More Olympic Spirit

wrestlebard2 Comments


The games have begun! The pageantry and drama of the opening ceremony wasn’t exactly my cup of tea. The arial acrobat performing to Joni Mitchell was pretty mind blowing, and the tattooed fiddler in a flying canoe (!?!) looked like he was a pretty beefy cut of man. Again I say, the winter Olympics need to figure out how to display more of the beautiful bodies assembled to compete in elite competition.

Speaking of which, I recently stumbled across Nordic combined Austrian star, Felix Gottwald. He’s already a multiple medal winner from prior Olympics. At 34 years old, he’s making a comeback, defying the accelerated march of age that puts world class athletes out to pasture so quickly.
Felix strikes me as a character made for melodrama. The frosted hair, the self-promoting, cocky attitude… I’m picturing him as one of those vicious whip chord pro-wrestlers who look dwarfed by the muscle heads, but who make up for it in speed, daring, and savagery. Felix is a tight little aryan package who knows that he’s pretty, and I’m betting that he banks on that to disarm his opponents. In the ring, they’d never see him coming.
I shouldn’t need to confess my ignorance of winter sports again, but the Nordic combined? This is seriously outside of my frame of reference. Apparently these athletes combine cross country skiing and ski jumping. So I take it that this is about long suffering endurance with bursts of adrenalin-laced power. The cross-training format appears to build fatless, long, lean bodies squeezed into spandex. Nice.
Felix is accustomed to air time, so I’m thinking he’s made to order for arial work off of the top turnbuckle. Even better, I think he’s got the look of one of those masters of balance who can walk the top ropes and bound off of them to deliver the precise trajectory to flatten their awed opponents. Once he’s hooked the leg and patiently waited for the ref’s three count, you know Felix would kneel on one knee straddled across his fallen foe, before flashing a double bicep. The peaks may not be as massive as some of the short-distance muscleheads, but posing with that shit-eating grin, his demolished opponent would be looking up in awe at the deceptively tight little package that laid him out.

Fantasy Olympics

wrestlebardLeave a comment

Can-Am has another nice example of a marketing strategy that the winter Olympics ought to try. The two Hockey Havoc tapes from Can-Am tell the story of on-ice rough housing that becomes a full on wrestling match in the locker room. I’m absolutely certain that this would be a win-win-win situation for everyone involved if some of the hot hockey hunks in Vancouver followed up the competition with a rip and strip wrestling throw down.
Hockey Havoc 2 in particular is the set-up I’d like to see folks like Mike Komisarek, Alexei Kovalev, and Henrik Lundqvist throw themselves into. High sticking and other cheap shots on the ice result in gloves dropped and fists flying. The fury between Ron Masters and Cody Brooks is particularly fun to watch, as Cody manages to trap Ron’s helmeted head in a leg scissors with both boys still entirely geared up. I don’t imagine that’s a particularly punishing hold, but it’s a hoot to watch!
Once the boys make it to the locker room, angry words continue to fly. Cocky Masters boasts he can beat all three of the rest of them. Eventually, the scene is set for stunning hunk, Cody, to toss Masters around like the twink punk he really is. Gear is systematically stripped. Cody’s fantastic ass is framed beautifully bare in his jock strap. Masters is lifted, slammed and squeezed from every angle. Cody has things well in hand, but eventually a three-on-one proves that Masters was all bark.

To teach Masters the lesson he’s so desperate to learn, his tormentors decide that they must humiliate him thoroughly. So they strip him naked, pin him to the floor, and shave his legs, crotch and ass. Finally, the boys each grab a piece of Master’s gear and jerk off all over it. Hog tied, Masters is finally dragged into the shower and left on the tile floor, bound, while his betters soap up.

So clearly, this stuff happens. I have every confidence this scene has been repeated in arena locker rooms around the world (at least it has in my mind). So a word to the wise in Vancouver: let the hunks of hockey really work out their aggressions once the medals are handed out. With personal and national pride on the line, the competition will surely be fierce and satisfying.

Fantasy Olympics

wrestlebardLeave a comment
Beautiful Whistler, BC will be the venue for several of the upcoming winter Olympic events based in Vancouver, starting tomorrow(!). Alpine skiing, nordic ski events, bobsleds… they’ll all take place with the backdrop of Whistler setting a beautiful stage.
A few years ago, Can-Am shot a snowboarder tag-team scenario with some exteriors in Whistler as background. Spearheaded by Jimmy Dean who was at that very moment in the process of metamorphosing into a thick and beefy muscle-bound badboy, these four boys posed with snowboards on the slopes of Whistler before showing up in the ring to further work out their competitive juices.
This is the way the winter Olympics should play out as well, if you ask me. Let the boarders and skiiers and bobsledders and speed skaters (especially the speed skaters) hammer down in the explicit spirit of the Olympics, but then, later, throw them into a ring to sort out the real story: the injured pride, the trash talk gone awry, the snarling, body on body throw down that decides who can genuinely put up and who just needs to shut up. Let’s see some world class athletic asses on display and faces ground into the mat.


All the better when the ring work turns to betrayal such as when Chris Cumberland becomes the object of three-on-one abuse. When Chris’ partner joins forces with Jimmy and his partner, beautifully tattooed Chris is yanked and pounded and hammered and kicked every which way. I know that not everyone is into a total squash, but as for me, I definitely enjoy the occasional humiliating abject suffering of one man overwhelmed and conquered helplessly.

So let the Olympic drama play itself out as always, but why not get some extra mileage out of the whole scenario by tossing Bode and Mats and Denny and Alexei in the ring and headlining some balls out boy bashing. You know it’s going to be that much more satisfying once Bode’s getting his ass handed to him by all three at the same time!

A Better Version of the Winter Olympics

wrestlebardLeave a comment
The combination of world class athletic bodies and icy cold conditions make winter sports a paradox to me. Most winter sports athletes have to get bundled up in so much gear that obscures what I’m most interested in seeing. Some of the alpine sports and speed skaters at least wear spandex body-hugging gear that shows off the delicious curves of their muscles. But I’m still missing the skin.
Now if the winter Olympics required gear like Chris Geary and his buddies wear on their ski vacations, I predict that NBC would not be in danger of losing millions of dollar on their US rights to broadcast the games.
Chris Geary himself has the idea, snowboarding shirtless. Frankly, his form sucks here, and I would put money down that he was on his ass within five seconds of this photo being taken. But his hot, hard torso shining in the upglare of the snow covered slopes is a thing of beauty that transcends the technical aspects of sport.

Better yet, one of Chris’ travel buddies has an eve better idea. There would be a major fanatical audience tuning in and making advertising dollars worth the investment if the winter Olympians in Vancouver were dressed like this. Speedos and caps, I’m sure, would seriously impede scores and race times, but this is about audience and advertising revenue, isn’t it?

I know that I won’t see a lot of skin in the next couple of weeks being broadcast from Vancouver. I know that stunningly muscled bodies are underneath all the gear and goggles, but the forum just doesn’t give us a glimpse of the wonder of the world class athletic body. I’ll hold out hope for a background piece every so often showing the athletes training in less obscuring gear, perhaps some shirtless gym training shots to remind us that these specimens are honed instruments of power and grace. And of course, I’ll always be able to imagine what must be hidden beneath the spandex and and the down.

Still More Olympic Spirit

wrestlebardLeave a comment

Just days away, and the testosterone wafting up through the jet stream from Vancouver is intoxicating. Finely toned, world class bodies are at this very moment in the peak condition of their lives and assembled with other world class athletes all in one place.

Since I don’t follow many winter sports, I’m once again relying on helpful readers to point me in the direction that I intuitively know that I want to be led. That’s how I was put on the trail of Mike Komisarek, 6’4″ 243 pound defensemen playing for the Toronto Maple Leafs. He’s got a beefy farmboy look about him I like.
And whatever the hell this kid in white is doing to Mike, I promise you, I can do it so much better. Although Mike is by all means Olympic quality beef, sadly, he’s apparently withdrawn from the US hockey team in the past few days in order to have shoulder surgery. Still, his shirtless hotness gets me in the Olympic spirit, and I would be more than willing to lend a hand (or any other part of my anatomy) to help with Mike’s physical therapy.
Another Olympic hardbody worth mentioning is most certainly American downhill skier, Bode Miller. What I like about 6’2″, 214 pound Bode is he’s irreverent, hot, and cocky as hell. If he decided to skip the tennis turn and jump into the pro wrestling ring, I predict he’d go far. He has a nice sense of humor and is, quite literally, willing to let it all hang out. Towleroad snagged a nice catch from Funny or Die, featuring Bode buck naked (yet censored, those bastards).
What I don’t care for in Bode Miller is that he seems like a bit of a dick. I realize that this is a fine distinction I’m drawing. Cocky arrogance matched with a hardbody and irreverent attitude is hot. Playing the half-stoned indestructible fratboy, on the other hand, isn’t so attractive (unless he’s getting his ass kicked, stripped, and spanked, in that order). Bragging about doing some of his best skiing hung over to 60 minutes, and then being sent back by the U.S. Olympic organization to officially apologize is, from start to finish, a little dickish in my mind.

Who’s next? What muscled cold-weather hunk is waiting to grab hold of my imagination and drop kick it across the ring? Can’t wait!

The Beholder

wrestlebardLeave a comment

There’s something about football that just doesn’t speak to me. There’s a bluntness that has no appeal. It’s lacking a grace and a subtext. And far too many of the players are walking heart-attacks, and being paid millions to remain that way. I know, I know. Many of you fine readers see it differently. More power to you. You can enjoy my share of the fun. But in the aftermath of the Superbowl, I’m feeling a need for art.

Not this Art, particularly. Though partnering with him on a double-team of that gorgeously arrogant bastard Greg Plitt is always a pleasing image.

This is the sort of art I’m talking about. Every line on this man’s body is simply beautiful. Like every good work of art, he’s provocative. At least I’m feeling provoked… particularly around the crotch. His hairy legs are sending me into fits this morning. But it’s the delicate tat on that incredible acreage of his left pec that makes me want to put him under glass. I’ve never had the opportunity to bearhug a body quite like this. I think I could wrap my arms around that wasp-thin waist twice and still have more arm to go. The mechanics seem like they’d require some improvising from my standard bearhug, due to the stunning lines and shape of this body. I’m up for improvisation.
This fine young specimen, via Just Beautiful Men, is just at the border of too much of a good thing. Fortunately, he’s still this side of the border. I’m not so much into nipple piercings, and the lettering across his chest and sternum look more like his mom stenciling his initials on the label of his underwear than they look like art to me. But every other inch of this man is indisputably the sort of art I like to collect.
Oil him up and drop his trousers, and I’m paralyzed by the beauty here. The scaled tail extending from his rib cage and down his arm (a dragon?) is completely captivating. The tat just above his crotch is making me desperate to know the story there. It almost looks like an FDA-approved stamp, which suggests that this hunk is exactly what the doctor ordered. Typically, entirely shaved crotches freak me out a little, but if you’ve got some art down there, particularly with text, then it becomes “provocative,” rather than just freaky.
One last glimpse here shows off his inside bi-tats. His right bicep is “heaven” and his left one is “hell.” Again, this is provoking me to imagine the meaning, to interpret the allusion, to fill in the metaphor (all signs of true art). Since art is in the eye of the beholder, my beholding prerogative suggests that he’s ready to crush your head against his ribcage and grind you into submission with a dose of “hell,” and when you’re crushed and no longer able to put up a fight, he’ll reward you with a little dose of “heaven” stimulating your submissive cock.

You probably read this canvas completely differently. And that’s what makes it art.

A Stunning Upset

wrestlebardLeave a comment

There’s a shake up happening in the pecking order of my homoerotic wrestling favorites. Mitch Colby still has his championship belt around his waist, but shockingly, Derek da Silva has been toppled out of his #1 contender position.

Just to recap, Derek stunningly wrested the championship from Mitch’s hands last Fall when he posted on Twitter commending this blog. Since I’m the sole arbiter in this competition, Derek was playing to the judge. And that’s always a winning strategy. It doesn’t hurt that Derek is also a gorgeously tattooed, sweat-prone muscle stud into yoga and post-structuralism. Mitch was soundly defeated, and Derek was my #1 object of wrestling kink lustful worship.
Mitch’s Wrestler Spotlight tape, and in particular his smoking hot match with Patrick Donovan turned the tables. In a closely fought reversal of fortunes, Derek was demoted to #1 contender, as Mitch mounted his pedastal and pumped his double bicep in victory once more.
It seem that Derek was so focused up the ladder, that he failed to notice that he was in someone’s sights from below. Frankly, I’m a little astonished by this turn of events myself. Derek’s sadomasochistic delights wrapped up in such a hot package seem pretty unassailable by anyone who isn’t Mitch.
Derek’s been off the wrestling kink radar for too many months, though, and Rusty Stevens has climbed in the ring, walked up on Derek from behind, and suplexed his furry body to the canvas. It was Rusty’s playground banter with Aryx Quinn in Can-Am’s new release Arena series that lifted him so dramatically in the standings, I think. The moment he pumped his hips and mimed spanking Aryx ass, Derek should have recognized that he was a threat.
Derek’s tats continue to blow my mind, but the “lip prints” tattooed around Rusty’s crotch and ass reinforce the image of Rusty as both sexy and possessing a sense of humor. The massive GABRIEL tattooed across his upper back isn’t quite as stunning as Derek’s art, but it’s beautiful. It also demands that I guess that Rusty’s “real” name is Gabriel (or that his boyfriend’s name is Gabriel… for his sake, I hope it’s his own name, because getting your boyfriend’s name tattooed on you never ends well).
Winning the competition for #1 contender homoerotic wrestling pornboy of my heart isn’t necessarily always about “winning.” Frankly, Derek’s begging of Mitch to slap his balls harder in Crotch Crushers was a stunning powerbottom move that earned Derek major points for both the kink value and the impressive performance itself. To not only stay hard, but to be brought to ejaculation while your sweat soaked opponent tortures your balls is seriously twisted and outrageously hot.
But Rusty has a nasty side to him that makes me think that even pain-slut Derek couldn’t keep up. Whereas Derek had Mitch obeying his command to beat his balls, I’d have to imagine Rusty cruelly withholding the torture that Derek is so desperately hot to experience. Rusty would have Derek twisted into the pretzel that only a yogi could achieve, but he’d keep Derek begging until Derek was his bitch.
If you’re like me, you did not see this upset coming. I think Mitch had better be looking over his shoulder, because Rusty is looking hungry and fierce. Still, I’m not about to count out Derek entirely from the competition. In fact, I’m hoping this little upset lights a fire under that unbelievably round, poundable ass of his to get back in the ring with renewed focus. In the mean time, though, it’s Rusty knocking at the door, determined to ride his momentum all the way to the top.

What Turned Me Gay (again, not really)

wrestlebard2 Comments


My posting on the new Calvin Klein underwear ads took me strolling down memory lane. As I thought about the secret joys of my childhood, thumbing through the pages of the underwear ads in catalogs and magazines, it just had to be said: Jim Palmer turned me gay.

I wish I could’ve been a fly on the wall of the first pitch Jockey made to future hall of famer, Jim. Today, of course, we see the results of three decades of persistent commodification of the hard male body. In the late 70’s, though, I have to think it was a stretch to convince a professional baseball player to strip to very skimpy briefs and show up nearly naked in most every home and on billboards across the country.
I wonder if it took Jim a second to get what was being done to him. I wonder if he asked if they would want him to model with his baseball glove. Not really, Jim. We only want you for your body.
I imagine the marketing strategy was to identify a man that men wanted to be, who was also a man that women wanted to be with. He needed to have a boy-next-door face, jock bona fides, and a hot-though-not-too-hot naked body. The gay erotica aspect, I have to imagine, was not part of the explicit strategy. Shoving Jim’s barely clad package in the faces of America (nice thought) was certainly a cultural shift, so it had to exploit both the (potentially threatening) sexuality of an athlete’s bare body and the (non-threatening) squeaky clean image of a boy scout.
Enter blue-eyed, 6’3″ Baltimore Oriole pitcher, Jim Palmer. Stack 1970’s Jim up against, say 2010’s Mehcad Brooks, and Jim looks downright average. If 1970’s Jim in jockeys met 2010’s Kellan Lutz in his Calvins in some dark alley somewhere (now we’re talking!), I have to imagine Jim would feel profoundly inadequate and in disbelief that young Kellan is now the standard of male perfection rather than the monstrous muscle god he would have seemed three decades ago.
Jim in a bikini brief, trying to save a modicum of modesty behind his mitt, with that disarming boy scout smile, still turns me on. But just between you and me, I’d sort of like to go back to that dark alley, where Jim meets big-sexy, Kellan. Disparaging words are exchanged. Jim’s pride is injured, and he puffs up his hairy chest to defend his honor. Ten minutes later, he’s flat on his back, schoolboy pinned, with Kellan’s Calvin-clad package pressed against his lips. Time marches on…

Intimate Impact

wrestlebardLeave a comment


Pro-style wrestling, when done well, is all about pacing. I love me some long-held torturous holds where a poor battler has the life squeezed out of him inch by inch. Still, sometimes I’m in the mood to seem someone slammed to the ground… hard. While I enjoy watching a man scream in pain while his joints are slowly ripped apart, today I’m more in the mood to watch a cocky musclehead get shut up by a body slam. I can think of a few people who deserve a silencing pounding from six feet off the ground. I think of the body slam like the exclamation point at the end of the sentence, “Fuck you!” That’s the sentiment I’m going for today (not necessarily you personally… unless you deserve it…).

The body slam is fast and blunt, when it satisfies. Today I’m hot for a stud snatched off his feet and immediately driven into the mat hard. Brad Rochelle is 100% golden when he’s suffering, but note his superhuman body awareness. In the split second before his ass is pounded to the mat, Brad’s hand darts out and clutches at Jed Jamison’s crotch dangling tantalizingly in front of Brad’s face…. a master at work….
This amazingly muscled hardbody in jeans slamming the bruiser in trunks (via Wrestling Arsenal) is exactly working for me on so many levels. The street-clothed stud ripping off his shirt and diving under the ropes to take on the wrestler in his natural habitat tweaks several of my kinks. His fierce hold on the dude’s trunks, looking like he’s about to rip them off his helpless projectile, tells a nice story of ferocity and presence. Blue jeans-boy is intent on controlling his victim and delivering precisely the dose of pain that he has coming to him. Whatever he did, I instantly believe that trunks-boy deserved it in spades.
Jaxx O’Doul setting up the stunningly skilled BG East babyface jobber, Cameron Matthews, connects the dots between impact and intimacy. First of all, have you SEEN Cameron’s ass? I frankly can’t quite understand how his opponent’s can restrain themselves from commenting on it all the time (or at least staring for a good long time). In this pic, Jaxx has somewhat demurely cupped Cameron’s ample left cheek in his hand, suggesting that he’s self-consciously avoiding really digging in his fingertips for a good solid grip. His carefully avoiding sinking his claws into Cameron’s glute only goes to show that Jaxx is just as keenly aware of Cameron’s #1 asset as I am. Going out his way to avoid a serious grab of that booty is Jaxx’s tell that he’s absolutely taken note of the booty-in-question. Cameron, for his part, is selling like an Amway Double Diamond, looking awed, frightened, and already in the throes of anticipatory suffering. Cameron’s all business, so I doubt that he’s intending to dig his pinky underneath Jaxx’s trunks, directly overtop of his cock, but nevertheless, that’s exactly what ends up happening. Regardless what Jaxx and Cameron’s intentions are, they illustrate that a body slam just can’t help be both brutal and intimate.
When bodybuilder Ted Shipp scooped up sadist Beau Hopkins in Canadian Musclehunk Wrestling 6, he had one thing in mind. Look at his eyes, and you can just tell. Ted has just a little bit of a crazed ecstasy in his eyes as he swings Beau’s hips high over his shoulder in preparation for driving him to the canvas. Ted is clearly feeling the kink that I’m all about today. Turn that cocky muscleboy into your plaything, Ted! Dangle him helplessly in the air with your rocking body tensed and gorgeous. Sure, let him plant his left hand across your rock hard quad. Indulge him for that split second. Because once you’ve pounded his ass to ground, you’ll have a few moments of peace and quiet from that bastard’s constant, cocky banter. Shut him up hard and commandingly!
Clearly I’m working out some of my own frustrations with my lustful read of the wrestling body slam. There are some overconfident ass holes I know who are crying out for a silencing pounding. But of course in between the lines of every lustful desire for a delivery of pain is the profound intimacy of that moment. The exchange of power and powerlessness, anticipation and consummation, and fear and agony is 100% sexual domination, as least as I read the text. Denny Cartier’s line of sight and right hand here are writing the story. Being owned by the giant-boy Joe Robbins has got to be a helpless, frightening, agonizing experience. Giving up over a half a foot and 80 pounds (!!!), Denny is caught in that instant of dreading the shock of being driven to his back from 6 feet off the ground. He’s captured and helpless, and Denny (a swiftly rising stock in my estimation) can’t help himself but be fixated, biting his lower lip in concentration, and instinctively reaching toward Joe’s package.

Brutality and intimacy. Brutality as intimacy. Fear and agony as the flip side of the lustful ecstasy coin. That’s the currency I’m looking for today. Ready to pay up?

Selling

wrestlebardLeave a comment


There was a period of time somewhere between 8 years old and 10 years old when, rather than immediately flip to toy section of the Sears Christmas catalog, I went straight to the underwear ads. That was probably the most skin I’d ever seen, and I knew that I liked it. A beautiful man modeling briefs is art, whether it’s in Sears or the Met.

Designers of overpriced underwear continue, to this day, exploiting the blatant sexuality of the underwear ad to market a few square inches of thin fabric. God bless him, David Beckham can’t keep his clothes on, it seems, instead displaying his astounding physique over and over and over again for Armani briefs. The classic shot of David wrapped in a huge rope is a fantastically transparent marketing of man-sex. That coiled behemoth hanging between his legs promises that his six pack abs and footballer thighs aren’t the only thing that make David worthy of lust.
Swedish footballer, Freddie Ljungberg, makes my mouth water even more than David Beckham. Freddie tugging at his Calvins makes me irrationally obsessed with buying underwear (must obey Freddie… must buy underwear…). Freddie enjoys the advantage of being Swedish, which gives him an automatic boost in his sexiness quotient. I also get the hit that Freddie is a bad ass, which probably explains his surprise victory in my fictional wrestling match over David. Despite nearly succumbing in David’s crippling figure-4 choke, Freddie managed to knock the Brit out flat.
Towleroad (God bless him, too), recently posted a new ad campaign from Calvin Klein featuring the likes of Twighlight fratboy musclestud, Kellan Lutz. Kellan does more for me in this ad than he’s generally done for me in the past. I think his crotch clawed in one hand and one of those huge pecs clawed in the other could be worth some imaginative energies.
The upcoming Calvin Klein campaign features many more objects of lust for me, though. Mechad Brooks has got to have one of the most stunning torsos ever. It’s a ridiculous oversight on my part that he hasn’t starred in a wrestling match yet. That will be rectified soon.
Japanese footballer Hidetoshi Nakata has been on my card for an All-Stars match for some time. This shot of him with his briefs tugged halfway down his hips reminds me that I must find a suitable opponent for him soon. And finally, I’m not as familiar with Ferndando Verdasco, but I will be now. Just try to tell me that shaggy head of hair isn’t crying out for someone to drag him around by it. Just try.

So I know why I get so hot and bothered by hunks in underwear. Other than the obvious fact that a gorgeous body in next to no clothes is an instant turn on, the hot stud in briefs has two vectors of allure for me. For one, it’s another transgressive image, displaying for the world to see (in awe) what is ostensibly a private image of a hard man in his undergarments. To see a man on a billboard fifty feet high in nothing but his Calvins blurs the line between private sexuality and public decorum, and that’s a bit naughty and incredibly nice at the same time. For another thing, this all takes me back to being nine years old, running to my bedroom and slamming the door the minute I could get my hands on the Sears catalog, and having my ears start to ring with the pump of blood at seeing gorgeous men in nothing but their underwear.