Never Had a Chance

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The Canadian women’s hockey team has been criticized for beating their first round opponents 18 – 0. It’s not in the spirit of the Olympics, so the story goes, to humiliate your opponents. Just beat them. What is it that goes into deciding to score those 5 goals in the 3rd period? It’s simply not about winning anymore. It’s about statement. Frankly, it’s not really about making a statement to your opponent, really. It’s about making a statement to potential opponents who might be considering taking you on. Show no mercy in utterly humiliating your outclassed opponent and tell the world you’ll fuck up anyone else who dares to go toe to toe with you, too.

A recent conversation at Ringside at Skull Island made me think some more about the wrestling squash match. Some folks just aren’t into the squash. Seeing one man completely outclass his opponent on the way to devastating humiliation doesn’t turn everyone crank.
Most often, though, it turns mine. For me, it isn’t that there’s no competitive spirit in a squash. The competition just isn’t all happening in the ring. The humiliating squash is the message sent to the arrogant punks sizing you up back in the locker room later on. When Billyboy took a jab at Brad Rochelle’s balls, Brad completely demolished the doe-eyed hunk. Brad tortured the punk far past the point of necessity as a message to the next piece of shit that might think it was worth a stab to use Brad’s testicles like a speed bag. The testosterone laced kink is the sneering challenge to the hot shot who thinks they’re ready to take you on next. Just try me, and you’ll see me unleash the merciless destruction on your ass that I’m unleashing on this piece of shit.
It’s a fascinating, titillating sight to see an eager/dumbass young hopeful climb into the ring when the rest of us know that he’s got no chance. It doesn’t have to be a mystery to be hot in my book. When Jeff Phoenix showed up without his partner for his tag team match against Jose and Cruze, the hardbody hunk was all mouth. He boasted he could beat both heels by himself. You knew and I knew that Jeff was in for complete destruction. Jose knew it. Cruze knew it. Hell, for all his bluster, Jeff knew it. The heels took their time in systematically double teaming Jeff’s muscle ass like artists, illustrating that it’s not the science of the knowing that always matters, just like it isn’t strictly the competition that tells the story in the ring. Sometimes, it’s the artful execution and merciless thrill that makes it worth it.
The demolition as art can be a beautiful thing that revs my engine. Kid Leopard’s skills have always been awe inspiring. It’s not like we can’t tell when he steps into the ring with another eager/dumbass musclehead destined for humiliation. We watch because we want to see just how he’ll go about it this time. In what way will he twist and torture the stud? What gravity defying position will he force the unsuspecting blowhard into, and how long will he toy with his victim before forcing him to finally scream in submission? How will he make us gasp and his victim cry?
Kid Vicious is the same sort of battler. The smile on his face as he crushes Joe Driver’s hhhhhuge package under his boot makes me a little lightheaded. KV sells his sadism with such mastery. His inevitable dismantling of the fresh meat dangled in front of his face is never seriously in doubt. It’s his style, his savagery, and the systematic ownership of his opponents that keeps me coming back for more. Like several voices at the BG East listserv, I’m all for a long overdue KV spotlight. I just vote to throw him at least a couple bright-eyed, hardbodied rookies who actually think that they have a chance when they step in the ring. Their shock will be my happy ending.
Finally, Mitch’s motel match against Jeremy Burk comes to mind as one more squash done right, in my book. The reigning champion for my favorite homoerotic wrestling pornboy title, Mitch is relentless. Jeremy is his plaything from the moment he steps into the room. Mitch overpowers him and completely owns him just about every step of the way. And I turn every page eagerly, not because the climax is somehow in doubt, not because the “what” of the plot keeps me guessing, but because the how is so delightful to see unfold. Spank that punk’s ass with his own shoe, Mitch! Suspend him upside down with his head squeezed between your knees. Do those push ups on top of him, grinding your crotch into his face over and over again. I knew you could do it. I just wanted to watch. It may not be the spirit of competition, but it gets me off.

More Olympic Spirit

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I swear, I won’t obsess about the Olympics ceaselessly. But I can’t help myself but comment on the Dutch Olympic champion 5,000 m speed skating gold medalist, Sven Kramer.

This is precisely why I’m an occasional consumer-fan of speed skating. If a sport requires you to be covered neck to toe, at least make it so skin tight that we can tell if you’re circumcised. 6’1″ (isn’t that short for the Dutch?), 23 year old stunner Sven was incredible to watch yesterday. Those tree trunk thighs pumping smoothly as his notable package was pressed side to side with each stride… I was hypnotized.
This pic is from a different competition, but offers another pleasing view of the wonders of speed skating gear. I could seriously get into some gear fetish with Sven packed into his cat suit like that!

Apparently, Sven is a promoter of bread products back at home. I love that the ad boys had the wisdom to oil Sven up for this shot. Yeah, bread… that’s what this shot is selling.

Less oil, more bread in this shot. The sly smile on his face here is filling me with the Olympic spirit. I’d like tickets to the after-party where dimpled-face Canadian Denny Morrison, frustrated with his 18th place finish, lures Sven on the back patio and pearl harbors him from behind. Some speed skater on speed skater crotch abuse is surely in order. I’m not sure who would win, but bones could surely be snapped if the tussle turned to scissors.

More Olympic Spirit

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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

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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

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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

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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

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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

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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

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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)

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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…