Classic Tales

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The double bicep pose: a prerequisite for homoerotic domination hotness. Deconstructing (as is my way), the double bicep is an interesting statement. The explicit point, of course, is to call attention to the size of a man’s biceps. Sweet muscleboy Gary Myers, for example, sported stunning, double-peaked biceps bigger around than his neck. There’s a simple, primal aesthetic to the double bicep. When a hard hunk has the guns and proportions, there’s an amazing, powerful symmetry that’s simply beautiful. These are muscles that have been crafted and carved with insane amounts of sweat and tears and self-worship. A classic double bicep can simply say: stand back and be awed.
Making a run to strip Rusty Stevens of the title of my favorite homoerotic wrestling pornboy, Mitch Colby frequently illustrates that a double bicep can communicate much more than just aesthetics. Not that Mitch’s body shouldn’t be under glass, but with his cock planted across his opponent’s chin and his knees pinning his opponent’s arms to the ground, Mitch lifts his arms and crunches out a double bicep to make a statement: I’m your superior. Mitch’s softballs attached high on his upper arm drive home the point of his scrap with his young challengers. His gorgeously tanned, fantastically toned muscles will, without fail, put a lesser man on his back. The gloating look on Mitch’s face in this pic is priceless. You’re owned, kid, he’s saying. And these are the muscles that broke you and made you mine.

Unlike the victory double bi, the buddy double bi seems like it’s frequently the last moment of dignity for a couple of hardbody faces heading into a world of hurt. Freakishly stunning Tyrell Tomsen and his short-lived partnership with Jimmy Gee is a recent case in point. We don’t have to even know who their opponents are to take a look at this pre-match pose and predict that these boys are going to be humiliated. The double bis telegraph the approaching story line. Massive mountain of muscle, Tyrell, is demigod anchor to this tag team. Jimmy, who’s a bit softer and sporting decidedly less impressive guns than in prior outings, is destined to be the weakest link. The double biceps are ostensibly the display of power and confidence here, but the whole text tells a different story, including vulnerability and an inevitable date with humiliated destruction.
I’ve been enjoying the forced flex in more and more recent products out of BGE. Lon Dumont, who must be worshiped in more matches to come, made an over-the-top homoerotic masterpiece with his psychic humiliation of Eddy Rey, forcing the bigger man to flex on-command in submission. Brooklyn Bodywrecker had the same tool in his arsenal of destruction, when he broke cocky hardbody Mr. Joshua Goodman to pieces. The double bicep here is no longer about victory or confidence, but about humiliated defeat. Joshua stepped into the ring banking on his muscles to power down on BBW (the silly, silly fool), so in victory, BBW forces a decimated Joshua to flex. Behind the nearly unconscious loser (and I mean that lovingly, Mr. Joshua), BBW crunches out his own double bi, illustrating that despite not having quite as smooth, ripped, or classically pretty a muscle body, he has exactly what it takes to hammer down on a muscleboy, strip him naked, and heartlessly taunt us by refusing to let us see Mr. Joshua’s owned goods.

Ultimately, the double bicep is always a complicated story of strength and vulnerability. It’s a primal display of power to intimidate would-be challengers. At the same time, the class double bicep pose stretches out and exposes the rest of the muscled body. This isn’t a defensive position by any means. As repeated maneuvers in the homoerotic ring illustrate, a strutting double bicep leaves a cocky stud vulnerable to a strike to the crotch, a surprise full nelson from behind, or an attack on the exposed core. So in the end, the musclegod who pulls off the double bicep tells a fantastically woven tale of power and vulnerability, beauty and savagery, the promise of victory and the haunting foreshadowing of potentially being owned and displayed like a tantalizing piece of meat.

Newsboys

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I’ve been sorely missing a newsboy crush to obsess over ever since Chris Cuomo got booted off of GMA and sent to virtual-Siberia to work on 20/20. I’m still bitter, but I’ve given up on my boycott of Good Morning America. None of the morning news programs are giving me any real eye candy I want to ogle, so I’m surfing them all most mornings, waiting for the breakout hunk destined to make it onto my morning news menu. I still get my daily dose of Carter Evans. His savagely deviated septum, puppy dog eyes, yankable hair and badboy smirk still send tingles in all the right places. For all the above reasons, it’s no wonder that Carter has appeared in more of my homoerotic wrestling fiction than any other character. I’m hot for my newsboy crushes.
Which is why I’ve been so disappointed with the scarcity of hot hunks telling me all about the world as they think I should believe it to be. Imagine my ecstasy, therefore, in stumbling across Matt Gutman of ABC news, most recently reporting regularly on the oil spill in the Gulf of Mexico. Say hello to my newest newsboy crush!

Hello, Matt! Breathtakingly gorgeous, Matt makes my heart skip a beat every time I see him. Smooth, sexy, dark curly hair, dimples, angelic little badboy eyes… this is a man destined to appear in a fictional homoerotic wrestling match near you.
Mmmmm… I’m seriously jonesin’ for more Matt. He’s been a utility player for ABC for a while. At appears that they plucked him from the Jerusalem Post and made him their mid-East correspondent. Somehow, they translated that expertise to covering the Gulf of Mexico oil spill (I suppose it’s the “oil” angle).

Whatever act of God brought this handsome stunner into my living room, I’m smitten. If he has half a brain, he’ll surely be skyrocketing in the consumer-based news world. I’ll buy whatever he’s selling.

Battles

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Happy Memorial Day! It’s a little obligatory these days to “support our troops,” but honestly, I’m awed and humbled by the memory of all those who have fought and died in service to their country.

Still, the thought of eager young men dying in the meat grinder of perpetual geopolitical pissing contests seems like such a waste. Bright-eyed 18 year old studs convinced of their invincibility shouldn’t be dressed up in scratchy uniforms and propped up in front of approaching bullets. They should be stripped and thrown into full-contact match-ups in order to do what the young bucks of most mammals do: compete against one another to prove their virility.
Seriously, I think the first to the front lines in any war should be the policy makers that decide that we have no option but to take up arms. The people who vote to authorize force, perhaps in the sincere belief that we have no option, should be sincere enough to be first in line to face the consequences. This would mean, pretty much by definition, that our front lines would be populated by a crowd of mostly middle-aged, pot-bellied white guys. In turn, this would leave our strapping young, naive, hormone-charged hardbodies for the battle that they were hardwired to engage in: non-lethal tests of strength and domination in order to bear evidence of the size of their genitals, their likelihood to contribute good breeding stock, and their ability to defend hearth and home from predators.

Classic AMG images of just this story never fail to please me. AMG always told the tale of boys being boys, engaging in naked/nearly naked combat with one another. Two young bucks puff up their chests, their eyes roaming up and down their opponents assessing the scope of the challenge in front of them. They strip out of their clothes to free themselves for the full range of motion that they may need to secure victory. Both brash, bold, gorgeous young hunks circle one another, both battlers sincerely convinced that they will overcome their challenger and prove themselves stronger, fiercer, more clever and more determined. Before the first touch of skin-on-skin, in the fraction of the second before they collide, grasping and twisting, in that instant before the battle is actually consummated, they are primal: youthful males announcing their entry into adult mating rituals.
Some hair pulling, bodyscissoring, and humiliating grinding of face to crotch, and one man has proven his mettle, dominating his opponent until he submits in body and spirit. That’s the battle of the ages for which hard, blustering, invincible young studs should be reserved.

Ranging Tastes

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Despite what you may have concluded, I am not a body fascist. True enough, I wear out the keys on my keyboard that spell “m-u-s-c-l-e-g-o-d.” It’s also true that nine times out of ten the men who appear (naked) in my erotic fantasies are ripped and toned, with huge shoulders, mounding pecs, narrow waists, muscled asses and thick, powerful thighs. There’s absolutely nothing wrong with that formula.

But it’s not like anything less is mincemeat. In fact, there are a lot of beautiful male bodies that can rev my engine in a heartbeat that have nothing to do with bouncing pecs. Russell Tovey is a case in point. I’ve gushed about tasty morsel Russell before. Superherofan just capped some tasty pics of my favorite werewolf. This is not a gym bunny body. He’s not shredded or vascular. And he’s spot-on erotic-fantasy gold, exactly as he is (well, particularly when he is naked).
The boyish face on a hot, manly body is particularly hot. There’s a sense of superficial vulnerability that makes me imagine him a pretty boy battler with a wicked sadistic streak. I enjoyed tossing Russell and his co-star Aidan Turner into a pro-ring to settle a score with a couple of the boys from True Blood in my homoerotic celebrity wrestling fiction. It’s a match-up to determine who’s got the goods to sell another werewolf and vampire production in a world crowded with them these days. It’s an ugly fight in which Russell’s fantastically prominent ears are put to good use on several occasions.
True enough. I love some thick, pumped meat bulging in all the right places. But musclegods are far from the only men who populate my erotic fantasies. A big eared, boyishly dimpled Britboy can buy and sell me just about any day, particularly in union jack wrestling trunks getting double-teamed in the corner with a dirty ref not paying attention.

Too Much of a Fantastic Thing

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I’m in major holiday-weekend barbecue zone right now. I’m not sure that I’ll even be able to manage to maintain my once a day posting. I’ll do my best for those of you who need a break from the beers, backyards, and poppies this Memorial Day weekend.

My brief posting for today is mostly just an opportunity to drool over my reigning favorite homoerotic wrestling pornboy, Rusty Stevens. Some of you may have noted that yesterday’s post won’t allow comments. That’s because the persistent, vile phisher who keeps trying to post malware links in comments to this blog is at it again. When I went to delete the comment, I mistakenly hit “publish.” Now I don’t know how to delete a published comment. Rather than risk someone stumbling across it, I just closed down comments entirely for that post and hid what was mistakenly posted.
In case you’re dying to get in your 2 cents on the wonders that are Rusty Stevens, I thought I’d just post a few more tantalizing images and leave the comments open. I also wanted to pass along this bizarrely fantastic story (at least from my point of view) that Rusty had to be rushed to the hospital with priapism from the set of a production he was starring in outside of Miami earlier this year. I’m desperate to hear that this whole thing happened when he and Mitch Colby met on the mats in Florida, and Rusty found himself so aroused by his #1 contender that his erection raged on with a mind of its own.
Hell, that fictional backstory alone earns Mitch some momentum in dethroning Rusty. Rusty better watch his back, and apparently he might want to lay off the viagra next time he’s finding himself scissored between Mitch’s powerful thighs.

Making Me a Believer

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Joe at Ringside at Skull Island recently noted that, if stuck on a desert island, he would simply have to have WiFi access to Naked Kombat in order to survive. Specifically, he calls out Rusty Steven’s oil match with Tommy Defendi as foundational to the wrestling kink ordered universe (okay, I’m taking major license with Joe’s eloquent words… read them for yourself for the real deal). In any case, although I’ve written about this match before, Joe’s musings sent me back to appreciate it all over again (thanks, Joe!).

Rusty is continuing to sit pretty atop the standings as my favorite homoerotic wrestling pornboy, just like he sits pretty atop Tommy’s face throughout much of their match. I think the image of Rusty’s gorgeous ass planted on Tommy’s face as Rusty tortures the kid’s cock and balls surely must be evidence of the existence of intelligent design. The alignment of so many perfect elements simply couldn’t have happened by chance: Rusty’s fantastic ass, Tommy’s handsomely bearded face, the oil, the cock torture, the tattoos, all caught on tape… This was simply meant to be.
Rusty’s performance should be referenced in the definition of the term “to manhandle.” He is one massive bundle of muscle and sheer will, tossing Tommy around like a sack of potatoes (a very, very hot sack of potatoes). When Rusty is pressing out of a tight spot, that fantastic guttural roar emerging from deep in his chest, I swear that sound all by itself can make me pre-cum.
No one, but NO ONE rides his beaten man like a pony quite like Rusty. The humiliation and complete ownership make me light-headed. The “rules” of NK leave it up to the victor to do what he will with the loser. Rusty, being the deserving champion he is, exercises such exquisite homoerotic domination, literally riding his man like a domesticated pack animal. Tommy, like all of Rusty’s conquests on NK, clearly resent his humiliated state. He performs reluctantly, allowing this god of a man to ridicule him because this is what he signed up for. The glimpse that this “sex round” offers into Rusty’s kinky mind is absolutely priceless. What would you do with a handsome muscle stud at your complete mercy for any sexual gratification you can imagine, Rusty? Why, Bard, I’ll ride him like a pony, verbally beat him into humiliated submission just as I beat him into physical submission, and work his body from every angle possible to the end that I (and you) reach the height of ecstatic climax. Awesome, Rusty. You are, indeed, the man.
The last bit of this match-up leaves me stunned. How could it get even more wrestling-kinktastic? Well, Bard, watch me scissor the kid’s neck between my legs as we both stroke ourselves to a gasping explosion as I toy with Tommy’s airway. Holy. Hell. Thank you, whatever divinity brought together these over-the-top perfect elements to create such an exquisite moment of wrestling kink mastery. I am a believer.

Value Added: Rumors and Fantasies

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Who’s getting a little damp fantasizing about the rumors that Daniel Craig has been seen at a gay bar, and then outside a gay bar making out with his buddy? I realize you can’t see it, but my hand is stretched enthusiastically overhead. Frankly, it all looks like catty bitches spreading rumors in order to generate advertising dollars. I’m highly suspicious that studpuppy Daniel has actually spent much time at all with his tongue down another man’s throat. It’s a pleasing image, mind you. I’m just suspicious.

At least when I put in print homoerotic fantasies about Daniel Craig, I’m clear that it’s fiction. Daniel is one of the undefeated titans in my homoerotic wrestling fiction. He hasn’t shown up on the mats in quite a while, but he remains one of my favorite characters to write. Daniel’s over-the-knee backbreaker applied to Christian Bale, stroking Christian hard and then clawing his testicles harder, is a favorite image in my mind. Another fond mental picture is Daniel’s naked musclebutt planted across Hugh Jackman’s face as the Brit claws at the Aussie’s pecs. Good times.
So, just to be clear, all of that is fiction. It didn’t happen. Perhaps I wish it would, but it’s all a product of my imagination. What’s a fact is that Daniel Craig is just about the sexiest hunk of man meat on the big screen, for my money. And picking up on my latest obsession, Daniel with a full beard works for me big time. The salt and pepper is fantastic. His ice blue eyes somehow look even more fluorescent when he’s sporting facial hair.
Still, Daniel with a judicious coverage of scruff actually works just a little better for my tastes. If I’m going to picture being his buddy, backed against a wall on a late, LA night, with Daniel pressing his thick pecs and swelling crotch into me as he leans in with those pouty lips, then I’ll take him with a couple days growth. This is fiction, after all.

What Turned Me Gay (again, not really)

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I’m not sure why I’m strolling down memory lane so much lately. Perhaps it’s a desperate attempt to retreat from the current demands of my life. In any case, I had a completely out of the blue epiphany yesterday. Hands down, undeniably, I’m absolutely convinced of it: Steve Bond turned me gay.

Steve was the flavor of the month right in my most impressionable adolescent years (aren’t they all, really?). I saw him splashed across magazine covers all over the place for a brief moment in time. It was around the time he was on General Hospital. I wasn’t familiar with him from there, though. I knew him as the jaw-dropping adonis showing up everywhere I looked on the newsstand, making me hard as granite and drooling like a Saint Bernard.
Oddly enough, I think the only acting work I ever saw him in was an episode of Matlock. Holy shit, that’s embarrassing to confess. Yes, for a period of time I watched Matlock. No, I’m not old enough to be your grandfather (bite me). But seriously, I have a crystal clear image of the gorgeous coverboy on Matlock, if I’m not mistaken, shirtless. IMDB confirms that this isn’t just a brain fart. He did appear in an episode of Matlock around 1987.
IMDB also tell me that sex-on-a-stick Steve was a Chippendale dancer. Yes. Yes, indeed. And IMDB also gives the fascinating detail that he was born with the name Shlomo Goldberg in Haifa. Sweet God. It’s no wonder this man snatched up my adolescent imagination and made me worship him with mindless abandon. Perhaps the name Shlomo doesn’t do it for you. I realize I may be entirely on my own on this one. But that’s over-the-top, nipple licking, cock massaging, (his) knees across my shoulders, homoerotic to me.
I owe my firstborn (okay, I think I’ve given that one away multiple times… let’s say my fifth born) to the Shrine to the Soap Hunks for cataloging precisely the images that I remember capturing me by the cock as a teenager. Just browsing through these pics makes me feel 14 years old again, discovering that I am immediately weak in the knees and hard in several other places at the sight of a gorgeous, muscled hardbody.
Despite the fact that I totally knew I was gay long before I caught pin-up boy Steve’s stunning, provocatively posed body, I’ll stick to my guns on this one. If there was any chance that I was going to grow out of my Muscle & Fitness collecting, erotic obsession with muscled hunks and instead turn out straight, Steve Bond put a stop to that singlehandedly. Yes, indeed. Steve Bond turned me gay (thanks, Shlomo).

Bard’s Ass Gets Kicked (again)

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At this very moment, I am once again getting my ass kicked.

Sadly, so sadly, it’s not the hot, erotic kind of ass-kicking. It’s the suffocate you with paperwork ass-kicking. It’s the kind of ass-kicking that comes from doing the same, tedious task over and over until you’re so limp you worry that you’ll never be able to get hard again. It’s the cold-ice down your pants kind of ass-kicking that leaves your testicles shrunken and your eyes watering.
I can think of many, many more ass-kickings I’d much rather be enduring right now.

What Turned Me Gay (again, not really)

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So this could count for any number of regular themed posts on this blog. Bodies over time. Hunks I want to pec claw until they scream. But most genuinely, it has to be said, Steve Guttenberg turned me gay.
Steve’s gorgeous, hairy pecs appeared throughout the late eighties and early nineties in movie after movie. It was seeing him shirtless and wet in Cocoon that turned a certain impressionable adolescent into a hunk-lusting lover of men.
Like so many of my favorite fantasy men, Steve is sexier by a multiple of 20.5 (precisely) as a result of being both a hot, hardbodied hunk and a smart ass class clown. There’s something disarming about a comedian-by-day that leaves me helpless to do anything other than worship him when he’s a pec-tacular body-beautiful by night.

Squarehippies is reposting some pics from Dreamcaps of Steve still working those muscled, hairy pecs even today. This is a body that has held up extremely well over time, and in fact I think Steve at 52 offers some fantasy delights that Steve at 27 didn’t even bring to the table. Now… then… anytime in-between – those fantastic, broad, defined furry pecs are screaming out for some serious punishment-turned-pleasure.

So perhaps Steve Guttenberg didn’t exactly turn me gay. But my moments of pec-fetish even today have got to be traced to the beauty of his recurring bare torso during my adolescence.