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!”
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While enjoying my recent purchase of BG East’s Backyard Brawls 6, I was reminded once again what a beauty Denny Cartier is. I hope that there’s a broad audience for hunky Denny, as I want to see much, much more of him. He has the body and moves that make all the erotic connections for me in wrestling kink. What also strikes me is what a gorgeous face and what a fantastic, hunky, handsome cleft chin he has.

I’ve mentioned it before, but I don’t really know what it is that’s triggered in me when I see a hot cleft chin. Is it some evolutionary programming to associate strong jaws lines and classically carved chins with masculinity? Brad Rochelle, for example, has always been sex on a stick in my mind. There are a lot of things about Brad that make me hot and hard, but it’s that dramatically dimpled chin that makes me melt.
You don’t have to be a homoerotic wrestler to have a cleft chin that turns me on (though it does help). Aaron Eckhart is mostly chin, and the awesome cleft is an incredible turn on. He can play the clown, the cad, the smarmy bad boy, but he’s always the highly erotic sex puppy in my mind.
Thomas Jane of HBO’s Hung similarly wins me over with he chiseled chin. Frankly, I initially went back and forth, trying to decide if Thomas was lust worthy. Something doesn’t quite all line up in Thomas, but I can’t put my finger it. But that fantastic profile makes me set aside whatever hang up I can’t quite name, and place Thomas unquestionably in the sex-stud category.
I never had any pause in worshipping Viggo Mortensen. He oozes sexuality. I’ll crown him king and worship at his feet any day, anywhere.
Like I said, one doesn’t have to be a homoerotic wrestler to have a chin that I obsess over… but it helps. Chip Slater is the chin that launches a thousand ships in my mind. I was not expecting to be fixated on Chip when I bought my first product that included him. But he’s so… fucking… hot! He wrestles hard, and he gives every indication of being a legitimate sadist. He tortures every opponent’s balls. He’s vicious and completely into domination. He has a hot, while not overly muscled body. But that chin is almost obscenely sexy!

Whatever it is… evolutionary hardwiring, socialization, personal idiosyncrasy, I’m a big fan of the chiseled, cleft chin.

It’s Art

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A YouTube video entitled Hot Guys with Tattoos posted by a Dutch boy who goes by fckinghotguy? As if there’s any way that I wouldn’t watch that! Sweet collection of hot stills of beautiful boys with tats.

Here are few of my favorites. The color, the bodies, the muscles, the art… This sort of ink is so tactile! I just want to touch it, read it… okay, lick it.

Check out 2:12, where Wolf Schmidt from BG East’s roster makes a well-deserved appearance. I didn’t see the stunning back of Derek da Silva, which is a tragic omission, but otherwise, this looks like a comprehensive, highly entertaining, eroticized homage to the beauty of “hot guys with tattoos.” Nice work!


Go-To Guy

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If you’re like me (and of course, you are), you occasionally find yourself jonesin’ for a big, round, squeezable ass. I don’t know what I’ve been smokin’ lately, but I’m definitely jonesin’ these days. If you find yourself in a similar place, may I make a recommendation?

His name is Sandro. Just Sandro. Like Cher and Madonna, Sandro needs only one name. I suspect that he realized no one was listening long enough to pay attention to his last name. That stunning ass is just too distracting.
I recently succumbed to the manipulation of advertising and purchased BG East’s Backyard Brawls 6. Sandro’s late night face-off with TJ Tanner is a wonder for anyone on the hunt for a bubble butt. TJ gets it, too, and I sincerely appreciate that about him. He can’t keep his hands off Sandro’s ass from start to finish. Every opportunity he gets, he smacks Sandro’s glutes. When Sandro puts on his game face and repeatedly applies bearhug variations, TJ suffers nicely, but truth be told, I’m screaming at the screen to get the camera angle on Sandro’s sweet ass.
Sandro has a nice coital/wrestling face. He has a beautiful body and a fiercely handsome look. But if it’s a gorgeous, round, muscled bubble butt that you need, Sandro’s got to be on your list.

A Perfectly Good Shirt

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Generally, I’m up for most things. At least I’m willing to give most things a try. It’s not that I find everything erotic… but I’ve got an active imagination and a perpetual-motion-machine for a libido. That said, clearly there’s a fetish market out there that, at first glance, you might think I’d be totally into. Yet when it comes to shirt ripping (or other clothes shredding), I must say, it doesn’t do much for me.

Still, everyone’s doing it (even in slow motion!), so somebody must be getting into it. People are paying money to see All American boys and Vista boys and Musclehunk boys and Flex-Studio boys (hey, I think that boy got his ass beat by Mitch Colby!) rip their wife beaters off. I’m not judging, mind you. I fully approve of seeing more skin. But some of you, I can tell, are a little orgasmic at that very point at which the fabric rips away from the muscled specimen underneath. More power to you. I just doesn’t tickle my fancy like that.
SteelMuscleGod is taking a break from observing YannS try to topple Adam400m out of top contender’s position for a crack at SMG’s divinity. He just posted another adorable clip of him in a size-too-small club shirt. His godliness does his best incredible hulk routine, flexing so hard that he busts out at the seams. Someone is fantastically titillated by that moment, and I so respect you for that. As for me, I just want to hear him snarl and watch him flex, and like Joe, I’m getting some extra value-added at the sight of SMG in his glasses.
The homoerotic wrestling boys of course get into the action, further providing evidence that there’s a market out there that I’m just not part of. They pretty much all end up yanking each other’s clothes off, but a select subgenre is clearly catering to you kinksters who want to see the clothing actually ripped as they’re stripped. Can-Am has been running their Suits to Nuts 1 series in serial format in their pay-area recently. I keep checking it out, figuring that at some point I’ll suddenly get it, but the shredded clothes just don’t do it for me. In fact, they get in the way of the hot bodies a bit for my taste. I do appreciate the use of a ripped sleeve to savagely choke out your opponent. But that’s just about foreign objects to me, not the clothes themselves.
So it’s not my kink. Still, it tells a nice story, and I can completely understand how it might be your kink. I may not necessarily buy it for myself, but I’ll damned well defend your right to buy it for you!

Playing with Fire

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The final season of the Tudors is finally running. Katherine Howard is burning bright and sprinting swiftly toward headlessness. Henry is finally looking a little less like an Abercrombie and Fitch model. JRM looks like he put on a little (just a little) weight. They’ve filled out his face with more facial hair. And they’re showing close-ups of his horrifically oozing leg wound (nice FX, boys!) that probably made him the bitter, fevered, stinky, foul creature he became as his megalomania consumed him.

Enter hot young thing to play the part of Thomas Culpepper. Torrance Coombs’ eyes are astonishing. It’s hard to look away whenever he’s on screen. This smoldering young hottie is going places, undoubtedly.
I can find no one capping The Tudors, so I can’t find any of the shirtless shots of Torrance from episode 1. So let me paint the picture for you: pale skinny white boy. What, you say? That doesn’t turn you on? Excellent. More lovin’ for me, then.
Not all pale skinny white boys do it for me, but a healthy subset of them light a fire in my crotch. Torrance is most definitely a case in point. The nerd, the geek, the underestimated vicious heel… there are a lot of roles for a skinny white boy that I find plenty erotic. When they have absolutely riveting faces like young Torrance, he gets a pass to the front of the line in my affections. I don’t think it’s just me, though. Thomas Culpepper doesn’t have long to live (unless they once again seriously screw with history), but Torrance is one skinny white boy heading somewhere.

Sex in the Morning

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I haven’t found much to obsess about among the newsmen lately. The morning news time slot is skimpy on hot hunks these days, and that’s a crying shame. Matt Lauer continues to fail to satisfy my lust for news hunks. Harry Smith from The Early Show on CBS possesses both a forgettable name and face. So despite my promise to punish ABC for denying me my daily dose of Chris Cuomo, I’ve occasionally flipped through Good Morning America in search of a new newsman crush.

Perhaps, just perhaps, the GMA substitute weatherman, Jeff Smith, could qualify for a new newsman crush. He has a “president of his fraternity” look about him, which can go either way for me. He has a quick wit, which makes him definitely sexier. And it’s probably just me, but I think he looks like a cleaned-up version of Andy Roddick (which can’t be bad). Yeah, it’s probably just me, but they could at least be brothers. Jeff:
Andy:
Clearly, Jeff is the object of more than just my affections. He has NYC girls pining over him on the boards. If I could find more looks at him, I think he’d find himself in the cue for a debut in some wrestling fiction. Perhaps Jeff and Andy (who has already made his Producer’s Ring debut) might need to throw down for a frat house chapter room romp. More likely, I could see our hunky meteorologist going toe to toe with Mr. Abercrombie himself, David Muir, for the title of champion news hunk on the rise. David made a seriously strong debut in his first wrestling fiction match, and I think that David has the sort of character that I’ll particularly enjoy writing more of. Hold onto your dimples, Jeff, because I think David will be fiercely intent on rearranging that pretty face of yours.
Personally, I think the morning news seriously needs to take some cues from the Producer’s Ring. No one, and I mean NO ONE is tuning into television news in order to be informed these days. We get information a thousand times faster elsewhere. But we still tune in, because we’re interested in the packaging. We’re looking for some sugar with our coffee (or, in my case, tea), to sweeten the otherwise bitter taste. If we’re going to have to ingest earthquakes and legislative hearings and the daily tally of who is killing whom and how many, then at least titillate us with a groin stirring hunk of a weatherman or newsreader.

…In My Hands

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Having returned to a fixation on asses, here’s yet another ode to the wonders of the wrestling muscle butt. I’ve mentioned before the particular joys and plot of the ass slap. A slightly different story captivating me lately is the ass grab.

Fine distinction, perhaps, but we’d hardly say a forearm to the side of the head is the same as a excruciatingly long side-headlock, would we? No, (to answer my own question), we would not. The slap is a humiliating strike, the playful sting that delivers the message of pain on command. The grab, on the other hand, is the more sexualized sign of ownership.
My favorite wrestling pornboys are most sympathetic to me when squeezing their opponent’s cheeks. Hands down, that’s the moment through which I’m most intimately living vicariously in the homoerotic wrestling scenario. When Sebastian Rios finds himself on his knees in front of a thonged, oiled Rafe Sanchez, he does precisely what I would do… what simply has to be done in that moment (well, at least one of the things that must be done). He slides the palms of his hands up Rafe’s gorgeous cheeks and underneath his thong. Any opponent that fails to take an adoring squeeze at Rafe’s ass is a little unbelievable to me.
I surprise myself just a little at how much I get into Bruno Sinclair and Ricardo Dias’ cub training session. Ricardo’s lingering squeeze on Bruno’s muscled glute just looks so right. That’s an authentic moment that sucks me right into the scene. Whatever else I may not quite believe about homoerotic wrestling products, I’m utterly convinced by the slow, solid squeeze of a hard ass cheek.
When it happens in the heat of battle, all the better. I totally get it when Michael Wood finds his head captured in Ross Davidson’s arm, squeezed against Davidson’s ribs and inches away from his muscled ass, and Michael grabs two, open-fingered handfuls of muscle. Sure, it doesn’t do anything to counter Davidson’s advantage. Okay, so perhaps Michael will suffer that much more for his distraction. But that’s so very much, precisely, absolutely what I’d have to do, were I in his position.
The victory squeeze isn’t bad, either. After the story is told and one man has been owned, the appreciative cup of the cheek, once again, makes complete sense to me. I believe that my libido and Kid Vicious’ hands are, in fact, psychically linked, considering he always grabs, pounds, and squeezes exactly what I’m thinking. After delightfully owning Niku Samir in every humiliating position possible, Kid takes a feel of Niku’s ass appreciatively. The drive to dominate and humiliate, paired with the lustful adoration of a loser’s physique, is just genuine in my mind.
Truth be told, I’m a softy at heart. The mutual ass squeeze, naked and sweaty, at the end of a balls out battle is just about the most satisfying denouement for my money. I don’t care for watching a lot of pulled punches, or at least not a lot of poorly sold punches, but I completely buy it when ferocity to dominate turns into mutual worship. Cock pressed to cock, hands squeezing each other’s glutes, the wet heat shared as hearts pound, chest to chest… that’s what it’s all about for me.

Another Blast from the Past

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Joe at Ringside at Skull Island got me obsessing about Kevin Von Erich again. It doesn’t take much to get me obsessing about Kevin. He’s starred in so many of my personal erotic wrestling fantasies. I remember watching him in a match, had to be late 80’s, where he was apparently fighting with one bad arm. As a result, the entire match was a series of drop kicks and body scissors in which Kevin proved that he could, indeed, beat his opponent with one hand tied behind his back.

This photo of Kevin in his youth, squeezing a sack of grain between his ripped thighs, takes my breath away. I’m not a wealthy man, but I’d put it all on the table to exchange places with that sack of grain for fifteen minutes. Kevin’s physical development was at least 10 years ahead of the rest of the pro-field, and even then, I’d take Kevin then over a room full of WWE roidheads today.

As far as I remember (someone will correct me, I’m sure), Kevin always played the the sincere farmboy white knight. He was always indignant at the presence of evil heels anywhere and everywhere. He battled to prove the superiority of skill and hard-earned muscle over the machinations of guile and underhandedness. He was always a little pissed off, never content, even with his arms raised and screaming fans pawing at him in desperately lustful adoration.
Kevin never had a classically handsome face, but who the hell would ever notice with a body like that? His legs, the eroticism of his bare feet, his ripped torso, massive pecs, thick shoulders and veiny, muscular arms… it was ostensibly all about the hard-honed warrior, but no one, not even the straightest Texas straightboy, could have missed that Kevin was an object of mindless, hormonal, sexual lust. His ass… my, oh my.. his ass… Every drop kick and scissor hold required him to flex and squeeze those muscled cheeks, and without fail I continue to be slack-jawed and 100% aroused at the sight of Kevin (particularly from behind).

I don’t think there’s ever been a pro-pro who’s done it for me quite like Kevin. These days, I simply have to turn to the pro-pornboys to capture the homoerotic text that Kevin dictated so commandingly 25 years ago. Like Joe, I long for the days when the pros actually battled, body to body, with long held, punishing holds squeezing the strength out of one another until one barefoot muscle adonis outlasted his opponent, leaving the poor loser helpless on his back, looking up at the fierce young musclegod having his arms raised to the shrieking approval of all of us desperate to touch, feel, and be captured by our hard hero.