Ode to Legs

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Legs are fantastic tools of control and humiliation in wrestling. The alignment of gorgeous legs and homoerotic domination is hot, hot, hot. While my current obsession with sexy legs is at the forefront of my own thinking about the subject, clearly I’m not the only one appreciating the many excellent uses to which legs can be put in hot wrestling action.

Wrestling Arsenal has page after page of fantastic head scissors from every angle. He has one entire page marveling at the joys of Mr. Joshua’s crushing legs. As Wrestling Arsenal points out, Joshua Goodman likes to deploy his massively muscled legs not only to wear down his man, but to torture and humiliate him. In this shot, Joshua is looking down the length of his beautiful body to watch his opponent’s pained face squeezed beet red, just inches from Joshua’s notorious package.
Wrestling pornboy extraordainare Mark Wolff always had the thickness to make men squirm when trapped between his bodybuilder thighs. In Muscle Match 3, muscleboy Ken Daniels enjoyed turning those tables and eliciting a grunt of pain with Mark’s muscle-armored waist trapped between his knees.
It’s not just the homoerotic boys squeezing the breath out of their opponents in humiliating fashion. Paul Roma (well, okay, he’s got to be considered homoerotic!) frequently used those shiny, steel-trap legs to squeeze his opponent’s bodyparts tight and up close. This remarkable shot of Roma with Animal’s head trapped between his legs while hanging horizontally, propped up on the turnbuckle, is pure artistry.
Speaking of art, Kevin Von Erich was always the master of torturing his opponents with his legs… and what beautiful, beautiful devices of torture he had!
Still, I think the explicitly homoerotic boys get the most mileage from their legs-as-means-of-torture, better than the pros. Troy Baker could squeeze out a whimpering submission from sheer brute force, making it that much sweeter when the tables were turned on the doe-eyed muscleboy.
Standing scissors seem to me to be the most humiliating and dominating use of a wrestler’s legs. The complete, abject vulnerability of the victim in contrast with the upright, almost unconcerned affect of the squeezer tells the story I love to hear: bodies dominating bodies, possessing and taming them, controlling and claiming them.

Encouraging Exhibitionists

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Online video sharing platforms are such a remarkable evolution in human community. How else would some musclehead get instantly worshipped by thousands of viewers worldwide, with nothing more than a webcam and no shame?

I’m currently infatuated with the handsome boy who goes by SteelMuscleGod. His profile says he’s from Romania, and despite excellent English, he does have a thick accent, so Romania sounds about as believable as anything else. And speaking of thick… holy crap, his latest video spotlighting his legs is incredible. As I’ve mentioned, I’m on a leg kick, and SteelMuscleGod’s legs manage to make my head spin. The soundtrack to this clip alone is cumworthy. The accent totally puts it over the top. He gets bonus adoration points for making sure we get a gander at the muscle calves. Very, very beautiful.
I remember seeing this guy on a cheaper webcam many months ago, dressed in a wrestling singlet and growling about all the dominating torture he would inflict on his opponent. He flexed and twisted, showing off every inch of his upper body. The fact that he kept his glasses on was so charming. I’m bummed that I can’t find that clip any longer. Is it my imagination, or is YouTube getting less user-friendly by the hour?
Anyway, up with exhibitionists! I’m not really interested in paying $40 for a 10 minute private web show (if I made $240 per hour, perhaps I’d be more open to hiring someone for $240 per hour), but if others are ready to shell out that cash, I say more power to SteelMuscleGod. Now, if perhaps SteelMuscleGod and this guy were to trade bodyscissors until one man screamed, that might tempt me to shell out some serious dough (if it lasted long enough… and it got sweaty… and they were seriously into it).

What Turned Me Gay (again, not really)

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Buck Rogers turned me gay. The television show was only on for a couple of years when I was a pre-pre-teen, and I somehow remember every episode. Gil Gerard was always sucking in his gut, squeezed into skin tight spandex, with lots of visible chest hair. He was the modern-day man transported into the 25th century, forced to find his place out of his time. He was more direct, more brutish, more aggressive and masculine than his 25th century counterparts (can we say “anti-feminist backlash?”).

Looking back, it was total camp aimed at pre-teen boys. Pre-teen boys… camp… hunky dude squeezed into skin tight spandex…. I can do the math. Yes, indeed, Buck Rogers turned me gay.

One episode jumps out at me as highly erotic. Re-watching it today, I have to smile as I think back at my younger self getting so hot and bothered. The episode Olympiad featured futuristic athletes. In a classic cold war plot twist, one of the (read:Soviet) athletes was trying to defect. Buck Rogers had to come to the rescue to get the high jumper and his girlfriend out safely.
I remember thinking the high jumper was a hottie. As I re-examine the evidence, Barney McFadden, who played the character, was a pretty typical, late-70’s version of a stud. He was quite skinny, handsome, long hair, cleft chin. But squeezed into his extremely tight wonder-bra/muscle-shirt, along with the very high-cut shorts, he was instantly an object of lust for my pre-pre-teen heart. These days, the opening credits seem the hotter than McFadden. Check out the beautiful athlete at 02:40 totally making a cocky pass at the handsome reporter. Look at that eye contact! I’m guessing there’s going to be a hot time back at the Olympic village later.
Once the character Hawk came into the picture, I had a new object of lust. Tall, dark and handsome with an outfit making him appear to have a thick chest and crystal-cut abs trailing down an inhumanly long and slender torso… mmmmmm, Hawk. Thom Christopher certainly upped the sexiness.

Once again, I marvel at how much my tastes have changed over time. But as a young gay boy, just discovering the marvels of beautiful men, only inferring the wonders that those fascinating, hot bodies would one day offer, Buck Rogers and his boys absolutely steered me in the right direction.

Another Side of Wrestling

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I just stumbled across the PWP site and had a blast from the past. I used to lap that up. The wrestling is generally weak and the stories pretty unidimensional, but it’s not like they’re selling themselves as Oscar contenders. They’re just a troupe of male “exotic dancers” (not sure what’s so exotic, really) making some extra cash with some nice muscle on muscle action. They don’t try to sell more, so I totally forgive them for weak story lines and 1/2″ deep character arcs. Hell, most of their matches take place on the club floor where these guys dance (sweet Jesus, check out Scott in the dancer portfolios!!!). You can see the stripper pole in the background. This is wrestling as a side dish at its best. It’s not pretending to be a full course meal.

What I always liked about PWP was the story board format of their online store. They tell a story. Frankly, it’s not actually always the story that really happens in the match, but it’s a story with action-stills. The text is concise. Someone suffers and is ultimately humiliated in defeat. Next match.
My favorite PWP dancer-boy was, hands down, Special K. Regular readers could probably have guessed. That absolutely fantastic tummy tat is soooo tasty! It’s not like you need to make that body more attractive. Those massive shoulders and fantastically cut thighs would make this guy shine in the midst of just about any crowd. But the tummy tat makes me weak in the knees.

I think what ultimately made me lose track of PWP were the infrequent updates. They put out few products infrequently, and my postmodern mind just can’t sustain anticipation that long anymore. There are just too many bright and shiny things to distract me from remembering to check PWP once every four months. For what they offer and what they don’t pretend to be, though, they get my total respect.

Votes Needed

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I need help. Seriously, I know someone out there reads this blog. I never ask you for anything in return, now do I? But I’m asking. This is serious.

Huffington Post is running a poll regarding who should replace Diane Sawyer at Good Morning America. Generally I’m for democratic principles. But this is about Chris Cuomo, and in that case I am not above stuffing the ballot box.
The good news is that Chris is ranked #1 so far among the top 5 “candidates” being considered. The bad news is those bastards at city file are spreading the horrific rumor that Chris is slated to move to 20/20. I don’t know that even Chris could get me to tune in at 10 pm on a Friday evening to watch the snoozefest at 20/20. There MUST be a groundswell of mob rule demanding that he both stay on GMA and take the anchor seat.
Bizarrely, Cameron Mathison is #2, riding his qualifications as a former soap-opera star, Extra Entertainment “news” correspondent, and Dancing With The Stars flunky. Seriously, now. He’s gorgeous as hell, but one of these things is not like the others!
Speaking of the others, David Muir is ranked #3, as of my writing this. David is both competition for Chris in being an actual newsman and in sex appeal. David must be destroyed.
Bill Weir is ranked #4, where he should be. Bill is handsome and quick-witted, distinctly not as sexy as either Chris or David, but he’s been with ABC News for a while.
Shockingly, George Stephanopoulos is in last place. He filled in for Diane this morning, which is ominous (looks like GMA is taking the merchandise out for a test-drive). But why would George want the job? Face it, morning “news” programs in this country are only vaguely “news.” Seeing George ham it up with Jamie Oliver the Naked Chef over his recipe for pork loin just seems… well, demeaning for George Stephanopoulos. He should leave the demeaning fluff news (as in the anchor of GMA) to pretty boys who don’t mind. Like Chris Cuomo.

So I’m here to get out the vote. Vote now! Rank Chris #1. Then move to another computer and vote again.

Perhaps more importantly, I believe this is an absolutely perfect set-up for my wrestling fiction. I’m feeling a battle royale coming on. Five newsmen stripped to their trunks, last man standing in the ring gets the anchor chair. Hardbody Cameron has got to experience some fantastic suffering for presuming to get into the ring so completely outclassed. Okay, so the outcome may be a bit predictable, but I promise I’ll make it spicy!

Still a Mighty Pain to Love It Is

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They’re doing it to me again, those bastards. They’re taunting me. Teasing me. Rubbing my face in withholding what I’d like to have my face rubbed in. First of all, I return to my previous discussion of Michael C. Hall’s ass:

Yes, it’ s Dexter time. How many ways can they almost show some serious Dexter skin? The shower scene with the strategically placed shower head. The sex scene in which Dexter mysteriously keeps his pants on. It’s inhumane, I tell you! At least in this week’s episode we saw some shirtlessness… from across the room… slightly out of focus. Yet even with those obstacles, Michael C. Hall makes my mouth water. Take that shirt off, Michael. Slower…

Still no sight of that beautiful badonkadonk. Thank God for paparazzi and Michael’s need for cat litter. Even in jeans, that’s a beautiful butt! Quick, someone, find something else that Michael needs to load into the trunk! Come on Michael’s-wife, throw us a bone! Tell him to drop trou!
And speaking of bones, there’s Joshua Goodman’s cock (is that a butt-tease?). As if in answer to my diatribe about how Mr. Joshua’s package is both the center of attention and fastidiously kept under wraps at the same time, just days later BG East releases a match between package kings, Mr. Joshua and Jobe Zander.
Despite Jobe’s tats, he isn’t my favorite if he’s going head to head (if only) with Mr. Joshua. Both of these dudes have made considerable hay from straining the seams of their thongs with their equine genitalia. I haven’t seen the product yet, but all signs appear to be that this match is all about whose is bigger. Billed as “The Battle of the Bulge,” this match is conspicuously absent the little asterisk next to all the BG East products featuring nudity.
I repeat: You bastards. You cock-teasing (and/or butt-teasing), sadistic bastards. I should wipe my hands of Dexter and all Mr. Joshua products in disgust. Yet, there I go paying my cable bill for Showtime and pulling out my wallet for a fresh dose of gazebo grappling. You bastards…

Crowning a New Champion

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Ohmygod! I’m completely star struck. Derek da Silva “tweeted” (I hate that word!) about my blog last night. I feel like a teenage girl whose favorite boybander just made momentary eye contact with her from stage. Derek finds my blog entries about him “nice.” Sweet. I’ll be gabbing on and on about this brush with fame for weeks! My friends are going to hate me. Totally worth it.

I don’t know any erotic performers in real life, but I have to guess that Derek is not your typical pornboy. He was enjoying the Joffrey Ballet last night, and he’s reportedly a vegetarian into yoga and post structuralist philosophy. A gorgeous boy into BDSM AND post structuralism!?! Michel Foucault must be smiling down proudly (and with a hard-on).
As regular readers can attest, I had a crush on Derek long before he twitted (I prefer that word) about my blog. The fantastic tats, the prolific sweat, the awesome flexibility, the sublime suffering… Derek was made to order for all my kinks. But now that Derek glanced my way every so briefly, he’s jumped to the head of the line of my pornboy crushes. Mitch, you’re demoted to runner-up. If you don’t like it, you may fight it out in a sequel to Crotch Crushers (please).

Crushworthy, Captivating Calves

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I’m getting fixated again. Sorry. Sometimes, in some seasons, body parts just call to me. Sometimes it’s pecs. I’ve had infatuations with asses. These days it’s legs, and in particular, calves.

I could feel the calf obsession rising when I wrote a fantasy BG East wrestling match, in which bodybuilder Tyrell Tomsen worships his own flexing hardbody in the mirror, culminating in rolling up to the ball of one foot and flexing out his defined calf muscle. Mmmm…
So now, of course, everywhere I turn I’m captured (if only) by gorgeous legs and stunning calves. These off season pics of footballer Cristiano Ronaldo, in all his stunningly vascular glory, explain why he’s due to make an appearance in my wrestling fiction. Sweet God, just the idea of those legs scissoring someone makes me a little light headed. I’d insure those works of art for $130 million, too!
I haven’t seen the match yet, but BG East’s new release of BG’s Bad Boys looks like it starts with a pose off between Aryx Quinn and stunning newcomer, Rio Garza. If it’s a competition, Aryx’s look bigger and Rio’s look more beautiful. But it’s a win-win for me, any way you look at it.
I think well-muscled calves are particularly hot because it takes someone who really loves their body (or who naturally does a lot of sprints) to really pump out rock hard, massive calves. A lot of posers, even some bodybuilders, are huge all over, but still have skinny calves. Clearly genetics plays a big role, but someone with big, round, angular calves bears the evidence of more than a little narcissism. It takes cockiness, intense self-consciousness, and above all, focused effort to craft beautifully muscled calves. And these days, I’m smitten.

More Mr. Muscles

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Tellumyort has posted another match (in 4 parts, starting here) of classic muscleboy Johnny England. I was a little bored with “Mr. Muscles” after the first couple of matches I saw, but he’s growing on me. He’s less about the character and more about some impressive ring action in this match against neon green-clad “judo” fighter Pat Patton. Johnny is a really delicious bully in his boot tassles and floppy long hair. He entirely physically dominates his opponent. Patton’s full bodyweight planted across Johnny’s shoulders can’t keep the strong man on his back. Johnny’s bread and butter in this match is a double handed slap to the chest that sends Patton flying across the ring over and over and over again.

I’m really not a fan of deceptive screen caps that mislead one into thinking there’s something sexual happening when it’s just a random frame frozen in time. But these two maintain this position (Patton’s head against Johnny’s lower abdomen and his hand between Johnny’s thighs, squeezing his ass) for several seconds, and the hoots and whistles from the crowd make me think that I’m not the only one recognizing that this is more than just a little erotic.

Johnny quickly follows up by slamming his man to his back and then dropping his ass across Patton’s upper chest (leaving Pat with a telephoto view of that athletic butt). Johnny straddles Patton’s chest repeatedly in this match, planting his ass right in front of Patton’s nose more than once in nice overtones of humiliation/sexual domination.
As ALWAYS, the commentary is thinly disguised body worship. The commentator takes pains to describe Johnny’s “powerful arms” and worshipfully makes note of Johnny’s “very powerful biceps.” He has a hint of reverie in his voice as he marvels at Johnny’s “powerful legs… a weight lifter’s legs.” When Patton is clearly totally outclassed by Johnny’s strength, the commentator sounds like he almost pities him, as he’s “up against a very powerful opponent, giving away a lot of strength advantage here….” With awestruck emphasis, he marvels that “he is such a strong fellow!” And clearly enjoying Johnny’s post-fall display of domination, the commentator swoons just a little when he explains, “A great physical culturist, this fella… He’s got to use his strength and pose a little on occasions.” Yes. Yes. He’s just got to.

While bully Mr. Muscles’ bread and butter here is his brutal chest slap, by far his most impressive display of total domination is his repeated use of the torture rack. Holy crap! Over and over he powers Patton helplessly up to his shoulders, parades around the ring, then flings him face-first into the turnbuckle. Fan-freaking-tastic!

Neon green boy, Patton, acts like he’s all put out by Johnny’s savagery and ring-smart use of the ropes, but I think Patton is secretly enjoying getting owned by the strongman. Immediately after Johnny powers out of Patton’s full nelson as if it were child’s play, he applies a tit-for-tat full nelson on the green boy. When Pat can’t break out of Johnny’s vicelike full nelson, he drive his ass over and over again into Johnny’s crotch. Yep. That’s the type of wrestling I’m into!
Even the ref cops an entirely gratuitous and unnecessary feel of Johnny’s pec.
And finally, Johnny’s use of the figure-4 choke throughout the match is priceless. Squeezing Patton’s head against his crotch like a melon, Johnny looks like he’s enjoying the moment of total head-to-crotch (including one very nice face-to-crotch) control. Even the commentator can’t help but allude to the very intimate action happening in the ring. “Johnny England going for that… very close… figure-4 head scissors.”
It’s fascinating to look back nearly 30 years and see what a “physical culturalist” looked like then, as compared with the muscleboys in the ring today. Johnny England would look like a munchkin doughboy next to the likes of John Cena or even Randy Orton. Nevertheless, Johnny’s got my number. I believe him when he muscles his man around like a rag doll. And I’m totally turned on by his narcissist, heel, dominating ring persona.

What Turned Me Gay (again, not really)

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Adrian Zmed turned me gay. He’s so “I Love the 80’s” I have to restrain myself from feeling the need to make excuses for calling him out. I was, afterall, only 11 when T.J. Hooker premiered on television, at which point I instantly became obsessed with Officer Vince Romano. But enough excuses. I’m owning it. My desperate hope to see Adrian Zmed in a shirtless scene (there were several in T.J. Hooker) made it impossible to deny: I was gay.
The Eastern European look (interpreted as “Italian” for his character on T.J. Hooker) was hot. The thick dark hair and olive skin was sex on a stick in my mind. It’s not like he was bodybuilder, but he was meaty enough (seriously, 03:06 in this clip totally transports me back to my adolescent giddiness for Adrian). Officer Vince Romano was a green cop, fiery and hot-headed (hot, hot, hot), who had to learn self-restraint and smarts from his much older partner played by William Shatner (not, not, not).
The occasional glimpses of Adrian shirtless in T.J. Hooker would likely have been enough to cement him in my gay biography, but further shirtlessness in the movie Bachelor Party sealed the deal. Even playing an über-hetero horndog, I had eyes for no one else for a slice in time. Adrian (who can actually sing) ripping off his shirt as he sings is a fantastic intersection of teen idol meets movie star meets rock star.
I don’t actually remember Adrian’s appearance alongside Scott Baio on Battle of the Network Stars (which will probably require its own installment in “What Turned Me Gay…” loved, loved, loved seeing my favorite stars trying to be jocks on BNS). But this shot of Adrian in a speedo and Scott in a towel captures such an authentic moment in my emergence as a gay boy. Skinny-but-fit white boys with broad chests, skinny waists, and the hint of gym-bunny abs were both who I wanted to be and who I wanted to be with. Before I ever conceived of the notion of fucking, sucking, mutual masturbation, or even kissing another man, really, the idea of speedo-clad Adrian with his arm wrapped around my neck, leaning against me bare chest to bare chest was my first, sort of pathetic in hindsight, fantasy of male-male affection.

So judge me all you like (you catty bitches). Roll your eyes and smirk. I refuse to be embarrassed by my adolescent crush on Adrian Zmed, who without a doubt, turned me gay.