Value Added

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Several recent comments here have sent me thinking more deeply about what it is that a wrestling kinkster gets in explicitly homoerotic wrestling that he doesn’t in basic cable pro. “The gay” has had a longstanding presence in straight-up pro wrestling for… well, forever, hasn’t it? The classic flaming pro-wrestler with his feather boa, dancing on the balls of his feet, have been a not-so latent element in the scene for at least as long as pro wrestling has been televised, it seems to me. I made a break with regularly following straight-up pro scenes about a decade ago, but when I’m flipping through the channels, I get the impression that “the gay” continues to creep more and more into that scene. Hasn’t there been and openly gay wrestler or two? Isn’t the erotic sub-text getting more and more main-text, as the modern audience is catching on to what so many of us have understood for a long time… that two hardbodied, barely clothed hunks grinding and squeezing their bodies together can’t help but be about sexual prowess, if not outright sex.


But I’m so far out of the straight-up pro loop, I’ll have to rely on those many of you who keep up with it to correct me. Feel free, in fact. I’m blindly wandering into a subject that I know, at most, only 50% about: what is it that we gay wrestling kinksters get in our homoerotic wrestling that we don’t get in straight-up basic cable pro? (Indie fanatics can tell me if this applies to that scene as well)…. In no particular order:
Tear-away crotch gear. And for that matter, full-on centering of the gorgeous male erection. If these elements were popping up in straight-up pro, it would seriously make me consider diving back into that scene. As it is, I’m thinking that, despite a diversity of gear and gear-related stories in straight-up pro, the tear-away crotch and the aroused cock are entirely in the domain of the homoerotic side of wrestling. Please, tell me I’m wrong.
Hand-to-bare-crotch ball abuse. Before I washed my hands of straight-up pro entirely, crotch abuse was on the rise. But as far as I know (and you will correct me), wrestlers actually stuffing their hands down each other’s trunks and clawing each other’s balls for all it’s worth (or even better, entirely naked, prolonged cock and ball bashing), marks a dividing line between wrestling packaged for us as opposed to wrestling packaged for them.
Passionate, full on, tongues-down-throats kissing. I can remember at least a couple of instances where a straight-up pro story used a man-on-man kiss as the excuse for violence (not hard to read the homosexual panic storyline here), but never as the mutual climax of the physical competition. Hard fought, sweaty, pounding, tooth-and-nail wrestling should lead to some intense respect and mutual gratification, I think. If the buff bigboys on basic cable occasionally lost themselves in passion at the end of a particularly close fought match, again, I’d absolutely have to tune back in.
Naked bearhugs. Well, naked everything, really. So we’ve been led to believe that the ancient Greeks battled it out this way, but as far as I know, other than the occasional bare-ass moment (treated as a moment of ego-crushing humiliation), the straight-up pros keep their gear on their bodies. A bearhug or a boston crab or a head scissors may be technically identical between the two genres, but the innovation of losing the gear first completely retranslates everything into a language I’m much more fluent in, and whose tones I find much more pleasing.
Oil wrestling. Especially naked oil wrestling, but seriously, any kind of oil wrestling seems like it’s this side of the neutral zone between straight-up pro and full-on homoerotic wrestling. Lubricating bodies can’t help but make everything more arousing, both in the action and on this side of my television screen. I suspect I could be on thin ice on this one, and I’ll be very pleased to be corrected to learn that the straight-up pros are breaking out the babyoil for one another… but I’m doubtful.
Toe-sucking. Okay, I can’t remember seeing this in a wrestling match before my current favorite homoerotic wrestling pornboy, Rusty Stevens, pulled it out as a defensive move against Mitch Colby this summer. So it isn’t exactly a staple of homoerotic wrestling. But somehow, I can’t see this innovation showing up in prime-time. Both genres have overlapping standard toolkits for distraction and diversion in a match, but I, for one, am really pleased when I see some erotic worship as a strategic move.
The naked pony ride. Or, really, the loser-gets-used scenario in general, involving any element of nakedness. The pony ride itself seems to be a signature primarily at Naked Kombat, though I’d love to see this gimmick show-up elsewhere. Somehow, I could imagine seeing it cross-pollinate through other homoerotic wrestling companies about a century before it would show up in straight-up pro… though Joe at Ringside at Skull Island continues to feature some fantastic indie boys I’d pay good money to see ride or get ridden… naked, of course.
The jack-off. Either post-match or, as Aryx Quinn illustrates here with Braden Charron (and KL on Chris from yesterday’s post), locked in a classic wrestling move, a forced to cum show of domination/voyeurism/humiliation. This falls under the same theme as the any-straight-up-pro hold that turns naked idea, but add to that some masturbation, and, well, this just isn’t going to show up on basic cable anytime soon… or a pay-per-view extravaganza… or, well, anywhere other than the homoerotic specialists.
Oral. The spoils of victory never tasted so sweet on any, any, any straight-up pro match as it does when a homoerotic wrestler lays his loser out and sucks his cock like there’s no tomorrow. Depending on the angle, the loser-gets-forced-to-suck story (see every Naked Kombat match, for example), also works only on this side of the line. Just as an aside, I’m more a fan of the taste of victory than I am of the loser-gets-face-fucked plot. Ironically, there’s something almost “straight” feeling about the latter to me…
Anal. Most of the same comments apply here. This just isn’t going to show up for the straight-up pro boys, though how sweet would that be to see some of those fine, muscle-asses on the line and plowed in the center of the ring when they lose? But that’s precisely what leads me (and many of us, I’m sure) to homoerotic wrestling products. Straight-up pro only takes us so far. Our imaginations can complete the scene, but there’s something awfully satisfying and, in some ways, validating about seeing the scenario play out exactly the way you and I would imagine. I don’t think that a match needs to end in a forced-fuck to be homoerotic, by any means. In fact, I get a little tired when it seems to be obligatory, and I get the impression that the creativity and competition of a wrestling match sometimes turn into clock-punching routine as the boys go through the familiar motions. But a victory fuck closes the circuit in my mind. From the anticipation, promise, and implications of straight-up pro, homoerotic wrestling fills in the silences and opens up the possibilities that turn me on like no baggy-shorts prime-timer has ever done.

I know I’ve missed a lot. I’m sure I’ve overstated my case… because that’s just what happens when I have a whole blog to myself to rant and ramble. But seriously… sincerely… I’ll be pleased no end to hear what I’ve managed to get completely wrong here.

Now That’s Entertainment

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Kid Leopard stands in the center of the ring, wearing trunks, a sleeveless t-shirt, and a towel wrapped around his neck. “All right, look,” he says, “I just want to make sure we’ve got the terms straight here, so there’s no confusion. The deal is that the loser does whatever the winner says. Am I right?” The voice behind the camera confirms it. “Okay,” Kid Leopard continues to clarify, “so that means that each time – I’m not talking about the whole match – we’re talking about each time that I make this pretty boy submit that he’s got to do whatever I tell him to do?”
The voice behind the camera agrees, “That’s correct. But on the other hand, he may make you submit.” Kid Leopard smiles broadly. “That’s what I like about you, BG,” he replies. “Hope springs eternal. You haven’t found a guy to do that yet, and it sure ain’t going to be this pretty boy.”
This is a fantastic start to the extremely hot second match on X-Fights 2. This is a classic wrestling kink clinic. Kid Leopard is cocky as hell, horny as hell, and hell-bent on getting off on dominating, destroying, and owning the gorgeous Latino hunk, Chris Stone. This match has the seeds of multiple genre sub-themes that have become classic in homoerotic wrestling. There’s a gear-fetish angle. There’s S&M. There’s hunkbashing. Seven excruciatingly hot submissions would be enough to make my head swim, but it’s what occurs after the submissions that makes this match gaspingly erotic.
After a figure-4 leglock variation makes Chris submit for fall #1, KL maintains the hold long enough to stroke Chris’ truly major league ass. “Now it’s your turn to entertain me,” KL explains. “Now take something out of that bag and put it on… and entertain me.” Chris pulls out classic period-piece shredded, acid washed jeans from his gym bag in the corner. KL insists that the young stud take off his posing trunks first, giving us our first of many shots of Chris’ stunning naked ass and gorgeous tan lines, which has to be acknowledged as the award-caliber supporting role in this drama (right behind leading man, KL).
Fall #2 is the culmination of an incredible wrestling clinic. Bearhug transitions to over-the-knee backbreaker to full nelson to headlock to hangman. The bronze Latino is bewildered and beaten, suffering sweetly until he can’t take it any longer and cries out his second submission. KL peels the jeans off of his opponent, leaving him naked, sweaty, and pouting on his back in the middle of the ring. “Show me something pretty,” KL insists as he instructs Chris to change gear again. A pink thong can barely contain the beautiful young muscleboy, who stretches it to its limit when he’s caught in a Boston Crab and submits a third time. KL doesn’t let go until he’s indulgently stroked his opponent’s ass crack and grabbed his balls. KL’s treat for himself for this fall is to squeeze out a 4th submission, after which he forcefully embraces the battered hunk, kissing him passionately. This is the point at which Chris is done with the match. He sighs in resignation like a puppy put on his back. He’s ready to obey the better man. He’s done. But KL is far from done.
A ball-clawing rack makes the hopeless hunk scream submission #5. Ripping off the pink thong, KL demands submission #6 in a naked figure-4 leglock. KL demands Chris stroke himself before he’ll release him from the torturous hold. “Let’s see you suffer, pretty boy…” KL mutters to himself. “Entertain me…” he says, watching the pain on his opponent’s face, examining Chris’ tense, rippled torso, fascinated to watch Chris stroke his thick cock in humiliating obedience. Another leglock forces lucky number 7 from Chris Stone, for which KL climbs on his opponent’s back and manages an impassioned hands free frot orgasm between Chris’ stunning ass cheeks.
This is pretty nearly my definition of homoerotic wrestling. I know many of you don’t care for a squash, but this match is never about the drama of competition (though Chris manages some respectable reversals very early on in this bout). This works as fine art, telling the fantastic tale of domination and ownership, with a master storyteller entertaining himself, and us, with the humiliating destruction of a stunning bronze hunk. It just about doesn’t get much better than this for me.

Not a Numbers Game

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About a year ago, I started checking the stats on this blog. I was feeling insecure, wondering if I was blathering on to an empty house. The exercise of writing daily was an end to itself, but the thought of putting time into posting a public blog that no one read was a possibility that was going to defeat me. I needed to know that at least it was being read. I didn’t worry so much that people enjoyed it or agreed with it. But just that its existence was noted.

Initially I had a few dozen hits a day, representing about as many viewers. That was enough to beat down my feelings of insecurity and futility.
Over the past year, I’ve checked in periodically to see how the numbers are going. I no longer feel the pangs of insecurity that no one is reading. Enough of you comment, critique and encourage to keep me thinking out loud. I remember when the blog consistently began breaking 100 views per day. It felt legitimating, somehow.
When the stats indicated about 100 people a day (I’ve learned it’s far from an exact science) accounted for about 500 views, I began to feel a little insecure that perhaps too many people were reading. I worried for a while that someone would complain about copyright infringement (I try to track down my pic owners when I can, but I admit to reposting liberally), or that haters would stumble upon me and try to get nasty. I don’t go looking for sour energy in my life, and the thought that a reader would get pissy with me for one reason or another made rising hit numbers seem a little ominous.
In the past couple of months, hits are regularly topping a thousand a day with about 400 or so viewers. I’m confident a lot of these represent people who stumble into the room looking for an entirely different party, and who exit just as quickly. But I’m also aware that many of you are regular readers who share a kink, a sense of humor, and a lust for beautiful men wrestling with one another. Other than a lot of spammers trying to comment with trojan horse links, almost no one has tried to be nasty (1 snarky killjoy tried to get up in my face about 6 months ago about copyright infringement for my reposts of Rock Hard Wrestling pics, which fortunately I had written permission for… so there…). The numbers themselves don’t add up to much of anything to me anymore. The comments on the blog, and the beautiful messages I frequently get when people sign up for one of the wrestling fiction groups mean a whole lot more to me.
But I just have to ask, what happened yesterday!? Nearly 600 people accounted for about 1,500 hits. Sure, my post on the most recent Naked Kombat match was profoundly insightful and existentially provocative, but the dramatic uptick is a little astonishing.
I realize that for most internet publishers, the numbers game means something other than what it means to me. I’ve heard from a couple of producers of homoerotic wrestling that this blog accounts for a good number of click-throughs to their retail sites, which can account for cash flow and financial viability in hard times for these fine companies. All the better, if you ask me. I’m thrilled to have a lot of wrestling kink companies out there making enough profit to keep them producing, creative, and innovating (please, keep being creative and innovating). I don’t advertise here, though, and I don’t take donations. So for me, the numbers are more a curiosity. It’s what they represent that means a lot more to me. They represent a lot of us who share a common interest, an eye for hot guys and wrestling, and a desire to be connected in one way or another. So thanks for reading, and keep the comments coming. An encouraging word, a common interest, a different perspective, or a piece of original fiction to share is worth infinitely more to me than a stat counter. In response to the message I hear over and over again, let me just say one again to everyone: no, you are most certainly not alone.

By the way, the photos complimenting todays post are a theme set. I won’t give it away, but I know that you all are an astonishingly clever lot who will have figured out the common theme anyway. If not, enjoy the puzzle.

The Importance of Audio

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Scanning the promo pics for the latest match uploaded to NakedKombat, I thought to myself, “This isn’t going to do it for me.” I love it when I’m wrong. The match pits Brenn Wyson, 185 pounds, 6′ tall, with a record of 3-0 with NK, against 175 pound, 5’6″ beefy Marine, Jack Hammer (1-0). The unoriginal porn name “Jack Hammer” nearly puts me off this bout entirely before it ever starts. But I’m glad I stuck with it and discovered the secret element that makes this match incredibly, erotically entertaining.

Brenn mutters, whispers, and provides ongoing self-commentary on the match throughout. Despite Brenn having a bit of a stoner look about him (which tends to turn me off), his compunction to talk throughout the bout makes this match at least 20 times hotter than it would otherwise be. Not to give too much away, but this is a complete squash (okay, that pretty much gives it all away… you’d pick up on it 3 minutes into the match anyway). In NK points and in simple domination, Brenn owns this from start to finish. He explains his determination to dominate Jack relentlessly. He’s terrified of having to take Jack’s humungous cock in the the sex round. Before the match begins, Brenn states the facts: “My strategy is: he has a big fucking dick, and there’s no way I’m losing to that!”
Very early on Brenn puts Jack on his back, pressing his hips between Jack’s legs. Whispering into Jack’s ear, Brenn explains in his raspy, breathless voice, “I like that. That’s my favorite.” When jock straps are ripped off in round 2, Brenn again has Jack struggling vainly on his back. He asks, “Who’s your daddy?” When Jack gasps, “It’s not you!” Brenn persists. “I’m daddy. Call me daddy Wyson!” he demands. “Call me fucking daddy Wyson!” In the naked round, Brenn has Jack locked up (needless to say). Looking down at his own erection, he marvels, “Oh, yeah! I’m going to fuck you with that dick.”
Brenn is here to show off, no question, and something about that takes me by surprise and works for me. About eight and a half minutes in, Brenn has Jack at his mercy in a front chancery. Jack’s squirming and fighting it without getting anywhere (are you starting to get the picture?). Brenn looks into the close-up camera with a big grin, then wags his tongue at the audience in a show of cocky control and humiliation. He frequently looks up to the ref and grins, like a kid looking to his pappa for approval for each immobilizing, dominating hold he applies.
So despite a lot of things not adding up here for me, I’m just a bit taken with this match. Neither of these boys are classically “pretty,” (and I’ve been in a “pretty” mood lately). It’s a little boring to watch one man so constantly thwarted and owned at every turn. Brenn’s stoned-edge and tweaky laugh leaves me a little uninterested. But the self-commentary turns… me… on. I like that sort of surprise.

Stunned

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My, oh my, oh my! Go tell it on the mountain! I’ve been stunned. I just keep staring at the physical perfection of male model Deepak Kataria. He’s making me seriously consider a sooner-than-expected return to some writing in the Secretarial Pool in my wrestling fiction.
Just gorgeous. The photographs I’ve found thus far appear to all be by the same Indian photographer, so I don’t know how extensive Deepak’s modeling career is just yet. With those cheekbones and that astonishingly hot body, I should hope we’d see much, much more of him.

Deepak has come out of the blue for me, so despite immediately wanting to deploy him in the world of my wrestling fiction, I haven’t yet come up with a plot for him to fit within (and you know I think a plot is essential). Perhaps he could be one of the handful of secretarial pool members that I’ve alluded to without identifying yet. On the other hand, he could be some other producer’s executive assistant who finds himself throwing down with one of Eli’s boys.
One way or another, I strongly suspect that this devastating beauty will be starring in a wrestling match in my imagination soon.

Get Out of My Dreams

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Superherofan describes True Blood as “outgaying” itself with this week’s episode. I describe True Blood as ripped straight from my erotic fantasies (sans the wrestling), which I suppose is the same thing as outgaying itself. Alexander Skarsgård has starred in many of my wrestling fantasies and sexual fantasies, and his seduction of Theo Alexander’s character this week was spot on.

In my fantasies, Alexander would be surprisingly open to a man-on-man sexual liaison, just like in the plot of True Blood. In my fantasies, he obeys my command to take his clothes off, just like in the episode.

Yep, just like in the episode, my fantasies include an abundance of suck-face, and just to lay it all out there, I also picture Alexander on top, cradling my cheek, looking lustfully into my eyes.
Yep, both of us naked, Alexander taking his sweet, sweet time exploring and adoring every inch of my body.

Okay, everything about this last scene works in my fantasies as well, except that I don’t end up with a wooden stake in my heart. There’s also some exchange of bodyscissors and pec pounding in my imagination, and Alexander eventually makes me submit in a naked figure-4 headlock. But other than those few details, I swear Alan Ball has ripped this scene straight out of an oft-replayed fantasy scenario in my fondest imagination. God, this series is awesome…

The Art of Owning a Bodybuilder

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I haven’t taken a bite out of the fruit of temptation that is RockHardWrestling for a while, but the promise of Brody Hancock (aka Reese Wells) bringing his high class pro beat down on another bodybuilder never-say-die jobber is hard to resist. Enter Cody Nelson, Mr. Muscles himself glaring across the ring at cocky and confident ring veteran, Brody.



Once again, RockHardWrestling delivers on several of its promises. First, both battle boys are rock hard, though of different body types. Brody continues to make me marvel at his mature and massively muscled biceps and pecs on an otherwise skinny-punk of a body. Just to see Brody’s babyface out in the world, I’m sure I’d assume that he’s about 15 years old. But seeing him pump his double bi and squeeze out a flex of those pecs with his boot planted on his conquered musclebound opponent leaves no doubt that he is all man.
For his part, Cody is a jaw dropping adonis. He has an ass for days, major league nipples that scream out for unrequited torture, and thick, sculpted proportions from neck to ankle, including the sizeable heft he packs in the front of those trunks. Brody continues to make me a believer by not only decisively taking ownership of this beautiful bodybuilder, but then displaying him like a trophy, perfectly positioned for you and me to examine and appreciate the musclehunk’s every gorgeous muscle. As far as I know, Brody has stayed just barely on the entirely straight-side of his homoerotic wrestling performances to date, but this young man clearly has a gift for both musclehunk destruction and giving a homoerotically-kinked audience a generous display of his opponent’s goods. With instincts like he has, he’d be a superstar of epic proportions if he delivered some sexual domination as masterfully as he manages physical domination.
Most of the first fall reminds me of watching two puppies tussle. Picture a big, thick, Rottweiler puppy who keeps getting put on his back by a Jack Russell puppy. Cody clearly doesn’t quite know yet what to do with all those muscles and the power that they imply, and despite managing a rally late in the fall which features a sweetly satisfying lift and slam of Brody to his back, Cody is clearly destined in this fall to submit to Brody’s persistent, stubborn dominance.
These boys start out a little quiet for my tastes, but both of them finally work into the cocky banter that makes this story fly for me. In his on top moments, Cody is snarling and demanding. “Get up! Give up! Had enough?” When Brody has rolled the Rottweiler puppy to his back once more, he growls through gritted teeth, “How do you like me now, huh!?” In response, the sculpted muscles of Cody strain and flex as he snarls, “Pussy!”
I genuinely appreciate my growing collection of RockHardWrestling downloads. Watching the production and the wrestlers develop over the past several months has been fascinating and exciting. What remains weak in this particular match is the wrestling polish on the bodybuilder rookie. Cody’s forearms across Brody’s chest are weak-ass, and he pretty miserably telegraphs the choreography at the very end of this match. What does work for me here is a laundry list of delights. As always, Brody smoothly transitions from hold to punishing hold, manipulating and controlling the bodybuilder’s limbs and joints at every turn with style and confidence. Brody geneously wraps the hunk in the ropes, displaying Cody’s gorgoues, rippled torso for us until the bodybuilder submits and Brody flexes a most-muscular over top of him. Cody pulls off some happy moments himself, including some great slams of his much lighter opponent and some convincing use of his muscled body as a battering ram. He finally deploys his superior strength by wrapping those tree trunks that he calls his thighs around Brody’s relatively pencil-size legs and punishing him sternly, though he hasn’t figured out how to piece together a climactic finisher yet. The production quality is top-notch, high definition, beautiful camera angles, and the music is a little less intrusive than in past bouts (though I’ve personally not had a problem with it either way).
In all, this is another fine match from the baby company. Cody’s performance is uneven, but Brody is smooth and on target as always from start to finish. Finally, this delivery format is simply my very favorite. Instant download-to-own, over 16 and a half minutes, and the price is right. I’m hoping Brody is continuing to offer wrestling clinics to the muscle boys of RHW, and that the performances will continue to improve. He’s a delight to watch as he dismantles, disables, and humiliates another muscle-armored hopeful.

Narcissus

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According to Greek mythology, Narcissus was a devastatingly beautiful and proud mortal man who disdained those who loved him. When Narcissus glimpsed his own reflection in a pool, he was captured by the sight of his own beauty and slowly died unable to tear himself away from adoring his image.
It’s an ancient tale that survives today because it says something that’s timeless. Narcissus is a morality tale, most genuinely, warning against excessive pride and self-worship. On another level, it’s a story about the way things are at the heart of the human condition. We praise beauty. We idolize and idealize the beautiful. We worship beauty, and those in possession of an overabundance of socially reinforced standards of beauty fail to surprise us when they are clearly wrapped up in their worshiping within themselves that which others prize, praise, and worship in them.
Confession: I’m a sucker for a hardbodied narcissist who’s completely in love with himself. Sadly, that’s true in my personal life, but more to the point, it’s definitely true when it comes to the homoerotic wrestling that I dig. Self-worship is a succinct, well-trod tale in the wrestling ring. The opening scene of the narcissist soaking in the gorgeousness of his own reflection sets the table for countless battles. Sometimes the challenger arrives equally as self-adoring, and the match ensues as each adonis defends his claim to embody the pinnacle of beauty. The banter that centers around, “sure, you’re not so bad, but take a look at me!” works to establish the characters, define the terms of the contest, and begs the question of who the objective observer would select as the most beautiful of the beautiful. A delightful alternate ending to this tale is when both beauties are so evenly matched that slowly, eventually, the competition turns into mutual muscle worship.
Sometimes, the narcissist is met by a challenger less concerned with his own self-worship and more incited by contempt to attack and tear down the work of art before him. The battle is its own morality tale, determining the superiority of the aesthete or the athlete. When the phrase “pretty boy” pops up frequently in the ring, we see the psychological struggle to determine who is the superior man: the one with the stunning proportions and classic beauty, or the one built of rougher stuff filled with determination to mess up his opponent’s beautiful face. This story works swinging either direction, as far as I’m concerned. I’m no less a fan of the pretty boy beatdown than I am of the I-told-you-so narcissist victory.
The narcissist in the ring is a character that typically works for me. It’s probably a profound character flaw in me (which would explain a lot of my dating history), that I find a man deeply in love with the sight of his own beautiful body incredibly arousing. Now I’m completely engaged by a muscled stud who poses proudly to awe and intimidate his opponent (and you and me). But the hot side of beef who is stunningly beautiful, knows he’s stunningly beautiful, and just a little awed and aroused by his own stunning beauty, is a character I’m tragically drawn to.
I think it’s no coincidence that both Lon Dumont (my reigning favorite homoerotic wrestler – nonpornboy) and Mr. Joshua Goodman (top contender for Lon’s title) are fantastic self-worshipers. Lon’s compact, competition-ready musclebod is sufficient to give me whiplash, but Lon’s delight in looking at himself propels him to the heights of homoeroticism in my book. Mr. Joshua is probably even more the epitome of the narcissist enamored his own gorgeous, crafted muscles and overabundant endowments. Win or lose, Joshua’s role is the stunning muscle stud who genuinely, passionately adores his own fantastic body and is ready to deploy his painstakingly toned muscles to demand from any opponent their concession to his superior beauty. It’s not hard for me to imagine that when Joshua’s eyes are closed in that moment just before orgasm, the image that fills his imagination is his own classically proportioned naked body.

I believe my pathological arousal for a self-loving hardbody probably also explains why Rafe Sanchez manages to keep rising to the surface of the homoerotic wrestling matches in my cue. Any and every match that I’ve seen with Rafe prominently features a healthy dose of Rafe self-love. Even when his opponent’s engage in Rafe-worship, it seems to only fuel Rafe’s arousal even more as he marvels at every beautiful inch (and he has plenty of inches) of his hot, tight body. And the more Rafe adores his gorgeous proportions and flexed muscles, the more I’m entirely at his mercy.

Even short of full on, characterological narcissism, just a lingering gaze a muscled wrestler gives his body is a major plus in my book. A classic babyface hero who can’t help but pause and marvel at his own massive bicep (Mitch Colby, I’m looking at you) is astonishingly erotic. In fact, I’d say that what gets plenty of people in the world diagnosed with a personality disorder is the very same thing that puts at least 75% of the homoerotic into my favorite homoerotic wrestling. So bring on the self-worshiping body beautiful muscle hunks in awe and obviously aroused by the sight of their own stunning bodies… I just can’t help myself.

15 Minutes

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I retitled this post several times before finally settling on “15 Minutes.” I also considered, “Burning Bright,” and “Here, There and Everywhere.” What to say to capture the moment of Rio Garza’s presence in the homoerotic wrestling world? From webcam boy to performer for every other wrestling company on the planet, Rio’s certainly come a long way.
I’m frequently chastised for overanalyzing the homoerotic wrestling industry. I don’t mind being chastised, though (throw in some bodyscissors and I quite enjoy it, in fact), so I’m going to arm-chair theorize with all due humility to those who actually produce homoerotic wrestling and perform as wrestlers (for whom I have nothing but respect). I think sweet, sexy, Latin heartthrob Rio Garza is presently significantly overexposed. After appearing in a head-to-head beatdown at the hands of Aryx Quinn last October for BG East, in April, he was the centerpiece of Can-Am’s Arena 3, getting double-teamed by a couple of Can-Am regulars before reprising his BGE 1-on-1 with Aryx.
July 2 of this year, Can-Am began releasing stills in their MAX forum of Rocking Rio, featuring Jobe Zander beating Rio this way and that on the mats. Not more than a day earlier, BGE began sales of The Breaking Point, with Jobe working over Rio’s crotch in the ring for their “sexier” chapter. It doesn’t appear you can pick up a DVD of Rocking Rio yet, but MAX subscribers can watch the first 3, 6-minute or so segments of the match in serial form.
Just 7 days ago, BGE posted a mid-summer between-catalog release of Rio in a forced to flex Undergear 16 tussle on the mats with the remarkable talents of Reese Wells. You may recall that these same two wrestlers met under different names just past January, battling in the ring as Ray Martinez and Brody Hancock for RockHardWrestling.


July 2, the same day that Rocking Rio pics were released on Can-Am Max, Can-Am also released preview pics of Hollywood Fight Club 3, again mixing up Rio with Jobe, Aryx, a handful of the usual Can-Am suspects, and a surprise Can-Am debut for BGE (and Thunder’s Arena) veteran Christopher Bruce.

In short, everywhere I turn I bump into another wrestling product with Rio, frequently pitted against the exact same wrestlers. From a complete outsider’s perspective, it appears to me that both Can-Am and BG East seem to hire their performers and film them in several matches in short order. BG East appears to then pace their releases, tantalizing fans with taste after taste over the period of months or a year. Can-Am’s strategy seems frequently to be to pump out multiple products with the same constellation of performers, saturating the market for the flavor of the month (see also Rusty Stevens, David Taylor, etc). I’m sure either strategy sells products. I don’t really think it’s a problem to see wrestlers working for competing operations (not at all, actually). What does seem to me to be a problem is when competing operations pump out the same wrestlers competing with the same opponents and releasing multiple products basically at the same time. Case in point: Rio Garza. For major Rio fans, this is probably hog heaven. Personally, I’m overdosing on Rio. There isn’t much opportunity for character or skill development when all his performances hit the market simultaneously. It’s just a Rio smorgasbord, well-suited to gluttons but perhaps not as pitched for wrestling kinksters more broadly. It’s like when Tommy Lee Jones was appearing in every third major movie to come out in 1993 and 1994 (stay with me on this analogy): sure, he’s an incredible actor, but when he’s everywhere in everything, what’s remarkable about his talent doesn’t seem so special.


Anyway, my very humble opinion is that Rio Garza is overexposed and in danger of burning out his market power. More troubling is the sense that competing wrestling companies are intentionally diluting the market by pumping out identical pairings at the same time. Suddenly, it’s as if there are only a half a dozen talented, beautiful homoerotic wrestlers to choose from. I vote for a multitude of wrestling operations to produce a variety of products featuring a diversity of beautiful and talented men. I also vote (with my dollars) for pacing, character and skill development, and more ring action… but that’s just my taste.

I’m a Twit

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It appears that I am crawling on my hands and knees into another corner of the virtual time-suck of social networking. I’ve had a Twitter account for a while, but haven’t managed to figure out what to do with it, really. It’s like a pet. Sure, there’s initial excitement and interest, but when that wears off, will I still feed it and clean up after it when it defecates in the back yard?

Okay, so perhaps the pet metaphor is a bit overdrawn. In any case, having released myself from the sense of obligation to post daily here starting last month (though I’ve pretty much been doing that anyway), I’ve reconsidered Twitter. The medium is probably completely passé now. Being a chronically late-adopter, I’m accustomed to running into the party just as everyone’s moving on to the next big scene. But I’m twitting now, and having a little fun with it.
I’ve set up my blog updates to be uploaded automatically. I’ll be posting about my writing projects, both in-process and recent uploads. I’ll probably try to restrict my political opinions to Twitter, in order to restrain myself to 140 characters and perhaps not blow a gasket, as I’m prone to do when I froth at the mouth, incensed at social injustice.
I’ve already found a few gems through Twitter that make me happy. The triathalon pic of Chris Cuomo and his ready-for-primetime pecs that I posted yesterday was a Twitter-find. This video of Carter Evans reporting for CNN popped up via a Twitter feed, and as readers of my wrestling fiction know well, I’m a major, huge, let-me-be-your-groupie fanatic of CNN heart throb Carter Evans and his bedroom eyes and deviated septum. The next time we see Carter do a report on swimming pools, though, he really needs to be wearing swimwear to lend credibility to the report.


At the moment, almost no one is following me on Twitter. I’m not surprised, since I’ve been actually using it only recently. But in case you’re a twitterer, look me up. I just showed up to the party, and I’ve found myself standing alone in the corner with drink in hand and no one schmooze with.