Words and Silences

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An online collaborator on a writing project recently mentioned to me that he doesn’t always “get” dialogue in wrestling. As for me, I’m always writing in taunting bravado, snarling verbal domination, or humiliating tirades. The dialogue makes it as much a head game as a battle of bodies, and both together are a bigger turn on for me than either one separately.

Similarly, I also recently replied to a reader’s comment by saying that the Enforcer’s epic beatdown on already beaten down Brad Rochelle in BG East’s Contract 4 left me desperately wanting to hear the big baddy say something. He’s creepily quiet as he tosses, slams, pries and pummels sweetly suffering Brad. Brad cries and whimpers, “why…?” as he’s twisted into astonishing angles, but the Enforcer’s silence is somehow even more dominating. He refuses to explain himself, to answer any question, to justify his devastating mugging. Still… if he just once whispered, “‘Cause I want to see you beg…” I’d have spontaneously exploded at the very instant.
Still again, I realize that the topic of dialogue came up in my review on Monday of Rock Hard Wrestling’s latest release. The first match between Cameron and Tommy is technically nice grappling. Two big, gorgeous bodies working up a sweat (perhaps enhanced, nevertheless), is art worth standing up and taking note of in my book. But they’re so eerily silent as they fight. It’s a little more like watching a chemistry experiment than the battle of two cocky studs both believing that they are fated to prevail. Words could tell me that this isn’t just about muscles and skill, but it’s also about balls (and cocks, for that matter), as two big boys play the game that boys have always played throughout time: whose is bigger; who’s badder; who will be the conqueror and who will be conquered.
The dialogue is one of the things that makes BG East’s new Fantasymen match debuting Lon Dumont such a turn on for me. Lon is barking at Eddy throughout the match, demanding that he flex for him. “I’ve seen that one!” he shouts when Eddy pumps out another double bicep in submission. Lon carries off cocky taunting convincingly, wrapping the physical action into a through-story based on Lon’s scene-opening challenge that he doesn’t give away poses of his hot body for free. Lon never accepts a whimpering submission from Eddy without snapping at him, “That’s not good enough!” and demanding a new, stunning flex of Eddy’s sweat-soaked, bulging body. Hell yes, that’s what I’m talking about!
One more example of what’s working for me: Can-Am is unfolding a new product called the Arena in their premium pay site, Can-Am Max,. It stars BG East bad boy, Aryx Quinn, new face Brian Bodine, and g—orgeous Rusty Stevens. After the first match up, Rusty has Brian beaten, fucked, and lying on his stomach in humiliation. Before Rusty can leave in undisputed victory, Aryx charges in, challenging Rusty to an East Coast vs. West Coast battle. They circle Brian’s beaten body, trading insults. Rusty is post-match naked and hard as a board, with that massive muscled bubblebutt bouncing with each stride. Aryx is in shiny gear and boots. Aryx says that if Rusty thinks Brian was competition, then perhaps he should walk across the street to the grade school to find more opponents he could beat up. Aryx is supposed to be the fast talking challenger, but Rusty has a very quick wit and sharp tongue that manages to best Aryx in the head-game of improv taunts, in my opinion. The constant circling of naked Brian, Rusty’s stunning, huge body aroused and on display, and the playground choreography of the taunt, the challenge, and the challenge accepted is by far the most erotic part of this match thus far (including the fuck scene).
I probably write too much dialogue in my wrestling fiction for some. The quotation marks probably serve as little more than a distraction to many fellow kinksters out there groaning to just get on with it, start the tussle, slam some bodies together. But for me, the taunts, tantrums, screams and submissions are absolutely delightful icing on the cake of hardbodies, sweat, and suffering. The talk tells the story of not just physical domination, but the domination of one man’s will over another. It’s about the ante up, the smack down, and the claim at the end of the day when one stud is helpless on his back and the other is reminding him, “I told you so.”

A Love/Hate Thing

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I’m feeling fiercely ambivalent. On the one hand, I’m bitter that BBC Three has premiered season 2 of Being Human without any definite plans yet to air it in the US. I know, I know. US shows almost always have a delayed release outside the US. Still, these captures of Russell Tovey stark naked, coated in mud, and holding his bits are making me raging jealous of the Brits.

On the other hand, the sight of beautiful Russell Tovey naked makes melt some things (my heart, for instance) and hardens others (come on, you know what I’m talking about!). Just between you and me (don’t tell Russell), I’m so much more into vampires than werewolves. Aidan Turner and Alexander Skarsgård can bite and suck pretty much any part of me that they’d like… preferably together… absolutely essentially, with all three of us naked. There are so many hot vampires to fantasize about: Aiden, Alexander, Brad Pitt, Stuart Townsend, Antonio Banderas, Tom Cruise. Well, alright, the only fantasy that I’ve had involving Tom Cruise lately has been a fictional bout in which Will Smith beats Tom Cruise naked and leaves him hogtied (good times).

But I really like the insider-outsider, provocatively philosophical story of Being Human, and Russell Tovey frequently naked pre- or post- getting furry makes the whole thing awfully sexy. Russell plays the antithesis of his primal, animal-like alter-ego. He’s insecure, indecisive, easily whipped and burning with angst. What better character is there to see fall to his hands and knees, screaming and snarling, as he becomes an animal insatiable for sex, food and violent conquest. The story isn’t really so much about a werewolf, a vampire and a ghost, but much more about their humanity (thus, the title).

Perhaps another thing about vampires is that they seem to usually be quite clean. I’m just itching to take a wash cloth to sweet Russell when he’s all coated in mud like this. There’s nothing here that a whole lot of scrubbing (and perhaps a little spanking… I’m just saying…) couldn’t make all better. I hate the Brits. I love the Brits. I’m so jealous. I’m so turned on.

Grace and Promise

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I had a brief, cordial exchange with Bob at Rock Hard Wrestling. Responding to some of the low scores I gave them in my review, Bob indicated that the RHW had also seen room for improvement for themselves after shooting their first few matches. He promised me that the hot guys and the excellent video quality would remain the same, but that they would be refining some of the other elements that I thought could be strengthened.

Seriously, is that a gracious way to take a review, or what? Frankly, I was a little nervous that he’d think I was too harsh on RHW. It seems like there’s a classy operation behind the new kids on the homoerotic wrestling block. So I was more than happy to give their third product a try.
Things are looking up for RHW, as far as I’m concerned. The new video is a double header. Cameron, who obviously had skills as evidenced by his first match manhandling Ray, is up against Tommy. Cameron and Tommy do some great work tossing one another around for eight and a half minutes. They both clearly have some grappling background (the website promotes Tommy as a competitive MMA fighter). They’re sincerely working on one another in nice back and forth, sweaty, barefoot action. This bit qualifies as homoerotic solely for the kink I bring to it. Tommy and Cameron are straight up grapplers without much attitude, swagger, or implied carnal joy in their body-on-body battle. For fans of more groping or dominating ownership, this match may not do it for you. There’s not much talk, but mix sweat, a couple barefoot studs, some grunting and grinding, and I’m fairly satisfied.
The second half of the double header is Brody taking on Ray for seven and a half minutes. Ray, bless his heart, is once again in over his head. He’s selling some swagger a little better than his first match, and Brody keeps the pace interesting. Just as Brody had to wipe the cocky sneer off of Zack’s face in his first match, he (literally) tackles much bigger and stronger Ray with gusto. Brody’s presence is once again the highlight of the match, and he does an even better job selling the tough little bruiser routine this time around. For the story that they’re trying to tell, they’d benefit from some more lingering, gloating victory from the giant killer. Still, Brody’s massive bicep popping up out of nowhere (seriously, where does he hide those ceps on that skinny body!?), in his now “signature” victory pose, is quite the turn on for me.
A scrapper with presence, salesmanship, and readiness to do some more edgy homoerotic themes like ball bashing, Brody Hancock (aka Reese Wells) could be some company’s bread and butter someday if he keeps it up. Once again, RHW’s production quality if superior to most anything else I’ve seen. As promised, the boys are drop-dead gorgeous. Cameron and Tommy’s match is satisfying competition, if not particularly great character development. Brody and Ray tell a decent story, if still the wrestling is a little weak (not as much as Ray’s last match, though). RHW still has my attention, and I look forward to seeing what a fresh wave of filming offers after their initial pilots.

Prince of Pecs

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Imagine, if you will, a video game featuring a young, acrobatic hero who can climb sheer walls, dodge flying swords and reverse the flow of time in his battle against the forces of supernatural evil. Now picture our young hero progressively loosing items of clothing over the course of his journey, while he simultaneously grows beefier and studlier with each herculean task he conquers. What sort of game designer comes up with a scenario like that?

My kind of game designer comes up with a scenario like that! And thank God that there are my kind of puppet-masters in Hollywood ready to take the obviously erotic text of the video game, Prince of Persia, and translate it onto the big screen. On Memorial day weekend, we’ll have the opportunity to finally see the long-hyped film, Prince of Persia: Sands of Time starring the beefiest we’ll ever see Jake Gyllenhaal.
Pics from the set have been “leaked” periodically, displaying fine, fine (fine) young Jake back in the day when he was still holding hands with Reese Witherspoon (and in my imagination, that’s as far as it ever went). Sweaty, hairy chested, long-haired Jake is quite the sight to behold.
Now that production stills are trickling out, the hits just keep on coming! The detail is poor, but I get the impression that those pants are painted on. The hair on this chest and abdomen are, frankly, perfection in my book. And the hair on his head is built to order for grabbing a handhold to toss the stunning specimen across the ring. If his extensions pop out, they’d have to get stuffed humiliatingly in his mouth… it’s just what would have to happen…
The story of Jake getting into this amazing shape has been newsworthy all on its own. His sword-work in the park (and haven’t we’ve all been there!?), his intense work out regimen, the diet that slices a man down to no body fat… I was astonished to find that there’s an entire supporting cast in this movie. I wonder if I’ll notice them when I actually see the flick.
Jake has cautioned that he’s not going to stay in this shape, so we should soak it in deeply while we can. There’s nothing wrong with pre-Prince Jake in the least. I get the impression he’s always been pretty pleased with his own body. But the iconic status of Brokeback Jake is momentarily enhanced by the demigod status of the Prince of Persia, at least in my mind. Transport that body back to that tent in the Montana high country, with Ennis and Jack’s homoerotic/self-hating mix of violence and sex, and my fantasy life is fueled for some time to come. Can’t wait till Memorial Day!

Bodies Over Time

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SteelMuscleGod continues to capture my imagination. His latest vid is straight out of my series on Bodies Over Time. SMG briefly documents his transformation from a sexy stud into, well, a Steel Muscle God.

The evolving, maturing body over time continues to fascinate me. This flesh and bone and pulsing blood is such an incredible structure, full of infinite delights and mystery. As SMG illustrates, it can be crafted deliberately, hammered out like steel on an iron, and shaped into a stunning display of strength and will.
Three years bear evidence of serious work molding this hunk’s body. His back, shoulders, biceps and forearms are dramatically larger. I can’t help but imagine his 2008 self encountering his 2005 self and demanding the relatively scrawny muscle-hopeful to fall on his knees.
It’s not only size. His different grooming regimens also fascinate me. His 2008 jock strap pic show’s off his fantastically furry thighs (and shapely ass, and rippled abs, etc.). As for me, I love me some thick, hairy, muscled legs, particularly wrapped around my abdomen and squeezing me dizzy. A year later, though, and SMG has shaved his legs in addition to adding significant mass and incredible definition. He’s one of the genetic freaks who can build thickly draped muscle mass around narrow joints, giving him some superhuman (godlike?) proportions. With his bigger, shaved style, SMG looks like he’s desperate to get someone’s head shoved between those weapons of erotic destruction.
It’s not as if in 2006 he wasn’t worth of my time. That patchy chest hair, the rippled abs, the brooding look… I’d have been happy to toss him around a ring, perhaps tie him into the ropes and wash some laundry across his washboard. But in 2009, his godlike proportions demand some serious attention. My delicates probably couldn’t survive the crystal cut of those shredded abs today, and if he kept tugging at his crotch like that, I’m sure I’d be too distracted to keep up my part of the battle.
Last I imagined, Adam400m had SMG bent over forward with his head squeezed tightly between Adam’s monster quads. Adam was squeezing so hard that SMG was sobbing in pain, uselessly pummeling the slabs of beef that are Adam’s quads. Adam’s taunting of SMG has the musclegod freshly enraged, though, and he’s flushed with a renewed burst of adrenaline. SMG plants his feet wide and hooks his arms around the backs of Adam’s crushing quads. Before Adam realizes what’s happening, SMG has illustrated his superhuman strength by lifting Adam off his feet. Standing fully erect, SMG still feels the crushing vice around his temples, but now Adam is vulnerably stretched down his opponent’s back, hanging on desperately to the musclegod’s head with his legs. Adam is sincerely stunned by the power move, but he remains hopeful as he hangs upside down with his face pressed tightly into SMG’s trunks wedgied high up his crack. Adam wraps his thick arms around the front of SMG’s waist and squeezes. Adam knows he’s vulnerable, but he’s determined to maintain the advantage.

His hopes are crushed when SMG charges backward, slamming his unsuspecting foe hard into the nearest wall. Suddenly, Adam has no air left in his lungs, and his legs and hands momentarily loose their grip. SMG steps away from the wall, and Adam falls limply, just managing to twist his upper body to avoid landing squarely on his head. Instead, he crashes onto his right shoulder, and then his muscled body slumps to the floor as pain lances across his upper body from his shoulder and neck. “You thought you could force a god to worship you?” SMG snarls deeply, looking down at his disoriented opponent with contempt. His chest heaves rapidly as the excess blood slowly drains from his face. He clenches his fists slowly and drops to his knees next to Adam.

Game

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The male model as fighter seems to be a common pose. Particularly the fitness models seem to regularly pop up with fists raised and chins down. Since everything is a commodity, these pics beg the question: what’s being sold here? It’s not the clothes (particularly for those models in-stance not wearing any). I propose that what’s being sold is that package of elements that is essentially at the heart of what I write about all the time.

It’s sex. It isn’t vanilla sex, but it’s the sex that emerges from lust and aggression simultaneously. The gorgeously hard body, tensed and toned, positioned in order to display the narrow waist armored by six-pack abs is intended to tell the story that turns me (and so many of you) on. Designer/director Tom Ford tells the tale with his arms around two sweaty boxers poised for the fight. The kiss on the forehead exposes the fierce-faced hardbody as the object of lust.
I can just smell the fantastic elixir of testosterone and sweat emanating from Bryan Thomas. The male model in a fighting stance taunts the gay male gaze. It promises sex and violence in one sweet image. It draws us in to the erotic combat of hand-to-hand, body-to-body competition, offering us the prize that if we beat him, we own him.
Tattooed stunner Tegan peers over his clenched fists at us, his thick, flexed forearms like the steel bars of a cage. His warm-ups sag below our line of sight (for full frontal trade of bewitching Tegan, aka Jagger, check out ChaosMen), with all the muscled lines of his torso pointing us downward. Perhaps, just perhaps, if we step inside that steel cage and take the beating that Tegan is planning for us, if we fight hard enough and suffer desperately enough, he’ll give us one final workover with his most impressive muscle of all.
Philip Fusco looks more like he wants to put up a fight, but not actually win. He’s too intent on displaying his chiseled face than protecting his vulnerable jaw. He’s planted vulnerably on the backs of his heels, subtly signaling that the battle will be short-lived, but his endurance to be worshiped as the conquered god he is will go on eternally.
I can actually hear the photographer’s voice instructing Philip to arch his back a fraction more here, to stick out that oh-so-round bubble butt just that much more. Once again, Philip is flat on his feet, entirely conscious of his body, ante-ing up a fighter’s pose just to signal that he’s game. This isn’t the form of a savage sadist ready to beat us into submission, but rather the eager bottom secretly begging us to call his bluff and drop him to his hands and knees. He isn’t actually planning on suffering too long, but we can teach him the ecstasy that awaits him (and us) when his endurance is tested, when his cries of submission are ignored, when the pain is unrelenting until he can genuinely stand no more.

Jamie Dominic appears as if in the post-coital position in which we might leave him after beating him senseless with those boxing gloves we placed tauntingly across his exhausted cock. He’s earned that coat of sweat glistening in the crevices of his shredded abs. He’s battled past the point that the gloves came off, past the point that the trunks came off, past the point that the jockstrap came off. In nothing but his sparring boots, he’s been hammered down until he moved too slowly to defend himself any longer. He’s been squeezed and probed, tried and pried until he had nothing left but to submit in body, mind and spirit. Back in the locker room, he struggles with his pride beneath the brim of his cap, our gloves re-enacting the final hold that forced him to give himself entirely for our pleasure. He’s even now reliving the bout, blow by blow, as the memory of the beating washes through him and begins to dislodge the gloves. He’s vowing that next time he’ll do the conquering. Next time, he won’t succumb to his own guilty ecstasy at being owned, used, and put away wet.
So, perhaps not quite all of this narrative is necessarily written into the male model in fighting stance. But you and I know that at least the kernel of that story is undeniably there, calling to us, taunting us, displaying for the world, but particularly us, that aggression and sex are a potent combination.

More Sublime Suffering

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An enthusiastic reader recently, generously offered to stretch me out across his knee in a backbreaker and work over my gut and pecs. That sweet talker. The offer got me thinking once again about one of my favorite wrestling holds: the over the knee backbreaker.

The promise to work over my gut and pecs sent my mind cataloging a few of the delicious possibilities of what can be done with a relatively flexible hardbody folded backward across your knee. Cliff Conlin (the consummate seller) illustrates nicely how grabbing the ankle of your prey gives you some extra leverage in prying your man backward at a breathtaking angle.

There’s an aesthetic to the OTK backbreaker that can make this moment in the ring an awesome work of art. Dirk Shannon from several Can-Am classics relished the OTK, and he clearly appreciated the beautiful form it could take. In Canadian Musclehunk 8, Dirk finishes off Peter Genilli like Michelangelo carving a block of marble. He presses down on Genilli’s thigh and chin with only the balls of his hands, his fingers extended purposively perpendicular to the mat. Dirk’s taut upper body and the fierce flex of his jaw are gorgeous all by themselves, but his presentation of Genilli’s suffering form belongs in the Louvre (or Le Cordon Bleu, perhaps).

BG East’s Kid Brock (who disappeared far too quickly), opts for the left hand clamped tightly across the throat of Eric Moreira. Kid has his opponent bent so far backward that Eric’s head is being smashed to the mat. The fulcrum here, Kid’s massive thigh, is driving directly into the small of Eric’s back. Note the line of sight in Kid’s gaze, though. The OTK, by definition, shine’s a spotlight on the suffering man’s package. The tormentor and the audience share the vision of the broken man’s most intimately vulnerable moment, with his spine being twisted in a way never intended by the human anatomy, and his cock and balls propped tantalizingly at the apex of his arched agony. The drop of sweat hanging from Kid’s nose here is what makes me feel a little faint, though, I must admit.
Confession time: I’ve caught myself more than once snarling at the screen, thrilled by the sight of an OTK, but frustrated that the sadist with his man broken backward across his thigh is seemingly ignoring the prominent pouch of his punk. To have that vulnerability so exposed and presented, but to do nothing with it, should be a crime punishable by (me) cracking the negligent battler’s head into the nearest turnbuckle. Fortunately, BG East’s Kid Vicious never needs my coaching. The world champion sadist never seems to fail to take stock of all of his opponent’s assets as his disposal in an OTK. With rookie Frank Daly cracked across his knee, KV is like a hungry man with a sampler plate. Daly’s cock is uncovered and suffers a blood-pumping, double fisted squeeze. Eventually his nipple’s and cock find their way into KV’s mouth, all the while maintaining the rookie’s vulnerable position across his knee. The work of a master is a beautiful thing to behold.
No one, but no one bends and suffers like Brad Rochelle. I’ve spilt plenty of ink marveling at Brad’s capture across the knee of Jeff Phoenix in the past, but I simply have to include another OTK capture of Brad, displaying another great option for the hold. I can’t sleuth out what match this pic is from, but I think this heel is Sid O’Reilly. He’s illustrating another great use of an OTK, which is to claw the crap out of a muscleboy’s exposed six pack. The heel’s fingertips look seriously dug in there, and Brad is letting us know what it feels like to have someone’s claws rearrange your internal organs from the outside.
Even the pros clearly take carnal delight in the OTK. Whether you’d like to imagine yourself getting broken by Chris Benoit or breaking bodybuilder face, Tommy Zenk, the combination of the two is fantastic. Chris’ ownership of Tommy is savage and complete.
This old pic captures a grimacing blond in the act of bringing Kerry Von Erich’s stunningly muscled back down across his knee. As Wrestling Arsenal points out, for our purposes, the most notable feature here is the blond’s hand indulgently squeezing the very ample handhold of Kerry’s muscled bubblebutt. His wrist and hand are jammed up so tight, Kerry’s cheeks are spread wide and completely vulnerable. Kerry’s mouth is saying no, no, no, but I suspect his prostate was saying yes, yes, yes!
The possibilities are seemingly infinite. The OTK offers a provocative canvas for the work of the true masters. Whether you’d like to crack me across your knee and pound out my pecs and gut, or whether you’d like to be captured and brutalized in this fantastic means of torture, I’m always and forever a fan of the improbable, unmistakably homoerotic over the knee backbreaker.

The Spice of Life

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I think there’s not much in life that wouldn’t be much sweeter for everyone with a little more sprinkling of gay. A little more gay in organized sports and we might have mandatory butt-slapping after every point scored. A little more gay in politics and I think everyone would benefit from the transformation of the proverbial political bitch-slap into a literal political bitch-slap. Happily, we’ve learned that there’ll be still a little more gay in True Blood next season with the addition of a boyfriend for openly gay character, Lafayette. Kevin Alejandro is reportedly joining the cast to make an already homoerotic subtext into, well… homoerotic text.
This announcement comes on the heels of learning that Theo Alexander will also join the cast as a gay vampire companion (hot human boy toy). Of course between Alexander Skarsgård, Ryan Kwanten, Sam Trammell and Stephen Moyer, there’s already been plenty to catch a gay man’s eye. And seriously, it’s all one transparent analogy to the gays (regardless of what Alan Ball says). But giving their gay character a lover and writing in another gay character simply cements True Blood as a gayboy’s fantasy.
Like Theo and Grant, I know little about Kevin Alejandro. Fortunately, there’s an adoring fan who’s been cataloging the rise of Kevin for some time now. I’m liking the playful turn at the corners of his mouth.
He also looks beefy. I see you flashing that sexy bicep while making eyes at me, Kevin!
Some shirtless pics from Ugly Betty give us a glimpse of Kevin’s meaty, entirely claw-able pecs (you see where my mind immediately takes me).
I didn’t see Purgatory Flats, but the stills of Kevin strangling Vincent Ventresca send my twisted mind off in wonderful flights of fantasy. Coincidentally, I’ve thought it would be fun to choke out lovely Vincent, as well (way too pretty not to suffer).

So once again I tip my hat to Alan Ball for sprinkling more gay into True Blood to spice things up. Just like garlic, some people might not like it, but for my tastes, you can never have too much.

The Endless Jobber

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Yesterday’s post sparked some interesting conversation. It also got me to thinking about all the jobbers that have caught my eye as I’ve fed my wrestling kink. Despite my proposition yesterday that every jobber should have his day, it did occur to me that there are, perhaps, a very select few jobbers that I never tire of seeing crushed. It may irk some of you to hear me now say that even I have a pantheon of jobber gods who, perhaps, I might never get bored with. If reconsideration of my argument yesterday irritates you, please refer to my standing opinion on consistency.

Wrestling Arsenal describes Kenny Kendall as “everyone’s favorite jobber.” Somehow I feel less special now. I always came to attention when Kenny climbed into the ring. He possessed a sweet (sweet, sweet, sweet) body, and every time there was the introductory close-up, I was captured by Kenny’s handsome face. I can’t remember ever seeing a match that Kenny won. He wasn’t always squashed, but as far as I remember, he was always beaten nearly unconscious.
Kenny’s trunks were always a distraction to me. He inevitably wore them a size too small and riding up his ass crack. As if his meaty glutes weren’t eye-catching enough, Kenny inevitably ended up on his hands and knees with his ass lifted high off the mat.
As far as I can remember, I never got tired of seeing Kenny get the shit kicked out of him. He suffered sweetly, and frankly I always thought he could probably do a job for days. Sadly, he was often in the ring with significantly out of shape heels who, I have to imagine, get the blame for so manny Kenny jobs being tragically short. As long as Kenny wore those crevice-cradling trunks with the double “K” stitched like grandma’s sampler on his left cheek, then sure… I’m okay with seeing Kenny endlessly job.
Wracking my twisted brain, I can’t say that there are many more jobber gods who could make it into my pantheon of endless jobberhood. Perhap the BG East’s Muscle Mask might qualify, if he had a longer career to consider. As JoshH commented yesterday, there’s something simply mouth-watering about the image of a stunningly muscled man like Muscle Mask being manhandled. The mask may be blurring my objectivity here, though. I’m a sucker for a hardbody in a wrestling mask, any day of the week.
So Kenny Kendall is definitely drinking ambrosia on Mt. Jobber-Olympus. Muscle Mask has yet to fight some more Titans before he can definitely join Kenny in the pantheon of eternal jobber delights. I’ll continue to consider who else might be worthy of jobber-deity status (feel free to help me out).

To Job or Not to Job

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I once suggested to John Savage that one of his wrestling comic series might include the “hero” tasting victory. John’s fantastic art and stories, including the superheroes and the jungle king characters, tell the excellent story of the classic heel who destroys and humiliates the boy scout. I thought it might spice things up to see a muscle hero snatch victory from the jaws of defeat. Perhaps it could be hot to see a boy scout pushed beyond the edge, forced over the line and turned in the heat of battle into a nasty vessel of humiliating punishment for the cocky heel. John gently, but firmly assured me that was not a story I was ever likely to see in his work. A few other fans chimed in to remind me that a jobber is a jobber, and toying with that universal law is not kosher.

Similarly, I posted a fantasy fiction short story a few months back portraying one of the loveliest muscleboys with a devastating cleft chin, Brad Rochelle. I wrote Brad post-heel turn, digging deep and dirty to torture and humiliate Tyrell Tomsen, tying him to a corner and stripping the newbie musclegod naked. A few impassioned fans of seeing Brad’s masterful suffering let me know that it was a “nice” story (ouch), but that Brad would always and forever remain a jobber in their wrestling fantasies.
I think I’m frequently out of sync with the classic pro-wrestling scenario. I’m often one of the naive rubes rooting for the pretty boys who are destined to suffer humiliatingly. Before Paul Roma’s character evolved, he spent several years as the stunning Roman god repeatedly dismantled and destroyed by physically-lesser men. I totally get it, of course. Featuring a main character who uses skill and guile to own a stunning specimen like Paul Roma teaches the fans what type of bad-ass the giant-killer is. The massive, shining muscles of Paul Roma were the backdrop, providing perspective on just how dangerous must be the man who could conquer Roma’s godlike body. But I harbored a lustful desire to get a glimpse of those amazing muscles as devices of torture.
The job-as-career leaves me a little unsatisfied. Don’t get me wrong: I’m first in line to lap up the image of a handsome, confident muscle god brought to his knees in agony and fear. But any Johnny-One-Note loses my interest eventually. If Paul Roma had never scrambled his way into a real story line, even his stunning beauty would have eventually left me uninspired.
Marcus Bagwell was another early-career babyface who dabbled with jobbing. As the Handsome Stranger, Bagwell’s massive, round muscles were obviously the object of fanatic, sexual lust. As such, it’s no wonder he was often scripted for a severe beating. The beating wasn’t “about” Bagwell, really. He was simply the device to push the story of the devious heel who delighted in humiliating the Handsome Stranger in front of his worshipping fans. Bagwell was simply beautiful scenery in front of which the real play was acted out.
Seriously, I get it. But even Bagwell’s beautiful bod would have lost its allure for me if he’d never made his turn. If there’s no arc to a story, if a character is flat and entirely predictable, then my imagination is left flaccid. And no one should be happy with a flaccid imagination.

So, still, I say, mix it up. Tell me a story that keeps me guessing. String along the rubes like me that are lusting for the occasional conquering face, the boy scout delivering a knee the groin, the crisis of conscience for the muscle god who has to decide what to do when he realizes that his dominating power is just not enough. There will always be plenty of room for jobs, but if you plan to keep a jobber on the payroll for any length of time, make them more than a caricature. Give them character. Tease me. Toy with my naive sympathies that every so often want to see a good guy come out on top, perhaps a little tarnished and morally ambiguous, but at least momentarily planting his boot on his opponent’s chest and raising his muscled arms in victory.