Another Sideline

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I get a kick out of the Fantasy BGE Wrestling group. I possess a predilection for gay wrestling fiction, and I like seeing BG East style wrestling fiction through the eyes of different authors. It’s fascinating to see what each of us focuses on in writing homoerotic wrestling fiction. Some of us clearly find our kink in the strut and swagger, the cocky attitudes and dominating trash talk as two studs ante up before laying their cards on the table. Some of us are into the wrestling holds, with simply naming a series of moves and holds as the beginning and end of a hot grappling session. Some of us are mostly about the bodies, with detailed descriptions of the muscles, the cocks, the stretch and the flex. Personally, it all gets me hot and bothered, and there’s an added kink-kick of reading a match through the eyes of someone else as they get hot and bothered. I feel like the voyeur’s voyeur. Sharing the author’s lens seems just as intimate as the sweaty, cum-soaked action in the ring.
I’ve submitted three contributions to that group. The first match pitted one of my classic favorites, Brad Rochelle, against the instant classic, Mitch Colby. Since we can never get enough of Brad, a second match puts him back in the ring against ring rookie Tyrell Tomsen. I submitted a third match last weekend, dangling man meat Rio Garza in front of the Dismantler, Cole Cassidy. Capitalizing on the “fantasy” side of things, that match offered me a chance to resurrect a BG East veteran we haven’t seen in quite a while for a special appearance.
The Garza vs. Cassidy match hasn’t been uploaded yet. But after I mentioned it a few days ago, I’ve had a few requests. So I’ve uploaded it to another site. I’ll add some stories over time (outside the Producer’s Ring storyline), and I hope others will contribute some of their works as well (any genre). Here’s a little teaser from early in Cole’s match with Rio:
In a flash, Cole wrapped his thickly muscled arms around Rio’s narrow waist. With a grunt, Cole lifted his opponent off his feet and drove Rio’s back hard to the mat, still maintaining his bearhug. Rio’s head bounced off the canvas, and his eyes blinked rapidly as his head swam. Cole disentangled his arms from his opponent and sat back on his heels, perched between Rio’s knees. “Intimidated yet?” he asked without a smile, glaring down at Rio, who clutched his hands to the back of his head.

Cole clenched his right fist, bit his lower lip in concentration, then jabbed his fist into Rio’s abdomen. Rio’s stunning six-pack flexed, and Cole’s fist bounced off. Again, Cole cocked his fist and pounded it hard into the rookie’s abs, but once again, Rio flexed and the blow bounced off with no effect. Again and again, Cole drilled his fists, back and forth into the rookie’s midsection, but the blows seemed to do nothing but clear Rio’s head. Rio looked up at the veteran and smiled. “Is that all you’ve got, old man?”

Gratitude

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On a day set aside for giving thanks, I’m counting my blessings. I’m thankful for this bizarre discipline I accepted for myself to write this blog and publish some of my fiction online. It’s a vulnerable, annoying, enriching and rewarding endeavor.

I’m thankful for ring rookies David Taylor, Tyrell Tomsen, Kid Karisma and Rio Garza who’ve climbed into the ring in the past several months and laid claim to my imagination. For their poundable pecs and astounding asses, for their breathtaking biceps and crushing quads (and BG East’s generous permission to post their photos), I’m truly grateful. And for David and Tyrell’s phenomenal phalluses, I can’t say how happy they make me.
I’m thankful this year that Mitch Colby likes, and likes to pound, men. For all his sweat-soaked suffering and his growing accomplishment at putting younger punks in their place, I’m filled with gratitude.
I’m thankful that Derek Da Silva read and got a kick out of my treatment of his wrestling performances. For his shout out, for the mindblowing tolerances of his fantastic body, and for the amazingly beautiful artistry of all those tatoos, I’m thankful.
I’m thankful that Chris Cuomo went fishing this summer and shared with his twitter fans the beauty of his shirtless body.
For Mehcad Brooks, a resident of Bon Temps for such a short time, baring his irresistible ass and being so generous with displaying his round, luscious pecs, I’m thankful. And for Alexander Skarsgård’s six foot, four inch Swedish gorgeousness, I’m grateful that his eternal character will be with us for more seasons to come.
Finally, for all the kind friends and gentle critics I’ve met online through this blog and my wrestling fiction, I’m thankful. I hope you all are surrounded by friendship and love today.

Come Sit Next to Me

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I’ve restrained myself from commenting on the DRAMA at GMA for two weeks. Those of you sick of me talking about it: tough crap. I know what I like when I see it, and I like seeing Chris Cuomo every weekday morning.

You know the line from Steel Magnolias… if you don’t have anything nice to say about somebody, come sit next to me. Well… anonymous GMA “staffers” last week were quoted as having suggested that Chris Cuomo’s interview with Chaz Bono (F-M trans guy who’s the son of Sonny Bono and Cher… keep up…) was something that George Stephanopoulos couldn’t pull off. You know I’m loving that trash talk! The Business Insider poo-poos the suggestion that George couldn’t let his hair down to have a meaningful on-air conversation with an F-M trans dude. I respectfully disagree (those assholes). George looks uncomfortable discussing merely domestic politics without mentioning geopolitical implications. Cooking with Emeril and talking hormone replacement with Chaz is not something that George is ever going to make entertaining. And besides, we need to think of Sam. I don’t think Sam Champion could emotionally cope with no longer picking out neckties for Chris in the morning.

Those assholes at The Daily Beast (nothing personal… I just get pissed when I get bad news) are reporting that the tide is turned and the GMA anchor spot is George’s. The Beast also says that Chris is running in second, and if negotiations with George fall through, Chris is likely to get tapped. So one of two things needs to happen now. 1) Something really, really bad needs to befall George (I’m not wishin’ it… I’m just saying…) that stunningly drops him out of the running (like he loses it on air and rubs Adam Lambert’s face in his crotch, say). Or 2), just as fine with me, something really, really fantastic needs to happen to George that makes the GMA anchor seat seem like chump change. Can someone please convince him to run for office, or give him the news that his wife going to have quintuplets… anything?
As I’ve mentioned, in my mind the most reasonable way to settle this ponderous decision is a no-holds barred battle royale. And since we’re discussing my mind, I’ve already written that story, and George is unceremoniously thrown over the top ropes, leaving Chris winded and coated in sweat, but indisputably the winner.
I like my drama better.

Save Me a Seat

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I hate jumping on bandwagons. It makes me feel cheap and used. So when all the BG East wrestling buzz is about hardbody Rio Garza with a physique that simply has to be seen to be believed, I check myself. Of course I had an immediate, reflexive rush of lust at the sight of Rio in Undergear 15 . But if everyone’s doing it, I resist.

Screw it. I’m hooked. With a babyface and a body of the eternal gods, I’m sold. So, as is my way, I both pull out my credit card, and I start digging. Rio is also pictured (going by “Ray”) in the stable of grapplers for the long-anticipated, starting-to-doubt-its-ever-going-to-happen, Rock Hard Wrestling (November’s nearly gone!).
He has dozens of body worship videos on YouTube from the past few years, documenting his hardening body and his burgeoning public relations juggernaut. Going by the name Alan Valdez (lots of artsy nudes of Alan at David Vance Prints), posted under the username Alan Arturo, the video retrospective of his body development from skinny kid to Mexican muscle god is so sincere it brings a tear to my eye. The amateur camboy videos (must be from before the juggernaut got hold of him) are simply adorable. He pumps so hard he makes himself out of breath, and along with that angelic smile, that’s just hot.
His MySpace page and his Facebook page have a bevy of beautiful photographs to inspire lust. Ironically, on MySpace he makes sure all the gayboys lusting after him know that he loves his wife. Um, does he realize it’s only the sexually insecure guys that need to broadcast that sort of buzz kill? He’s young. I forgive him, and I refuse to speculate further about his sexual security. He grapples nearly naked with other hardbody hotties, which can pardon a thousand sins.
Following the links, we come to what is, purportedly, the official website of the object of our lust, “Ray” (also look here for him as “Mike”). For a reasonable sum of $14.99 per month, you can get access to more material for your “viewing” pleasure, and have the opportunity to offer your encouragement. I’m not sure what sort of encouragement Ray is looking for, but I don’t think he needs any encouragement if his goal is to become most gayboys’ wet dream.
So I’ve succumbed. Now Rio-obsessed, I’ve submitted a fictional match for the Fantasy BGE Wrestling group starring the young musclegod. Move over and make room. I’m climbing on the bandwagon.

Thinly Veiled

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Squarehippies, “the site for shirtless male celebrities,” has the ironic new posting featuring screencaps of Jamie Bamber shirted. Like Squarehippies, I completely agree that paying Jamie to appear in a movie in which he remains entirely clothed throughout is like hiring a prostitute to watch TV with. What’s the point?

Still, despite the un-evocative caps of Jamie from Pulse 2 (what the…?), I do admit that I’ve seen some mighty arousing pics of Jamie with clothes – albeit, in skin tight, soaking wet shirts. It’s hard to disguise that stunning Brit body in a painted on T. I’d prefer to see some of his bare-chested deliciousness, but hell, it’s not like this is bad:


Which makes me think… when is it not all bad to see my worship-worthy objects of lust fully clothed? Sometimes, I think, an occasional shirted shot is nearly as drool-worthy as all skin… nearly…


Ryan Kwanten has spent the first two seasons of True Blood primarily naked, and secondarily clothed only from the waist down. On those rare occasions then he’s donned a shirt, it’s hugging that 0% body-fat-bod like a layer of sweat. His chest straining the fabric, his biceps bulging, popping out of the short sleeves… okay, so this is certainly a tasty treat. It’s not like I wouldn’t stumble all over myself if I saw Ryan in a skin-tight T walking down the street.
Speaking of stumbling all over myself, one of my newsboy crushes is making me feel all flustered in this pic of him in an urbancouture t-shirt. Rob Marciano can’t look ugly. He’s simply not capable of it. But this white t-shirt accentuated that massive, gorgeous chest leaves so very little to the imagination. His nips showing through are mindblowing. Any wonder why Rob features prominently in my first newsboy wrestling fiction series?
Hugh is looking more and more beastly as he ages, which is simply sexy as hell. His vascularity is jaw-dropping. This shirted pic of him hardly competes with his Bondi Beach shirtless romps in the waves, but look at the way his pecs stretch out that fabric. A little nipplage is icing on the cake, and those rock hard shoulders squeezed into that polo are… what, the ice cream? Whatever the metaphor, I want to eat him… I mean, I want to eat it.

And along the lines of edible, I’ve never seen a boy in long sleeves as sssssexy as this pic of Chris Evans. Hell, he even has two shirts on, and still his rocking body is on stunning display. The pecs, the shoulders, the biceps…. Sweet God, I definitely want to see this man with a shirt on…. so that I can slowly rip it off of him. Come to think of it, all of these shirted studpuppies show up in my gay wrestling fiction. With bodies that can’t look bad, naked, clothed, or any variation thereof, my imagination kicks into overdrive at the sight of these hunks.

Bodies Over Time

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I’m fascinated by the concept of bodies over time. There are plenty of flashes in the pan who wrestle once or twice then disappear from the scene. Those guys are forever captured in my homoerotic memory in a static state. But much more fascinating to me are the workhorses who perform for years, permitting a study of their aging bodies as evolving objects of lust.
There are a lot of cases in point, especially in the pros, but today my thoughts are lingering on the Can-Am star who is nothing if not a homoerotic wrestling ring veteran: Jimmy Dean. Jimmy was featured in 46 Can-Am products over the course of about 14 years, clearly proving himself to be a profitable commodity well past his late-adolescent early days. Early on, Jimmy seemed most notable as a skinny kid with a bad attitude and a simply astoundingly round ass.
He quickly earned his own feature tape taking on all-comers. The mutual manhandling of Jimmy and one of my fave-classic hunks, Troy Lucas, is a cherished image. The story was all about the skinny, bad-ass, bubble-butt punk who defies appearances in holding his own against a thickly muscled (man of my dreams) hardbody.
At 5’10”, some of his early matches put him at 155 pounds (counting the coat of baby oil, I’m sure). The description to Hard, Young & Hung 2 gives a little of Jimmy’s exotic dancer roots. Jimmy’s “bubble butt” is also frequently the point of reference for many of his early bouts. Sometimes smooth from head to toe, sometimes with some groomed body hair (love me some hairy legs!), it seemed to always be that round, round (did I mention round?) ass that garnered the most comments.
Somewhere along the way, Jimmy started filling out. In my mind, his match with pornboy turned dabbler-wrestler, Brian Maxon seemed to feature noticeably more heavily muscled Jimmy. This was a serious mis-match on many counts, which in many ways makes for a very hot exhibition, but it’s Jimmy’s freshly toned body getting used and abused that sells this match. He was always a sexy little punk, but with an emerging six pack and seriously bulging shoulders, this was clearly not some lately adolescent kid any longer.
With more meat, Jimmy’s wrestling persona took on more dimension. When he got the tummy tat of “the artist formerly known as Prince,” I think he went from skinny, bad-ass punk to seriously sadistic heel. His sneering, savage dismantling of two gym bunnies at once in Supermatch 18 was an early telling of a recurring story Jimmy would be part of from then on: the crafty, irrepressible ring veteran teaching a lesson and delivering a beat down on the ring rookies.
Todd Mane’s Intense Initiation was another example of this theme early in Jimmy’s tummy tat days. He was dabbling with fiendish facial hair and getting astonishingly shredded (actually looking a little smaller than in his Maxon match due to an impressive lack of a single ounce of body fat). Jimmy’s “initiations” got more and more savage, seemingly in direct proportion to the development of his hunky body.
Betrayal featured a developed storyline, with character development (!?!) and stunning bodies in back and forth beatdowns turned wince-worthy ball torture. By this time, Jimmy was, by all means, a full grown beast. I can’t find his stats listed anywhere at this point in his career, but I’m feeling confident that he was most certainly not 155 pounds (I’m thinking we need to add at least 30-40 to that number). He was thick from head to toe (including the muscle between his legs), and he had the physically dominating body to go with the bad-ass attitude that was always his trademark. I don’t know if Jimmy’s stunning muscle development was owed in any part to substances that might get him banned from the Olympics, but regardless, he was seriously working hard and his muscles were swelling before our very eyes.
Jimmy did several Superhero motif flicks for Can-Am, which I won’t go into too much, other than to say “bad-ass beast” is obviously a short step from “dominating supervillain.” But my favorite Jimmy moments have to be in his 3 Way Rubber Revenge with the stunning bodies of Lincoln Lode and Andrew Lane. Personally, I wouldn’t pay a surcharge for rubber outfits in my homoerotic wrestling, but I’m ready to pay top dollar for these three boys (well, two boys and one man) fighting mean, stripped naked, and playing for fucks. When Jimmy was the age of Lode and Lane, he would’ve looked like a stick figure in this 3-way. But with seriously thick, mature muscles, the hip and tummy tats, and a bubble butt accentuated by basketball glutes, Jimmy is a perfect match (and teacher in the ways of sadistic homoerotic wrestling) for the young muscle studs. Lincoln and Jimmy in belly-to-belly, naked bearhugs is an image that ought to be framed and on the walls of the Met.

Youth and beauty are sweet commodities that Jimmy Dean possessed in abundance in his early Can-Am days. But Jimmy teaches us the lesson that aging bodies are an infinite source of delights. In any particular match up, Jimmy always told a sweet and convincing story. But I’m even more impressed with the through-story of Jimmy’s transition to adulthood in the homoerotic wrestling biz, proudly displaying a maturing body, a fierce attitude, and always and forever, a rockin’ ass.

What Turned Me Gay (again, not really)

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CHiPS turned me gay. Of course, I’m not referring to the actual men of the California Highway Patrol, but rather their late 70’s/early 80’s fictionalized portrayals on television.

Erik Estrada was the designated sexy, Latino heart throb of the show. A recurring storyline involved women throwing themselves at him. I remember being dutifully in lust for the headliner hunk, and particularly thrilled to see some shirtless pinups from when he was riding high on the publicity train. Still, he wasn’t my favorite man with countless horsepower between his legs.
Larry Wilcox actually floated my boat much more. Looking back, I’m a little astonished by that fact. Not that Larry wasn’t a hot side of beef, but his character was an aww-shucks farmboy type to Erik’s sizzling sex object. Today, I’d still pick Larry over Erik, but I’m sort of shocked to remember that was also my preference as an impressionable pre-teen.
Some of the background boys actually revved my engine even more than the co-stars. Tall drink of water Brodie Greer always made my heart skip a beat. Before I knew what I was even lusting over, I had picked him out as a quality meat.
When Bruce Penhall joined the cast late in the series, though, I was over the moon. With the prototypical bleach blond surferboy look, Bruce was hard and hot just as Ponch and Jon were looking a little bloated and soft. Trying to cash in on the typical “next generation” storyline, Bruce was a patrol trainee, and I wanted nothing more than to be in charge of his education. His tight, short, studly bod was my infatuation until the show was cancelled.

The gay lessons of CHIPS were many and wondered. I was taught the joys of lusting after a man in uniform (okay, there were other teachers, but none that wore leather riding gloves!). CHIPS taught me the eroticism of male bonding and boys with bikes. If perhaps it didn’t technically turn me gay, without a doubt it offered me multiple objects of lust to teach me more about what turned me on.

I’m Ready To Dance

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Before a couple of days ago, the only thing I really knew about Bondi Beach was that my favorite photos of my favorite wet Aussie were taken there.

Now, I’m infatuated with the Bondi Beach Flash Mob on YouTube. I’m not usually emotionally labile. I’m one of those gay guys still buying into the notion that I’m supposed to be emotionally distant in order to be a man (not proud – just sayin’…). So why is it, then, that this stuff makes me all weepy? What is it about a so-called “flash mob” that makes my lip quiver and my eyes mist up?


Of course I have a theory, and of course I’m going to share it. I think flash mobs (and not just the ones with drag queens) cut straight to my little gay core because I can’t avoid reading into the text the metaphor of coming out. Like the flash mob, we’re everywhere and intermixed among the unsuspecting populace. Like the flash mob, we’ve got our own moves, routines, rhythms and choreography that we know from a lifetime of negotiating how to be gay in a straight world, but the rest of the population just doesn’t know the steps (even if they wanted to join in). Like the flash mob, we know sometimes camp is the only way to resist a world of sleepwalkers taking for granted that everyone around them is just like them, that everyone around them moves and thinks just like them, that everyone around them is here to do just what they do.
When wave after wave of “spectators” jump up over time and join in, it sends chills down my spine. Like the flash mob, we are fabulous, fearless, and fierce in the face of every effort to make us conform to the expectations of the faceless sea of straights sunbathing next to us. I think I know why this makes me cry (this one makes me ball like a baby). I think it taps into this fantasy I subconsciously (until now) carry around, that one day we’re all going to hear the music playing, and as one, we’re going to jump up and start dancing with our freak flags (and our gay flags) flying. And it will be stunning and awesome and beautiful. And the rest of the world is going to smile stunned, and grab their cameras, and think to themselves, “This is fantastic!”
So this turned out to be totally confessional and perhaps not in keeping with what I typically write. I hope the gratuitous pics of Hugh kept you occupied. I also hope you’ll forgive me for my digression. Now I’m going to watch the video clip from Bondi Beach again with the kleenex box in hand.

The Crushing Embrace

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In honor of this blog being listed on Bearhugger.net, I thought I’d pick out some of my favorite belly-to-bellies and reflect a little on the crushing embrace.

The hug as a device of torture is a sweet paradox. One man wrapping his arms around another man’s waist, in a different context, is about tenderness and affection. When those arms are cinched tight, with the recipient squeezed hard, the intimacy of the embrace turns from tender to tortuous.
The mainstream pros do it at least as often as the homoerotic pros. When the musclegod Lex Luger clamped tight a bearhug, employing that stunning musculature in concentrated focus on the small of his opponent’s back, it’s no wonder that we could see not only pain, but fear on the faces of his victims. To be lifted off your feet and crushed against the sweaty, muscled torso of Luger must have been a nightmare for many, and surely a dream come true for at least a few.
The homoerotic pros, though, make explicit what’s undeniably implicit in every wrestling bearhug: the bearhug is all about the interplay of sexual intimacy and sadistic domination. Classic Can-Amer Cliff Conlin was a master salesman. Watching the hairy-chested heel beating up on his opponents was always golden, but when some studly challenger like Dean Christian captured Cliff, lifted him off his feet, and squeezed him until he screamed, that was priceless.
When Brad Rochelle picked to pieces Jeff Phoenix in BG East’s Fantasymen 18, the final and decisive fall was a long series of one impressive bearhug after another. Brad hoisted his man off his feet, pinned him against his pelvis, and squeezed the breath out of him until he passed out. Total control. Total domination.
David Taylor’s repeated bearhugs on Rusty Stevens in Wrestle Bait are amazing, not only due to the ease with which David holds Rusty off his feet, but even more impressively the way that David remains hard as a board throughout. Rusty looks like he’s sitting on that gorgeous cock of David’s as it sticks out from between Rusty’s ass cheeks perched in David’s powerful embrace. Passionate suffering becomes passionate ecstasy, and the bearhug is the seamless border between the two.
And finally, I have to mention again the inspired pairing of Mitch Colby and Cole Cassidy in BG East’s Ringwars 15. Mitch’s beautiful body is flexed everywhichway as he drags Cole off his feet and lifts him high in his arms. The fantastic juxtaposition of Cole’s delicious suffering and Mitch’s cocky self-congratulations for his stunning domination makes my head spin. And what makes my head spin even more is reading Kid Leopard’s teaser that the next BG East catalog will include a Wrestler Spotlight tape featuring three matches with Mitch! Sweet mother of God, someone has heard my prayers!

…Really, Why Don’t You Love Me?

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I’m continuing to dig the latest season of Californication. Unlike the first season, and completely opposite of the second season, I actually feel some empathy for David Duchovny’s character. Also, it can’t hurt that, as I’ve mentioned before, David has clearly been pounding the gym. Seriously beautiful bod…

The naked women everywhere is not my thing. The premise for this show is so misogynistic, though, that the naked chicks are completely backgrounded (I’m not saying I’m proud, but satisfied that this is the case). They don’t entirely kill my buzz from the sight of David’s rippled abs and round pecs. Women? What women? I only had eyes for Special Agent Fox Mulder… oh, I mean, David Duchovny.
I must admit to being a little perplexed by the “character” of Rick Springfield, cleverly played by Rick Springfield. Ummm…. isn’t that Rick Springfield cleverly playing the character of David Duchovny? The hot stud hearthrob from half a generation earlier who is still fucking everything in sight and having women (and men, I’m sure) throwing themselves at him all the time… isn’t that the story of the sex addicted David Duchovny in real life? If for no other reason, I find Rick Springfield creepy in these past few episodes because it seems like a parody of David. And I have other reasons. He’s a sleazeball who can’t keep his dick out of any vagina in sight (creepy). It’s treated like a running joke that he’s a sleazeball, which makes it more creepy. Whatever they call this device of having real stars play (good God I hope) fictionalized caricatures of themselves (I’m also picturing the straight, drug-addled Neil Patrick Harris in Harold and Kumar), I find it creepy. I vote for less Rick Springfield naked and more David Duchovny naked.