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.

What Turned Me Gay (not really)

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The best and brightest minds (read: morons) of the political right in America are promoting the idea that straight porn turns people gay. As usual, their irrationality reveals much more about their own deep insecurities and fears than they say anything about us. So let me set the record “straight”:

Phil Donahue and Sally Jesse Raphael turned me gay. At the very least, they get credit for beginning my pre-porn video collection. With increasing frequency throughout the 1980’s, daytime talk shows ran male-stripper stories. Initially, I think, they were ostensibly “about” male stripping. They would actually interview them to learn about their career choices or pretend that it was a “fashion show.” But by the late 80’s, they were unapologetic strip shows, with the boys swinging from poles and tugging off their breakaway pants to shake their moneymakers dressed only in thongs and g-strings.
As a gay adolescent, this opened up a whole new world to me. I began combing through the TV guide to plan ahead for upcoming male strip show-themed episodes. I’d pop a blank in the VCR and record the celebrations of man-flesh in order to “enjoy” them over and over (and over, and over…).
I remember two Donahue episodes in particular. One included hunks standing in a line, facing away from the audience, their upper bodies blocked off by a screen. Based on applause, the audience voted for which of the speedo clad hunks had the best butt. This was an incredibly erotic lesson for me in the joys of male body worship: the concentrated, lustful worship of one beautiful body part at a time. When one of the hunks flexed his glutes rhythmically to the screaming adoration of the audience, I swear my heart fluttered.
Another Donahue episode that sticks out in my mind was taped in a big performance hall with one male “erotic dancer” after the other performing. One talented hardbody (seen here ever-so-briefly at 0:33…) came out in a monk robe, and proceeded to strip to almost nothing and hump the floor to the accompaniment of Annie Lennox’ “Missionary Man.” Sweet Jesus (literally!)!!! The layers of forbidden pleasures and sacrilegiousity were seared passionately into my memory.
Finally, a shout out to the total trash TV diva, Sally Jesse Raphael. Sally more frequently used the gimmick of the “Hunk Contest” as the excuse to parade near-naked harbodies and jack up the ratings (other things were jacked as well…). I remember one “contest” modeled after a beauty pageant, where instead of an evening gown competition, the hotties paraded out in their favorite sports costume. One pec-tacularly gorgeous babyface walked the runway in amateur wrestling gear, including shrugging his shoulders out of the shoulder straps and rolling the outfit down to his waist. Considering my already existing obsession with the homoeroticism of wrestling, this was like a sign from God: worship the hardbody wrestler hunk! (Yes, sir!). In a devastatingly tragic twist, somewhere along my transition to adulthood I lost my pre-porn collection of daytime stripper hunks (thus most of these pics are an homage to, rather than evidence of the clips I describe). These days, I’d love to see them again, just for (well, mostly for) nostalgia’s sake.
Other daytime trash TV shows have exploited the genre of male strippers to give a shot in the arm to ratings. For me, though, some of the roots of my adult sexual fetishes trace directly to Phil Donahue and Sally Jesse Raphael, and the thrilling celebration of near-naked male bodies being worshipped for their stunning beauty.

Astride the Soapbox

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A recent comment on this blog sent my mind circling around the question of the role of homoerotic products and gay liberation. The classic critique of porn is that it objectifies – complex, three-dimensional people are transformed into 2-dimensional objects of lust. Personally I don’t buy this argument at all. Short of a Vulcan mind-meld, any gaze is an objectifying gaze to one extent or another. We are all, at all times, existing entirely within our subjective interpretations (and fantasies… especially fantasies!) of who we see each other and ourselves to be. We’re always filling in each other’s backstories, objectifying, demonizing, valorizing, sensualizing…

These days, gay liberation seems to be circling the drain of heterosexualized partnering. Our thought-leaders feed us the notion that our self-actualization will only come once monogamous, dyadic partnerships of boys with boys (and girls with girls) is subsumed underneath the mountainous weight of state sanctioned marriage. I know that I’m swimming upstream here, but “gay marriage” does not look like liberation to me. Sorry to offend… but moving on…
Which brings me back to my original question. Does gay porn and, in particular, homoerotic wrestling have anything to do with gay liberation. At the risk of being scorned as biased (did I mention I’ve invested considerably in the industry?), I propose that what we’re about in the producer/performer/consumer partnership in homoerotic wrestling is more than just a paycheck and an orgasm. I think we’re about something liberating. Just a few points in my evolving thesis:

1. Erotica and porn have always snuck across the lines that divide (urban, rural, black, white, out, in, etc.) and shown up wrapped in anonymous packaging (or more recently with the click of the mouse), at which point all of us have had that moment of realization that we’re not alone.
2. In a bodyphobic society bent on making us all hate the shape, size, proportions, complexion, and impermanence of our bodies, erotica and porn hold the potential of helping to right that imbalance. When it’s done right, when bodies are unflinchingly celebrated, when bodies are adored for the naked beauty they possess, then erotica/porn is a flip of the middle finger to the puritanical oppression of bodies as inherently dangerous, dirty, vile and corrupting.

3. Erotica and porn (and here I think homoerotic wrestling in particular) has the potential to demonstrate an enacted alternative to the straight-jacket world most of us live in. The way things are is NOT the way things have to be, and if we couldn’t imagine an alternative vision of masculinity and male bodies and gay male attraction and gay male lust, then what would we be left with? We’d be left with the lies that we’ve all been taught: that gay men are predatory, despicable, immoral, incapable of love, selfish and self-hating. Some gay porn, sadly, borders on perpetuating those lies, but when I see two powerful, confident, strong, mutually attracted men throwing one another around and pounding on one another, I catch another vision of who we all might be. When I see the fantastically erotic story of domination and submission, power and vulnerability, worship and lust… then I think we’ve got something crucial (and hot!) to teach this world about the fabulous depths of the human condition. If it not only gets us off (and that SHOULD be a priority… see point #2), but also makes us think differently, then that seems like a glimpse of liberation to me.

I guess I’m going on and on today just to say that none of us are alone, we are all beautiful, and however stuck the world may seem at times, the way things are isn’t the way things will always be. Whatever else it does, homo-erotica should remind us that we are powerful and beautiful and possessors of vital insights into the potential of human passion. [Dismounting soapbox.]

The Gratuity

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I caught a young, nicely muscled hottie in the gym locker room flexing in the mirror. Context is everything. I see (and appreciate) flexing in the work out room all the time. On the gym floor, posing is cocky, perhaps competitive, certainly exhibitionist. But in the locker room, a double bicep in the mirror is just gratuitous, narcissistic, and, frankly, incredibly hot.


The wrestling flex-pose is all about context, too, I think. The spontaneous surge of adrenalin that inspires a dominating victor to pump out a most-muscular makes sense. It’s self-congratulatory, self-reveling, the exclamation point at the end of the statement, “I own you now!”

Prior to a match, the flex-pose is a little more like the gym bunny in the workout room. The two as-yet-untested studs flex for one another, to be seen by one another, to be compared with one another. The pre-match flex is about intimidation and psyching each other out, as in, “Just look at these muscles! This body is too much for you to handle.” The pre-match flex sets the stage for the grappling, sometimes serving as the only real plot, as both men present their bids (I’m the strongest… my muscled arms will break you… my powerful thighs will squeeze you), and then as the match unfolds, they play their cards to see who actually has the best hand.

The flex-pose during the match is more like the self-worshipping muscle boy in the locker room, it seems to me. Once the action has begun, pausing to flash a lat-spread doesn’t really make sense, other than to tell the story of the narcissist who simply can’t get enough of his own hard body. The flex-pose in the course of a match is gratuitous, even risky, and often threatens the suspension of disbelief… oh, and did I mention, it’s hot?
Classic Brit wrestler “Mr. Muscles” Johnny England seemed to enjoy portraying the self-worshipping musclehead in the ring. In his match against Steve Grey, his pre-match posing-to-intimidate just keeps going well after the bell rings. The match opening test of strength displays Mr. Muscles dominant power as he toys with his weaker opponent, alternately driving him to his knees and dragging him to the balls of his feet with a sneer (I admit to writing up that very scene in my wrestling fiction because it’s so entirely tasty). England’s straight-arm overhead press at 08:07 is one FANTASTIC use of a bodybuilder-wrestler. For my money, though he’s clearly less heavily muscled, Steve Grey has by far the more worship-worthy bod in this match, and his peculiar move at 06:48 makes me think all sorts of naughty thoughts.
I recently saved up my pennies to take a look at Tyrell Tomsen’s match against Braden Charron in StripStakes 1 (please, please, please let there be a StripStakes 2!). Neither of these body-beautifuls sell me on the action. There are some nice pec claws clamped onto Braden (tragically, the move is not reciprocated on Tyrell’s gorgeous pecs). But Tyrell’s body and his constant flex-posing (literally from frame one) is entrancing. Tyrell basically re-enacts the locker room scene I saw yesterday (or vice versa), as he worships his incredible muscles in the mirror – in the middle of his match. When he gets sweaty (perhaps relying a little on stagecraft), his stunning, naked, anatomy-chart of a body could be put to no better use than to flex… not for Braden, but for his own self-worship (and, of course, ours).
Finally, I can’t help but mention the artistry of Brad Rochelle once again. His match against indy heel Kurt Kurtis in Hunkbash 7 reveals Brad’s awesome presence and self-awareness in the ring. As the title of the tape would suggest, Brad gets bashed. But the first fall is a back-and-forth. Early on, Kurt calls out Brad, saying, “all those muscles can’t help you now!” So Brad’s luscious muscles become the subject of the first fall. Brad fights to prove that his muscles will destroy Kurt’s guile. At one point, Brad has Kurt on his stomach, his lower legs being bent forward painfully. From behind his opponent, spontaneously, Brad flexes one of his beautiful baseball biceps. Brad helps us believe his self-worship, by monologuing, “You just wish you could see this,” to his opponent who clearly can’t see his posing. Brad makes sense of the mid-match flex for us, acknowledging that the posing is for his own self-congratulatory narcissism (of course, really, it’s for you and me).
The wrestling flex-pose probably, in most cases, defies belief. It’s extraneous to the contest. It’s a distraction from the stated task of securing domination of one man’s body. And personally, I’d have it no other way. Keep giving me my own, private show, that marries hot wrestling with unadulterated body worship.

What’s Wrong With This Picture?

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I don’t quite get Twilight. I’m not proud of it. I’m not trying to convince anyone how cool I am because I’m more evolved than the mass of fans (including more than a few gay ones) wetting themselves in anticipation of the next movie.

The meat selection is entirely decent. Robert Pattinson (painted on abs or not), is a looker. Someone needs to either give him a serious haircut or throw him around by a couple fistfuls of those locks before power slamming him to a wrestling mat (frankly, either option is okay with me), but still, he’s clearly got the hot-if-perhaps-overexposed factor.
Taylor Lautner tips the scales in at gorgeous. His eagerness to display his ever-increasing bulges is sexy, in that way that screams for someone to lay a beat down on him and torture him in the ropes until he screams “I give.”
Kellan Lutz also clearly has all the pieces lined up nicely. Pretty, round pecs and full lips can’t steer you too wrong. And it’s a vampire and werewolf storyline, for God’s sake! I get weak in the knees when I see Alexander Skarsgård’s fangs pop out in True Blood, and Russell Tovey stripping off his shirt just before he does it doggy-style quite literally makes me salivate.

But I just can’t get myself to be seriously into Twilight. John Savage has the Twilight boys mixing it up in the ring in his Arena Island Celebrity Wrestling group, and those matches are hands down hot. But I just can’t generate any genuine passion for the boys of Twilight.

I’m happy to have more shirtless, hottie hunks coming up the ranks as media darlings. Perhaps someday I’ll catch the Twilight bug and awake from this malaise. But for now, for me, I’m leaving the dudes of Forks to the pre-teen girls (and to you). You can enjoy my share.

The Local News

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I’m on a hunt. A “man” hunt, if you will. Specifically, I’m in search of the hunks behind the local news desk. When I travel, I occasionally stumble across a handsome face and the hint of a hard body reporting the local traffic or listing the highlights of the day in local crime. Clearly the news is run like professional baseball, with bush-leaguers (usually with chiseled chins and broad shoulders) on rare occasions getting the call up to the big leagues. I remember seeing Rob Marciano smirking out the local weather in Portland, Oregon several years back (does a Portland weatherman need to be able to say much other than “It’s going to rain?”). In a fantastic move, Rob was picked up by CNN, where his fan base has grown ever since.

Carter Evans is also a local boy who hasn’t quite broken into the big leagues, but he’s collecting his paycheck from CNN these days, non the less. He was in San Diego for a while, then on location all over L.A.. He has a gorgeously deviated septum, for which I’ve written my own backstory involving his face getting squeezed savagely between some other stud’s muscled thighs. Like Rob, Carter has a quick wit and perpetual smirk that makes him translate well into a cocky character in my wrestling fiction.
Is David Ono still on the air in L.A.? Good God, if there was ever a mild-mannered reporter who I wanted to see rip open his shirt and reveal himself strapped into a spandex superhero outfit, it’s David. I was so thrilled to find this pic of him finishing a triathlon, showing a couple of sweetly muscled, smooth thighs (and sweat… have I mentioned I really like me a sweaty hunk?).

I’m looking for some local news hunks who are ripe for an appearance in my wrestling fiction. Since I can’t be everywhere at once, I’m hoping you’ll help me out with some of your favorite local newsboys. Who’s hot on the local scene, and who do you think would look good stripped down to trunks and tossed around in a wrestling ring?

The Substance of Wrestling

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Someone who recently signed up to read my gay wrestling fiction commented that, after reading this blog, he thinks that he’s just as much a fan of sweaty, naked men as I am. There was something sort of competitive about the comment, which, frankly, seems entirely in keeping with the spirit of what turns me on. So in honor of those who get an extra thrill from slippery, sweaty muscle-bods, here are a few of my favorite things: sweaty, naked grappling.

Some guys are just gifted in breaking out into sexy, soaking sweat. Sweat becomes a major (hot) feature of Casey Cutler’s mat action against Bud Orton in the BG East classic X-Fights 20. Orton looks like he stepped out of the shower about two minutes into the tussle, causing Casey to comment that he’s just too damn slippery to keep hold of! A breather between falls features mutual toweling off that turns into some sensual displays of muscle and power. Both hardbodies are naked and sliding across each other and the mat before the tale is told. While it falls just shy of full on body worship, I love this match for the humor, the explicit sensuality, and, most of all, the slippery, sweat soaked muscles! But what happened to the Wade Cutler/Doug Warren match from this set (or anything having to do with Doug Warren)!? I’m so glad I got my copy before it was dropped. While not nearly as sweaty, it could never be a bad thing to see Wade Cutler drop his delicious bubble butt across anyone’s face.
I’ve mentioned it before, and I’ll likely wax adoringly about it again, but Mitch Colby and Derek DaSilva are both champion sweat-studs. In their recent head-to-head in Crotch Crushers, they’re both soaked within minutes, making a freshly tanned Mitch absolutely glow. While Mitch stays in his trunks (I cry foul!!!), Derek is stripped and hard as a board halfway through the match. While ball torture isn’t really my idea of fun, I confess to being completely awestruck by the sight of a soaking wet Derek pleading for Mitch to pound his balls more as he’s heading to his climax.
I recently re-watched old-school workhorses Rob Cryston and Eduardo in Rip ‘n’ Strip Wrestling for Close-Up Entertainment (found on Can-Am’s site). Like Derek DaSilva, these muscle warriors quickly find their hairy bodies soaked in sweat. Despite some very up close and personal ball licking, Cryston and Eduardo don’t quite convince me that they’re actually enjoying the battle. The lack of chemistry is off-set, though, by Eduardo’s fantastically hairy pecs shimmering with a sheen of sweat.

I’m always on the look out for some genuinely sexy, sweaty action, so let me know if you have some favorites I haven’t mentioned. Sweat brings all the senses into focus in a homoerotic wrestling match, I think. The tactile joy of bodies slipping and sliding… what must be the fantastic musk of man scent… the sound of wet bodies slapping together… the salty taste of the evidence of sincerely hardworking men grinding and pounding. Needless to say, the sight of sweaty, naked bodies on the mats or in the ring is a thing of beauty, if you ask me.

Takes Life. Seriously.

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So here I am, stumbling aimlessly around the house mumbling to myself: “Where’s Bill?” … “Sam’s pecs…” … “Will I ever get to see Alexander Skarsgård and Ryan Kwanten in a sticky, rough sex scene together?” I’m feeling True Blood withdrawals already, and they’re bad.


My dealer, HBO, knows how dull the sharp edges, though. Promos for Dexter, Season 4 are everywhere. And while Dexter doesn’t have the depth on the bench that True Blood does, fresh scenes of sexy, sweaty serial-killer Dexter Morgan will certainly help ease the pain.
Michael C. Hall has the formula for locking in a gay audience, I think. Mix one part break-out adorable gay character role… three parts smoking hot sexy sociopath in sweaty, skin-tight homicidal gear, and two parts of that jaw-dropping bubble butt (one part for each fabulous cheek). That’s the formula for earning my lustful worship, at least.

It took me a few seasons to warm up to his character on Six Feet Under, but eventually I got there. There was something totally disarming about his portrayal of a nerdy, insecure, not-so-long-ago closet-case who’s also a total slut puppy with hardbodied studs throwing themselves at him.

But as Dexter, Michael C. Hall had me from the opening credits (why do I find it so sexy watching him floss?). And frankly, there’s something completely sick (in a kinky that’s-disturbingly-hot way), that Hall just married the woman who plays his sister on Dexter. Clearly, Michael beefed up after SFU to take this solo-lead in Dexter. Thank GOD this whole thing is set in Miami, requiring Dexter to be perpetually pitted out and sweat soaked where the center of his chest meets the collar of his shirt (I just felt a shudder!). Someone understands their audience, with not infrequent scenes of Michael C. Hall shirtless, though they’ve yet to fully unleash the wonder that is his astoundingly round ass. Hall must have it in his contract not to show too much skin below the waist (we get just the barest glimpse around episodes 6 & 7 of season 2). Someone needs to put some more money on the table so that we can all marvel at Michael’s finest feature!!!

My obsession with Dexter, like my obsession with True Blood, inspired an appearance by Michael C. Hall in my celebrity wrestling fiction (his ass features prominently… so to speak). I wouldn’t be surprised if he showed up for another match in the Producer’s Ring this autumn. So as I detox off of True Blood, I’m already getting an anticipatory rush from the approach of Dexter Morgan back into my life. Eric Northman, Dexter Morgan… why am I so addicted to gorgeous, heartless killers?

What Turned Me Gay (again, not really)

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James West made me gay. Well, I suppose it was Robert Conrad playing James West in “Wild, Wild West” that made me gay. Well, it was probably the frequent appearances of Robert Conrad shirtless, often tied up and tortured, that made me gay (and into domination!).

Just to be clear, I wasn’t old enough to see the original run of Wild, Wild West. I caught it in one of its endless rerun cycles. Even as a young kid, I remember being in complete awe of Conrad. Every episode was guaranteed to feature him with his tight pants showing off that fantastic ass. And every so often, not infrequently, he’d be captured by some evil genius, forced out of his shirt, and tied up to endure threats of destruction.
Conrad had a chiseled jaw, hot-n-hairy pecs, and a tight six pack plunging down the high-rise pants he always wore. He was a tight little package with a drop-dead gorgeous face. Just to look at him in stills would have been subject for a wet dream, but to see him struggle against his bonds, to squirm and flinch in pain, to be captured and (at least temporarily) under the dominating control of an evil nemesis… yep, I owe a lot of what I am today to James West, via the beautiful suffering-stylings of Robert Conrad.
The producers clearly understood what we tuned in to see, putting him back on the small screen for a couple of perpetually shirtless seasons of Baa Baa Black Sheep. Another decade later, I had such high hopes when I saw him again in the pilot for High Mountain Rangers, costarring his hottie sons, Shane and Christian.
Sadly, High Mountain Rangers had no traction, and Robert did little else on screen after that. Happily, the image of James West, his wrists tied behind his back, his shirtless, hairy chest flexing and struggling, those tight pants hugging every curve of that rocking butt… very happily, that image remains seared in my memory as the thrilling inspiration to a young gay boy’s imagination.