Doctor, Doctor, Give Me the News

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I’m sick. The symptoms aren’t flu-y, swine or otherwise. They’re just cold-y. Still, it’s knocked my legs out from under me. What’s worse, I fully admit that I’m intolerable when I’m sick. I’m impatient, demanding, self-pitying… it’s not pretty. If I’m miserable, someone else should be miserable as well – that’s my thinking. So for today, my blog entry is my list of who I think ought to be taking care of my in my misery:

The boys from “Seattle” Grace Hospital can fetch for me. Neither of them are allowed to talk, and no one is allowed to use the prefix “Mc-” for anything. Eric Dane must be dressed only in a towel. And did I mention Patrick Dempsey is not allowed to talk? “Dr. Eric, Dr. Patrick, get me some tomato soup!“
The Bachelor-turned-one-of-The Doctors, Travis Stork, can take my temperature. He, however, must wear a stethoscope around his neck… and nothing else. “Sure, Dr. Travis, put your stick here in my mouth for me to roll around under my tongue.”
John C. McGinley can rub my feet, but only in the character of Dr. Perry Cox yelling insults at Eric Dane and Patrick Dempsey as they fetch for me. “That’s the spot, Dr. Cox…“
Similarly, Robert Maschio can fluff my… pillow, but only in the character of The Todd. “No I can’t high-five you, Todd, but you can smack Eric Dane’s ass (hard) when he walks by.“
And since this is my illness-induced fantasy, I get to go old school. Mark Harmon (St. Elsewhere) and Gregory Harrison (Trapper John, M.D.) need to be here for the sponge baths. Their four hands, a warm sponge, and my naked body… “A little lower, Dr. Gregory…“
Finally, I want my favorite doctor of all to actually be in charge of my health care. I’m highly suspicious of doctors and their suspect credentials, so only the best will do. “My runny nose and the rest of my body are in your hands, Doctor…”

Wrestler Bodybuilders

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Usually we see the very enjoyable overlap of bodybuilders and wrestlers with the bodybuilders showing up in the ring. These clips from YouTube go the other direction (the classic wrestlers posing as bodybuilders on stage). Ricky “The Dragon” Steamboat, Jimmy “Superfly” Snuka, and Tony Atlas were regular objects of my lust as a kid. Seeing them oiled up and on stage is absolutely stunning.

Ricky’s body was a work of (erotic) art. In this bodybuilding competition, his post-victory embrace of the also rans (including Jimmy Snuka 06:04) is a little tender, though I think the way he clutches the second-placer against his chest is a nice little moment of domination (at 06:10 I can almost here him command, “lick my tit!”). My memories of Ricky are mostly him as a jobber getting used, but he was so sincere and enthusiastic. I always wanted to see him win, but I always thought it was sooooooo hot seeing that musclebod manhandled and defeated!
Jimmy Snuka had to grow on me. He doesn’t have the “pretty” body of a Ricky or a Tony, but he was still so stunningly muscled. My memories of Jimmy were from when he was more of a heel, sort of playing the (racist-stereotype of the) savage islander whose brute force would break his opponents in half.
Tony Atlas, bless his heart (as my mother would say), was a brickhouse with no lights on. I remember the first time I saw him in the ring. I had no idea such a massive bodybuilder (despite the skinny calves) ever found his way into a pro-ring. He was usually jobbing, with his opponents using guile and, well frankly a little intelligence, to overcome Tony’s inevitable physical dominance. Tony’s interviews confirmed the fact that he wasn’t the brightest bulb in the lamp. Then he’d walk away, and that gorgeous muscle-butt in those tight, skimpy speedos would remind me that brains aren’t everything!
I don’t know the stories behind these clips, but they totally rock! Showvideos1979 is my hero for the week for this fantastic find.

Of Age

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I know that I’ll probably burn in hell for this (oh, let me count the ways…), but this, one of the first matches of Young David (aka, Davey Boy Smith), is hot. It’s a little bizarre to superimpose the figure of the man that he would eventually become in the WWF, but despite looking like a skinny kid, you can still tell that even “just out of puberty,” Davey had a very nice foundation upon which to build a rock hard body. There was some tipping point in his career at which he went from a body beautiful to a bit of a cartoon character (in my opinion), losing sight of much definition in the interest of bulk. But back at the start of his career, he was wiry, lanky, tall, and very agile. His shoulders and arms have outdistanced his long, skinny legs at this point, but he’s already looking a little more like a hunk than a twink, despite the spindly uprights.
The story line of the match is that Davey had nearly upset classic heel Jim Breaks in a prior match, and he was back to take a title shot at the champ. Jim, in his bumblebee outfit, was ALWAYS the consummate heel, as evidenced by the immediate jeers from the crowd at get-go. This was classic good guy vs. bad guy, handsome young hero vs. “ugly” (yet hot) older villain, strength and bravery vs. guile and deceit. Davey is fast and astonishingly agile, and in his baby blue onesy outfit, he totally turns my crank.
In part 4, there’s a jaw dropping hip toss (04:28) that sends the long, lanky Davey Boy flying entirely across the ring and landing on his arm still in it’s hammerlocked position behind his back (yep, I borrowed that idea for my celebrity wrestling fiction). Holy shit, that looks really dangerous (and is off the charts hot!).

I’m really (really, really) not into underage guys. Without some legitimately mature meat and at least the valid need to shave, they just don’t get my motor running (I’m not just being PC). But Young David here just tips the scale, and I’m left looking over my shoulder a little anxiously every now and then as I watch him, enthralled, entranced, and, truth be told, aroused.

What Turned Me Gay (again, not really)

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The 1984 Olympic U.S. Men’s Gymnastics Team turned me gay.
It was the first summer Olympics to happen after I hit adolescence. I don’t remember having seen men’s gymnastics on television before. But when I caught sight of the short, powerhouse, muscle-bound tumblers in Los Angeles, there could be no doubt: I was gay, and this was hot!

The drama of the Olympics was part and parcel of the whole eroticism for me. These guys weren’t expected to win the team competition. It was down to the wire, every landing crucial, every hop critical, and the Chinese and Japanese tumblers were scooping up every medal in sight. And then the underdog-dreamboats from the U.S. win, and all of these gorgeous studs with massive biceps and thick chests and tiny little waists were hugging and jumping all over each other in ecstasy… ecstasy, I tell you!

At the time, I was smitten with Peter Vidmar. These days, I wouldn’t peg him for the stud puppy in the bunch, but you can’t argue with the raging hormones of an adolescent gay boy. Peter was dreamy, and I was in love.
Mitch Gaylord was clearly the one pegged by everyone else as the looker in the group. He had those big shoulders and that (relatively) long, sexy body. He took a stab at a movie, which as I remember was unmemorable.
In hindsight, Bart Conner should’ve been my gay crush. Even then, I remember being awed by thickness of his biceps. There was something totally hot about hearing the story of his completely torn bicep from training. The scars across his massive arms and shoulders were just fascinating (in a why-are-my-pants-suddenly-tight way). The California surferboy blond hair and and the little boy grin on that brickhouse bod was completely worshipful. I should so much have been into him more than Vidmar.
Frankly, I think Tim Daggett may have had the best bod in the bunch, but I didn’t think he was so handsome. I still see him commenting on men’s gymnastics competitions when I tune in for my short-muscle-stud fix, particularly around the summer Olympics.
And then, there were “the rest,” in the words of the theme song to Gilligan’s Island. Jim Hartung and Scott Johnson are totally the Professor and Mary Ann. I remember them both by sight, and I remember thinking, “Hey, those guys are hot, too!” But they weren’t the superstars, and they didn’t get as much exposure.

I fell in love all over again when (Sexy) Alexei Nemov was such a media darling in the 1996 and 2000 Olympics (and the way he always kissed his teammates after each routine). Still today, I pause and drink in the gorgeousness whenever men’s gymnastics pops up on television. But it’s the 1984 Olympic U.S. Men’s Gymnastic team that first made me fall in love and lust with the sport that proves short is sexy.

An Instant Classic

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This is my 100th post! On this auspicious occasion, I thought long and hard about how to celebrate this milestone. I decided to return once again to one of my favorite topics: the wonder that is Mitch Colby.

Mitch appeared on the scene at BG East only about 3 years ago, but it feels like I’ve been adoring him for much longer than that. He’s listed at 6’2″ and 206 pounds, and his bodybuilding site suggests that he perfected that fine form fairly recently, reminding us all that it’s never too late to get fit. I think what first caught my attention about Mitch was, in part, his age. He’s certainly not ready to collect social security, but he’s also not quite one of the countless just-finished-puberty boys that fill the ranks of the homoerotic wrestling genre. I love those captured moments when Mitch’s younger opponents (like Alexi, here) are clearly checking out his stunning body, despite themselves.
As I’ve mentioned, another fantastically attractive quality to Mitch is the speed with which he becomes completely soaked in sweat. He’s working hard against his opponents (and for us), and it shows.
Mitch suffers nicely. He sells his character as the bodybeautiful narcissist whose cockiness sometimes gets him in over his head. At 6’2″, Mitch shows some great ability (and readiness) to be twisted and lifted and thrown. His dismantling by the much smaller hardbody badboy Cole Cassidy is that much more stunning for the size differential.
Mitch continues to evolve in his salesmanship in dishing out punishment. He gave nearly as well as he took against Cole. This scene of Cole suffering in Mitch’s prolonged bearhug is an awesome display of Mitch’s beautifully muscled back and Cole displays the exact same face I make often when I’m thinking about Mitch!
His most recent bit with Derek da Silva showed Mitch exploring a new range that is very, very promising. I’m hoping someone will please smack him (hard) when the loses his concentration and looks into the camera, as he often does (Brad Rochelle needs to give Mitch “a lesson” in this, among other things). But it is a thing of beauty to see Mitch trap his opponent’s head between his legs, face to crotch, and squeeze those muscled thighs. Mitch seems genuinely transported into an ecstatic reverie in those moments, entirely present, and him getting turned on is a very hot turn on to watch.
Mitch seems to be venturing more into hardcore, and frankly I’ll only follow him so far down that path. But whenever he signs up for another wrestling match, particularly one which devolves from competitive passion to erotic passion, I’m there.

Boys with Balls

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I’ve received a few requests from readers of my celebrity wrestling fiction to add sports stars into the matches. While it’s true I don’t particularly follow most sports, I’m not as sports-illiterate as some gay men I know (though “icing” in hockey still bewilders me). I even enjoy taking in some of the action, particularly when it’s live (going to the ballpark is awesome… watching on TV is not). Still, I’ve had to do some research to find who in sports today needs to be body slammed, and who in sports needs to do the slamming.

I found that Towleroad has a very, very nice running feature called “Sportraits” that displays some of the prime beef in sports entertainment. If not for this search for talent to write up in the wrestling ring, I’d NEVER have discovered the fantastic torso of NASCAR driver Carl Edwards. I believe I detect a little airbrushing, but Carl’s beautiful body is still just aching to get tortured in a camel clutch, don’t you think?
And then there’s rugby boy Ben Cohen. The fact that Ben apparently has body issues is endearing – completely ridiculous and a tragic indictment of society, but endearing . In my mind, Ben’s prime for pile driving some cocky muscle-head hardbody in the middle of the ring.
And though he’s retired now, a reader put me on to the beauty that is soccer/footballer Hidetoshi Nakata. I’ve got a whole slate of soccer boys just aching to mix it up in the Producer’s Ring (Freddie Ljungberg and David Beckham have already posted a match). I’m already picturing Hidetoshi and some great, crippling arial work.
Finally, I am summoning a supreme act of self restraint not to make lewd comments about the stunning beauty of Brendon Ayanbadejo.
My self-restraint is in honor of the Baltimore Ravens football player’s outspoken support of human rights protections for the gays. I’ll keep him out of the fictional wrestling ring so that he’ll have more time to wax philosophical about the role of religion and human rights in a capitalist democracy. A man with fantastic lips, gorgeous body, classy ink, and he’s both politically reflective and articulate!? … restraining myself…. restraining myself….
I probably won’t start following many more sports any more closely. But I can’t wait to get some of these sports studs introduced to my homoerotic wrestling fetishist imagination.

Making Amends

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I’m a hypocrite. I’ll be the first to admit it. I’ll pick on someone else for not attributing their borrowed pics, but then I’ll turn around and do that very thing. Last Saturday I posted my latest installment in the history of “what turned me gay.” Sadly, I don’t actually have many pics or videos of the “male exotic dancers” so prevalent on 80’s daytime talk shows that I was highlighting. In referencing one particularly memorable episode of Donahue (where he has hot hunks in speedos flexing their glutes to win a best butt contest – and pow! I’m gay), I threw up an otherwise unrelated pic of a man (let’s just say “a god”) with astounding buns. And there I went and didn’t credit the jaw dropping hunk.

Not that Trevor Adams probably needs citing. He’s awfully exposed all over the net (hallelujah!). That ass is astonishingly round, and it’s perky enough to put me back on obsessing about butts again! Dear God, is he smuggling watermelons!?
He’s in magazines and fitness videos and, well, at 6 feet tall and 210 pounds, it’s hard to avoid giving him a double take when you come across an image of him. His ADORABLE story in the August issue of Instinct, in which he discusses his coming out, is about as sweet as sweet potato pie. Almost all the photos I find of Trevor have him flashing his Blue Steel, but the occasional glimpse of a smile on that handsome face, mounted on that dizzyingly gorgeous bod is sheer poetry .
I have no idea what this Christmas video is about. I’m sure it’s sacrilegious, probably juvenile, and likely pointlessly insulting… and I can’t help but continue to watch it over and over again. How does he get his pecs so shiny? I mean, specifically, I’d like to know the details of how his pecs get so shiny… and how I can work into that process somehow.
His personal website is just a splash page, sadly. Mostbeautifulman.com gives us the tantalizing tidbit that Trevor is into watersports (not my thing, but for Trevor… sure). And Modelmayhem.com lets us know that Trevor is “very experienced” (which isn’t as funny as saying he’s into watersports, but still it’s a workable double entendre). In any case, I am flogging myself (I said FLOGGING!) for my sloppy, insensitive, and thoughtless lack of giving credit where credit is due. That glorious, nearly unbelievably, divinely beautiful ass belongs to none other than Trevor Adams.

Nurse! I feel faint!

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While Chris Cuomo hasn’t shown up in my blog lately, he’s never far from my heart. Stunning news at ABC from the beginning of this month when they announced that Diane Sawyer will be leaving Good Morning America at the end of the year to become the sole news anchor for the evening news. Of course there’s that fascinating story that reflects on the fact that as of January, two of the three national evening news anchors will be women. Of course, that’s not the story I really care so much about.


I’m keeping my eye on the beautiful Italian with the curly hair and the massive hands who potentially likes to go commando. “Unnamed sources” (those bastards) have suggested that when Sawyer leaves the show at the end of the year, there will be a major shake up of the on screen ensemble. All I can say is keep your filthy hands off Chris Cuomo! (and place my worshipful hands on him). All this behind-camera drama is definitely calling for a new match in my wrestling fiction featuring Chris… perhaps defending his anchor seat against upstart A&F-looking skinny-stud David Muir.
Speaking of Chris Cuomo and hands, did you catch yesterday’s on screen vaccinations of the cast for the flu? It was another one of those unscripted moments that revealed so much about the morning newsboys. For example, it’s fascinating to know that Chris is versatile. “I can go either way,” he says proudly. Indeed, Chris. I’ve long suspected as much.
And as Chris rolls up the sleeve of his polo shirt, catch him just trying to restrain himself from flexing that massive bicep. Go ahead, Chris, flex. You know you want to. You know we want you to…
Adding to the sexual tension ALWAYS present between Chris and weatherman Sam Champion, when it’s Sam’s turn for his flu shot, he insists that Chris hold his hand. He even gives up the ruse, confessing it’s not that he’s afraid of the shot, he just wants Chris to hold his hand. Chris tries to play down the tension, rolling his eyes and remarking, “Another highpoint.” And once again I say, look at that massively mounded bicep! All right, already! We can all see what’s happening here! Just get a room and put Sam out of his misery!!! (and have someone take pictures… and send them to me).
So it isn’t always “news” on the morning news shows that matters, clearly (did you see the extensive segment on Simon Cowell turning 50?). I’m tuning in to catch my favorite Italian stallion occasionally flex his muscles and show some skin (thank God for flu season). Word to the wise over at ABC News, whatever you decide about replacing Diane Sawyer, leave Chris Cuomo on air! It wouldn’t hurt to put him in short sleeves more often, too. And an occasional segment that requires him to be in a swimsuit wouldn’t hurt either. I know I’ve posted this pic of Chris fishing before, but I just want to remind us all the raw talent that this man brings. David Muir’s in for a world of hurtin’…

A Mighty Pain to Love It Is

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Unrequited loved… the cock tease… these are cruel, cruel manipulations of the heart. To have the object of your affections dangled before you, but just out of reach, hidden just out of sight. It’s sadistic cruelty, I tell you (not the good kind).
Evidentiary item #1: Michael C. Hall as Dexter. It was with anxious anticipation that I sat down to drink in the first episode of season 4 of Dexter. Honestly, I really enjoy the writing. Nicely complicated, yet tidy story lines. Can we all just acknowledge the elephant in the room, though. Michael C. Hall’s booty.
Michael is one fine looking man, and he’s done a wonderful job with the subtleties of playing the part of a serial killer playing the part of an averagely neurotic tech-nerd. But Michael’s most powerful asset that he brings to the small screen, his ass, remains only hinted at. Once again in last night’s season opener, we’re treated to Michael walking away, that fabulous bubble butt framed nicely in his chinos. But despite a plot including a kinky sex scene (well… vanilla-wafer, suburbanite housewife “kink”), we barely catch a glimpse of our beautifully psychopathic hero shirtless.

You shameless, horrible tease! Michael and his handlers clearly have negotiated to keep his gorgeous ass under wraps, but we all know that we’re all tuning in for that magical moment when Michael finally drops trou. It’s like Sam and Diane all over again, the ridiculous dramatic tension drawn out to the point of total frustration, bordering on disgust. You know that we know that you know we’re paying our Showtime subscription fees to see Michael’s bare-ass. You cruel, cruel bastards.
Evidentiary Item #2: On the other side of the pelvis, I have a bone to pick (so to speak) with Joshua Goodman (Mr. Joshua) of BG East. Similar to Michael C. Hall, BG East has been teasing us, taunting us, sadistically torturing us by dangling Joshua’s packed package before us for years without finally paying up. I lost hope of finally seeing Joshua’s bona fides, so I haven’t seen all his matches to verify that we never see his sizeable cock and balls (please, please let me know that I’m wrong). But we’re continually taunted by Joshua in tight trunks and thongs, his pendulum swinging impressively. Joshua himself can’t seem to keep his hands off his cock, constantly adjusting himself both from the exterior as well as the interior of his briefs. Just to tantalize us, we’ve occasionally glimpsed his balls squeezing out the sides of his trunk-crotch (cha-ching!). Joshua tells a nice story, both pitching and catching, but it’s hard not to find your eyes fixated on his pouch, waiting for the moment when the goods come spilling out (or busting out at the seams!).
But the cruelest cut of all was Joshua’s Wrestler Spotlight tape. The pics of the Brooklyn Bodywrecker hoisting the naked Joshua up over one shoulder was finally the long awaited promised land. This pic of Joshua’s quite beautifully naked ass and thick, muscled legs hanging down from BBW’s shoulder is truly a work of art.
I totally took the bait. Only to find that, despite Joshua getting stripped out of his g-string, we are treated only to the visual of his captured butt (totally worth the price of admission… but still!!!). BBW sadistically rubs salt in our wounds, taunting us by pointing out that he knows we’ve tuned in to see Joshua’s goods. He assures us that Joshua’s bits and parts are stunning. Then he carries Joshua back to the dressing room, leaving my jaw dropped open, my pants unzipped, and my face red with frustration.

Michael C. Hall and Mr. Joshua, you are hereby put on notice! If you continue with your cock-teasing ways, I will wash my hands of you in disgust. I will no longer pay up if you continue to refuse to pay up! I will not be so manipulated any longer! … okay, just one more episode… just one more match… if I just give them one more shot, they’ll give me what I want, won’t they!?

The Hardbody

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I’ve been admiring the classic Hardbody Calvin Knapp in some matches recently available on Youtube. Someone on MySpace is also clearly a fan of the Hardbody, with a pretty loving collection to share. Knapp’s job against Alex Porteau is a thing of beauty. The hardworking bodies in the ring in the 80’s and early 90’s are just qualitatively different than today. Knapp is one solid mountain of man.

The haircuts are themselves a priceless moment in time. The mullet was (God forgive us, “is”) such an intentional train wreck, you have to admire it. It’s an amazing symbol of threatened masculinity, with the potential femininity of long locks “neutralized” by the close cropped (in Porteau’s case, shaved) sides and/or top. In the ring, I don’t think there’s a handier cut than the long locks trailing the back of a mullet.

The commentary on this match is, as always, weakly disguised body worship. The monotone wrestler on the mend lending color comments on a weak-ass cover by Porteau has clearly thought long and hard about the size of Hardbody Calvin Knapp and what it takes to keep him on his back (so have I). “You’ve got to wear that big man down a lot more than that before he’s going to lay those shoulders down, I guarantee you.”
Calvin has a fantastically sincere ferocity when simply squeezing out an arm bar. Frankly, I think he dominates better than he suffers, but clearly I was not calling the career shots for the Hardbody. In any case, I love the solid men with shoulders a mile wide and thighs like tree trunks, with mullets down their backs, and trunks pulled up to their belly buttons, catching some air and making the ring bounce with high impact work. Classic.