Model Wrestling

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I like to pretend that I’m unaffected by the social control mechanisms of advertising. I “never” click on click-through ads. I don’t even look at direct mailers before I toss them. But it’s such a superficial self-deception. Put a gorgeous male model in a wrestling singlet, and I’m captured by capitalism and unthinkingly signing over my self-determination and credit card number.

Fashion models in wrestling gear are like a car accident on the highway. I can’t tear my eyes away, and I hate myself a little for it. Dress up Jonathan Jesensky in gear, give him a nice coat of fashion-shoot sweat, and my jaw drops open a little as I stare helplessly, occasionally wiping the drool that escapes the corner of my mouth.
Strip Chad White to his underwear and tell him to lift another hardbody upside down as if he’s about to slam him mercilessly to the ground, and I’m stopped in my tracks.
Taunt me with the suggestion that a male model in gear is, in fact, an actual wrestler, and I become a mindless puppet on a string. Shoot aforementioned Chad White grappling with former high school wrestler-turned-model, Kerry Degman, and I get entirely lost in marveling at the provocative spiral of art imitating life.
Craft your advertisement around another wrestler-turned-model, Brock Harris, and I’m mindlessly clicking-through, a helpless captive of the evil geniuses of advertising. Put young Brock in a singlet underneath a dress shirt and tie, and a new star is born in the continuous wrestling scenarios running through my imagination. The overlapping boundaries of the tamed corporate male, the primal gladiator armed only with his stunning body, and the sexual warrior in the act of stripping off the clothes that disguise his underlying beast… I have no self-control. I am bought and sold at the will of ruthless ad men. I am both consumer and product in a world in which life and art and life imitating art and art imitating life dig the channels of consumption that I sail so obediently.
I’m captured and aroused by the model as wrestler, and I hate myself a little for it.

I Apologize, Tahmoh

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I’m not pulling my weight. I feel bad about it. I haven’t seen even one episode of Dollhouse, despite being a loyal Joss Whedon fan, a sci-fi nerd, and madly in love with Tahmoh Penikett. Now that the show is being cancelled, I feel like I’ve squandered my market citizenship by failing to reward Dollhouse with my viewership. I’m sorry, and I’m prepared to make it up to Tahmoh in ANY way that he might like (I have ideas in mind in case he’s needs them).

One of my first wrestling fiction matches pitted Tahmoh and his stunningly square jaw against muscleboy Jamie Bamber. I wondered which one of them might win a pro-style match if they were battling for a role in the next big series following the end of Battlestar Gallactica. In the spirit of pro-wrestling’s penchant for turning singles adversaries into tag team partners, I’ve been contemplating teaming the two of them up for a return appearance in the Producer’s Ring. I’m still trying to decide who they might battle (any suggestions?).
Having failed Joss, sci-fi, and Tahmoh, I hereby promise that whatever their next projects are, I’ll faithfully follow them. Particularly if it involves Tahmoh showing a lot of skin. From the captures of Dollhouse that Superherofan has posted, I suspect I’ll be checking the series out in DVD and kicking myself even harder for not supporting the effort sooner.

What Turned Me Gay (again, not really)

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Andrew Stevens turned me gay. There was a period of time during which I was OBSESSED with him. He appeared in a few movies (lot’s of pics from “Body Chemistry 3” via capped), but during the 80’s he was all over television. I fondly remember the very brief run of Emerald Point, but perhaps Dallas was Andrew’s biggest exposure. Frequently shirtless, his tight, smooth bod triggered deep lust within this little gay boy’s heart (and crotch).

From Hotel to Murder She Wrote, Andrew walked on shows throughout the 80’s. And he was always the sexy, devilish studpuppy poured into his skin tight jeans. At 5’10, with nice, shapely pecs and thick shoulders, he was my idea of perfection for at least a while in my youth. Discovering that Andrew was a guest star on a show was an instant thrill. If I had some privacy, I’d settle in close to the TV, salivating, making my own jeans grow tighter in anticipation.
He was married to Kate Jackson ever so briefly in the late 70’s. I can’t imagine what could make someone divorce a young, gorgeous, well-muscled (especially for the 80’s) boytoy like Andrew. Capped’s captures from Body Chemistry III offer some fantastic looks at Andrew’s cum-face. If I had the chance to see that orgasmic look of ecstasy in bed with me, I’d chain him up and never let him go.
Now that image could turn any young boy gay!

Picking Up the Remote

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Now that Chris Cuomo is moving to 20/20 at 10 pm on Friday nights, I’m not expecting to have very much to write about him any longer. They don’t put 20/20 anchors into dunking booths to show off their stacked pecs in wet t-shirts. 20/20 anchors don’t tend to allow themselves to be photographed in shirtless hotness deep sea fishing. And, frankly, I’ve got a life, and I’m generally living it around 10 pm on most Friday evenings.
So yesterday’s send-off of Chris Cuomo on GMA will probably offer the last nuggets of Italian studliness for me to obsess over for a while. The montage of Chris-moments on GMA was pretty sweet. Chris’ interviews with Mattie Stepanek really were incredible (more because of Mattie than Chris, but regardless…). Mattie was an unbelievably wise and graceful human being, and Chris did a beautiful job of helping to tell Mattie’s story (have tissue in hand if you want to learn more about Mattie). But of course it wasn’t the journalism that caught me eye in yesterday’s retrospective of Chris’ greatest hits.
I have no idea how I missed the fantastic moment captured in the montage where Chris rolls back his short-sleeve shirt to cockily pump his massive bicep. Sam Champion is laughing, pretending not to be totally aroused. Seriously, check out the size of that arm! Personally, I’d like to see that bicep wrapped around George Stephanopoulos’ head until the little Greek cries. But that’s just me.
They call Chris’ move a “promotion.” I’m skeptical that it’s going to work out well for either my favorite 6’3″ Italian attorney-turned-journalist hunk, or for Good Morning America. As of Monday morning, they’ve already lost one loyal viewer.

The Display

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Emotionally crushed by Chris Cuomo’s announcement today that he’s abandoning me in the mornings, I’m thinking about how I’ll miss the display of his beauty each day. Hunks on display is a big part of what gets me going. For example, straight-up aggressive fighting often isn’t a pretty sight. The action is frequently up close, with a lot of clutches that obscure the action and the bodies, victory determined by subtle points of pressure rather than dramatic displays of dominance. But pro-wrestling and homoerotic wrestling know what the audience is looking for: beautiful bodies on display. So even when it isn’t particularly effective combat, the pros make the display of suffering bodies as much an art as a science. Victory may not be defined by some of these exhibitionist moves, but satisfying the fans is.

Wrestling Arsenal, which I’m thrilled is now blogging, has a huge catalogue of the wrestling art of displaying suffering hunks. The kneeboard that stretches out this captured stud is a classic example. As the sadist focuses his torture on the center of his victim’s back, the rest of us are treated to the stunning display of that massive chest, the sweaty abs, and the spread-eagle display centering his crotch. It’s about the struggle, the suffering, the pain… but it’s most certainly also about the stunning display of a hot, muscled body.
In the Can-Am classic match up of Vic Silver vs. Johnny Lightning, musclegod Vic transitions a double hammerlock into this fantastic variation, lifting Johnny entirely off his feet and suspending the suffering hunk’s body. Truthfully, a position like this requires some serious cooperation between these two competitors. This doesn’t just happen in the beat down of one man on another. But this isn’t just about the beat down. It’s about the exploration of Johnny’s gorgeous body, all his muscles and power laid out vulnerably and helplessly for our appraisal and, let’s face it, worship. Vic owns Johnny here, and generously, he shares his stunning prize with those of us watching on in awe.
Steve Arnold and Doug Brandon square off in another Can-Am oldie. Again, the double hammer lock ostensibly tells the story of Doug’s dominance over oil-soaked bodybuilder Steve. Doug’s gloating smile looking down on the anguish contorting Steve’s face tells the story of the sadist feeding his lust for humiliating a muscle jobber. But the other story, the implied story, is that we, through the lens of the camera, are being treated to the awesome display of Steve’s rippled torso immobilized and presented for our lustful gaze. Steve is Doug’s victim here, but he’s our trophy, thoughtfully oiled up, trussed up, and humiliated for our appreciation.
No one understands this better than BG East’s Kid Leopard. Kid has always been the master of not only dominating and humiliating his studly opponents, but positioning them in such a way as to lay them open in astonishingly intimate and vulnerable ways that invite us to examine every crack and crevice of their beautiful form. It’s no wonder Kid is a successful promoter, because he obviously knows what the audience wants to see, and he’s happy to oblige us. Kid twists and ties them, squeezes and pries them into such bizarre, exposed, suspended positions of vulnerability that we can’t help be marvel at the beauty of the captured male body. In his dismantling of Dick the Prick in Submissions 4, from his feet he manages to spread his opponent’s legs wide, crush the jobbers chin to his chest, and display Dick’s ass, package, taut legs, and muscled abs and chest all in one pretty picture. This surely wasn’t the most direct route to defeating the stud, but it was undoubtedly one of the hottest thanks to Kid’s generous, thoughtful, artistry in displaying the helpless hunk for our benefit.

I’m Devastated… and You Should Be, Too

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It’s not right. IT’S NOT RIGHT! I don’t ask so much. Some gorgeous Italian hotness with my morning cup of tea, and I can face my day. But after a couple of weeks of vile, nasty speculation that George Stephanopoulos is replacing Diane Sawyer at Good Morning America (ahead of also-ran, my morning ray of sunshine, Chris Cuomo), now I get this devastating news: Chris is, indeed, leaving Good Morning America. Perez Hilton reports that it isn’t true, which is almost certain evidence that it is, in fact, true.

As I’ve mentioned, I don’t swear lightly. But, what the fuck. This profanity is a statement rather than a question, because I am resigned and bitter. Chris has twitted the implied confirmation that he’s leaving the show. Rumors still swirl that he may land on the anchorless ship that is 20/20 (airing at 10 pm on Fridays? seriously?). To pour salt in my wound, the corollary rumor is that JuJu Chang will take Chris’ place. I do not want to see JuJu Chang’s shirtless fishing pics.
Up is down. Good is bad. I’m adrift in the fog of confusion and disappointment that makes me question if my morning tea will ever taste as sweet. One thing is for sure: on the day that Chris is no longer playfully teasing his love-struck weatherman on my morning television, that’s the day I return to the Today Show to take solace in the furry chest of Matt Lauer. But it’s just not the same.

Antici… pation

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So I tried the new Blogger editor yesterday and nearly had a brain aneurysm. I’m back to the “old” editor, and feeling much more the captain of my own ship. In honor of my empowered buzz, I’m lingering on thoughts of my second favorite homoerotic pornboy crush, Mitch Colby, who’s making a surge on the champion for my heart, Derek da Silva.

I’m working so fucking hard (sorry, I’m feeling emotional) to honor the spirit of the BG East Arena. Their newest catalogue isn’t available for public consumption yet, so it doesn’t seem right to post the new pics. But holy hell, how can I not discuss the previews for Mitch’s wrestler spotlight tape? I’ve seen the preview pics. I’ve lusted after the preview pics. I’ve pre-ordered my copy. Give me Mitch.

Without jumping the gun, let me just say that Mitch is being paired up with two known quantities and an intriguing unknown face. His first match is with the veteran from way, way back in BG East history, Patrick Donovan. Patrick’s got the roundest pecs for such a skinny body. He’s a consummate jobber who suffers admirably, ever since winning jobber of the year back in Wrestlefest 2. Patrick and Mitch have sweat pouring off of them in what looks like some nice mat action.

Mitch next shows up against porn-pornboy Peter Stallion (who goes by tons of other names elsewhere). Peter does not do it for me in the BG East format. I need to just put that out there. I have no idea why, but I don’t find myself all revved up. In his Wrestle Worship match against Rafe Sanchez, he was mostly furniture to me (true, I find it difficult tearing my eyes away from Rafe). Frankly, he doesn’t seem to be all revved up, so maybe that’s that. Still, Mitch and Peter look like they do some nice squeezing, topped off by some making out. I’ll buy that (literally).

The mystery man is named Marc Rion. I don’t recognize him, but I’m ready to get to know him much, much better. He’s got a handsome face, a couple tats, a shaved head, and… oh, did I mention that 90% of the preview pics posted so far are of mutually naked action? There are implications of very pleasing mutual body worship, and this looks like as much love as war. As long as they don’t short-change the war, I’m happy to see where the man-to-man combat takes them.

As soon as this tape is available, I’m sure I’ll return to considering it in more detail with you. Talk amongst yourselves.

Bodies Over Time

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I grew disenchanted with mainstream pro wrestling a while ago.  I don’t even remember any longer what the precipitating event was.  It was some over the top homophobic moment that just disgusted me, and disgust is not (for me) sexy.  Without the sexy in pro wrestling, there really isn’t anything else that I’m interested in there.
Well, almost nothing else.  I’ve seen Randy Orton in action just a couple of times.  In motion, he didn’t really ring my bell.  But seeing stills of him, particularly over time as his ink is growing, is undeniably pleasurable.
When he only had a partial band on his left bicep and a right shoulder tat, he was pretty.  Pretty can go either way for me, but generally it leaves me luke warm, right in the middle.
Adding some forearm ink and starting work across his back, and my engine starts running.  There’s something intensely sexual about a well-muscled man with his arms folded across his sternum and his massive pecs squeezed together.  Add to that some nice forearm ink across those thick muscles, and things are starting to get steamy for me.
But once Randy puts on sleeves that tie together everything across both arms and his upper back, and I’m fully at attention!  No longer so much pretty, Randy is transforming his body into stunning beauty for my tastes.  Good ink tweaks my oral fixation, and today Randy is nothing if not lickable.  I’m still not making mainstream pro destination TV, but I will always be a fan of gorgeous ink on a beautifully beasty boy.

Of course, I’ll be the first to admit that there are times when less is more.

A Promise Kept

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Rock Hard Wrestling finally went live. It didn’t happen in August as promised, or November as promised later. But it finally happened, and all is forgiven. In the interest of “consumer research,” I checked out two of their first three matches to see if the delivery lives up to the hype.

So you pay $12.95 per instant download of DVD (note different match lengths, same price). Having entirely lost my ability to sustain prolonged anticipation, I went the download route. I started with the Ray Martinez vs. Cameron Davis match, mostly because I’m in awe of Ray (aka Alan Valdez aka Rio Garza, etc.). The production quality is very high. A lot of different cameras simultaneously film the action in HD. The close ups put you right in the ring, while the wider angles tell the story. The story itself is thin, though. Ray finds Cameron already in the ring and taunts him by explaining he already has a bigger fan base (it’s all about size). Ray turns his back on his opponent and poses for the camera, and predictably Cameron attacks him from behind in mid-flex. Cameron has clearly done some amateur wrestling, and he pretty much owns Ray from start to finish as a result. He turns him, tosses him, and pins him at will. Sweet Ray takes his punishment, but the nicest moments in this match are when Cameron finds himself chuckling at the completely dominated state of his hardbody opponent. More than once, Cameron looks at the camera and smirks as if to say, “Just look at me own this bitch!” In case you follow Ray/Rio at BG East, he’s not nearly as incredibly cut and hard as his BG East appearances. Two falls, eleven minutes, yours to own.
After getting a taste of RHW, I felt ethically bound to have more than one sample of the goods in order to offer a thorough review. So I also took a long look at the Zack Jonathan vs. Brody Hancock match (aka Zack Vazquez vs. Reese Wells). The story is basically the same premise from Ray and Cameron’s match. Zack arrives to find Brody already in the ring. Zack struts and preens for the camera, explaining that the fans pay up to see his stunning body. When Zack tosses a bottle of baby oil to Brody and insists on having him oil Zack up, Brody attacks from behind. These boys are a little more evenly matched than Ray and Cameron, in that neither of them look entirely at home in the ring. Still, Brody is by far the better salesman. He gives and takes some punishment with style that I like. Smirking Zack, though, predictably can’t quite stay in the moment, which is just distracting. The tide turns back and forth several times, resulting in three falls over 18 minutes. Once again, my favorite moments are catching Brody mug for the camera mid-action, sneering as he makes his overconfident, pinup boy opponent suffer.

For a blow by blow of the third match, check out Topher’s fine review yesterday in the comments at Ringside at Skull Island. RHW has put together a very high quality product with very beautiful muscleboys. Other than Cameron’s performance, the wrestling is weak, though Brody is a standout salesman that I’m willing to buy. Zack, God bless him, needs to seriously get his ass kicked, I think, in order to get in touch with what it really feels like to suffer a beat down. So if you’re looking for some convincing wrestling, domination, and suffering, these matches score relatively low (though I’m liking Cameron’s amateur skills). If you’re looking for some overt homoerotic action or body worship, these matches score very low. If you’re looking for beautiful muscleboys in skimpy outfits rolling around, these matches score very high.

What Turned Me Gay (again, not really)

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When Lost Boys hit the big screen, I’d already picked out Jason Patric as my crush-du-jour. Vampires, hot guys, man-on-man seduction… so many seeds sewn in that moment of my adolescence. But early in the movie when the screen was filled with a concert scene on the boardwalk in “Santa Carla,” my jaw dropped.

Yes, the liberally oiled, bodybuilder saxophone player and lead singer from Lost Boys turned me gay. I really only knew him as the liberally oiled, bodybuilder saxophone player and leader singer from Lost Boys until I did my research for this installment of What Turned Me Gay. Fortunately, now I can refer to him by his much more concise name, Timmy Cappello.
Timmy performed with a lot of artists, most notably Tina Turner. There’s just nothing that isn’t overtly sexual about Timmy as an artist, and his appearance in Lost Boys is the epitome of everything that worked for him in the 80’s. It’s not as if he could disguise those huge muscles (look at the thick cut of meat that are his pecs!), but with Timmy shirtless and absolutely lathered in baby oil, there’s nothing but sex that can come to mind. He moves like a go-go boy, and when he sticks the mouthpiece of that sax in his mouth and closes his eyes in ecstatic concentration… holy hell! That’s a magic spell that simply must have turned hundreds of us homo.
The choice to present this musician shirtless and bathed in oil was inspired. I think it represents the turn to overtly objectify and sexualize the male form that was going more and more mainstream throughout the ironically politically conservative 80’s. Timmy’s hardbody was completely extraneous to his musical entertainment, which only proves that it was sex and the unambiguously objectified male body that was on stage at least as much as it was music. The combination of the music, the body, the oil, and Timmy’s mouth blowing on that mouthpiece was guaranteed to turn someone gay. I, at least for one, am that gay someone.