly is in his schooling of Denny. They both work up a quick, hot sweat. Like two chess masters, they bring much more than just brawn to the mats (though I’m a major fan of all the brawn on display here).

Mikey is bound and determined to smack the young pup down in retribution for his humiliation of Mikey’s peer, Chris. With sweat pouring off of him in streams, Denny looks astonishingly sexy as Mikey puts him out cold on his feet. This is fantastic, hard, hot, technical, powerful wrestling that builds into commanding domination and humiliation: lesson learned.

And now I’m watching over and over Denny’s newest release taming the rookie Attila Dynasty (have I mentioned how much I love that name?). Attila looks like a gymnast who’s recently tackled combat sport. He has astonishing balance and body awareness, and he’s got the build of a muscle twink pornstar. This match isn’t as technical or ferocious as Denny’s fight with Mikey Vee, but Atilla has a surprisingly deep arsenal for a rosie cheeked rookie. Personally, I think he’s got the asset portfolio to be successful with BGE, perhaps as a pretty boy sadist (maybe it’s the name).

But it’s Denny who particularly gets me all hot and bothered in this match. When the board shorts are still on (should be a law against that), the thought occurs to me that next time I’m in an actual fight, I want Denny at my back. He’s awesomely intense and powerful, and he fights both hard and smart. Every angle, every shift in his center of gravity is calculated to be ready to spring. And when the board shorts come off, Denny in relatively demure mid-rise briefs just screams SEX at me. His pale, hairy legs wrapped around Atilla, making the rookie squirm, have an authenticity that I know I’ve mentioned before.  Not only would I want him at my back in a fight, I could imagine him as one of my (above average, devastatingly handsome, cool as ice) hunky friends ready to watch my back. He’s somehow knowable, relatable, in a way that most of my homoerotic wrestling fantasymen obsessions are just pure fantasy.

Denny’s rookie-taming of Attila speaks particularly to the wrestling kinked among us, not just those in search of hot bods in underwear. There is that, too, of course, but if you’re into the erotic pleasure of witnessing wrestling skill, fierce determination and stamina, culminating in one man undeniably bested by another, this (and all of Denny’s matches) is a cut above your average homoerotic wrestling fare.


At this rate, I could imagine Denny mounting a surprise attack on Lon Dumont to climb upward in my favorite non-pornboy homoerotic wrestling ranks. Now THAT’S a match that I’d have to take time off of work for.

Blindingly Pretty

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5’11” tall. 170 pounds of fit, lean muscle. A sweat-soaked mop of blond hair. Blue eyes. Pouty lips. A mouthful of bright, white teeth. Some smart-ass (you know I love you, topher) commented recently that I’m not-so-secretly all about pretty boys. I still say that’s not entirely true. But I must admit, Rock Hard Wrestling’s Travis Storm is just so blindingly pretty that I’m helpless to resist him. So I don’t try.



Santa came through a little early, plucking from my Christmas wish list the desire to see a little more white bread Southern charm back in the RHW ring. Like a shiny present tied up with a bow, Travis arrives in RHW’s latest release, taking on the imposing figure of Max Powers (okay, I hate that name). And just in keeping with my last post, I’m happy to report that Travis fills up the front of his supertight shorts nicely.



This was my second tasty feast with Travis as my main course, but this was my first glimpse of Max. From his pics and description, I expected to see a big baddie at play. He’s got the look of a classic pro heel, I think, with his stubble helmet and powerful build. He just looks like he’s someone who takes no shit, somewhat impatient to beat down the next chump in his way, someone who’s typically packing more than enough to crush his opponent, but quick to resent the need to break a sweat. And indeed, Max proves almost immediately that he’s a kick-em-while-their-down sort of punk.



Nice trash talk from both boys. Both boys are adjusting their crotches a lot, which is always nice to see in otherwise straight-up fare. It has to be said, though, that Travis is working precisely twice as hard as Max in selling these 19 minutes.  The hit I get is that Travis actually has some amateur wrestling cred (his bio claims as much), with an accompanying nice sense of balance and awareness of his own body, whereas this is pretty new to Max (I peg him for a high school football hero). As a result, Travis sets the pace, pulls off what finesse there is, sells all sides of the story for both of them, and totally earns the drops of sweat beading off his chin by the end of the final fall.

A few highlights that make me feel just fine about being a little lighter in the wallet include several moments in which Travis is almost literally spinning circles over Max, with the palm of his hand squeezing Max’s mighty glutes. The over-the-knee backbreaker to finish round 2 places Travis on delightful display (he gives up way too quickly, though). Travis repeatedly lifted off his feet in multiple fall 3 bearhugs is just all sorts of enjoyable. But I think my favorite, ever-so-brief moment is when Travis has just worked the shit out of Max, illustrating that he can own his ass at any moment. Max is flat on his stomach, not sure which end is up. Travis is taking half a second to catch his breath, straddling the big boy’s back. And he smashes Max’s face into the canvas by holding him down by the back of the neck. It’s a hot, dominating, just-how-will-I-crush-you-next sort of moment that tweaks my kink and makes me come up for air.

Coming up on the anniversary of RHW’s launch, I feel the need to point out that they’re still working out their own kinks (of a different sort than mine). That is, they’re still working with how to make the most of the astounding high definition quality of their visuals in light of the fact that they’ve got wrestlers often ham-handedly pulling punches. This time around, they’ve got some odd visual post-production edits, with body blows apparently intended to be accentuated by quick cuts or a shaking, “pulsing” camera shot. It’s not as distracting to me as their previous over-reliance on off camera sound effects to make body blows seem louder, but it’s still not nearly as high quality of wrestling production as it is high quality video production. My suggestion (no one asked… just offering…) is just rely less on strikes to tell your story. Particularly now that they’re in a ring where the boys can really lift and slam one another, I think they can sell that sort of high impact move in place of so many stage-strikes, and then pour on more long-held, really hard selling squeezes, claws and scissors (all those luscious pecs and not a claw in sight!? There oughta be a law…). I’d personally sign over a paycheck to experience Travis’ sweaty thighs wrapped around me, so let the boy crush some internal organs and really milk the muscleboys with those long, strong legs!

One way or another, keep this boy coming back for more!

The School Bus has Landed

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Careful readers will have detected that I’ve been ass-obsessed for quite a while now. Typically, I tend to fixate on eroticized body parts on a rotation scheme. But I’ve been crazy for hard, round glutes over all else lately. 




But I think it’s the sight of my new #1 favorite non-pornboy homoerotic wrestler, Mr. Joshua, and his package getting jostled about a bit in Matmen 21 that’s turned my tastes to cock lately. You know what a big fan I am of the erotic imagination, of course, but I’ve been getting some extra thrill recently from the boys that leave little to the imagination. Take, for example, body beautiful sadist heel, Max Dare, wrestling in oil and a mesh thong in Paradise 1.


Conventional clothing for men seems to be devoted to promoting the illusion that guys have nothing swinging between their legs. I don’t know if this is an expression of the emasculation of the “civilized” male in an effort to defuse violent competition and promote more complex forms of cooperative community, but the tight, flat front trouser seems the exact opposite of the beautifully aroused phallus encased in bulging wrestling gear. Derek da Silva’s gorgeous tool at full staff in his decimation at the hands of Kid Vicious is a case in point. To try to disguise that slab of beef, to tuck it or camouflage it in the interest of making it appear inconsequential, would be a crime against nature.

We haven’t seen buzz cut boy Joe Driver in a long time, but any conversation about a prominent wrestling cock should mention the image of his stuffed trunks. He was a lean, mean wrestling machine, perhaps a little too lean yet not mean enough for my tastes most days. But that massive bulge was absolutely hypnotizing!

The pic of Joe’s crotch straining at the seams of his trunks as he bridges high with his head trapped between the thighs of Cole Cassidy is simply art. This should be slapped in a gilt frame and set hanging in a museum. It also arouses in me a recurring fantasy of my lover in a wrestling match, trapping, stretching, and exposing his hunky opponent vulnerably and humiliatingly, and me climbing in the ring to capitalize on the capture of my lover’s prey.



Lance Jeffers is another name that I think simply has to be included in any discussion of astounding appearances by cock in a wrestling match. In his case, Lance’s truly astonishing cock probably diverts too much attention away from his impressive wrestling skills. He was an impressive, scrappy, savvy wrestler who deserves to be admired for that… but then there was that monster cock! Watching that python grow in his trunks was like it’s own Mutual of Omaha’s Wild Kingdom episode. Lance’s throbbing, bobbing, incredibly long and beautiful beast was x-rated well before his trunks ever came off. I’ve only seen preview teasers for Wrestleshack 6, but that’s been enough to sear into my memory the incredible image of Shon Tracy punching Lance’s school bus like a heavy bag.



Perhaps the most inspired incorporation of a monster cock in a wrestling match, in my book, was in X-Fights 15 (you’ll have to ask for it by name if you want to order it). DW and Doug Perry face off in one of the most balanced combinations of erotic and wrestling that I’ve ever seen. Doug Perry’s crotch is simply mind-boggling before it ever gets pulled out of his trunks. I confess to having thought, “Surely that can’t be real.” Then DW slips Doug’s meat free of his trunks, and my jaw falls open. “Holy shit… it’s real!” But the most priceless moment is when DW has Doug in an over-the-knee backbreaker, naked and fully erect. Doug’s monster is flopping around as he squirms in pain in this torture hold. And then DW grabs hold of it, strokes and massages it for a while, lulling Doug into stillness. Then shockingly and abruptly, DW pulls upward on Doug’s massive cock at the same time he slips his leg out from underneath of him, slamming Doug to the mat and never losing his grip for an instant on the raging python. It makes me gasp every time I watch it.

I’m sure there are many more that I’ve unfairly left unmentioned. The pretty boy stretch Armstrong-looking Jordan, for example, seemed like he had to lean backward just a little to compensate for the inordinate weight he was carrying in the front of his trunks. It’s also an iron clad truism that it doesn’t have to be huge to be stunningly beautiful, at least as far as I’m concerned. But at the moment, all credit and obsessive homoerotic wrestling thoughts of mine are heaped upon the boys with ample quantity as well as quality. 

Gods and Men

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Clearly the PR machine is working overtime to get us all hot and bothered in anticipation of the movie release of Thor.


Mission accomplished. I’ve been skeptical of the casting of doe-eyed Aussie, Chris Hemsworth, as the Norse god of war. First of all, Chris hasn’t really had the physique of a godly superhero. That appears to have changed.

Holy hell. Chris has clearly taken his preparation for this role seriously. I confess that I doubted his potential to bulk up this much and stay ripped. I’m thrilled to be proven wrong. Chris has taken a couple nasty, humiliating beatings in the fictional wrestling matches that play through my imagination. If he steps back into that world, I think he’ll be bringing some impressive new artillery to the game.



The new teasers promoting plenty of Chris’ blond, beautiful bod seem to me to be squarely aimed at those of us looking for burly, aggressive, muscle eye candy. I know of at least one Swede who took exception to the casting of the Aussie for a Norse god, leading to the fictional wrestling match between Alexander Skarsgård and Chris in which Chris is handed his sweet ass and fireman’s-carried out the door. I have to wonder what the children of Odin think about the new teaser, and I can’t help but speculate about what a rematch might look like, with Chris’ new divine physique fully realized. In my imagination, Alexander is a nasty, brutal, take-no-prisoners sadist who hasn’t met an opponent he can’t crush to tears. A rematch with new and improved Chris seems ripe with possibilities to test the Swede like he’s never been tested before.



I predict that hair will come in handy, however it turns out.