To Worship or Not to Worship?

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I’m coming up for air after a whirlwind weekend. It was good and exhausting. Of course, now the work week begins. So I have the stamina only for a brief posting to ponder.

Truitt Fields. What’s his story? I know that there are readers that can and hopefully will tell me. I get a conservative Christian hit off off him that makes me wary. In which case, I’m not always clear what’s the ethical thing to do. Do you worship a worship-worthy musclegod if he’s a hater?
Not that I know that Truitt is. Of course, in my imagination he’s at the very least bi-curious with a kink for getting covered in honey and having me lick it off every inch of his stunning body. So perhaps I don’t want to know what and who he is in real life. It’ll never measure up to the pleasures I can imagine for him.

Re-Subscribing

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I subscribed to Naked Kombat when they had just a handful of matches up. It was definitely entertaining, but the limited library left me feeling like my porn budget might be better spent elsewhere. Now that Rusty Stevens is riding high as my champion favorite homoerotic wrestling pornboy, I decided to re-up with NK to take a look at Rusty’s body…. of work there.

Their library is a lot deeper these days, and so I’m endlessly entertained with touring through the pages of matches. Rusty appears in four NK matches. His most recent appears to be from last November 18, in which Rusty destroys Tommy Defendi in body, mind and spirit.
Rusty spends a whole lot of this match sitting on Tommy’s face and chest, and I don’t get tired of it from start to finish. Rusty plays Tommy’s body like a church organist, using his hands and feet to pump, stroke and pound every vulnerable inch. The final “sex” round works for me in a way that surprises me just a little. It’s over the top. It sticks to the script. But it really, really works for me. Rusty riding Tommy on all fours like a horse is captivating. But the moment that Rusty rips off his condom and wraps his sweat soaked legs around Tommy’s neck while both of them stroke themselves to the point of exhaustion (Rusty barking instructions the entire time)… that moment is sweet, sweet wrestling kink.

Down (Under) with Padding

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I literally have my hands full today, so this will have to be short and, hopefully sweet. Here’s apparently the first still from the upcoming movie, Thor.

I’m not sure if I’d have chosen this particular picture as the first teaser. Chris Hemsworth looks about 20 years older than he is from this angle. And the suit is… underwhelming me so far. I know that comic-heads get radically agitated about which costumes and styles are authentic to what artist and rendition of comic book heroes. But as for me, my criteria are simple. Show me the Norse god in muscle-hugging tights and bare, superhumanly muscled arms or don’t bother.
You know and I know (and I know you know) that I’ll be watching this flick. But compared to the teaser stills of Prince of Persia, Thor is looking a little doubtful to me so far. No wonder that in my fantasy world where all casting decisions rely on homoerotic wrestling competitions, Chris Hemsworth had to be severely punished and humiliated by Alexander Skarsgård, who he beat out for this part. If Chris is all hair extensions and padded suits, the scandic children of Thor should be majorly offended.

More Prince of Pecs

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This works for me on so many levels. Jake Gyllenhaal’s massively pumped pecs with a fantastic carpet of hair, the rippled abs, the vascularity in the arms, the long hair to yank him around the ring by (yes, Jake shows up in my wrestling fantasies)… This movie could turn out to be crap on a stick, and you know what? I predict I’d still own it the same day it comes out on DVD.
Have I mentioned that got sucked into Prince of Persia, the videogame, for a while? It’s not something I’m proud of. Obsessing over a video game is so junior high. Still, as the main character in the video game gets increasingly stripped of his clothes and more muscularly defined over the course of the story line, it all has an erotic subtext/text that I’m helpless against. That’s exactly how I feel seeing the drool-worthy teaser stills of Jake playing this role. Now, if I could only grab him by the joystick and make him do whatever I want him to do, just like the video game…

Golden Boy

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I’m not sure how this could have happened. How could I blog for nearly a year on all things homoerotic and wrestling, and not have mentioned Steve Shannon?

It was obsessing about asses that made me think of Steve. He’s a blond muscleboy with a devastating musclebutt that was always surefire entertainment for me.
Can-Am worked him into a few productions around 2002 and 2005, including the fantastic line-up of Czech Tag Team 2. Jarda Kolar’s hand planted on Steve’s oiled, naked ass is a cherished image burned into my favorite stills of all time.
Steve’s work with On Top Productions was more satisfying wrestling, though. I think On Top was a little ahead of their time. Their format was more than a little like what Naked Kombat has turned into a profitable franchise more recently, with less reliance on a script and more genuinely hard working bodies slamming and tossing one another around. Where Naked Kombat’s pre-fight interviews are always snarling and contemptuous, On Top’s pre-fight confessionals were usually more gentlemanly. It had more of a feel of an amateur wrestler coming out of the locker room on his way to the mats, than that of an over the top pro ticking off his polished banter.
I’m sticking to my commitment to not overthink posts for the next couple of days, so you’ll forgive me if I don’t have a citation when I say that Steve’s non-wrestling porn has earned more than a little of my cash as well. I cannot stay enthused when a naked woman enters the shot, so I never sampled his bisexual-themed porn. Personally, I think it’s a crying shame that studly Steve wasn’t more prolific in the industry. I’d pay money to see him make a comeback on the mats or in the ring (if he’s still around). As long as he still works up a sweat and he’s in shape enough to go the distance, he’d still be pure gold.

True Anticipation

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Work is a buzz saw for the next few days, so I’m going to try to pace myself on my posts. Small bites. Less phenomenology. More sane time for me. With that in mind, I want to concisely marvel in anticipation at a new promo shot for the third season of True Blood, which will premiere in a couple of months.

I’m still bitter about the completely unnecessary execution of Mehcad Brook’s character at the end of season 2. The promise of new hotties to come is sweet, though. Sweeter still is Alexander Skarsgård looking hotter than ever.
Thank God for Swedes. Thank God for a little less bleach in Alexander’s hair, also. And while we’re at it, thank God for his gorgeous, giant, muscled body, and in particular those rippled, mile-wide shoulders. As if True Blood requires any more fantasizing, I have been unable to resist writing in several of its stars into my celebrity wrestling fiction. Alexander, of course, has made two appearances, showcasing himself as even stronger and more merciless and sadistic than Eric Northman. Stephen Moyer and Sam Trammell tag teamed for a sweet match that garnered little attention from the fans, but it’s one that I actually enjoy quite a lot. Ryan Kwanten required some personal tutelage in the demanding world of homoerotic wrestling in the Producer’s Ring. What can I say? Alan Ball keeps picking the beef that I’ve got a hankering for. Can…. not… wait… until June 13.
Enough for now.

Long Live the King

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The title as my favorite homoerotic wrestling pornboy has changed hands exactly three times in the past 6 months (call me fickle). First, Mitch Colby lost the title to Derek da Silva. Then in a fierce fought battle, Mitch snatched the title back out of the stunned hands of Derek. Then out of nowhere, Rusty Stevens made a play, overtaking Derek as the top contender, and in short order turned and spanked Mitch’s ass, kicking him to the curb.

I’ve spilled relatively little ink on my reigning champion, so I thought I’d linger a little longer today on marveling at the wonders that are Rusty Stevens. He’s a 6’1″ mass of a man. His body is powerful, aesthetically gorgeous, and deliciously proportioned. He suffers sweetly, and when his opponent’s are on their game, Rusty’s suffering body is jaw dropping to behold. The lip-marks tattooed around his crotch and ass suggest a nice sense of humor, and perhaps Rusty doesn’t take himself too seriously in real life.
But on the mats, Rusty is fierce, fully committed to the moment, and wields his razor sharp wit as ruthlessly as he tortures his opponents’ bodies. Rusty systematically demoralizes his opponents, humiliating them both in word and action. He slaps and claws at cocks and balls. He spanks and squeezes and grinds his opponents from all angles. He’s a big boy who generally outmuscles most of the men I’ve seen him go up against. And he grunts. I absolutely love Rusty’s gutteral, neanderthal grunting. The grunts signal when Rusty is setting aside the razor-wire banter and moving on to head-on physical intimidation. He sounds like he’s tapping into something deep and animal inside of him, and his opponents invariably take notice that they’re dealing with something savagely primal.
Frankly, Rusty isn’t as pretty as Mitch. Between you and me, I find Mitch’s body a shade hotter than the champion. When it comes right down to it, Mitch has the edge when it comes to rounding out the story of domination, where Mitch commands, humiliates, and owns his man, and having decisively proven who’s on top, he can afford to be tender and paternal with his new plaything. But Rusty remains on top of the dais due to his unbeatable mental domination of his opponents. He’s a master chessman on the mats, and his mental quickness and unflinching commitment make him my reigning favorite homoerotic wrestling pornboy. Long live the king.

It Takes Two, Damn it

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Good Lord. Where has Harol Baez been all my life? DNA is talking directly to you and me, wrestling kinksters, when they describe this photo shoot of Harol, saying, “The theme of eros and competition is age-old…” Indeed, and it’s obviously a major turn on, particularly with the likes of hunk of beef Harol.

These pics have had some major digital retouching, giving sweet Harol somewhat of a virtual look about him. Personally, I like my men entirely human and touchable with blemishes and scars. I have to believe that the basic elements here are all Harol, though. That astonishing ass is made-to-order for my latest musclebutt obsession. The beautiful face is screaming out to be squeezed between my legs. But those massive, tree trunk legs are absolutely jaw-dropping.
Have I said, “Holy hell,” yet? Holy hell. As a solo shot this is unrequited lovin’ at its best and worst. For God’s sakes, someone climb into that ring and tackle that muscle adonis! Send him whipping off the ropes and connecting with your low knee lift! Scoop him up in your arms, parade him around the ring like the boytoy trophy he is, and then drop him savagely across your outstretched knee! Don’t let him fall off!!! Pin him there, pried backward across your leg, while you claw, twist, and pound on every impressive inch within reach! Do it now!!!!
Yes, indeed. Superhumanly smoothed complexion or not, these shots of Harol certainly stunningly realize the delicious theme of eros and competition. Now that he’s stripped, beaten black and blue, and exhausted, someone, anyone (ME!) absolutely must climb on top and help Harol realize the whole story, from start to finish, where pain and pleasure are inextricably entwined and winning is losing is winning…

In Your Face

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What is it that’s happening when a wrestler grinds his opponent’s face into his crotch?Okay, I mean, besides the obvious. What’s the story line there? I’m NOT complaining, mind you, I’m just taking a second look at something that I typically take for granted.

PWP has just posted a couple of new matches. Pretty dancer boys are tossing and squeezing one another predictably. A beautiful, long pale hottie, White Angel, takes his turn working over and getting worked on in “The Challenge Series“. This image of him schoolboy pinning Mario, with what looks like a big smile on Mario’s face, brings the topic to mind. Part of the story, at least, is humiliation. Dominating your opponent so completely that you can drop your most vulnerable parts across his face with impunity has got to send a message: You are owned.
Can-Am’s Tom Flex was constantly planting his abundant package across his opponents’ faces. This position is repeated multiply throughout Flex’s wrestling history, both clothed and naked. Here, Beau Hopkins turns his face away to avoid Flex’s testicles pressed against his lips. Clearly, part of the story is also the allusion to forced oral sex. The dominant muscle stud possesses such command over his helpless opponent that he can force feed his cock and transform his opponent into his sexual toy.
Like Tom Flex, BG East’s Mr. Joshua Goodman frequently smothers his opponents with his overstuffed package, and like Flex, Joshua frequently puts his own stunning body on gorgeous display while he does it. Joshua is a case in point of another aspect of this crotch-to-face story. Joshua’s massive, low hanging balls are ALWAYS a feature of his matches. He’s gorgeously muscled, handsome, and has a nice, cocky persona, but let’s face it, it’s hard to associate Mr. Joshua with much else other than his pendulous package. The crotch-to-face is the exclamation point at the end of the sentence: Mr. Joshua’s balls are huge! His figure-four crotch-to-face is the unspoken (often spoken) message that Mr. Joshua is hyper-masculine, unstoppable, and irrepressible.

Mitch Colby, current top contender to take back the title of my favorite homoerotic wrestling pornboy, reaches that moment in pretty much every match where he has his opponent’s head wedged high between his thighs. He takes both hands and grasps the down man’s head, and presses his opponent’s face into this crotch. Mitch tells the whole story explicitly that so many only imply. Invariably, Mitch’s head rolls backward, his eyes are shut in ecstasy, and his face is enraptured by this moment of sexual domination. I swear, I expect to see Mitch cum in his jock strap every time he does this. Mitch is getting off on this, and for that particular story he tells so well, he remains firmly ensconced in the pantheon of my absolute favorites. To have a muscle hunk’s face crushed against your cock and balls should absolutely be about sexual gratification.

Speaking of pale, skinny white boys, Brigham Bell always did it for me in a way that never ceased to catch me by surprise. With zero bodyfat, Brigham was a walking anatomy chart, with every muscle, tendon and bone in clear relief. He was so skilled at using that whipcord of a body to beat down, conquer, and humiliate his bigger opponents. Squeezing a hard boy’s head into his crotch was standard fare for Brigham, using the maneuver to hammer home the point that it’s not always how big the muscles are that determine the tale. This pale, skinny white boy that you completely underestimated is suddenly planted across your shoulders, driving your chin into his balls. Whatever you thought was going to happen in this match, however you thought you’d overpower and dominate the skinny kid, it was always fated that you’d be flat on your back with his cock slapped down across your lips.

As always, I love the muscled bodies, the erotic, dominating positions, the enthused salesmanship. But it’s the arc of the story that I find most erotic. It’s the plot of two men staring one another down, untested and cock-sure of themselves, and all the fantastic elements that go into one of them ending up lying flat on his back, defenseless, with his opponent’s crotch shoved into his face.

Thanks for Your Patience

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Life continues to derail me from my writing. I continue to get gentle prods emailed to me, asking me about when the next match will be posted in the Secretarial Pool audition tournament. I have a little time to work on it this weekend, but I don’t know if it will be enough to finish it off. I don’t know how much time you think it takes me write up a match, but it takes considerable time. I’ve also found that it’s crucial that I have some time away from a completed draft, in order to come back with fresh eyes. For your patience, though, I’ll let you know that next up to face off for a shot at greatness will be Sean Sullivan…

I was first introduced to both of these boys through the nominations process for the tournament. I was excited that both of them made the cut to compete. They’re both already fun to write for. Rafael is a Brazilian sex pot that, one has to imagine, is a little frustrated to draw one of the biggest fitness models in the competition for his first round face-off. Everyone has been hoping to get their hands on doe-eyed Ellis McCreadie, but that privilege has clearly fallen to the last man in the wings, Kerry Degman. Rafael, on the other hand, will face off with the massive muscles and quick temper of full-on side of beef, Sean.
Sean, for his part, has had his eyes set on Nick Auger from the start. Sure, Sean would have liked to break Ellis into several pieces to establish his position in the tournament, but Sean has seen these auditions as marching inevitably to the point of muscle vs. muscle, power vs. power, brute force vs. brute force. Runway models like Rafael typically don’t carry around the muscle of someone like Sean or Nick, so when push comes to shove, Sean is determined to push and shove the little fashion boys to their knees. So the question that the bookies need to ask themselves, is whether Rafael, or any of the other fashion boys, will have the smarts to assemble a strategy that can blunt Sean’s (or Nick’s) dominating power, deflect his testosterone-laden rage, and in turn make a muscle god scream out, “I submit!”