I Need a Hero

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I’ve promised a friend to do some writing for him this weekend, with a firm deadline. So I’ll keep my blog posts short (and hopefully sweet) in the mean time.

This shot published by EW is making the rounds, showing what’s underneath all the CGI of the upcoming Captain America movie starring porn-ready Chris Evans. This image is deeply stirring me. Chris has already starred in a wrestling fantasy of mine, and looking smoother and huger (is that a word?… like that’s ever stopped me…) than ever, Captain Chris’ body today is making my head explode. Can’t you just imagine those pecs flexing, squeezing hard with some unfortunate hunk’s head wrapped up in Chris’ side headlock (screaming)?

He’s just begging for a return trip to the Producer’s Ring, I tell you. In a life-imitating-art-imitating-life moment, I’m thrilled to see the unbelievably hard, hot, walking-sex male body being capitalized to its fullest. The days of someone like Michael Keaton being packaged as a hardbody superhero already seem quaint. I think Captain Chris is raising the bar for Hollywood, and I for one am ready to join the throngs demanding more obscenely gorgeous, muscleboy stars getting ripped to shreds and showing off their physiques generously. Inch by inch, this world is looking more and more like my own post-apocalyptic vision of the day when homoeroticism rules the world.

This is also making me ache for some superhero homoerotic fantasy, pushing the third chapter of my superhero series higher on the docket. Damn, so many fantasies, so little time.

A Disturbing Glimpse

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Snapper sent me a link to “BattleBang.” This is one of those perplexing glimpses into heterosexual porn… I guess… that oddly attracts me and repulses me at the same time (or in rapid succession… I’ll explain…).

Apparently, BattleBang pits two male porn stars against one another in a cage fight. The winner is rewarded with sex with the pretty woman, and the loser is punished by suffering humiliating domination by an overweight dominatrix.

As Snapper put it, “Now, who is this supposed to be marketed to?” I know that straight guys watch cage fighting, but as foreplay? Really?
The action looks sincere, though tap outs seem to come in rapid succession. Some of the boys look quite hot, which again makes me wonder about what straight guys are looking for in their porn. Setting aside the sex with women, this could just about tweak my kink. But the story just puts me off. The motivation (winner fucks the “hot chick,” loser suffers at the hands of an unattractive dominatrix) is just too aversive for me. This seems like a lose-lose scenario, and the less I have to see or ponder straight sex of any kind, the happier and healthier I am.
Perhaps the bi guys among us can get into this more than I can. More power to you. I think NakedKombat is writing our version of this concept, with better action and a more intrinsically motivated payoff that doesn’t include “poontang” (seriously, someone is still using that term?). It does highlight for me the importance of the narrative in my erotic imagination. The context, the story can make a wrestling match sizzling hot for me. See Joe for some extremely hot story concepts that can turn me on before I even know who is starring in them. And, as BattleBang illustrates, some of the same elements that rev my engine, transported into a different narrative and heading in an entirely different direction, takes something potentially hot and douses it with ice water. I can think of much more entertaining scenarios for some of these pics than the bizarre truth. And in my scenarios, those baggy shorts don’t last long at all in the fight.

Deserving It

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There’s a fascinating aspect to pro wrestling and, of more interest to me, the homoerotic wrestling genre, that focuses on the rules of engagement. Behavior that would be condemned outside the ring as anti-social, underhanded, or despicable can be transformed in a wrestling fantasy into it’s own brand of moral rightness. New rules apply inside the wrestling ring. As a result, we may (often) find ourselves rooting for the heel, cheering for the low blow, delighting in a battler taking sadistic advantage of a vulnerable and defeated opponent.
When Jeff Phoenix gets stood up by his tag partner, the golden boy with a crazy hot body cockily predicts that he can defeat both Jose and Cruze singlehandedly. Of course, Jose and Cruze are notorious cheaters. They’re bullies, sadists with credentials as long as their fight records, invariably happy to cut corners, pull trunks, torture opponents in the ropes, and revel in a completely unfair 2-on-1 mugging. And, frankly, from the moment handsome hardbody Jeff steps into the ring, I can’t wait to see him suffer.  He “deserves it” inside the ring in a way that doesn’t necessarily translate outside the ring. He’s too hot, too handsome, way too confident, and the only right thing to be done is for him to get beaten to a pulp, humiliated repeatedly, broken into a quivering mess in the middle of the ring, and left to pick up the pieces of his dignity. Outside the ring, a 2-on-1 cheating, humiliating beating of a hard working muscle man might seem “wrong,” but inside the ring, it’s ooooh-so-right.

If ever someone deserved it, Troy Baker did. I happily own his debut match for BG East, in which he teamed up with his brother. Troy’s character took a little while to develop, but even in that first match, we can see the seeds of his destruction. He’s beautiful. He’s stunningly built. He’s a little slow in piecing together some wrestling moves, but he’s supremely confident that his sheer strength and bright, white smile will earn him victory. In match after match, his self-love of his own beautiful body becomes his undoing, and there’s just nothing “righter” than watching him think that he’s got it in the bag, only to find himself suffering and destroyed at the hands of an “inferior” opponent.

Inside the ring, that’s the formula that demands brutal, humiliating destruction of the classic golden boy. Inside the ring, justice simply requires that a less stunningly developed, less beautiful, perhaps less “deserving” of victory heel beat the living shit out of Troy again, and again, and again. Outside the ring, good looks, blond hair, a hard, tight body, and a healthy dose of entitlement and confidence will generally be very well rewarded. Inside the ring, they require crushing defeat and prolonged humiliation.

I think the morality tales of straight-up pro probably work the same way, but I think homoerotically directed wrestling has an even more salient subtext. Someone like muscle-beautiful Zack Johnathan/Vazquez getting completely taken to school by “skinny” kid Brody Hancock, for example, lets me work out all sorts of long standing “issues” I have as a gay man. Outside the ring, the most beautiful, straight-laced, used-to-getting-their-way straight boys tend to prosper and receive more than a heaping helping of social approval. But inside the ring, at least for this gayboy, there’s something deeply satisfying about seeing the classic jock pummeled. It speaks to me powerfully to see the classic cards of strength, youth, and power stacked against an overmatched opponent, who with sheer audacity and ferocity, does whatever it takes to pull the rug out from under the muscled juggernaut. The morality tale, for me at least, has more than a hint of the skinny (or fat), disregarded and underestimated sissy who spits in the face of the bullying jock and exacts humiliating revenge for getting thrown into the lockers.

I think what’s so engaging for me about homoerotic wrestling is this notion of new rules that overturn the standard morality of polite society. Well, okay, there’s that, plus the gorgeous, hot hunks squeezing and dominating each other in (or out) of completely revealing gear that leads to or at least inspires me to imagine them fucking for days. But no, really, the chance to rewrite the rules, to turn conventional morality and wisdom on its head, makes so much of wrestling homo to me, even when no one literally gets fucked, just fucked up.

Delightful Conundrum

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BG East’s Joshua Goodman (that’s Mr. Joshua to you) remains a conundrum to me. On the one hand, he’s a heartless tease. His wrestling career is all about his mammoth package (at least as far as I’m concerned, that’s what it’s about), but despite being all about genitals, we’ve only barely glimpsed his bare essentials unleashed. His gear, his balls-in-face victory poses, his frequent mid-match hand down his trunks to rearrange the goods… he’s practically screaming, “Marvel at my gargantuan balls!” And yet he coyly, demurely (well, sort of) seems to have a non-nudity clause in his contract. This should make me hate him with a bitter resentment I reserve for few.
On the other hand, when I think of the line dividing straight-up wrestling from homoerotic fare, I can’t imagine thinking of Mr. Joshua as anything but flag-firmly-planted well on the homoerotic side. I’m the first (though I’m sure not the last) to point out that my opinions here may reveal me to be inconsistent, fickle, and potentially even hypocritical. None of those things really bother me so much. But on the topic of grab-ass in homoerotic wrestling, which I’ve been musing about lately, for all Mr. Joshua’s carefully covered assets, he frequently takes matters firmly in hand.
Perhaps not so frequently is the literal grab-ass in a Mr. Joshua bash, but particularly in his more recent appearances, someone’s balls are almost always getting grabbed. When Mr Joshua shoves his own mitt down the front of his trunks, honestly, I cheer (outloud… really). His fascination with his own balls is delightful to watch. It’s as if he just can’t keep from grabbing and tugging at himself (and honestly, haven’t we all been there?). But what connects the dots for me is that Mr. Joshua clearly has an irresistible need to grab hold precisely at the moment that he’s laid an opponent out commandingly. Something has shifted in his trunks simultaneous with his moment of humiliating domination over the punk who had the temerity to step into the ring/on the mat with the power and guile of Mr. Joshua. Even if he doesn’t whip it out and pop off on camera, he at least sells the story that he’s aroused by the act of hammering a barely clothed man down and climbing on top.
I’ve been particularly pleased with the development of his story to include the fact that his opponents can’t help but notice Mr. Joshua’s package and his own fascination with it. They frequently mock him with a crotch-to-face pin (which is an obligatory element in any Mr. Joshua victory), and shove their hand down their own trunks. Nearly no one has the package to compete with Mr. Joshua, though, so even on the bottom, his massive balls somehow manage to come out on top.
Early in his career, the focus on Mr. Joshua’s package was more implied. It was context in which the wrestling took place, as far as I can tell. But lately, both Mr. Joshua and his opponent’s have been taking matters more directly in hand. One of the sweetest Mr. Joshua matches, I think, was the summer’s release of the man himself going up against a much smaller Austin Raines. Mr. Joshua grabs hold of Austin’s throat and balls early and hard, and he gets it back in spades. Austin’s choke and throttle on Mr. Joshua comes in a very close second place to the “teabagging” moment as my very favorite moment in this match.

Perhaps Mr. Joshua’s career left turn can be dated to his utter humiliation in the right hand of Brooklyn Bodywrecker in Mr. Joshua’s own Wrestler Spotlight DVD. It was this match that made me finally tear my eyes away from his package to admire the hard, powerful ass on Mr. Joshua. It was also the match that came closest to consummating the love affair that Mr. Joshua’s crotch has been nursing with the camera, including Mr. Joshua stripped naked and tossed over BBW’s shoulder. As I’ve complained bitterly about prior, though, don’t get your hopes up here. You’ll get a tasty, lingering look at Mr. Joshua’s bare and vulnerable cheeks, but BBW taunts us by refusing to show us the real moneymaker.

The hits and, more delightfully, the squeezes just keep coming in match after match. Giving…

…and taking, the main character in any Mr. Joshua match has got be acknowledged to be the crotch, and sooner or later it’s Mr. Joshua’s crotch that steals the spotlight, crowding everyone else off the stage.

So, while it’s true he unfortunately does not qualify to compete in my pornboy division, as a non-pornboy Mr. Joshua’s wrestling is still all about sex and the wonders that a hard, hot body like his can’t help but bring to mind. On a purely abstract level, I completely respect his decision to just barely/not quite keep his modesty in tact. Much more viscerally, though, I remain locked in a love/hate conundrum when I think about Mr. Joshua… and I frequently do.

He’s come such a long way since he debuted against the emerging legend of chisel-chinned Brad Rochelle as a musclehead with perhaps more brawn than brains underneath his frosted locks. A legend in his own right, as far as I’m concerned, looking back at Mr. Joshua’s debut makes me marvel. Who could predict what hot, productive homoerotic wrestling careers would be represented on the mat that day?

With wisdom born of experience and, I’d argue, an even hotter body today, Mr. Joshua makes me often possessed with the desire to trade places with any single opponent who’s had the privilege of experiencing a Mr. Joshua beatdown. Though, if I found myself in the enviable position of just a handful of those opponents (with Mr. Joshua’s balls resting on my lips), I almost certainly would be unable to honor his contract rider.

Formula 1

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I haven’t been genuinely excited about a Can-Am release in a while. I think Rusty Stevens’ performance in the Arena 1 and 2 were the last to make my heart flutter. But Can-Am Max has put up teaser pics for a to-be-released product entitled Pro Sex Fight 1. Catching sight of blond, blue-eyed bodybeautiful Landon Mycles in the pro ring made me do a double take. All I can say is, “Wow.”

Okay, you knew that wouldn’t be all I could say. You also probably know all about Landon. I hadn’t heard of him, but he’s a pornboy with a growing body of work built on his tight, hard body, square jawed baby face, and blond blue-eyed dream boat looks along with an apparent happiness to screw and be screwed by just about anyone.

I’m really pleased to see Can-Am returning to the formula that I think they do particularly well. Eager, young pornboys giving it their all in a pro ring is just classic Can-Am. Taking a break from recycling wrestlers from other companies in “underground” mat scenarios, the teasers of Landon in the ring with Michael Vineland are raising my hopes for a return of what I’ve traditionally turned to Can-Am to provide. I think Can-Am is firing on all cylinders when they put astonishingly gorgeous, porn quality bodies in a wrestling ring, inevitably heading toward sex with prolonged, straight-faced wrestling foreplay. This is what I’m hoping Pro Sex Fight 1 might be about. From Landon’s Twitter pics, I can already see that the typical Can-Am formula of featuring a performer in a wrestling-first scenario and then putting him into a second product at the same time with a superheroes-first scenario appears to be in the making.

What I’m seeing in the teasers for Pro Sex Fight 1 includes some classic pro wrestling moves, corner abuse, and the delightful line-crossing of pro-holds that you and I know make for a perfect transition into more homoerotic fare. A leg-lock appears to set the stage for a gleeful, sweaty Landon to begin to strip Michael out of his gear. Another shot shows Landon spread-eagled, suspended in the ropes in a corner, with Michael standing on the turnbuckle outside the ring to reign down a barrage of blows on the babyface rookie. So far, soooo good.
An up close and deeply personal head scissors appears to provide the opportunity both for Michael to cop a feel of those incredibly toned pecs on wonder boy Landon, as well as an opportunity for Landon to reach behind him and begin to work over Michael’s cock. The teasers suggest that the ring action charges headlong into full on naked bodyworship, mutual cock sucking, and one star’s ankles in the air getting the enthusiastic treatment for which only a couple of pornboys will do.
All the elements of what Can-Am does well appear to be here. And I’ve been longing for a pro ring turned sex scenario for quite a while. I’ve been concerned that Can-Am is stuck chasing BG East’s tail lately, trying to out-BGE BGE (which I think was always going to be a lost cause for Can-Am, frankly).  What’s raising my hopes and tormenting me with delayed gratification here is not the expectation that Landon will have the spot-on wrestling chops of Jonny Firestorm or the exquisite salesmanship of Lon Dumont. I shop at a different store entirely when I’m looking for full-on wrestling kink homoerotic wrestling, with an emphasis on repeating the words “wrestling.” But if Landon and Michael can hold my attention and convincingly build the sexual tension with straight-faced, all-in (even if not completely polished and accomplished) wrestling performances, then this product could easily be a go-to feature in my library for hot domination porn with enough satisfying wrestling foreplay and context to get my adrenalin pumping for everyone’s happy ending. I’m keeping my fingers crossed!

Nowhere to Run

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Speaking of full on grab-ass, Phillip Aubrey is back at it over at Naked Kombat, facing off with doe-in-the-headlights, baby (baby, baby, baby) faced Matthew Singer. For those of you who aren’t into a squash (and I know you’re out there), this will likely NOT be for you. This is just about as much of a squash as I’ve seen on NK. It’s not like it isn’t obvious how this will play out, even as Matthew gives his pre-match testimonial with a little quiver in his voice. He’s not only in over his head, he’s 20,000 leagues under and wearing cement shoes.
Phillip is one of the NK repeaters that clearly, authentically has some combat training. He has amazing balance and body awareness. He’s irrepressible. He absolutely bubbles up with delight in dominating and humiliating. And dangling wide-eyed Matthew in front of him is almost too much for even me, a certified fan of a delightful squash, to watch. Phillip literally and figuratively spanks Matthew’s skinny ass all over the mat in round after round. The ref reports that after three rounds, Matthew managed to just barely break into double digits on the scorecard (Phillip had around 40 or 50, but I’m guaranteeing you that they just stopped counting at that point). I think they were ridiculously generous in pumping up Matthew to even that low score. He brought absolutely nothing to this match, other than a sweet gasp of painful resignation and a sense of bitter futility about him.
Phillip, on the other hand, has been building momentum since he just barely lost to John Magnum by the skin of his teeth in his debut. If he could nearly take down the mountain of muscle that is John Magnum, Matthew Singer was fated for a painful lesson.
While the technical side of the competition/performance will leave many disappointed, those of us who do harbor some joys in watching a babyface obliteration have much to fascinate us here. Matthew has no place to go, no way to escape, and watching Phillip chuckle with delight in wrapping him up, bending him backward, sitting on his face, and paralyzing the kid with what must be hands of magic stroking at Matthew’s cock… it’s made to order for fans of an authentic squash. And don’t doubt it: Matthew works hard. He’s sweating like a marathon runner halfway through round one. He is NOT just jobbing. He’s just getting smacked down hard with every gambit he tries to throw.
Finally, I’d just like to say once again that I’m a fan of the pony ride. It seems a little too obligatory at times in NK… perhaps a bit too scripted and canned. But watching Phillip ride Matthew (forcing him to bray like a donkey along the way) does something to me that makes me smile. No one rides the pony quite like my favorite homoerotic wrestling pornboy, Rusty Stevens, of course. But having seen Phillip have to pack around the mat the behemoth of John Magnum (weighted down significantly by that massive cock of his), there’s a pretty sweet through-story to watching Phillip exact the same humiliation with such aroused delight on the practicing dummy who is baby (baby, baby, baby) faced Matthew Singer.

Collapsing the Metaphor

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A little while back a reader interrogated me offline about my deprecating straight-up wrestling and fixating, instead, on more explicitly homoerotic fare. If it’s just about “grab-ass,” as he put it, doesn’t it lose the aggro, the potential ferocity? In short, he wondered, in my fixation on the homoerotic, don’t I lose some of what’s essential to an authentic wrestling kink?

First, I want to say that the occasional, seemingly inadvertant (yet literal) grab-ass in a match has quite an allure, even in the context of a match that’s light on the homo or the explicitly erotic. Dom the Dominator and the seventh wonder of the world known as his physique are profoundly arousing for me in most any context. But when he scoops up a young, eager Brad Rochelle to drop him across his knee, digging his fingertips into the gorgeous, round, hard ass of boy wonder… well, I know I’m not alone in wearing out the VCR tape at that precise moment to catch that delightful moment of grab-ass in freeze frame (and later, slow motion). I like to think even the more straight-up performers throw in some gratuitous moments like this. And I adore them for it.
But back to my original point… there are plenty of moments when watching two beautiful men pound the hell out of each other and sell some convincing aggression will be all I need to completely exhaust myself. But there are some periods, such as the one I’m in now, where I absolutely crave the homoerotic component of my homoerotic wrestling. A literal, lingering grab of the ass can catapult me into a deeply satisfying, body-affirming, gay-affirming, passionate place that without it, can leave me feeling a little desperate. The BGE classic, Tommy Lopez, in a mutual, tender ass grab in the midst of a sweaty, snarling smack down is the value-added that I’ve got a major lust for these days.
It’s not just the literal grab-ass I’m talking about, of course. Grab most anything and hold on appreciatively, and it can definitely count in my book. Of course, a cock-grab or a ball-grab (or for those with large enough hands, a cock-and-ball-grab) connects all the dots for the elements that I’m talking about. But frankly, a commanding, appraising hold on your opponent’s chin can leap-frog well you beyond a play-it-straight tussle. An appreciative squeeze of a meaty pec (I’m not talking a claw here, but a grab), sends my brain firing on all cylinders in moods like I’m in right now.
But I love a collapsed metaphor, and a commanding, solid handful of glute seals the deal for me whenever I’m treated to the sight. Another BGE classic, Brian Baxter, had an ass for days himself, so his thumping of Tim Anderson’s juicy melons is just asking for it, begging for it, making me start talking at the screen pleading for a return of that awesome, satisfying favor on Brian. Grab that ass! I’m looking for the element of grab-ass in my wrestling right at the moment.
You know me. You know I can go on and on about the role of imagination, and you know I can fill in the gaps in just about any story to make it suit my particular kinky tastes. But even I, sometimes, find myself feeling like a literalist. So to the reader who complained that I’m too much into the “grab-ass” scene, I do, truly, get your point. And sometimes, nothing else but some grab-ass will do.

I’m Hardly One to Talk

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I’ve been happy to field requests lately from folks who let me know that English isn’t their first language. Several recent additions to my wrestling fiction groups have let me know that their primary language isn’t English. The more, the merrier, as far as I’m concerned. In fact, some of the sexiest people I know aren’t native English speakers.

Okay, let me be frank: a thick accent and the occasional grammatical error are actually quite a turn-on, all on their own. More than once I’ve fallen for some consonant confusion (I’m particularly a sucker for someone with a “y” that sounds like a “j”) offering to take me to the home. I’m dead-on serious here. I’m not making fun, not one little bit. Throw in a twisted idiom, and I’m putty in your hands.

And don’t bother apologizing for your lack of confidence with the irrational minefield that is English grammar paired with American idiom. We who call this language home should be the ones apologizing to all of you who have to pick it up after the age of 5. And I’ve personally butchered several languages quite offensively. I remember distinctly being asked by the waitress in Hamburg if my lunch “geschmekt,” which I mistakenly thought was her asking if I wanted dessert. When I confidently answered, “Nein,” her puzzled look was my first clue to my cluelessness (to the contrary, the food did, indeed, taste delicious). So, please, don’t apologize for your English. I’m the last person to be critical of you for operating in a language that isn’t your first.

And just to disclose fully, I constantly toy with the idea of emigrating, so I’d hope that wherever I might eventually land would be gentle and generous with me as I made myself at home in someone else’s language. We’ve got prominent candidates for powerful, national office here who want to outlaw all religions other than their own, who think the gays should have to register as a public menace, and who believe that creationism has more scientific proof than evolution. If morons like these ever run this country… again… I’m planning on throwing myself at the mercy of a relatively progressive, sane nation that will have me. With the news coming from the German Chancellor this week, I don’t think I’ll need dust off my deutsch textbooks. I’m still hopeful that I could manage svenska well enough, with time, though… possibly français.

So, no, please don’t apologize to me for not being a native English speaker. I just hope that you get enough out of my own particular way of writing to make this blog and my fiction enjoyable. And if you have your own wrestling fiction short story to share auf deutsch, en français, eller i svenska, I’d be incredibly honored if you’d send it along for me to post over at Sidelineland and practice up on my own, deeply flawed language skills.

They’re All Men

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The New York Times is noting an evolution of the it-boy male model from waif-ish twink skate-rat into someone “who feels like he’s a man.” I’m fully on board with this trend, though not, I believe, for the reasons that the NYT author supposes is behind the circle-of-life return to square-jawed handsomeness. I seriously am not longing for a mythical past when “men were men.” I just tend to like my hunks in the barrel long enough to soak up some oaky tannins. A fresh off the vine, cork-and-uncork-it youth is like a Rosé: sweet, innocent, and always trending on the way in or on the way out.  More maturity, a fuller body, and deeper complexity is a lot more tasty, year-after-year.

I’m not an all or nothing kind of guy, though. The skate-rat brawler can tell a sweet story that a big pec muscleboy can’t tell (and vice versa, of course). And a skate-rat slamfest with a big muscle boy can be pure ecstasy, particularly if the muscleboy is seriously taken by surprise by the skate-rat’s ferocity, skill, and determination to bash a hunk.
Of course, talking about a mature body on a male model requires putting pencil to paper to make some counter-intuitive calculations. Counting years on a male model is a little like figuring up “dog years.” The ridiculous pressure to be superhumanly and eternally beautiful (by commercial standards, at least) can skew the numbers, making 30 year old model David Gandy, above, seem grandfatherly next to 18 year old fence rail, Jordan Coulter. For the record, David would bring me to my knees with a come-hither look in an instant, whereas Jordan would require evidence of a sense of humor, cocky self-assurance, and last but not least, a valid driver’s license as proof of age. David facing off with Jordan, with Jordan managing to jump onto “grandpa’s” back and bring the muscle man to his knees with a vicious rear choke, however, would be a delight to suit me in most any mood.
So whether the skate-rats are on their way out, or already returning as chic retro days after being pronounced so-last-year (as seems usually the pace of trendiness), I’m a supporter of diverse bodies, as long as they’re sweaty, locked in combat, and ready to order. But when pressed (squeezed, pounded, or slammed), I’m a sucker for beefy, thoughtful maturity over impulsive, waif-ish twinkiness, nine times out of ten.

The Boy Needs Hand

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Making the rounds is this slice of pouty hotness named Andreas Orihuela. His ModelMayhem profile indicates that he’s 18 years old, at least at the time of his joining up there back in May. Barely legal doesn’t tend to float my boat, but Andreas has a look that belies his apparent age. And, I’m aching to get my fingers in that curly hair and toss him around a ring by it…

Speaking of which, his extremely succinct bio on ModelMayhem tantalizes you and me with the mysterious, singular detail that he’s a wrestler looking to break into modeling. What the hell does that mean, exactly? Why the hell do I care?! I’m a big, big fan of a curly haired, made-for-the-runway, proud-to-be-a wrestler who’s ready to sell his body to sell me a pair of underwear (or whatever he’s selling… fireplace mantels? candles? I’ll buy a dozen of whatever it is…).

The teaser/dropped-reference to being a wrestler (in high school? in an indy pro circuit? in an upcoming homoerotic release coming soon to my library?!) could make me turn bitter without some evidence to back it up, babyface boy! A singlet, pro trunks and boots… (even better) pro trunks sans boots… hell, I’d even take a hot shot in a jock strap to make me truly into a believer (particularly if it’s a shot from behind). You can’t just say, “I’m a wrestler,” and then give me nothing but my imagination to paint some very low rise, shrink wrapped, navy blue boytoy trunks on you as you stretch out your tight, whipcord muscles by hanging from the ring ropes before a brutal, no-ref, fight-for-tops strip match.

My imagination will take me far, no doubt, but let’s see some wrestling credentials to turn the average 500 or so daily readers of this blog into your biggest, most vociferous fan base! If you need a hand with anything, anything at all, we’re here to help, Andreas.