Tease Me Good, Tease Me Bad

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I don’t think of myself as a naive consumer of homoerotic wrestling. I understand that many of the boys who strip to next to nothing and throw each other about for our viewing pleasure aren’t, themselves, gay. I realize that even some of the gay ones aren’t up for the full frontal fun that makes homoerotic wrestling particularly homoerotic. Hell, I suspect some of these boys are probably hater-hypocrites (not that I’m naming names… just statistically speaking it seems likely). But the boys that taunt and tease, shove their packages in our faces and never, ever actually display the goods are just driving me crazy lately.

Driving me crazy in a good way is someone frequently in my crosshairs for being oddly demure for drawing so much attention to his package. BG East’s Mr. Joshua Goodman could seriously poke an eye out with what he’s packing in those trunks (which might be worth it).

Mr. Joshua has built a career on the cock tease. Surely his most reliable move throughout his career has been sticking his hand down his trunks to rearrange the jewels. Contents that big most certainly will have shifted in flight, so it’s no wonder Joshua needs to repack the luggage on a regular basis.
Despite the infuriating tease, Mr. Joshua has other assets to keep me entertained and string me along, holding out hope after hope for a gander at the moneymaker. His roguishly cocky banter, his stunning six pack, and his mastery at telling the story of his awed self-worship keep me coming back over and over, despite my always being disappointed. If anyone is worried that we’ll lose interest in Mr. Joshua once he’s finally relieved our frustrated tension and displayed his bulging manhood, please, please trust me. I’ll personally buy two copies of any product that features Mr. Joshua setting free the dragon that’s always fighting to escape the cage of his trunks

My second case in point is Rio Garza, who, I think, is making me crazy in a bad way. Can-Am’s pay site, Can-Am Max has uploaded an online exclusive clip of about 4 minutes of Rio go-go-dancing and stripping. The stripping ends, though, with sweet Rio tugging at his trunks, but never actually showing the goods.

Now I’m a well-documented Rio convert, despite the risk he runs of being a bit overexposed in an underexposed kind of way. From out of nowhere, it’s hard to shake a homoerotic wrestling stick without smacking Rio in the face in multiple production companies (not that I’m advocating smacking Rio with a stick… unless that’s what he’s into).
When he made the jump into the Can-Am world, I held out hope that his new “exclusive” contract would combine the balls-out eroticism of Can-Am with the effortless Latino sizzle of Rio. I’ve been watching the serial release of Rio’s debut with the Can-Am boys in Arena 3, and I have to say, so far, the combination appears to combine the playing-it-gay modesty of Rio with the sometimes less than stellar wrestling quality of Can-Am.

I’m not turning into a hater here, by any means. I really, really root for Rio to make a boatload of cash on giving his gay fans just enough to make us pull out our credit cards, without compromising his integrity. That said, I’m not in the market for a go-go boy solo show that I could find for just a cover charge at the gay club down the street. I like beautiful boys, clearly. But that certainly isn’t the extent or scope of my kink, by any means. Rio could burn through my good will, I think, if he both continues to tease and fails to develop his wrestling chops. He doesn’t have to do a back flip splash off the top turnbuckle or anything. But absent some more naked flesh, I need Rio to tell me an entertaining homoerotic story to keep me coming back for more.

Am I being too harsh on our boy? I know a couple of you, in particular, will think so. I’m sticking to my guns here, though. Rio could definitely take some tutorials from the cock-tease extraordinaire, Mr. Joshua (I’d pay to see that). Let’s see the full monty, Rio, or invest the time in some serious wrestling training. Preferably, both, but absolutely essentially, at least one of the two. Otherwise, I’ll see you dancing the pole down the street.

Newsboys

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Okay, I know. You don’t have to say it. Two posts in a row on my newest newsboy crush, Matt Gutman, may be a little obsessive. Then again, I haven’t had a newsboy crush to gush about in so long, and it’s my blog, damn it, and if I want to write love letters to Matt and dot my i’s with a heart, then damn it, that’s what I’m going to do.

So, I ♡ Matt. I ♡ him even more after seeing this clip of him getting hassled as he tried to file a report on the gulf coast oil slick. The BP boy off camera needs to get his ass kicked… by Matt… after he rips off his shirt and starts talking serious trash.


When I fantasize about my favorite newsboy crushes wrestling on the beach, I tend to set the scene on the beige sands of southern California, rather than the crude-oil soaked beaches of the devastated gulf coast. Matt staking out his claim and diplomatically but firmly making it clear that he’s not going to be intimidated from moving off his spot gets me just a little hot and bothered. Again, I just need to say, Matt needs to throw the punk ass hassling him off camera to the sand, shove his face in it until the kid chokes, and then slap on a camel clutch while the clean up crew take an on-the-clock break to laugh at him.
And I know that you don’t read this blog for commentary on world politics, but the dumbasses that drilled deep sea oil wells without a means of stopping the oil flow in the event of a catastrophic failure should also be slapped around hard… in prison.
Silver-lining: Matt Gutman hits the national news scene, his shirt unbuttoned far enough to see his sexy, scruffy chest. David Muir must be feeling the heat, as he unbuttons another button.

Newsboys

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I don’t want to toot my own horn. I much prefer someone else tooting my horn… preferably a dark haired, dimpled hot hunk of meat who can talk geopolitics.

Speaking of which, it seems I’m not alone, yet perhaps just a fraction ahead of the curve, in identifying newsboy Matt Gutman as an inevitable object of lust. I love to think of myself as a trendsetter. Hell, I’m going to go out on a limb and be an early adopter of this new-fangled gadget I’ve just heard about called a “cell phone.” I’ll let you know how it goes.
Back to my fingering of Matt Gutman as a newsboy hunk on the rise. Another blogger (3 days later… just sayin’…) suggests that sweet, swarthy Matt “looks like he’s ripped from the cover of Men’s Health or Muscle & Fitness.” Okay, I’ll give you Men’s Health… I’m not sure about Muscle & Fitness. I need to see him stripped down and oiled up (baby, not crude) to make that call. Seriously, I NEED to see him stripped down and oiled up.
Now I’m going to get NO work done for another hour or so with the fantasy of Matt Gutman stripped and oiled, damn it. In for a penny, in for a pound… just try to tell me that Matt and Carter Evans in pro boots and trunks in the ring wouldn’t just about be the sweetest newsboy match up since Carter busted Chris Cuomo’s nose on the beach and made the massive Italian scream (for new readers, note that all of that is fiction). Once Carter and Matt pull out the measuring stick and see who’s bigger, I’m thinking they’d make an absolutely mind-boggling tag team. If I can just find Chris a tag team, this would be a fantastic new chapter in their grudge saga. Maybe David Muir might be a little resentful of Matt’s skyrocketing stock…
So now I’m no good for at least another three hours…

Taking Time to Adjust

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True Blood Season 3 is rapidly approaching, and I’m already getting a little breathless. This interview of Joe Manganiello is pushing me into “swooning” territory. This is one huge, muscled, gorgeously bearded man discussing tackling people wearing only a sock on his cock. Get out of my way, Anna, because if you aren’t up for taking that hit, I am!!

Excuse me while I pick up my jaw and wipe the drool from my chin (and adjust my pants).
Is Alan Ball out there somewhere reading this blog? If not, I think he clearly should be. He’s so obviously one of us, and I mean that in every way possible.
So let’s just assume that Alan Ball is, in fact, reading this. In which case, I have to make a desperate plea for a rip-n-strip fight scene between Joe and Alexander Skarsgård for loser-gets-fucked/winner-gets-worshiped stakes. A 6’5″ bearded Italian American with slabs of muscle taking on a 6’4″ blond Swede oozing sexuality?
Excuse me, I need to adjust myself again.

Earning a Shot, continued

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Adam400m is back from vacationing in the Mediterranean, and he’s tanned and shredded to pieces. Seriously, I want to be on vacation, sunning on the beach, and see a body like this stroll by.
The last we left Adam, he was gaining the upper hand on his French muscle challenger, Yann.
Yann pounds his fist to the floor again and again, grunting in pain as Adam slowly twists his captured ankle, ripping the tendons in the Frenchman’s ankle and knee. Yann screams in pain at the sound of a sickening snap in his right knee, and Adam releases the ankle and climbs to his feet.
“Looks like you bit off a little more than you can chew, mate,” Adam chuckles, flexing his massive biceps and glancing at SteelMuscleGod, still leaning against a nearby wall observing the action.

Reaching down and grabbing Yann’s injured right leg, Adam pulls it off the floor and swiftly delivers a savage kick to the back of the damaged knee. Yann screams in pain, rolling to his side and yanking his ankle out of his opponent’s grasp. As Adam approaches again, Yann tries to crawl away, limping awkardly on his left knee to protect his damaged right leg.

“Where you squirming to, pencil boy?” Adam taunts. As Adam leans over again, Yann rolls to his right side and swings a precisely placed left foot into his opponent’s groin. Adam gasps, clutching his speedo, and dropping clumsily to his knees.

Despite winding the Englishman, Yann is still in excruciating pain and left with only one working leg. He quickly scoots his back to the nearby wall and presses himself up against the wall until he was standing on his one good leg. “I never bite off more than I can chew,” he spits down at the back of Adam’s head.
Adam climbs to his feet as the Frenchman watches, leaning against the wall. Adam’s face is beet red with fury. “You’ll pay for that low blow, you piece of shit!” he screams, spit flying from his rabid mouth. He jumps to his feet and charges Yann. Just as he reaches him, Yann holds up his hands in fear. “Wait, wait!” he cries.
Adam pauses, his fury burning lower for an instant. Yann’s eyes nervously glance toward SteelMuscleGod across the room. In a whisper, Yann pleads with his opponent. “We’re both winded now. But together we can beat that pretender, and then settle things between us afterward.”

Adam smiles, contemplating the proposal. After a few seconds, he lifts his right arm over his head and crunches his ridiculously shredded obliques, his tongue sticking out absentmindedly. He checks himself out for several seconds, and then looks up at his challenger. “Funny thing is,” he says, “I don’t think I’m all that winded.”

Yann mutters over and over, “No… no… no…” as Adam approaches. Yann attempts a right hook, but Adam easily bobs out of the path of the swinging fist. He yanks Yann off the wall and wraps his arms around the Frenchman’s head, shoving his face into Adam’s powerful chest. Yann’s legs buckle underneath him, and he hangs suspended in his opponent’s crushing embrace. Yann’s face disappears between Adam’s huge pecs, as the Englishman smothers him in the rock hard crevices of his stunning body.

Message Received

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I got the message. I’ve been told in no uncertain terms lately that I should buckle down, get my work done, and finally finish the next match for the Secretarial Pool auditions.

Everyone has been genuinely respectful, not to mention patient, but there’s a little bit of a “tone” in the messages I’m getting lately.
A little less time on the blog, someone has suggested, in order to make time to finish my work and get back to the fiction. Time management… buckle down… nose to the grindstone, Bard.
My take away is that it’s great that people are anxious to see the next chapter in the auditions. When I started sharing my fiction about a year ago, I wasn’t sure anyone would be all that interested. So having people smack me around a little and remind me that they’ve been patiently waiting for the next match is a good news/bad news sort of scenario.

The good news is that you’re getting a kick out of my writing. The bad news is that when I’m swamped at work, you’re left waiting. But do understand: I get the message. I’m working my ass off, and looking forward to the much more enjoyable work of exercising my homoerotic wrestling kink imagination (and looking forward to more of your contributions to Sidelineland!).

Labors and Love

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I’ve finally had an opportunity to put some writing time in on the next Secretarial Pool audition match. You all have been both patient and gracious with my excuses for not posting in a more timely fashion. The primary excuse is that the work I do to pay the bills has swamped me lately. This blog and my wrestling fiction are entirely a labor of love (note, no ads, no donations accepted, just me and you having some fun considering what turns us on). Fortunately, I’m having a little more time for labors of love very recently. So I’ve been back to being immersed in considering every angle, muscle, and movement of the next two competitors for the Secretarial Pool audition: Sean Sullivan and Rafael Verga.

In the non-fiction world (if you can call the world of male modeling non-fiction), Sean Sullivan has been photographed both in huge, muscleboy fitness mode and in a somewhat slimmer, more artsy fashion mode. He’s worship-worthy in any case, particularly with those shiny gray eyes and his locks left long and curly. For the purposes of the Producer’s Ring, though, Sean is in his beefiest condition, massively muscled, pounding pecs, vascular cobra arms and traps nearly up to his ears.
Sean sees this competition as coming down to him and fellow fitness musclegod, Nick Auger. The rest of the fashion boys are just speed bumps in his way to the inevitable clash of the titans. Rafael, on the other hand, is determined to be no one’s speed bump.
A particular full frontal of Rafael has set my imagination on fire in the last couple of days, and I’m 100% certain that it will show up in the text of the match itself. Where Sean’s dominating strength is self-evident, Rafael’s capoeira could show up as the wild card in this match. Where do rhythm, balance and speed stack up against overwhelming power?
The more time I spend with Rafael (in my imagination), the more I’m struck by how ridiculously handsome he is. I don’t count either of these boys as pretty, and in particular I find Rafael’s face almost hyper-masculine.
I think that these are two hunks accustomed to being on top, in the saddle, and taking charge. Rafael, no less than Sean, is certain of the inevitability of his victory. Unlike the beginning of Nick and Jakub’s match, when you could sort of taste Jakub’s desperation in the air, both Rafael and Sean are unfailingly confident that they have something up their sleeves (and down their pants) that simply cannot be denied. Unstoppable force… immovable object… the only certainty here is that someone will be tamed, forced to submit, and if things are heading where I think they’re heading, surrendering in mind, body, and spirit.

What’s Mine is Mine

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I’m a glutton for punishment (like you didn’t know that). So despite feeling consistently disappointed (in decreasing amounts, though), I went to the well again with Rock Hard Wrestling. It was an impulse buy. Others who produce wrestling for you and me should take note. Instant downloads will totally score with people with poor impulse control. And there are plenty of us with poor impulse control and a credit card.

RHW’s most recent match stars Brody Hancock (aka Reese Wells in BGE world). Brody is the class in this operation. He has the moves and the salesmanship to tell a story, where many of the RHW boys have fallen a little flat. Brody faces off in this latest match with “teen bodybuilder” Troy Nelson.
They did not grow teenagers like this when I was a teenager. Sweet mother of God, Troy’s legs are awesome! I mean, literally, I’m awed! Massive quads, powerful calves, a muscle ass for days… this was simply not in the distribution of teenage bodies when I was too young to drink legally.
Troy is touted as the little brother of Cody, who appeared in the last release from RHW. I gave Cody and his opponent a pretty rough time of things when it comes to polish. With Brody in the ring, though, that is not a problem. Troy isn’t nearly as smooth and coordinated as Brody, but Brody makes this match work, regardless. That said, Troy does have some good timing. His repeated corner work on Brody is actually quite nice. Troy’s leg scissors on the skinny veteran are the appropriate climax of Troy’s offensive throughout. Watching Brody squirm, grunt, and thrash, captured between those tree trunks is seriously, seriously pleasing. Troy also entirely sells me at around 13:15 when he swoops in to position himself for a camel clutch. I swear I think he’s just fucking the whole sweet moment up like a dumb rookie, when out of the blue, he skillfully transitions to a rather wicked looking full nelson, prying Brody’s torso backward savagely. Also to his credit, when Troy is dropped for the second time (hell yes!) in an over-the-knee backbreaker across Brody’s thigh, either Troy seriously tapped into a new depth of salesmanship, or those gasps were some legitimate pain he was suffering (either way, kudos, rookie!).
The story line is sweet. Troy has apparently “borrowed” one of Brody’s singlets for the match, and Brody is therefore intent on punishing the thief and retrieving his belongings (for my version of this story line, you might try my Brad Rochelle v Tyrell Tomsen fictional short story in Sidelineland). Troy owns his role as the ring rookie nicely. He doesn’t pretend to be packing anything more than he’s got, and he works well with Brody who keeps the pace for both of them skillfully. I think Brody could use a wardrobe consultant. The redundant trunks puffing out underneath his skin tight blue trunks just look odd. The editing of this match is a little less crystal perfect than most of what I’ve consumed from RHW, but that’s shades of gray when you consider their production quality is way over the top in comparison to most. And, as always (and as advertised), the shot of Brody’s victory double bicep makes my eyes pop just a little. Where the hell does he hide those massive guns when he’s not posing in victory!? At just around 17 mintues of action, this match is one I’m happy to own (instantly).

Imagination Required

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I’m not sure why we needed an “American” version of the movie Death at a Funeral. The British version is just 3 years old. It was hilarious and quirky and… well, very British. Most importantly for my tastes, it starred Alan Tudyk (an American, by the way), getting involuntarily tweaked out on drugs and running naked on the rooftop. That, my friends, is a formula for a movie wanting to earn it’s way into my collection.
Sweet, ginger Alan is exactly what I want to see naked, soaked in a drug-induced sweat, and swinging his ass everywhere. There’s something about that man that makes him the stuff of homoerotic fantasy for me. The face and body are completely attackable (in the good way), but it’s the intelligence behind the eyes that turns him into an object of lust for me. I imagine him to be the sort of guy that, after wrestling him to a screaming submission, I’d like to just chat with about current events (both of us sweat-soaked, naked, and his head still captured in my figure-4 headlock).

The American version appears to be just about a screen-by-screen remake of the oh-so-recently made movie. James Marsden is the one ending up sweat-soaked and drug addled on the roof. By no means would I suggest that I wouldn’t like to see James stripped and shiny. Personally, I’d have preferred his nakedness to appear side-by-side with Hugh Jackman in an X-Men chapter, but whatever… James is a little obscenely cute-faced and beautifully shaped. Sure, I’ll be happy to see him naked on the roof.

But don’t expect me to be able to resist comparing him unfavorably to the joys that are Alan’s appearance in the original. Line the two of them up (on a roof, naked, sweat-soaked), and I’d have to say I’d kick James’ ass to the gutter for a chance at some full-contact throw down with Alan.

Is there so little imagination left in Hollywood that we have to “remake” widely available, already abundantly entertaining independent movies from elsewhere moments after they’re produced? Someone needs an injection of fresh imagination. For example, I can think of dozens of scenarios involving James Marsden sweat-soaked and naked that don’t require him appearing in a film originally produced just three years ago. For that matter, I’ve already cast Alan Tudyk in a homoerotic wrestling scenario, where he teams up with Nathan Fillion for some particularly sadistic action against the househubands, James Denton and Doug Savant. I need a producer…