Welcoming the Surprise Guest

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I’m still a little flush from the muscle competition at Bodybuilding.com yesterday. The image in my mind of James bent over Eightpak’s knee, his trunks wedged high up his crack, and Eightpak spanking his athlete’s cheeks is still seared into my brain. What an image like that does to me brings me to today’s musings: uses for a wrestling hard-on.

For me, the hard-on opens up a whole smorgasbord of opportunities. A sweet, hard fought battle is arousing enough to witness, but the appearance of hard-ons indicates that observer and observed are on the same page in recognizing that wrestling is about sexual domination. Competing companies handle the hard-on differently (so to speak) it seems to me, so for today I want to just consider BG East’s treatment of the wrestler’s erection.
What to do with the hard-on once it graces us with its presence… Jarrett Cole and Jake Omega take time to simply welcome each other’s hard-ons with gentle, appreciative awe. They take turns stroking each other’s hard-ons from outside their trunks. Jarrett’s index finger tracing the heft of Jake’s hard-on suggests a literal, comparative measuring of one another’s manhood. I also have to imagine Jarrett’s mind is already ticking off the things he’s planning on doing with Jake’s impressive tool.
I’m not sure who this cheerful stud is from BG East’s roster, but he shows another approach to the appearance of his opponent’s sizeable erection. He simply grabs the thick shaft and gives it a tug. Frankly, clawing his balls would probably inflict considerably more pain, but when hard-ons arrive on the scene, wrestling isn’t entirely just about strategic advantage. The hard-on begs for being touched, grabbed, held and squeezed, letting your opponent know that his arousal is noted and will be dealt with directly.
Here we see Gabriel’s defensive grab of Mike Martin’s cock. Stripped, hammerlocked and choked, Gabriel feels Mike’s hard-on knocking at the door of Gabriel’s naked ass. With remarkable presence of mind, Gabriel uses his free hand to squeeze inside Mike’s trunks and grab hold of his knocker. Knowing Gabriel’s work, we must wonder whether this is actually defensive, though. He very well may have in mind enhancing Mike’s pleasure in order to better facilitate showing him the hospitality of welcoming him across the threshold.
Jarret Cole’s approach here deserves a second look. He has his opponent beaten down on his stomach in the center of the ring. This pleases Jarret, obviously. Unpacking his own hard-on, Jarret slides it inside the back of his opponent’s trunks, capitalizing on both the friction of the fabric and the frottage to feed his hungry python.
And speaking of feeding, for those of us orally fixated, the erection demands special attention. Here, Dark Rogers, one of the princes of the aroused altercation, cracks his light-headed opponent backward across his knee. Seeing the kid’s pleasure inches away from Dark’s mouth, Dark applies some mutually gratifying mouth and teeth action. Now this is the proper way to capitalize on an over the knee backbreaker!
Perhaps the most common scenario is illustrated here by one of the men of my dreams, Rafe Sanchez. Rafe’s own hard-on is screaming out at him for servicing. His command of Sebastian Rios has engorged Rafe’s insatiable member. Conveniently enough, he finds Sebastian’s face trapped, inches away from his throbbing cock. Grabbing a handful of hair in his right hand and cupping the back of Sebastian’s head in his left, Rafe rubs his opponent’s head humiliatingly into his erection. The force feed, both inside and outside of trunks, epitomizes the rewards of victory.
What’s still missing? In the interest of modesty, I’ve left out the pics of hard-ons put to good use in pec frottage. Most of the rest are variations on the theme: hand to cock, cock to face, cock to ass… One technique that I wasn’t able to put my hands on was the bodyscissors transition to capturing the suffering man’s erection between your feet. Christian Taylor is in prime position for this move here, if he just unlaced his ankles, bent his knees up further, and captured Jonah’s cock in the arches of his feet. I’m not entirely sure why that makes me see stars, but I’m a huge fan of this move on tape and in real life, both giving and receiving the joy. Of course there’s the dick slap, the figure-four force feed, the anal probe standing, seated, spooning, etc., etc., etc.
This is what makes mainstream pro inevitably inadequate, at least on its own. Straight grapplers who can’t manage to get themselves worked up are always at least a little disappointing to me. The generous welcome of the raging erection is a joy of infinite variety, to be welcomed like an esteemed guest, honored with lavish attention, and satisfied with relentless hospitality.

I ♡ JMD

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This man needs your help. No, it’s not help taking his underwear off the rest of the way (tragically). This is James Dawson Martin, a Brit boy who’s shown off his body and development of his stunning form all over the internet.
There we go again. I see a cleft chin and suddenly I must obey the pouty lipped muscle god attached to it. James released this YouTube video a couple of days ago… sort of (I think he just recycled another video). He’s calling for fans to vote for him to be the 2010 BodySpace spokesmodel.

Holy… shit. I apologize for offending the delicate sensibilities of so many of you, but I can’t think of anything else to say when I start talking about James’ body. I’m a vascularity junkie, as you probably have picked up. To this junkie, James’ legs are straight up crack. Oiled up, pumped up, and legs spread… must obey James… must vote for James… James is my master…
Okay, I’m on board, and I’ve elected myself the homerotic wrestling kink chairperson of the James Dawson Martin campaign for the 2010 BodySpace spokesmodel title. A few hundred unique visitors check out this blog daily, so I’m thinking if each of us vote for James and also recruit three people to join us, the gay wrestling kink caucus can generate a couple thousand votes for him easily. So put on your “I ♡JDM” buttons, and go to Bodybuilding.com today! It has to be today, because voting is open for only 24 hours. This is not the time to be fashionably late, boys. James needs us between 9:00 am Pacific Standard Time on Friday and 9:00 am PST on Saturday to vote for him. It took me a while to scroll through the mere mortals competing against him (“Envied Body,” indeed?), but you’ll find him listed as “Jammer Jay.” James hasn’t yet won a previous round of voting, which is atrocious. He could crush eman88mph like a grape with his 17.2″ arms and 44″ chest. Did I mention he’s 6’3″ tall? Holy shit (oh wait, I already said that).
James has his own website. Not surprisingly, you need to pay to see much of the goods. You can find him on YouTube working out and loving the camera. But the key is that today, Friday January 21, 2010, James needs you to find him on Bodyspace.com, in order for him to be able to rise above the dross and shine like the gold plated muscle god he clearly is. This muscle god needs you. I’m thinking if we put him over the top, he owes us a throw down in the ring with my current champion homoerotic wrestler.

Potpourri

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I have a few odds and ends to share today. First, I’m ripping off a great idea from superherofan. He keeps a running pic in the margins of his “current #1 crush.” Since I can never get enough of my favorite homoerotic wrestling boys, I decided to include a similar pane just to keep straight who’s the running champion of my heart. Just to remind everyone, it’s still a close competition. Gorgeous post-structuralist tattoed god of pain, Derek Da Silva, is certainly the #1 contender for the title after he lost it a couple of months ago. But just barely holding on to the homoerotic wrestling championship (in my eyes) is still beautiful Mitch Colby.

Another addition to who and what I’m tracking these days is a new find to my favorite links. PiledriveU has started his own hard-hitting blog of some of his favorite wrestling moves. What I continue to like about him is his readiness to paint himself (and you… and me) into the scene. His blog, Piledrive U, is a steamy hot challenge daring you to see if you can stand up to the devastating, humiliating abuse he has in store for you. He promises to school us over at Piledrive U. See you in class.
My final reflection for the day is born out of gratitude, yet once more, to the sharp eyes and sharp wit of 1000 Holds. As I’ve documented, Billy Jack Haynes gets at least a little credit for turning me into the gay wrestling kinkster I am today. I was an adolescent when I first saw Billy Jack climb into the ring. He was ripped to shreds, by far the most muscular wrestler I’d ever seen, and I was instantly in lust.
1000 Holds has a nice, brief Billy Jack match from what I think of as the prime of Billy Jack’s physique. Nostalgically, my favorite memories are from before he was quite this massive. When he was about five years younger, he wasn’t quite this thick and invulnerable. But honestly, the size of every muscle on his body in this match is made-to-order for the professional wrestling ring of the late 80’s and early 90’s.
The commentator is in awed lust with Billy Jack, just as I am. He’s stunned when Steve Starr throws a shoulder block “and ricocheted off that massive chest… and Billy Jack’s saying, ‘come on, fella, gimme the best you got!” The commentator marvels that Billy Jack was complaining that he hadn’t had an opportunity to work out in five days, reporting that he felt out of shape and disappointed that he could only bench press 505 pounds. “He’s as fast as a cobra, strong as an ox.” “He does it all and does it well.” The only worship missing from this commentary is a reflection on Billy Jack’s butt-slap on the ref at the end of this match (I’d like to be next in line. please!).
Watching Billy Jack dispatch Steve Starr so devastatingly and quickly takes me directly back to being a teenager, staying up after everyone else has gone to bed, adrenalin pumping in anticipation of seeing Billy Jack’s stunning body climb through the ropes. It was just Billy Jack and I, really, with the lights out, only the flicker of the television screen casting shadows around the living room. I was always rooting for him to clamp on that fullnelson that no one could escape, but secretly (I’d never have admitted it to Billy Jack), my most passionate pleasures accompanied the sight of his muscles overcome, his superhuman body tortured, and his face contorted in suffering humiliation.

Thanks, 1000holds, for the flood of happy memories.

I Need a Hero

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Did you catch Anderson Cooper rushing in to pull an injured child to safety in a violent confrontation in Haiti? Anderson is one lickably handsome man, and he’s always had a conscience to go with a healthy sense of humor. But he swoops in like a superhero to rescue injured children? Good God. How much of a good little boy can this gay man be!?

I think the world could use a fresh, new, gay superhero. Like Clark Kent, Anderson could easily be the mild-mannered, boy scout newsman who, when faced with a crisis, rips off his clothes and swoops in to save the day. Yes, ripping off his clothes really is an essential component of this scenario.

“Stunningly pale” typically is not my turn on, but Anderson wears it well. All the gossip and speculation about his personal life lends him an air of mystery. Yet, like Superman, aren’t we all left with wondering how anyone could be fooled by Anderson’s asexual, on camera alter ego? Clark Kent in a business suit and wearing glasses is hardly a convincing disguise. We can all see who you really are, Superman. Even if you’re wearing a suit and tie, we’re all picturing you in your tights (or less).
The occasional buff pics of Anderson are provocative and stimulating. Look at the guns he’s got! Pow! Now that’s the body of a superhero. When he’s finished rescuing injured Haitian children (which clearly could take a long, long time), I’m feeling in need of some rescuing myself. I’m not entirely certain what sort of rescue I need, but it will most definitely involve Anderson wrapping those arms around me and lifting me. It very well may be that SuperAnderson might discover that the entire rescue is actually a trap, and I will in fact bind him with kryptonite-laced leather straps and hang him from the ceiling like the evil sadist I am (but don’t tell him, he’d prefer it was a surprise).
And who the hell knew that Anderson had a python that massive?! Holy hell, he can’t even manage that monster with two hands! It’s so big that it requires Jeff Corwin to grab hold of the head while Anderson strokes it from the other end. Now that’s what I want to see in a gay superhero! Once he’s captured in my lair, I guarantee you I’ll be checking out his snake for myself.
In all seriousness (I think I can manage that), whatever the rumors, with whomever Anderson discloses his personal life, I think he’s a beautiful man in body and soul. It’s no wonder he throws my imagination into overdrive. He’s warranted two appearances so far in my wrestling fiction, most recently beating the living crap out of Fox News smarm-master Bill Hemmer (clearly, sometimes my writing is an avenue to work out some pent up frustrations with right-wing wingnuts). Whether he’s ready to be a goodboy gay standard bearer or not, I’m glad that he’s putting his hot gymbunny muscles to good use to protect the innocent and save the world, one earthquake victim at a time.

A Dish Best Served Cold

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Imagine, if you will, a world in which male models are inexplicably, innately, supremely talented in managing and manipulating people. Then imagine a bodybuilder turned fitness model challenging a fashion model and a fashion-model-turned-actor-turned-fashion-model to a 2 on 1 grappling contest. The fitness model does better than one might expect with two vicious competitors coming at him from all angles at once. But in the end, he’s tagged, bagged, and mounted (so to speak).

I posted pretty much that story line in my celebrity wrestling fiction group about three weeks ago. Hopefully it was a little more graceful and engaging than the cliff notes. To my genuine surprise, although the match received some kind compliments, there were several opinions voiced calling for a rematch. Reading between the lines, some readers expressed their confidence that given another shot, hot hardbody Luke could dismantle and humiliate Andrew and Ashton in devastating fashion.
As for me, I sincerely wasn’t sure that Luke was up for it. But okay, I let him take a shot. I posted yesterday the follow up to Luke’s humiliating defeat. I hate teasers that give too much away, but I realize that I’m no Agatha Christie. So here’s a decisive moment to give you an idea of what I’m talking about:

In a flash, Luke went from rubbing Ashton’s hair affectionately to grabbing a handful of the hair in his fist. With his left hand, Luke grabbed the waistband of Ashton’s underwear and yanked upward. Twisting his powerful torso, Luke jerked Ashton forward, sending the top of his head crashing hard into the nearby wall. The sickening dull thud of Ashton’s skull impacting against the wall echoed around the room. Ashton bounced away from the wall and fell to his ass, his eyes rolling into the top of his head as his torso swayed from side to side. Andrew threw himself off the wall and charged over. “That’s just about enough of that, mother fucker!”

Luke turned and faced Andrew squarely. He pounded his massive pecs with his fists fiercely and snarled, “We’re just getting started!” Andrew stopped in his tracks, suddenly realizing that Luke had planned this confrontation all along. Luke’s muscles were pumped. His body was shining with a layer of sweat. And he looked like he could rip a fire hydrant out of the sidewalk.

“Oh fuck,” Andrew said, suddenly reversing course and taking two quick steps backward. It was too late, though, as Luke launched himself diving across the distance between them. Spearing Andrew’s midsection with his right shoulder, Luke lifted him off his feet and threw him hard to his back.

If text-based wrestling captures your interest, you can check out this wonderful world filled with hot, hard hunks pounding on one another for their bread and butter. Comments are always welcome, including gentle critiques. Story ideas are even better. And the best of all is the fan cocky enough to rip off his shirt and throw himself into the action (as in, submit some wrestling fiction of your own to share)!

Parlez vous français?

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I took one term of French in college. I thought it would be fun. I was wrong. I’m sure it was my professor’s fault. It was all about table etiquette and asking where to find the toilet while sounding like you’re sniffing fine perfume. Now, if I had one of the boys from Wrestlers & Lutteurs tutoring me, I’d be speaking (and probably swearing) in French fluently.

My top choice for a French tutor is the fabulous scrapper Damien. He has a face straight out of the Vienna Boys Choir and an attitude straight out of the Hell’s Angels. I first saw him in the extreme aggro match up with Fabrice. I kick myself for remembering nothing from French class, because these boys are taunting each other perpetually throughout their match. Their bodies speak clearly enough, though. As Damien secures another fall, he struts to the score cards and turns over another victory in his column. Picking up the score, he shows it to Fabrice, pointing at it with a sneer and saying something that’s obviously a testimony to his fierce superiority. I truly believe these boys harbor intense disgust for one another, and that makes this 10 degrees hotter than it already is.
Damien has bulked up over time battling in W&L-land. Like many of the boys in Lyon, he has gorgeously hairy, meaty legs and furry forearms. He’s hell-bent on total domination of every opponent he faces. He doesn’t always come out on top, but he’s ferocious and focused at all times. Without me knowing a word that’s coming out of his mouth, he tells a crystal clear tale of the cocky young stud who’s willing to put his body on the line to humiliate any challenger in dominating victory.
With Damien straddling my hips and screaming down at me, I’m absolutely certain I’d know French in an instant. I suspect it would include a lot of taunting and profanity that I probably shouldn’t use when ordering meals in fine Paris restaurants, but I think the lessons Damien would have to teach me would be much more relevant and useful for my purposes.
My second choice for a French tutor is a blond bombshell named Damiano. Oh la la, indeed! Where Damien looks like the boy next door, Damiano looks like a Hollywood leading man. He’s armored in long, lean muscle, and he’s a relentless grappler. I first saw him team up with Benjamin on the way to getting their (fine) asses handed to them by Geoffrey and Christophe1 (apparently there are so many Christophe’s, they must be numbered). Damiano fights with singular focus, without wasted effort, assembling one move building upon another to systematically immobilize and submit his opponent.
Damiano’s humiliating torture of this opponent, scissored oh-so-high between his legs, is precisely the position in which I would like him to tutor me in French. Seriously, if he were to lock my head up like that, squeezing me cheek-to-cheek and using those stunning legs to discipline me like the naughty pupil I am, I’d be gasping out verb conjugations obediently. I think education is all about motivation, and having my face pressed tight against his muscled ass could motivate me to do absolutely anything Damiano wanted me to do.
To be clear, there’s little overtly homoerotic about W&L beyond the hormone-charged atmosphere you might expect in a fraternity chapter house. But if you’ve been in a fraternity chapter house, you know that means there’s plenty of homoerotic subtext (and text). These boys love their bodies, deservedly. They love the battle. And on deliriously happy occasions (for me, at least), they fight dirty, including some nasty ball claws.
I can’t testify to their product delivery, other than their PPV and DTO services. I had to download some extra software for both the audio and visual components, but once I was up and running, the downloads were fine. The video quality has improved over the history of W&L, with clearer pictures and more close up action from multiple camera angles in the more recent bouts. Gorgeous bodies earn them a high marks. Genuine grappling ability in most cases get them more high marks. Copious sweat and frequent humiliating dominations give them still more high marks. The set and video quality are average, and the straight vibe warrants relatively low marks. But if Damien or Damiano ever hire out for French tutoring, you can get behind me in line, because I am hot for teacher!

Hold Still!

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I’m not the only one seeing this, right? Wrestling as a bondage fantasy is all over the place. Tying up a stunned hunk between the ropes and working them over with both hands (and knees, and boots, and your partner, if applicable…) is directly out a BDSM playbook.
Okay, so obviously I’m not the only one seeing this. Wrestling Arsenal has several galleries devoted to the wonders of a wrestler tied in the ropes. Using the ropes as tools of torture is true artistry. Turning the set into the subject of a battle is the sign of a creative mind. But the creativity is just starting there. Finding new, ingenious ways of capturing and torturing your helpless opponent in the ropes is a many splendored thing. Like the doomed hunk in pink tights suspended helplessly from the ropes and his inverted opponent’s clutches, there are always new ways being invented to suffer with the aid of the ring ropes.
BG East’s Nick Archer takes the direct approach on poor Jason Zamora. Just position your man prone and step on the bottom rope, choking the sucker. Nick uses the top rope for balance. Personally, I’d like to see the top rope taut in the opposite direction, with Nick using it for extra leverage to apply more force across the poor chump’s throat. But that’s just me.


Lot’s of guys can lace a man’s arms between the top two ropes and hang him helpless inside the ring, but Sting here flipped the scenario outside the ring, leaving the gorgeous body of Rick Rude on stunning display, literally suspended off the ground. That bastard official looks like he’s going to ruin this scenario well before some serious discipline could be applied to Rick’s helplessly hunky body.

Early in Brad Rochelle’s BG East career, he won “Rookie of the Year” at the end of his systematic, sadistic dismantling of a young Patrick Donovan. Brad finished Patrick off with this truly inspired use of the ropes, immobilizing Patrick’s shoulders in the bottom two ropes and then lifting his body off the mat in a nicely suspended Boston crab variation. The cherry on top in this scenario was the standing ovation of the wrestlers watching outside the ring, who sealed Patrick’s humiliation by taking turns slapping him in the face as he remained trapped just this way in the ropes.
Karma is a bitch, though. Years later, after Brad’s suffering has propelled him to the heights of jobberhood, the Enforcer had him suffering miserably, his neck being pried painfully over the very same ropes with which he’s once humiliated young Patrick. The hunter quickly became the hunted, and our hopeless hero in white (specifically his trunks, though he’s awfully pale as well), is now the mounted trophy for Enforcer to examine and feel every inch of Brad’s tortured physique.
And speaking of tortured physique, did you catch the mega talent packed into a slender, tight package (aka Reese Wells) trapped in the ropes and having his balls crushed by Johnny Firestorm!? Johnny clearly is right there with me in recognizing the rope work as BDSM in the ring. Johnny actually uses the ropes from various angles to assault Reese’s balls and cock every which way. Our brave little scrapper with the literal target across his crotch screams and suffers valiantly, completing the cast of characters of the sadist and his hard working masochist.
The hunk who is twisted and tied, pummeled and pried in the ring ropes is nothing if not the object of homoerotic lust. His massive muscles immobilized outline the one-to-one connection between his suffering and our sexual fantasies. To be bound and disciplined on your way to humiliating defeat is absolutely the kink I’m talking about.

What Turned Me Gay (again, not really)

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I’d thought that, perhaps, I had plumbed the depths of what turned me gay. I’ve already identified 24 independent variables that clearly contributed to producing the gay wrestling kinkster that you see before you today. Looking over the long list, I have to wonder, how could I have not turned out gay!? Surely I’ve exhausted the chain of cause and effect that inevitably turned a young, eagerly impressionable boy gay.
But when capped posted captures of Jeff Bridges from Against All Odds earlier this week, I had a flood of warm, hard, breathless memories wash over me. I didn’t actually see the movie Against All Odds (I wasn’t the target audience at the time). But it came out right there in the middle of my teenage years, when I was frequently surfing through MTV to try to stay hip on pop culture. When Phil Collins’ title song from the movie came out on MTV, I distinctly and clearly remember the brief clips from the film included in the video featuring Jeff Bridges‘ tanned, sexy torso. Like a light-switch being turned on, I was gay.
Much more targeting my demographic, Starman came out around the same time, and I did see it. There wasn’t a ton of Jeff’s beautiful body on display in Starman, but enough to get my motor running. So when he showed up in Phil Collins’ music video soon afterward, I was already primed for lust.
What was Against All Odds about, exactly? I still don’t know. In my mind, it was a gay sexual awakening film that included lots of scenes of some studly sadist-master ripping Jeff’s clothes off him and throwing him around by fists full of his long, bleach-blond hair. That wasn’t the plot of the movie? Don’t tell me. I’m 100% certain I like my version better.
Bridges has been a skilled and prolific actor, and I always enjoy seeing is work. That said, he hasn’t actually done anything “for me” since the 80’s. From seeing him squeezed into a skin tight body suit in Tron (holy hell, the fantasies of Bruce Boxleitner and Jeff Bridges in a NHB smackdown still make me swoon), to his childlike, yet hardbody appearance as Starman, to his tanned, glorious shirtlessness in Against All Odds, he had quite a run of making me stand up and take notice. These days he’s all daddy, and that can be entirely hot and heavy. But he just isn’t my daddy. So I remember him more as the older kid down the block, pulling me into the woods to unbotton his shirt, invite my gaze, place my hand on his smooth chest, and teach me that a hot, hard, hunk of a man is a thing of beauty.

If You Just Smile

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I’m in a mood. There’s too much bad news and too many scowling faces right now. I’m feeling sour and cynical and ready to snap at someone who probably doesn’t deserve it. I need a mood-lightener.
Gorgeous hunks who snarl and scowl while pounding on other gorgeous hunks invariably make me hard. When those same hunks, like beautifully beasty Mikey Vee, are captured in a moment of spontaneous happiness, it gives me a special kind of joy. Mikey is much more typically on camera in a perpetual state of being pissed off. So a full on near-laughter smile across his face is quite a treasure.
It’s probably urban legend, but I’ve heard it said that smiling actually has a physiological effect that alters our mood. To smile, regardless of how you feel, makes you happier (so I’ve heard). Jimmy Dean with a smile on his face and a twinkle in his eye on the shoot of his double team match with two poundable beauties makes me smile and, true enough, I feel my mood lighten (that’s just anecdotal evidence, though… results may vary).
Three of the Von Erichs side-by-side (well, if you count Lance), can always make my mouth water. But the juxtaposition of their overcompensatingly massive championship belts, their sweaty, sexy bodies, and the “can I take a photo?”-nearly- genuine smiles leave me breathing a little deeper and feeling a little more at peace.

Tyrell Tomsen invariably makes me breathe a little faster and my heart start to pound. The heft of that package he’s toting around is a little dizzying. But he has such a sweet smile that I can almost manage to tear my eyes away from his stunning musculature to get a little lost in his face.

A smile is more than the contortion of the lips. The cocky smile is a good example of what I mean. Josh Goodman here is smiling with his mouth. The corners of his lips are upturned and he’s flashing some teeth. But he isn’t smiling with the rest of his face. He’s displaying his truly incredible body, probably concentrating a little on maintaining that beautiful flex, and communicating cocky self-confidence, not happiness.
But catch Mr. Joshua’s cheerful smile on set in his battle with Troy Baker. Both Troy and Joshua are captured here in a moment of genuine light-heartedness. Not just their mouths are smiling, but also their eyes. The fact that moments later the match was likely rejoined and they were taunting and punishing each other makes this stolen moment of genuine happiness that much more of a mood-lifter for me today.

So perhaps it’s urban legend, but I’m already feeling a little lighter for having reflected on some smiling, gorgeous faces this morning. I realize that light-heartedness isn’t always necessarily socially appropriate, but I think I’ve established pretty conclusively that I am often outside the bounds of social appropriateness. When things are seeming particularly heavy, I’m a little happier thanks to the sight of beautiful men with hard bodies cracking a delighted, unguarded smile.

Where My Sympathies Lie

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With news of natural disasters and at least tens of thousands of casualties, it seems a little strange to just keep blogging about the gorgeous men I’d like to slap in a camel clutch until they scream. Then again, I’m deeply cynical about all the attention and outpouring of concern that happens after a natural disaster, particularly in an impoverished country. The people who feel their heart strings tugged when an earthquake hits Haiti are usually the same people who couldn’t locate Haiti on a map and have been blissfully uninterested in the abject poverty, crippling political corruption, and rampant spread of devastating disease in that country for decades.
So the cynical bastard I am, I’m going to reflect on a tragedy that’s much more relevant to the spirit of what I write about day in and day out. I’ve gone on and on, I realize, about my unrequited lust with Michael C. Hall’s ass. He was adorably hunky in Six Feet Under, but as Dexter he’s beefed up even more.
When in season, I’m regularly watching each new episode of Dexter desperate for a shot of his amazingly round ass. There’s never enough skin in Dexter, but I lap up every little crumb. Just a glimpse of Michael’s gorgeous melons squeezed inside his strategically tight khakis makes me salivate like Pavlov’s dog. I’ve well-established my lustful adoration of the most sympathetic serial killer ever.
So the news that Michael C. Hall is completing a round of treatment for Hodgkin’s Lymphoma is quite a shock. I thought he looked sickly in his post-season 4 commentary on the finale with John Lithgow. I assumed perhaps he was just getting into character for a new project. But apparently, no, he’s been undergoing treatment for the typically curable cancer for several months.
Between you and me, I find cancer a major buzz kill. It’s capricious and devastating, and despite plenty of public knowledge that it isn’t communicable, so many people still today stigmatize people with cancer. Cancer sucks and causes so much suffering, and not the hot and erotic kind of suffering unfortunately.
Still, if anyone can make cancer sexy, I think it’s Michael C. Hall. Coping with the secondary devastation of chemo or not, I’d still tap that in a heartbeat. Hell, if he was game, I’d still slap on that camel clutch and deliver a heaping dose of the sort of suffering that makes life worth living in my book. I predict that Michael will kick lymphoma’s ass and continue to make me swoon every step of the way. I’m just hoping that this brush with mortality inspires him to stop his teasing ways and let it all hang out. I’m praying for him to have a new lease on life that fills him with the spirit of generosity, moving him to share a glimpse of the entire gorgeous body that he was so gifted with. Truly and sincerely, I’m wishing him a speedy recovery and many more years of Michael C. Hall lustful worship ahead for us all.