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.

A Warm Front from the Bayou

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Since Dexter is forcing me to take cold showers just as the winter winds blow in, I’m happy to get a warm front from off-season news about True Blood. I first saw the newsbreak on Towleroad, which is slowly becoming my only source of relevant news. Now I see it everywhere. Grant Bowler and Theo Alexander are joining True Blood for season 3.

Bowler is somewhat of a known quantity. Another Aussie, he and Ryan can speak each other’s language between takes. The few shirtless pics I can scare up of Grant make me very, very happy. Apparently he’ll be playing a werewolf, and EVERYONE knows that werewolves must rip off their clothing and be naked before turning. It’s a law… in Bon Temps, Louisiana… or else it should be. Grant is bringing nice, mature beef to the already packed meat market that is True Blood. For a show with naked hunks spilling into every other scene, though, True Blood doesn’t pair up the bevy of beauties nearly enough. For example, when will we see some extended [lovemaking] scenes between Alexander Skarsgård and Ryan Kwanten? New cuts of beef must include some more attractive presentation (as in man-on-man action!)!!
Speaking of that, apparently Theo Alexander will be playing a gay vampire… Aren’t they all ambiguously bi/pansexual? The sexual tension between Scandinavian sizzlers Alexander Skarsgård and Allan Hyde was unmistakable and so promising. So if someone is going to bill Theo as a “gay vampire,” then damn it, I want to see something gay happen there (and not just that he wears an apron in the kitchen)! I’m completely at a loss with knowing much at all about this actor upon whom I’m already heaping so many hopes. I see nothing wrong with the few pics I’m finding so far. The smoldering eyes, the lickable lips… the equipment all seems to be in order. I’m hoping for a little more seductive a gay character than this one here, though.
Still, I’m willing to buy the promise of hotness to come.

Battle of the Gods

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As you probably already realize, there are always beautiful muscleboys fighting it out in my imagination. Walking through my day, I see handsome hardbodies, and my first thought is, “I wonder which of those hunks would win in a submission battle.” I watch television and see hollywood gym bunnies, and my first question is, “Which hottie could make the other scream first?”
Two of my muscleworship crushes are fighting tooth and nail in the arena in my mind. SteelMuscleGod posted a new worship vid, primarily focusing on those astounding legs. Posing in his yellow briefs, SMG is growling and snarling at the camera throughout. “Big muscles are back, more shredded, and harder than ever.” He’s a handsome studpuppy, and his glasses make me smile. He’s looking bigger in each video he posts, and he demands, “Contribute and worship!”

Battling head-to-head with SteelMuscleGod is Adam400m, the English bodybuilder. As if in answer to SteelMuscleGod’s upload on Monday, Adam posted a legs-video on Tuesday. Adam similarly is growing in every upload, helpfully explaining that his legs are “definitely getting beefier from squats.” Adam yanks up the fronts of his shorts, showing off his sweet upper thighs and giving a nice glimpse of the heft of that shapely package. Adam isn’t as verbal as SteelMuscleGod, but he’s also inviting our contributions (via his website) and implicitly demanding to be worshipped.

I’m not made of money. I can’t whip out my… credit card for every hardbody YouTube god demanding to be worshipped. This competition for my heart/wallet must be translated into a muscle battle. These boys both love their quads, but I have to imagine Adam having the edge in a body scissor battle. Trading body scissors, SteelMuscleGod would be whimpering in pain.
When SteelMuscleGod snaps a headlock on Adam, though, I think the tide would turn. SMG is sporting thicker biceps that Adam would struggle against, but finally be unable to escape. When SMG suddenly captures Adam in a bearhug, he’d pull the Englishman off his feet. Adam would try to scissor his captor’s muscled torso with those shredded thighs, but SMG would squeeze the air out of his opponent’s lungs and leave him powerless.
There might eventually be some bondage involved, but regardless, SMG would psychologically overwhelm Adam with that husky, cocky, snarling voice. “Worship me!” he’d demand of his crushed and breathless opponent. Adam would resist, but when SMG licks his own massive peaks and then shoves them in Adam’s face, the end would be near. As my scene closes, Adam would be on his knees, his face being smashed into victor’s torso as SMG holds him by fistfuls of hair. A tongue flickering out of the defeated man’s mouth would signal the sweetest submission of all.
I’m just saying…

Confession and Kink

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It’s not like I go around discussing my wrestling kink with everyone I meet. I consider myself pretty blunt, but I certainly disclose much more to all of you perfect strangers than I do among the people I see every day. The public confession of sexual desire has been made commonplace by the shrinking world in which we live, facilitated by instantly gratifying technology like the internet. But why do I write what I write in this blog, and why do you read it?

Someone who recently signed up to read my homoerotic wrestling fiction explained his interest by simply writing, “I thought I was the only one!” First, that’s an excellent answer. Second, I think the public confession of sexual desire has that function of allowing people to recognize common interests (and kinks) and discover a sense of community that perhaps they weren’t aware of before. Perhaps you read a blog about someone’s personal gay wrestling fetish because you catch a glimpse of yourself.

But why do I write it? Have you ever just had something that you needed to tell someone? Have you ever found yourself feeling more genuinely yourself for saying out loud (or writing publicly) something that gives you joy? I also write this blog because the process of writing each day teaches me new insights about who I am and what I’m passionate about.
In honor of my favorite poststructuralist pornboy and homoerotic wrestler, Derek da Silva, I feel compelled to also mention the insights of Michel Foucault. Foucault argued that the confession of sexual desire not only illustrates for people their shared sexual desires and identities. Foucault argued that it’s titillating to confess and to hear someone’s confession. The act of talking about what turns you on and gets you off becomes its own form of sexual fetish. And the act of witnessing someone’s confession of sexual desire can also become its own kink.
I tend to think all of the above are at play in why I write and why you read my ramblings about my wrestling kink and musings about the beautiful men I lust after. In the end, whatever else it all means, it’s nice to discover that you’re not alone. It’s nice to know that whatever silences may fill up your daily life, there’s still a place where the words you want to say are spoken and heard.

Serving Satan

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I used to lust after Lex Luger guilt-free. Lex could probably qualify for an installment in my “What Turned Me Gay” series, but honestly, I knew that I was gay and happily nurturing my wrestling kink before Lex’s standout physique caught my eye.

Wrestling Arsenal captures Lex nicely, characterizing him as a bully. He was at his best making lesser men scream, refusing to break the hold once the bell rang, and crunching out most musculars knowing that no matter how much the crowd booed, we we were all in awe of his stunning body.

1000 Holds recently posted a great squash by Lex. As is so often the case, the commentary is undisguised body worship. 1000 Holds has helpfully highlighted the most blatant body worship dialogue with pop-ups (I love pop-ups). My favorites are “He has literally bulldozed his way through every top wrestler around,” and, “Luger is just the much larger of these two… 30 inch thighs!” Seriously, he knows the precise measurement of Luger’s thighs. These commentators are hot and bothered by body beautiful Lex, and their patter makes this squash match about much more than just a three-count pin. This is about worship at the feet of a muscle god.
At some point in the 90’s, Lex started to turn into his own plastic action figure. I’m not sure what cocktail makes the big boys lose definition and look completely plastic, but it’s a shame. Of course, it’s not as much of a shame as being arrested with intent to distribute. And of course there’s the shame of introducing your girlfriend to the recreational drugs that ultimately killed her. Then there’s the shame of desperately turning über-Christian and blaming “Satan” for your dumb ass, self-destructive, literally narcissistic choices on your way to hocking the magazine you write for (I’m really fine with religion, but I can’t tolerate the Christian-capitalist marketing machine).
I don’t mean to second guess anyone. If Lex is a happy camper, more power to him. As for me, I like to remember Lex from around 1990, when he was still serving Satan, turning me (and clearly more than a couple commentators) on, and telling the timeless story of a muscle god destroying the mere mortals in his way.

Fresh Meat

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For a television program about a gruesome serial killer, Dexter is awfully modest with skin. As I’ve complained about before, the prime beef in this show, Michael C. Hall, remains encased in clothing. Barely a shirtless shot this season, in fact. Fortunately, Dexter’s kill-gear includes a skin tight shirt that hugs his pumped, round pecs and highlights his sweet torso. An occasional shot of Michael walking away offers the promise of tight pants hugging that astonishingly perky bubble butt. But the potential for gratification is so much greater than the realization.
This season, another object of lust has joined the cast. Brando Eaton’s storyline looks destined to disappear by the end of the season, but in the meantime, Brando is looking stunning. He’s playing 17, but the actor is, in fact, 23, so I’m absolving myself of any guilt for lusting after his beautiful, tanned, gorgeously muscled body. We’ve seen even less skin from Brando than Michael, but what we have seen shows deeply creased pecs with nipples struggling to bust free, broad, squared shoulders and beautifully shaped, muscular arms. More, please!
Brando knows what he’s bringing to the table, clearly. Shirtless shots of the gym bunny are to be found, and the man meat is raw and juicy. I’m a little obsessed with obliques these days, so Brandon is tweaking my every craving. Superherofan has some captures of Brando in a shower scene from a movie bomb earlier this year. There’s even a glimpse of the top of his sweet cheeks.
It’s not just my wishful thinking when I say that there’s sexual tension between Michael and Brando’s characters. And Brando’s character has every potential to be as psychologically twisted as Michael’s. I’m smelling a Bruce-Wayne’s-youthful-ward storyline just aching to bust out, with Michael taking young Brando under his wing. There would have to be a well-rounded education involved, including lessons in the fine art of body worship and man-on-man sexual gratification. Hmmm, I think my imagination may be taking me a bit far afield from the actual plot of Dexter. But seriously, wouldn’t you prefer to see my storyline!? Whatever happens on Dexter, we MUST see more (literally) of beautiful Brando.

The Substance of Wrestling

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Once more, all hail our reigning World Gravy Wrestling Champion, Joel Hicks (and pass the mashed potatoes)! Eye of the Cyclone can claim my firstborn child (don’t hold your breath) for posting this fabulous television spot with our stunning world champion in spandex shorts. I thought champion Joel was a stunner in his action shots from the competition this summer…
…but sweet (more accurately, savory) mother of God, buffboy Joel is even more gorgeous than I thought! It’s not like there’s anything at all to complain about (perhaps he could lay off tweezing the eyebrows just a tad…), but I’m particularly in awe of the heft of those muscled thighs! Rippled abs, massive shoulders and traps, big, round bubble butt… and some savvy staffer oiled this fine specimen up. The cast and the stagecraft are spot on.
But the real joy in this short clip for me is getting to see our world champion doing what he does best. The television program pits Joel in a mock competition with three outclassed jobbers grappling in gravy. In just a few brief minutes, Joel manages to create for us a complex character (babyface, muscled heel with a sadistic streak) who tells us a nice story. In his first match with an astonishingly unimpressive jobber, Joel shows that he knows how to use those muscles right off the bat, lifting the hapless jobber off his feet and suplexing him twice into the gravy. A third lift, and Joel power slams the doe-in-the-headlights outside of the gravy pit, presumably where it would do more damage without the gravy to help break his fall. Joel finally seals the deal by climbing onto his victim’s back and grabbing the jobber’s head in both hands, grinding the loser’s face into the gravy.
We don’t get to see the qualifying match, but a big boy faces off with our world champion for the final. This also-ran initially looks a little too big for even hardbody Joel to throw around, but immediately Joel lifts the sack of potatoes onto his shoulders in an airplane spin before falling backward, driving his opponent into the gravy. The big boy contender literally tries to crawl out of the gravy pit rather than suffer any more abuse, but Joel grabs the jobber by his foot and drags him, flailing, back into the pit. Once again, our world champion shows the qualities that earned him his crown by sitting on his challenger’s back and grinding the loser’s face into the gravy-soaked pit by two handfuls of hair. When the “ref” blows the whistle to call the match, adrenalin-jacked Joel decks the ref and throws him into the gravy as well.
Joel is finally proclaimed the champion before all three contenders and grandma (literally) pile on him. The three-on-one puts our muscled champion on his back and crushed beneath the heap. The second place finisher gets his revenge by eventually sitting on Joel’s muscled pecs, crotch-to-chin, and allowing inertia to finally turn that massive tummy to his advantage as Joel twists and bucks, trying to free himself and keep his head above the gravy.
I was a fan of World Champion Gravy Wrestler Joel Hicks at first sight. Now, after seeing Joel in action, I am simply in awe. Joel gets it. From plugging the hospice which generates funds from the tournament, to his stunningly crafted gym body, to his vicious dominance in the gravy pit, Joel understands what he’s doing. I, for one, am his loyal subject, and I’m jonesin’ to see more of the reigning World Champion Gravy Wrestler doing exactly what he does best.

What Turned Me Gay (again, not really)

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Marc Singer turned me gay. First of all, anyone who can pull off the title “the Beastmaster” must be an object of lust. It’s a truism. Pair that with an emotionally sensitive character who can talk to animals and is named “Dar,” and this thing has gay written all over it. Long before Daniel Goddard donned his loincloth, Marc Singer was sweat-soaked in a leather brief and wielding his massive (really, massive!) sword.

Beastmaster is a retelling of the classic tale that revolves around the thin line between man and beast. Particularly the Goddard-version of Dar was a PETA-champion, eco-terrorist, Greenpeace warrior speaking on behalf of the misunderstood animals and natural world threatened by human greed. Of course, beastmasters are all sex-on-a-stick because whatever the green-political trappings, just like Tarzan, the Beastmaster is all about what we’re left with when we strip away all our repressions and the social constraints of human civilization: essentially naked, raw, brutal, fierce sex (again, let’s take note of the HUGE sword).
As an impressionable young kid, I saw Marc Singer’s hard, sweaty embodiment of the untamed libido, and a wave washed over me… leaving me gay and seriously aroused. When Singer moved on to star in V, I was glued to the tube. He never gave us as much skin as he did as Dar, but even fully clothed, it was impossible to miss his gorgeous body. The sincerest form of flattery, both Beastmaster and (very recently) V were remade with even more beautiful people and snazzier special effects. But I cherish that pre-adolescent memory of Marc Singer flexing, fighting, and thrusting (the sword), and getting me in touch with my own untamed, pre-cognitive, raw, naked sexuality.