How Does That Feel!?

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It’s cliche’, I know. But I can’t help myself but be sucked in when one wrestler snarls at his opponent, “How does that feel!?“

It’s not as if it’s a real question. It’s typically asked when one man is clearly suffering. The obvious answer is, “It hurts!” The question is rhetorical. It’s not asked in an effort to gather information, but to domineer. It’s a question intended to humiliate, to drive home the point that the suffering man is paid for and owned outright by his opponent. Asking the question, “how does that feel,” is about pointing out all that’s obvious here: I control you. Where your pain starts and stops is completely in my hands. I own your body, and once you acknowledge the foregone conclusion that you have no choice but submit to me, you’re entirely mine.
Let me just put it out there. When I’m watching a favorite homoerotic beat down and I hear the rhetorical question, “How does that feel,” I frequently answer. Out loud. Emphatically. As usual, even as I type this I wonder, “Am I just disclosing way too much?” Ah, what the hell. When I hear Cole or Mitch or Rusty or Derek snarl down at some muscled boy that they’ve just broken in body and spirit, asking him how it feels, I often answer, saying something like, “That feels fucking awesome!” I realize that they aren’t actually asking me, but that question can collapse the distance between entertainer and entertained for me, transporting me ringside where my muscle champion inflicts pain explicitly for my pleasure. Sure, he’s looking down into his opponent’s face as he crushes the suffering man’s balls beneath his feet, but his question is for me, “How does that feel, Bard?”
He’s digging his claws into the fantastically meaty pecs of his jobber boy, whose face is contorted with pain and near-sobs are wracking his body. And when he asks, “How does that feel?” he’s asking me, “Is this what you want to see? If I claw my fingers in deeper, how does that make you feel, Bard?”
It’s a contemptuous, domineering, humiliating throw away line that’s just meant to tell the story of one man’s complete domination. But when the fighter on top asks, “How does that feel,” the words frequently transport me ringside, where this muscle on muscle battle is being waged for my pleasure. The ars erotica of the beautiful body beatdown becomes more than just implicitly for my pleasure. The dispenser of punishment is considerately checking in with his patron. “How about if I twist his rippled body a few inches farther? What if I crank his neck until he cries. How does that feel, Bard?”
Feels fucking awesome, Mitch. Keep it up.

Pushing and pulling

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Whew! BGE finally put me out of my misery and delivered my copy of Tag Team Torture 12. I’ve been craving the second appearance of Lon Dumont for months now. All this pent up anticipation was making my right eye twitch. Needless to say, I was loaded for bear with a hair trigger as I ripped open the package and pressed play.
Lon impresses me even more in motion than his stunning photos from his tag team match. He is one tightly muscled package of tastiness. He and his partner, Chace LaChance, are both a little unnaturally tan, smooth as silk, and packed into their destined-to-job bright orange and metallic polka-dotted trunks impressively. Here’s the story as I see it: Two relative ring veterans (Donnie Drake and Lon… watch Lon in action and it’s evident he’s no rookie), are facing off against one another, each veteran bringing with him a protege/apprentice. Lon has the smooth moves, speed, and savvy to tie Donnie up in knots. Donnie has just enough savvy, dumb-fratboy cockiness, and overwhelming muscle mass to power out of any knot he gets tied into. So the story is mostly told in the boys on the side.

Lon brings to the ring Chace LaChance, who looks like he’s been ripped off of some go-go pole. He has better moves than I expected with his babyface, club-boy look. He suffers quite nicely, in fact, and he sells his one-on-two demolitions with some sweet style. So the story goes, Lon is on the sidelines barking instructions to his protege, so that Chace’s youthful eagerness is guided like a cruise missile by the cool hand of Lon calling the shots. I, like his opponents, underestimate Chace throughout, which makes this all considerably more fun.

Sadly, though, Lon and Chace don’t really have much chemistry between them. They lose their story somewhere, and other than a fantastic sequence of moves to win fall #2 (where they bat young Doug Rand between them like two cats playing with a ball of string), Lon and Chace seem primarily merely fodder for 2 on 1 abuse at the hands of their opponents. Donnie and Doug, on the other hand, play the coach/protege story consistently and enjoyingly. Doug looks a little like a doofus, full of bluster and an arsenal of moves that he’s just too green and slow to know how to unpack. So Donnie is persistently pulling arrows out of Doug’s quiver, barking orders that Doug faithfully follows. Donnie orders Doug to sidewalk-slam Chace, and Doug instantly lifts his opponent off his feet and slams him to his back. Donnie commands Doug to claw Chace’s pecs, and Doug digs in with abandon. Donnie does a nice job convincing us that he’s a sick fuck who gets off on dominating and humiliating. And the edge in his voice ordering Doug around gives just a hint of a daddy/cub backstory that would have been SO hot to see play out between Lon and Chace (alas).
For lusting after Lon, his debut against Eddy Rey remains the purchase of choice. Getting a glimpse of Lon’s ability to sell suffering and push his opponents’ story is sweet, though I think Lon’s personality and wrestling skills were just to big for this particular tag scenario to really make the most of him. I’m loudly rooting for more of Lon, louder Lon, more dominating Lon, matched up against some more opponents who can move, fly, and scramble even half as skillfully as Lon clearly can. I’m happy to own a little piece of Lon tanned, highlighting his really stunning body. But frankly it’s Donnie who comes out the surprise winner from the match for my attentions. He’s not the smoothest or most skilled. There are bigger boys. But Donnie told me a hot story that sparked my imagination.

Living Into the Promise

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Like Joe, I was captured by the sight of Rock Hard Wrestling’s new match teaser, pitting two new fighters from their roster. Since my copy of Tag Team Wrestling 12 didn’t arrive yet, and since I have a well-documented lack of impulse control, I decided to taste another sample from RHW in the mean time.

I still say that RHW’s trend is in tact. This latest match is another incremental improvement on what they’ve done thus far. The new boys are stunning. Apparently Tyler Reeves is Czech. In not sure how the name and the ethnicity add up, but this is all about suspending disbelief anyway, right? So the long, pale Czech, Tyler, is fiercely enthusiastic from go. His opponent, Cody Nelson, for the life of me looks like the love child of fellow RHW battler, Zack Johnathan and BGE alum, Justin Pierce (who despite his profile page at BGE is not, actually, 4′ tall). I realize that both timing and anatomy make this scenario impossible, but let’s just keep going with the suspension of disbelief (it’s going to come in handy a little later).
Where RHW has made improvements is primarily in pacing. These muscleboys are continually selling, mixing up strikes, slams and submission holds and well-placed strutting breathers as one man steps back and surveys the damage he’s inflicted thus far. For my tastes, it’s a two-steps-forward/one-step-back situation, though (which if my math skills work, still counts as progress). What they’ve gained from pacing 17 minutes of smooth action and transitions, they’ve lost with some poor sliced-in cuts in the action and a few really, really unfortunate pulled punches (to the point of being laughable). At a few glaring places, both boys are nowhere near connecting and then overselling the blatant misses. One particularly egregious case right at the 6:00 mark shows a close up of Cody diving on top of Tyler and then swinging wide, in an apparent move to punch him in the gut. The excellent camera work is perhaps a little too excellent, though, as we get a close up look at Cody pounding his fist into his own hand as Tyler grunts and writhes. When Cody loses that fall humiliatingly, I applaud it as punishment for his lapse in salesmanship.
In addition to pacing, though, what’s working here includes a new ring that apparently is safer for slams, as these boys lift and throw one another down repeatedly and satisfyingly throughout. They talk, taunting and baiting one another, which is a HUGE improvement over a couple notable RHW matches. They nearly tell a story, with an actual story arc. The start of round 3 with both boys sprayed down is a little obvious, and yet I’m always a sucker for a wet muscle fighter. They cobble together some sweet moves that turn me on. In particular, when Tyler has a dazed Cody bent forward over the top rope, repeatedly pounding his fists into Cody’s ribs, I’m seriously happy. But when Cody takes the second fall by lifting Tyler cradled against his chest and then dropping him down in an over-the-knee-backbreaker, I am sold. Tyler gives way (WAY) too quickly to entirely satisfy me (that bitch), but the whole thing is nicely executed and plays to this audience of 1.
Other than production quality and convenience, I still say that there are others that pull this off better and with more satisfyingly explicit homoerotic text. But I just can’t help myself but watch and appreciate RHW for the good, solid work that they’re doing to build a brand. Now I’m waiting to see Cody teach papa Zack a relentless and long overdue lesson in salesmanship.

Stage Stud

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The concentration of hard bodied hotties in the world of Broadway caliber theatre fascinates me. Charlie Williams is the latest Broadway boy to get attention for his gorgeousness. He’s literally the posterboy for the next iteration of Broadway Bares.
There’s just nothing wrong with this picture. In particular, though, I’d just like to point out the legs. Look at the massive thighs and sculpted calves. A body like this should be required to be naked in public. It’s for the common good, damn it.

With a boy-next-door face, Charlie looks ripe for the part of the unselfconscious innocent who must be corrupted by the initiation into wrestling kink. I have a subplot in my wrestling fiction for the likes of Mario Lopez and Nick Adams that emerged from tabloid gossip that the two muscle studs clashed behind the scenes of their simultaneous appearance in A Chorus Line. Clashing musclestud actors? Um, hello? How could this not develop into hard and sweaty action in the Producer’s Ring?

Nick Adams has been in Major Domo purgatory for months now, with his storyline on hold while my attentions wandered elsewhere. For that matter, everyone in the Producer’s Ring has been in purgatory waiting for my insane work life to settle down long enough for me to get back to letting my imagination run wild. Once I get back to it and finish the Secretarial Pool auditions, someone needs to remind me that Broadway-boy-next-door-bisexual-babe Charlie Williams is waiting in the wings for his shot in the Producer’s Ring. He looks like he can sell major attitude, and he’s got the muscles to have a shot and serious domination.

So many fantasies. So little time.

Not My Virtue

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I’ve been assured that my copy of Tag Team Torture 12 is in the mail. Patience is not my strong suit, so I’ve been chomping at the bit. The initial pics from the web tickle me in all the right places.

Primarily, I’m aching for some more Lon Dumont on the big-small screen. This anatomy chart of a man sends me into fits just looking at his stills. His tag partner looks painfully babyfaced, which suggests to me that Lon and his boy are likely heading for some punishment. Frankly, I seriously enjoyed Lon’s domination of Eddy Rey in his debut, so I’m a little skeptical about the satisfaction of seeing his ass kicked. He’s a sweet, sweet salesman, though, so I expect to be entertained regardless.
I hate waiting.

Karma

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I continue to receive requests in Chinese characters to post comments to this blog with embedded links. My initial response to these requests is anger. People want to use my blog to lure others to go to nasty sites that likely infect computers with all sorts of crap that you and I don’t want. Hell, I can’t even figure out how to embed a link in a comment frame in Blogger, so someone must seriously want to create mischief to have figured it out. Disguise your mal-intent with non-Latin letters, and it’s all just irritating.

I hold out about a 2% possibility that there’s actually someone attempting to post sincere comments that are just getting all messed up by government censors, translation programs, or other technical glitches. If that 2% (at most) likelihood were the case, I’d feel sort of bad for deleting ALL your requests and thinking such malicious thoughts about you. So just to be clear, it’s not that I don’t appreciate your readership. It’s not that I have a problem with wrestling kinksters who happen to be Chinese (not AT ALL, in fact!). In case it’s all just a big misunderstanding, please accept my apologies.
In the 98% likely event that it’s malicious malware bait, I look forward to the day when karma takes a major bite out of your ass!

Perfecting Imperfections

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I’m hot for deviations. Distinguished deviations from the norm, even the norm of male beauty, actually exponentiate attractiveness in my book. I know I’m not the only one. I remember hearing reports of kids intentionally scarring themselves across their eyebrows in order to look more like heartthrob Luke Perry in the early 90’s. The “imperfection” itself can be what makes someone who is technically beautiful into irresistibly attractive.
I’ve mentioned it before that trenchman newsboy Carter Evan’s dramatically deviated septum makes me weak in the knees. Carter’s dreamy, long-lashed bedroom eyes are enough to make me melt, but that crooked nose drives me nuts and propels him into a very fondly recurring role in my celebrity wrestling fiction.
Milo Ventimiglia’s crooked smile is similarly hot. Apparently, he’s had dead nerve endings around one side of his mouth since birth. All grown up, the sideways smile isn’t just his trademark, it’s fantastically sexy.
True, the rest of Milo’s body doesn’t hurt, either, unless you count what his body does to his opponent’s in a couple of my fantasy wrestling matches. Do you see the theme emerging here? Delightfully deviated turns one into a star in my erotic fantasies.
Reconstructed cleft palates frequently, instantly attract me. It’s not quite a fetish, but it doesn’t hurt at all. Joaquin Phoenix insists that his distinctive upper lip isn’t the result of a cleft palate, but that rather it’s a “birthmark.” Hottie Joaquin has also been loony as a junebug lately, so take it for what it’s worth. Regardless, it’s the same effect. It’s distinctive and a deviation from the tyranny of symmetrical standards of beauty, and it turns me on.
In thinking about it, I came up with a couple of wrestlers who prove the rule that something imperfect makes a hunk perfectly hot. Cole Cassidy looks like he may have a prosthetic right eye (at least, it doesn’t track with his left). There’s so much to adore about Cole, perhaps it isn’t worth mentioning for most of his admirers. But for this admirer, it simply makes him that much more gorgeous. And yes, of course, he’s shown up in my own wrestling fantasies in a stand-alone, fictional story.
Finally, from the BGE vaults I want to mention young, incredibly hot grappler Animal Abban. He doesn’t have his own listing in the BGE roster, and I can’t find his matches on the home page, but he wrestled in the early days of BGE in such backroom classics as Bratpack 7. The intense scarring across his right pec and upper abdomen are really stunning. There’s a serious story there to explain the disappearance of his right nipple and angry red scar tissue (I just don’t know what it is). It’s not like anyone in their right mind would dare suggest that he was anything other than a six-packed, massively armed, gorgeous hunk of boy-next-door meat, but the scars absolutely perfected him.

Beauty is, of course, in the eye of the beholder. I think a diversity of tastes is a wonderful testimony to the wonders of the human imagination and delightful idiosyncrasies that make community happen. The “norm” isn’t inherently bad, I don’t think. Symmetry and mainstreamers can tickle my fancy, too. But by all means, nor is the “norm” inherently good, as most readers of this blog can attest. Vive la différence!

All of Us Rentboys

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Stephen Colbert makes me laugh. He’s also pretty hot, in a nerdy, irreverent smart-ass-in-a-business suit way. Sometimes his parody of the conservative right-wing-baiting media whores is a little creepy… I’m always sending up a little prayer that no one is thinking that his ridiculous mimic of hateful talking points is sincere. As long as I can have faith in that, then Stephen Colbert is nerd-tastic entertainment for me.

Imagine the extra does of erotic joy, then, when I saw Wednesday’s episode of the Colbert Report and caught the completely gratuitous shirtlessness from one of the starring characters in my wrestling fiction, fitness model and aspiring actor, Luke Guldan.

The Colbert Report Mon – Thurs 11:30pm / 10:30c
Alpha Dog of the Week – George Rekers
www.colbertnation.com


Gratuitous shirtlessness was the point of Colbert’s snide commentary on a disgraced religious right-ball who was discovered to have hired a male prostitute to rub him down naked during his European vacation. Colbert suggested that he hires his cameramen from the same “rentboy” website, and then the shot cut to Luke, aka “Julian,” running one of Colbert’s cameras in all his musclebound shirtless glory.

I know it’s a skit. I know that Luke isn’t “Julian,” and he isn’t actually a rentboy. Still, Luke has shown up on the Colbert show before, so it certainly looks like Stephen is a return customer at “renting” the services of beautiful Luke. When it comes down to it, aren’t we all in this society renters of bodies? Speaking specifically to the audience that reads this blog, don’t we all pay money to take pleasure (or in Colbert’s case, profit) from a flexed physique, a strutting stud, a chiseled chin, a pair of legs locked painfully around the body of another, a driving cock, a muscled ass…? I tend to think that in this day and age, in this society, we are consumers of bodies, all of us renting one another for what turns us on and/or pays the bills.
Not that I’m saying it’s wrong (or right, for that matter). I’m just saying… capitalism defines us by the means of our production. In a society aspiring to be the most genuine devotees to capitalist ideals, rentboys (whether they be prostitutes, bag handlers, comedians or homoerotic wrestling pornboys) illustrate the extremes to which we go to participate in the social value of commodifying all means of production. What pays the bills, what satisfies the lusts, what gets the job done is more and more tied to the quantification of one another’s bodies. The world of my wrestling fiction emerges from these questions I have about where we’re all heading in our pursuit of capital as the only inherent good. I certainly don’t suggest that I’m above it all. I whore out myself in my own ways (which don’t include being available to rub down homophobes in oil on European vacations), and I eagerly, sometimes ravenously consume the sights, sounds, tastes, feels and smells of fantastically sensual bodies offering themselves to be worshipped (at a price). I just think it bears mentioning and considering. Beauty, worth and dignity are far more than skin deep, and despite the illusions of our social order, none of us is simply worth what someone else will pay. Each of us is worth infinitely more than that.

More Jokes and Jocks

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Tell me this isn’t the look of a hot hunk itching to kick someone’s ass. Okay, this is actually the look of a hot hunk comedian walking still farther down the path toward being a muscle adonis icon.

Joel McHale continues to light up the blogosphere with still another scantily clad appearance in the television show Community. Whoever is producing this show understands how things work. When you’ve got a rising star with a freshly toned muscle body, you flaunt him. Sex sells.

I have a well-documented thing for funny men with hard bodies. The juxtaposition of clownishness and raw muscled sensuality is like catnip: irresistible to the right species (me). A quick wit and a cutting, snide sense of humor overlaying massive, furry pecs and a six pack is golden.
Joel’s time in the gym recently firmly plants him in the constellation of hardbody funny men that make me drift into fantasies of muscle pounding competition. Like my fantasy match up of Chris Evans and Ryan Reynolds, I can’t help but fixate on Joel’s broad pecs and sculpted shoulders and be instantly aroused at the thought of that body getting clawed, twisted and squeezed in the absolutely essential arena of muscled bodies testing one another for domination. I think smart ass clown Joel would be underestimated in the ring, with opponents intent on abusing that button nose and wiping the smirk off his face. I love the story of the underdog who shocks his opponent, taking ownership and laying a deadly serious dose of humiliating domination down. Looking forward to seeing much more of Joel.

A Real Gem

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Astute readers (or even not-so-astute) will have picked up on the fact that I’ve developed somewhat of a crush on BG East battler, Denny Cartier. I have a fondness for 5’5″, 155 pound grapplers with smooth moves, dimpled chins, and tats (indeed, he’s not the first).

He has seriously filled out since his debut with BGE against Jonny Firestorm. But even in that debut, a little smaller, less defined and less meticulously groomed, Denny caught my eye. There’s something “real” about his appearance and presentation that makes me imagine that I could run into him at the grocery store someday.
On that note, I swear (swear, swear, swear) I sat across from Denny’s little brother on the bus today. I have no idea if Denny has a little brother, much less if he lives in this part of the world and rides public transportation. But this dramatically dimple-chinned, curly dark-haired, irrepressible 5-o’clock shadow at 8 in the morning, early 20’s-something kid was absolutely dipped out of the same gene pool as the lovely gem, Denny.
Back to my imagining of the “real men of BGE” (there’s a product in there somewhere, and when they produce it, I should absolutely get a mention in the credits… and a free copy). Denny has a realness about him that makes him fundamentally believable and that much sexier for it. Not that I think he’s always selling at 100% (though I do think he’s a superb salesman). But I can’t help but believe that he’s a real joe with some wrestling legits who’s making some supplemental income (not to mention fans) by learning the ropes in the world of homoerotic pro of various genres. I could totally see myself running into him in the produce section of the grocery store, buying a head of lettuce right next to me dressed in sweats and trainers. Of course, in my mind’s eye, Denny gives me an appraising nod, checking me out. He strikes up an innocent, yet all the more flirtatious for its innocence, conversation. We end up at his place, furniture cleared to the walls, and he ties me up in knots… repeatedly, because regardless of his less than stellar record in BGE, on his turf in the real world, he’s a savvy, lightning fast bundle of dominating muscle. Finally we’re exhausted, entirely aroused, and 100% in sync.

Oh, and he cooks me dinner afterward.