No School Like Old School

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Randy Page was a classic pillar of old school homoerotic wrestling. Randy was relentless. He was often matched up with muscleboys much bigger then he was, and he invariably picked them apart like a turkey dinner. Randy wrestled in the day when scripts were thin, and even if the outcome was pre-determined (often it wasn’t), these boys seriously threw each other around.

I loved the recurring story in Randy’s matches of bulked up gym bunnies who started their matches joking and laughing. They clearly thought that their skinny little opponent wasn’t a threat. Perhaps they thought that this was all for fun; just roll around in skimpy trunks and let some guy with money and a camera film you for his kicks. In BG’s Hollywood Muscleboy Wrestling 2, bodybuilder Vinnie Marino thinks this is all camp, hamming it up early on, even pretending to lick Randy’s thong-clad ass when he finds his head caught in Randy’s vicelike grip.
Then Randy would attack, relentlessly on the offensive, twisting and cranking. When the big boys started tiring out, Randy would charge in and slap them in the chest, shove them in the ropes, and/or verbally taunt them. Slowly, you’d see the recognition dawn on their faces that this little scrapper was going to hurt and humiliate them if they didn’t lower the hammer on him.
And then they’d try to lower the hammer, and nearly always, Randy would take their punishment, then reverse on them and beat the shit out of them. In the Hollywood Muscleboys 2 collection (all 7 bouts featuring Randy), more than one of the cocky studs who enter the ring quit their matches early. Chuck Ramsay, who has nothing but a gorgeous musclebod to offer in the ring, gets wrapped up and immobilized in back-to-back rapid fire falls. He nearly sprints from the ring in defeat and doesn’t show his face in the genre again (as far as I can tell).
I think NakedKombat may come closest these days to trying to capture some of the less-scripted action that Randy Page made so entertaining. But despite Randy never getting overtly sexed up in his matches, I still find his action hotter than most things I see out today. Even Randy would occasionally throw us a bone (so to speak) such as his impromptu wardrobe change in his closely fought match with Kori Thomas, giving us a lingering look at his athletic, bare ass. The pantheon of grappling studs who make me pant today are near and dear to my heart, but Randy will always remain my favorite wrestleboy-emeritus.

What Turned Me Gay (again, not really)

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Lyle Waggoner turned me gay. At 6’4″ tall, he was the epitome of tall, dark and handsome when I was growing up. When I first saw him on the Carol Burnett Show (I caught them in re-runs), I was introduced to the notion of eye candy. He wasn’t as funny as the rest of the cast, and he couldn’t (really) sing or dance like the rest of the cast, but he was stunningly handsome and had a deep, sexy voice. I think Lyle’s frequent appearances in a tuxedo get some of the credit for making tuxes such a turn on for me. Whenever Carol would do her pre-show chat with the audience, invariably some girl would ask to give Lyle a kiss. And predicatably, Carol would call him out from back stage, and he’d lean over for the suddenly shy, star-struck yokel to plant her hungry lips on him. And just in that moment, inexplicably, in a flash… I was gay.
When Lyle showed up in the series Wonder Woman with Lynda Carter, he introduced me to another fetish: the hot man in uniform. The sexual tension between Major Steve Trevor and his assistant, Diana Prince (aka, Wonder Woman) was obvious enough for even me as a young child to observe. That show plunged me through a brief, confusing period when I wanted to be Wonder Woman. Looking back, it wasn’t that I wanted to be “a woman,” but I wanted the ability to deflect bullets with my fabulous Amazonium bracelets, and I wanted to constantly be flirting with Lyle Waggoner.
I was way, way too young to have known it when Lyle posed for the first issue of Playgirl. What an excellent choice to be “the first Playgirl centerfold!” I’ve since looked up and appreciated his Playgirl spread. The nudity was quite modest, by today’s standards. I’m sure Levi Johnston’s photo shoot will reveal much more than Lyle’s did 36 years ago. Still, I’d take Lyle over Levi any day (or decade).


In summary, Lyle Wagonner turned me gay. He eroticized the tuxedo for me. He made me hot for a hunk in a uniform. And he blazed the trail in softcore porn that has enriched my life immeasurably and mainstreamed the celebration and commodification of male nudity that today makes the world go round (or at least it makes the internet profitable).

I Will Not Hate, I Will Not Hate, I Will Not Hate…

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Clearly, I’m not a Cosmo girl. The unveiling of Cosmo’s hottest bachelors from across the country seems like it’s tailor made for gayboy consumption. But not so much. I really don’t think of myself as a hater. I love the look of all sorts of bodies, really I do. But seeing the wall of Cosmo’s bachelors on this clip from the Today Show makes me think that I am simply not the demographic Cosmo had in mind. Vanilla, vanilla, vanilla… no heat, little color, and some of them just haven’t quite finished up with puberty. Mr. Mississippi makes me feel like a felon, and that the time is not worth the crime!


Okay, that sounded harsh. I’m really working on not hating here. Let me just take Mama’s advice and focus on the positives:
In this clip, keep your eyes out for Mr. Oregon. I’m jonesin’ on him for three reasons: 1) he’s setting off my ‘dar with his answer to the question of what he looks for in a “girl,” 2) his body is ripped to shreds, and 3) he’s got to be high, probably to work himself up to answer questions about “girls” (see #1). Read his profile on Cosmo, and tell me that Mr. Oregon doesn’t play for our team. He finds it stressful to date (women) because he never knows how long to wait before it’s safe to make a move. Trust me, darling, we’ve all tried playing that stressful game at one time or another. He wants to remind women that some men are sensitive, and his roommate’s girlfriend says he’s the type that every girl wants to take home to her parents (e.g., non-threatening). Yep, my ‘dar is working just fine.
I’ll skip my catty comments about Mr. Georgia, and I’m summoning superhuman self-restraint not to do a discourse analysis on Mr. Maine’s characterization of a woman’s anatomy. Returning to Mama’s advice, let me continue…
I’m guessing Mr. Washington’s been smokin’ weed with his neighbor to the south, so he’s also tripping my ‘dar. If all he wants a woman for is to incubate progeny, we can hire out, and he and Mr. Oregon came come over to my place for naked Fritos.
Finally, Mr. Ohio is even more shredded that Mr. Oregon, but unlike Mr. Oregon, he doesn’t appear to be stoned (i.e., could be a bit uptight), so I’m sticking with my three-way naked Frito-fest fantasy in the Pacific Northwest. Still, that clip from the Today Show featuring Mr. Ohio in his adorable glasses, revealing that he’s a 3rd grade teacher, and… ding, ding, ding, ding!!!. Wait, he’s a gym bunny, third grade teacher who doesn’t have a girlfriend, and his idea of a sexy date (with a woman) is a bike ride in the country and ice cream? All right. He can grab some Ben & Jerry’s Hubby Hubby and bike over to join me, Mr. Washington, Mr. Oregon, and the Fritos. He needs a toke.

So, as I said, clearly I’m not a Cosmo girl. And this hottest bachelor bit is grating on my nerves and making me have to work extra, extra hard not to go hatin’. Now I need to clean the house and pour the Fritos in a bowl.

Skills and Equipment

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It’s a stream of consciousness post for today, so buckle your seatbelts.

A few days ago, UnDguy at Tattooed Hunks posted this beautiful pic of a handsome, inked, shiny man listening to his i-pod in bed (and in his underwear). It’s the “shiny” that keeps me coming back to this photo. Someone rubbed this hunk down with baby oil for this photo shoot. I’m sure of it. I want that job. I have the skills and equipment. I must have that job.
Of course i-pod boy in his calvins made me check up on another one of my favorite sites, SexyBlackDudes, where I came across (so to speak) this eye-catching fellow. With a little sleuthing, I found his page on Model Mayem. My friends, meet Martez Jackson. Martez is looking to work with some serious minded individuals, so be forewarned. With abs and obliques like that, I can’t imagine anyone not taking this guy seriously. The thickness of those thighs and the less-than-subtle package on display (someone’s not wearing underwear) make me want to cook Martez up a man-sized dinner in that kitchen of his. Seriously, I have the skills and equipment for that, as well.
And contemplating stunningly gorgeous black men, and skills, and equipment, it all sends my mind wandering to a perpetual model-crush of mine, Wendell Lissimore. Wendell has a fascinating body that I just can’t take my eyes off of. His proportions are sort of superhuman. Those long, long, long legs of his are just about unbelievable, but that waist looks inhumanly narrow. Seriously, he looks like someone’s photoshopped 5 inches off his waist. But every pic and clip I find of him, he’s built exactly the same way. The massive chest and shoulders mounting that long, slender body is simply unreal. Incredibly hot, hot, hot and unreal.
Wendell has made some background appearances in my gay wrestling fiction, but he has yet to be written into a match. Look for him to show up soon, now that my mind and eyes have been drawn back to him. See? No matter where you start, it always comes back to beautiful men wrestling. All is right with the world.

A Little More of This, A Little Less of That

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Mitch Colby seems to have been laying low lately. I hope it isn’t because I promoted Derek Da Silva ahead of him the line of my pornboy crushes. Perhaps his comments on his page at BigMuscle shed some light. In addition to some sweet photos of Mitch I haven’t seen elsewhere (including some naked and hard pics), Mitch shares some thoughts about his history and recent dabbling in the world of porn.

Mitch’s autobiographical narrative, including his mid-life commitment to get in shape (coinciding with his entry into homoerotic wrestling) is very, very sweet. I suspect he was a hot piece of meat before he lost thirty pounds, but his new body is thoroughly worship-worthy and deserving of all the credit in the world.
Mitch gives us some true confessions, including his decision to dip into hard core and his more recent decision that that scene isn’t for him. I’m thrilled that he’s still willing to fuel my kink though, and he’s leaving open the possibility of more homoerotic wrestling products (nice to see some new wrestling work from him on NakedKombat). I’m hoping that Mitch’s boundaries still include the opportunity to see his physical dominance of opponents that melts into post-victory worship and lust (a la Crotch Crushers and Motel Madness 8). Make them suffer, Mitch! Then make them yours. My credit card is in hand, in anticipation.
Mitch’s autobiographical confessions on BigMuscle are just so adorable and vulnerable. He’s making a resurgence in the competition for my lustful affections. Derek’s citation of this blog from Twitter still gives him a narrow advantage, but Mitch is coming on strong (and gorgeous, and sweet, and hot as hell).

My Favorite Deadly Sin

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A friend in Italy just sent me an email confirming she saw the legendary “sexy priest” calendar on sale in Rome. Clearly this must be art, because it makes me feel guilty, pisses me off, and turns me on all at the same time. It’s the height of hypocrisy to make these strapping young hunks the objects of our lust, when they themselves have been sworn to celibacy in an institution that condemns lust, including man-crushes. Ah, forbidden fruit (yes, I said fruit). In honor of my favorite Italian, I wanted to share this head-scratching, yet provocative product that is making me deeply embrace at least one of the deadly sins.
Mr. Father August, 2010 looks like he’s into corporal punishment, if you ask me. Is it wrong to want to yank off his dog collar and throw him around by that floppy head of hair? I’m imagining that he’s into high-impact moves, and frankly I’d be okay with getting body slammed by him.
Here’s a pic from a few years ago featuring Mr. Father July, 2007. He’s making me feel all conflicted inside. Do I give him a lecture on the oppressive policies of the church, or do I get lost in those dreamy eyes and adorable dimples?
This studly man of the cloth was the coverboy for the 2007 calendar. Just try to tell me that he doesn’t know he’s gorgeous (still another deadly sin!). The slightly parted, full lips… the piercing, pale eyes… that Roman nose… this is about sex, and there’s no way that they don’t know that gay men are buying this crap up. “Lead me not into temptation,” indeed. We know that they know that these guys inspire lustful thoughts, and when I start thinking lustful thoughts, I’m inevitably going to imagine some sweaty wrestling scene with a hunky young cleric getting ripped out of his frock [I think I need a minute to myself before I can finish this thought]. Okay, if this had only been in print in my adolescence, I’d have loved to say that the sexy priests calendar turned me gay. As it is, I’m just happy to stumble across these men of the cloth with their come-hither stares, and let my imagination do the rest.

A Tall Stiff One

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Times a-wastin’, and we haven’t heard yet who’ll be replacing Diane Sawyer when she leaves Good Morning America in January. I know. I know. Some of you don’t give a damn. So write your own blog. I’ve got a dog in this fight, and his name is Chris Cuomo.

The astonishingly non-scientific-to-the-point-of-meaningless AOL poll on the subject asked readers who should succeed Sawyer. The AOL Television article reporting the chances of the contenders argues that George Stephanopoulos is “less stiff and easier on the eyes than Cuomo.” What… the… fuck? Excuse my language. I save up such words for only rare occasions of mind-boggling, inconceivable outrage. This, I assure you, is just such an occasion.
First of all, let’s start with the “less stiff.” Putting aside the adolescent jokes that spring to mind (as in, let me see both of them with stiffies and I’ll be the judge of that), let’s consider: D.C. George is never sans suit coat and tie. He’s nearly always sitting behind a desk, and when he’s not, he looks completely awkward, with his feet barely touching the floor in the lounge chair they use for interviews on GMA. I’m not a height queen by any stretch of the imagination, but I’m just sayin’… George straining to touch his tip-toes on the floor vs. Chris tearing out dry wall on a construction site. Whoever the hell said George is less stiff than Chris is smoking crack.
And speaking of smoking crack, let’s move on to the 2nd assertion that George is “easier on the eyes” than Chris. True confession: I was in love with George from his first press conference in the Clinton administration. I would have never left the balcony of my apartment if I’d lived with Rachel and Monica and could look into George’s window with binoculars. I would NOT kick him out of bed for leaving crumbs.

But let’s return to planet Earth here and reconsider the proposition that the 5’6″, 48 year old, skinny Greek is somehow easier on the eyes than the 6’3″, 39 year old Roman god who goes fishing shirtless. You knew I was going to bring up the fishing pics, so let’s just get on with it. I dare George to stand shirtless next to Chris, and let’s see if we can find anyone who could, in their wildest dreams, suggest that George is easier on the the eyes. Personally, I’d lick them both from head to toe (going slowly, particularly around the middle), but I’d start with the Greek appetizer before moving onto the the Italian entree’ that I’d be really waiting for.
Back to that astonishingly non-scientific-to-the-point-of-meaningless AOL poll. Despite the author’s assertion that the obvious choice is George, let’s re-examine the evidence. As Mediaite points out, AOL’s own poll shows Chris is the readers’ choice! Huffington Post’s poll agrees (thanks in part to me finding every computer I can sign onto so that I can register multiple votes). And in an entirely impartial contest in my wrestling fiction, George was suplexed over the top rope in a battle royale, leaving Chris to claim the anchor seat as his prize for beating his four challengers.

So the freakshow at AOL Television needs to print a retraction, and the puppet masters at ABC News need to do the right thing, the only thing, really, that makes a bit of sense: name Chris Cuomo the new co-anchor of GMA… and then send him on assignment to a nude beach, incognito.

…In Love and War

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There are plenty of products out there showing gorgeous men in skimpy trunks grappling, dominating and submitting. Sometimes, though, I want a little more of the “homoerotic” in my homoerotic wrestling. Of course the dick slap across the face, or the post-match blow job or fuck gets to the point. But a little more subtle, and often much more erotic, is the wrestling kiss. When they pull out the liplock, suddenly I’m not trying to guess if these guys are actually gay or just toying with us. When one man’s tongue is shoved down another man’s throat, I don’t really care anymore.
I’m not referring to the post-victory seal of ownership, though that’s nice as well. But the aggressive or defensive kiss in the middle of a match is a really delicious plot twist. In the middle of Patrick Donovan’s domination of Brandon Aldrich in Mat Brats 1, Brandon employs a defensive liplock that derails the veteran Patrick. Pecboy Patrick returns the favor with a cranking headlock on Brandon, who’s flat on his back with Patrick’s tongue down his throat. Patrick breaks the liplock, explaining that any further reward for Brandon will require him to earn it through abject suffering.

Patrick’s no stranger to kissing as ring-plot. His partner in Tag Team Torture 1 was the notorious kisser, Sean Patrick (in my mind I always wrote the backstory that these performers were lovers). In humiliation after humiliation suffered at the hands of heels Jose and Cruze, Patrick and Sean find themselves in naked, face-to-face, mirror-image camel clutches, with their lips shoved together in the middle of the ring (I confess I love this so much I wrote it into my fiction, with Adrian Pasdar and Milo Ventimiglia in a helpless liplock in the clutches of Sendhil Ramamurthy and Christopher Meloni). The choreography here is sweet. This isn’t the only time this device is used in BG East, but it’s certainly one of the sweetest. Cruz and Jose also torture the skinny studs in a remarkable naked, stacked, double camel clutch and boston crab that’s got to be seen to be believed.
Though Sean Patrick earned the moniker “The Kisser,” it must be said that Kid Vicious has got to be the master (of many things but in particular) of the aggressive match kiss. KV’s knack for using his wiry body to systematically pick to pieces his hot stud opponent’s is “mind”blowing all in itself. But his sadistic joy in wrapping his prey up in paralyzing positions and slapping a forced liplock on gets my motor running.

An astonishing tag moment near the top of my homoerotic wrestling favorites is the fantastic beatdown that the Brooklyn Bodywrecker and Shane McCall put on Liam Ryan and Brian Powers in Tag Team Torture 2. I think all tag team matches should include the overt storyline of teams of lovers fighting one another. After BBW made Shane is boy in Dark Knights 5, they show up clearly having sorted out their daddy/cub relationship. Liam and Brian similarly let us know that they had each other’s backs well before arriving in the ring. There’s a brief moment of fun when skinny boy Liam puts some ecstatic hurt on leatherboy BBW, but inevitably the heels slam the shit out of the Liam and Brian. Ultimately, Brian’s taped into one corner, and after having Liam’s face shoved in his partner’s crotch from every angle, the heels torture the skinny Irishman in the center of the ring. Near the final moment of victory, BBW gives his cub a treat by pinning Liam’s face against Shane’s crotch while the two heels enjoy some convincing making out. On paper, this may all sound like it runs thin, but I buy this from start to finish.

Sometimes my kink is just seeing guys beating the crap out of one another. Sometimes I’m really looking for some humiliation. But serve me up some genuine liplocks as aggression (or defense) in the wrestling ring, and I’m sold.

What Turned Me Gay (again, not really)

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Greg Louganis turned me gay, God bless him. I don’t think I’d even heard of “competitive diving” before I caught a glimpse of Greg on television, diving in the 1984 Olympics. In a sport full of tight, hot bodies barely squeezed into speedos 2 sizes too small, Greg was a stunning standout even before he left the diving board. Those thick, gorgeously muscled thighs… the stunningly defined torso… that shy, handsome face… I was captured the moment I saw him. Then I saw him dive… the amazing grace… the astonishing control of every thrilling muscle… that toe point!… and the moment he hit the water, I was gay.

I lapped up all the coverage of Olympic diving I could to adore Greg. He was not only the object of my teenage lust, he also kicked ass! The juxtaposition of his shy smile and his totally dominating performance, blowing his competition out of the water made me not only lust for him, I was in love. And then he went and posed for Playgirl. Oh… my… God…
I don’t think it ever occurred to me when I was young that the guys I so lustfully worshipped could actually be gay. When Greg came out in 1994, it honestly opened my eyes to the adage, “We’re everywhere.” Discovering that my teenage crush also played for my team was one of the most liberating moments of my coming out.
Greg’s continued grace and class only reinforces his iconic status in my life. The promo pics of Greg coaching hardbody Mario Lopez in preparation for his portrayal of the Olympian in the movie Breaking the Surface, propels both of them still higher up my lust index.
Greg Louganis didn’t inspire me to become a diver, but without a doubt, he turned me gay…. Well, if he didn’t actually “turn me gay,” he certainly opened my eyes to the world full of beautiful, graceful, hot and hardbodied gay boys all around me. So let the games begin!

…Why Don’t You Love Me?

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I’ve lusted after David Duchovny ever since Fox Mulder sulked into my heart in the very first season of X-Files. I was so excited that David was coming back to TV when Californication launched a couple of years ago. I watched the first season, despite the many XX chromosomes over-exposed all over the place and graphic talk about the simulated sex acts with women that really, really (really) doesn’t interest me. Still, David’s naked body frequently on display was enough to keep me tuning in.

The second season totally turned me off. How completely depressing and unsympathetic can a character be before even David Duchovny’s naked body can’t keep me interested? Answer: really, really depressing and unsympathetic.

That said, I’m tentatively tuning back in for season 3, and I’m not so depressed quite so quickly. And David’s stint in “rehab” (a.k.a. his wife screaming at him for three months straight for fucking around all over the place) has turned out an even beefier studpuppy (check out these abs captured by superherofan!)
Now, can we introduce David to Michael C. Hall? Michael desperately needs to take some lessons in the art of satisfying the lustful gaze, and a fellow Showtime buddy like David is surely the man for the job. I WANT to see this shot of Dexter. Now.