Homoerotic Wrestler of the Month

I’m two months behind in anointing a HWOTM, so today let me turn the time machine back to May of this year. There were some sensationally hot releases in May, many of which grabbed my attention, turned me on, and got me off repeatedly. As is so often the case, there were several past HWOTM winners, and I heaped adoration on several releases in fawning reviews. It’s a close call this time around, but my cock tells me there’s just one hunk who finally earned the title….

 

 

 

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Denny Cartier.

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Built to wrestle

Denny’s performance in Jobberpaloozer 14 elevates him to the rarified status of a 3-time HOWTM winner. If anything, it actually catches me by surprise that this is only Denny’sthird title, because I key off on everything that Denny is in, anytime I get the opportunity. As I’ve mentioned before, there’s something magnetically real about Denny. There’s an authenticity about him that makes me believe every word out of his mouth, every cry of pain, every superhuman feat of strength and dexterity. Continuing a recent theme I touched upon concerning the limits of what a 6-pack will get you, I’m infatuated with Denny’s proportions. He’s got thick, powerful thighs capped off with a sensational bubble butt that I’d love to ride for days. His lush, meaty pecs and rock hard, wide shoulders make me believe every whimper he squeezes out of an opponent with a bearhug. His face is a tad too pretty to be believed; those eyes, that chin, and his babyface smile could easily charm me out of my pants, my bank account, and any shred of dignity. But fuck, I so love that sexy, understated, pillow-top gut of his. Of all the erotic fantasies Denny can inspire in me in still frame, my favorite ends with his sensational, lily white gut and juicy pecs covered in a liberal coat of our cum.

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Revenge of the “jobber”

Being insanely pretty is almost never sufficient to get a hot hunk to the front of the line for the HWOTM honors, though. In Denny’s case, his work in Jobberpalozzer 14 epitomizes what makes him such a prominent fixture in the pantheon of my favorites. That “everyman” vibe he exudes with nothing more than his beautiful body stripped to trunks and boots is perfectly accentuated by his superlative babyface persona. He’s more than just eager and earnest. He comes across as a legitimate competitor before an opponent even steps foot into the ring. His prematch warm-ups show off the flexibility, strength, and speed of an honest-as-fuck competitive wrestler. That no-hands, neck stretching, super high arching backbend in the middle of the ring is a work of erotic art all on its own, and conveys a preparation for competitive wrestling that instantly far outclasses the likes of Naughty Nick Naughton as soon as the waves hit the jersey shore.  Nick is all about the glitz and misdirection of the magical arts of pro wrestling. Denny comes across as real as fuck, someone who rips an average joe apart like barbecued chicken. Nick just smirks and struts and rolls his eyes to sell his role as the dirty, no good, cheating heel. Denny stretches and lunges and balances on the head of a pin in a way that sells me every last ounce of believing that he’s been competitively wrestling for years.

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Suck on that, Goliath!

Context plays a little role in my choice of Denny as HWOTM, I have to admit. Jobberpaloozer matches don’t often hit my sweet spot, because squashes aren’t nearly as evocative for me as competitive matches. I’m still chewing on the final match in Jobberpaloozer 14, trying to decide how to review it without dripping too much contempt all over that Howdy-Doody chump ass waste of space hollow man pretty boy Luke Lonza that SP is so infatuated with (unsurprisingly). The jobbers in these collections typically put up jack shit, and the best we can say is that they suck down mountains of humiliating suffering admirably (except for Luke Lonza, who cries and whines and bitches and gives up at a rate of about 20 times per minute). However, Denny is absolutely no pushover. Even with his abysmal ring record, I’d go so far as to say he’s arguably nobody’s jobber. So when he opens up some whoop ass all over Nick Naughton in early days, it’s a delightful surprise.  When he battles back from deficits again, and again, to actually school the jersey shore smart ass, it’s actually a little shocking. Sure, I know how Jobberpaloozer matches go, and STILL Denny has me half believing well over halfway through the match that he could very well heap so much class and skill all over the overly tanned manboy in front of him to actually beat Nick like his naughty ass so overabundantly deserves.

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Denny destroyed

In this David vs. Goliath battle, of course, David gets finally upended and then beaten into a withered, impotent pool of sweat and tears. This match squeaks into the Jobberpaloozer end of the pool mostly thanks to the gut wrenching suffering that Denny sells better than I’ve ever seen him sell. Nick dashes his dreams and then stomps them into grape juice. Denny really does suck down gallons of anguish, defying the illusory promise of any quick submission to end his suffering (hey, Luke, fucking take notes!).  Denny sells this so outstandingly that he makes it all about him, even as big Nick is flexing and strutting overtop of Denny’s limp, crumpled, soaked body broken before him. I feel an overwhelming compulsion to rush into the ring, scrape the pieces of Denny off the mat, nurse his wounds and soothe his trounced ego. Knowing my tastes, it’s a little surprising how sensationally turned on and compelled I am by Denny’s epic destruction. So, I know he’s this month’s champ, because he takes me places I was not expecting to go.

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Denny activates my rescue fantasies

If Denny ever needs someone to massage out the soreness, to kiss it and make it feel better, and to worship every inch of his boy next door body, I pray to the homoerotic wrestling gods he looks me up.  In the meantime, Kid Karisma and Eli Black need to scooch their magnificent asses over to make room on the 3-peat throne for my May 2017 homoerotic wrestler of the month, Denny Cartier.

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Denny Cartier – Homoerotic Wrestler of the Month May 2017

 

Our Man Inside

As I mentioned a while back, I had the biggest drop of BGE photo contraband left on my doorstep a couple of weeks ago. I’ve been strapped for time, so I’m just now sorting through these gems, doing a little latent class analysis to come up with implicit categories, and ready to share a few more.  I identified today’s theme based on the 90 degree/90% humidity hell I’ve been surviving for the past couple of days.  In other words, here are some OMI treasures that I file under both “hot” and “staying cool.”

The phrase “fun in the sun” doesn’t quite capture just how sexy and delightful these photos are of BGE boys at poolside in Florida. By the gear, these pics all appear to be shot around the time of the taping of Wet & Wild 7: Pool Tournament. If you haven’t seen that lovely competition, check it out for the hot bodies, the surprisingly intensely competitive round robin, and the post tourney groping and liplocks.

These post-taping pics of Jonny on clean up duty after the Pool Tournament raise a host of questions. 1) What put a headliner like Jonny in such a doghouse that he’s on janitorial duty? 2) Why the fuck didn’t we get to see the tournament competitors’ trunks come off, since clearly, they came off?! And, 3) what ever happened to those lime green briefs that Drake wore in the Pool Tournament, got fished out of the pool by Jonny, and then reappeared as the prize in the shockingly bitter Babyface Brawl X? After so much sweat and cum was spilled over that hot gear, one wonders just where that sexy swath of fabric ended up.

And finally, this latch batch of smoldering hotness I just file under “the future’s so bright, you gotta wear shades.” Baby Boy Leone is wearing me out with his shirtless, hairy hotness and retro, oversized lenses. And the posed, dockside hunkfest is now my desktop image, because it inspires about two dozen homoerotic wrestling fantasies on continuous loop in my imagination, about half of which feature Christian Taylor getting double-, triple-, or quadruple-teamed by this particular incarnation of the boyband.

As always, let’s all voice our gratitude and say a little prayer to the homoerotic wrestling gods for OMI’s safety, so that we may enjoy many, many more behind the scenes treasures like these in the future!

Favored to Win

BG East just dropped catalog #120, and it’s packed with favorite wrestlers of mine in what appear to be cock-blowingly sexy match-ups. I have yet to really sink my teeth into all of them yet, but I saddled up as soon as I could to take a ride on the latest installation in the Masked Mayhem franchise. To cut to the chase, let me just put it out there right away that this single-match release was deeply satisfying and very quickly worked me into a lather. It hits all of my favorite notes, including the immense value added of giving me a little more than I even knew to hope for.

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El Favorito

First of all, I want to talk about packaging. The bodies in this match turn my crank with both hands. The self-annointed “favored one,” El Favorito, is lushly long and lanky. There’s a twink vibe about the architecture, but with a light-fur upholstery there’s also a raw, meat-eater edge to his look. The flat stomach with tight, visible abs could give the impression of a sparse, carb-deprived pretty boy desperate for the next opportunity to rip his shirt off at the club, but wait until he turns around. That ass! Fuck. That gorgeous, round ass is extravagant. Everything else about him seems honed to a fine edge for the purpose of dominating and punishing an opponent, but then that ass is just so fucking pretty. It’s like the mouthwatering hunk of cheese in a mousetrap.

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Thrash (LOOK at those legs!!!)

And then there’s Thrash. I was a Thrash fanatic from about 5 seconds into his debut match against living Academy Award statue Trey Dixon. He’s back with that exact same look and allure in Masked Mayhem 12. There are a half dozen things that drive me crazy about Thrash, but to stick to my outline here, let me just start with the body. In an industry that seems to be increasingly infatuated with six-packs, Thrash strolls in and demands the spotlight with that sexy as fuck muscle belly. He’s solid as shit, mind you. This is a hunk who’s quite clearly, lovingly building incredibly powerful muscle mass. He’s already a frontrunner in my own personal award category of the year’s best legs at BG East. Not to be outdone by El Favorito, Thrash’s muscle packed bubble butt is of a size, proportion, and perfection that makes my jaw drop. But frankly, what I’m seriously infatuated with is that magnificent gut. When he’s all cinched up tight in his circus strong man super-tight black singlet, his gut catches my eye. But once the singlet straps come down and we get an unobstructed view of his sweat soaked midsection, I’m fucking done. That reveal alone got me off my first time watching this match. Maybe it’s some alchemy in the pairing of El Favorito’s ultra lean washboard and Thrash’s beautiful, burly muscle belly, but whatever accounts for it, I’ve got intrusive fantasies of shooting loads across both of their abdomens, preferably at the same time.

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Thrash works the newbie hard

Masked Mayhem 12 also appeals to my explicit tastes for being a narrative-driven match. Mysterious hottie El Favorito is monologuing like a comic book character as the scene opens, tying tight his mask for the first time and predicting a whole new beginning for him today. Whether this is a new beginning to his BG East wrestling career or just a new beginning for some underestimated Clark Kent who’s ready to open a can of whoop ass on the villains of the world now that he’s donned a mask is initially unclear. Just to add to the superhero/supervillain vibe of the scenario, Thrash walks in wearing a cape. Seriously, a cape. It’s both an endearing nod to glam pro wrestling sensibilities of two generations ago, and a sweet homage to the larger than life comic book angle of masked men doing battle. “You’ve got to earn that mask!” Thrash snarls, quite clearly promising that if he conquers the masked newbie, there’s an unmasking in the offing.

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My new beginning!”

I know not all of us are as pleased with dialogue in the ring as I am, but I’m a little surprised and incredibly turned on by the banter from both men. I don’t remember Thrash being nearly this vocal in his first match. There’s something that much more hypnotic about hearing a voice with no visible face attached to it. I’ve watched a lot of masked wrestling conducted almost entirely in silence, relying on the mysterious masks to convey all the menace. Not so Thrash, nor El Favorito. In the initial moments Thrash is building some sweet muscle momentum all over the “the favorite.” This is only the start of it!” he crows, both driving home the point that his opponent has thus far appeared impotent and promising to drag out the blue boy’s suffering long and hard. Moments later, as El Favorito pieces together a shockingly expert reversal of fortune, the masked newbie drives the badboy to the mat and smoothly rolls him into a spine-snapping Boston crab. “You said this was just the beginning, right?” El Favorito chuckles openly at Thrash’s gasps of pain. “My new beginning!” El Favorito snarls with a lusty, hungry yank on Thrash’s legs that shockingly drags a humiliated first fall submission out of the strong man.

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“You’d better get used to this!”

So, we’ve covered the hot bodies, the strong storyline, and the on point vocals. That would be enough for me, but fuck, then things get seriously sexy. Thrash is the primary sexual aggressor, which I have to confess, is what tips me into announcing my loyalties as entirely behind Team Thrash about halfway through this match. El Favorito turns up the sexual innuendo heat nicely, mind you. His chuckling, “You’d better get used to this,” as he smothers Thrash with face-to-crotch headscissors is right along that line of playful/domineering. But there’s just something about Thrash’s obvious attention on his opponent’s honey trap ass that kicks this match up to that point where we most definitely would not see this action in any indy pro shop or Wal-Pro megamart. At one point he has El Favorito whimpering like a bitch in a neck wrenching full nelson. He pounds the blue masked face into a turnbuckle, before pulling him out of the corner. El Favorito is clearly knocked a little senseless, his knees buckling just a little, and he bends forward teeteringly. Thrash just holds tight onto that full nelson, saddling up firmly against the newbie’s sweet ass and letting El Favorito’s own efforts effectively grind Thrash’s swollen crotch between his cheeks. “This is the perfect place for me to be,” Thrash gloats a little breathlessly.

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“This is the perfect place for me to be!”

So the bodies are scorching hot, the story is compelling, the dialogue is value added, and it’s explicitly sexy. Like I said, I’m guaranteed to get off on this over and over again based solely on those criteria. But lastly, let me just laud Masked Mayhem 12 for being competitive. To be honest, I had my doubts in the early moments, because El Favorito gets caught flat footed and digs a deep hole for himself in the first few minutes. The four back-to-back ball claw suplexes Thrash applies are breathtaking, beautifully executed, and make my balls ache just watching them. This could’ve been a squash, heel destroys useless newbie. But it isn’t. At all. And while I’m still on Team Thrash, El Favorito’s rallies turned to all out vicious bullying have me on the edge of my seat. Both hunks came to play, and unlike some gimmick-forward wrestling, they both are seriously impressive technical wrestlers. There are stunning bursts of speed and precision mixed beautifully with long, grinding, soul sucking, punishing holds. The odds seem like they’re stacked on Thrash’s side, but El Favorito keeps promising to live up to his name with gut check reversals of fortune that test my allegiance hard. The suspense is thick and sweet, all the way up until the moment that one infinitely fuckable hunk has the other infinitely fuckable hunk trussed up in the ropes and ceremoniously unmasks him, ending his all-too-brief masked wrestling career.

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Thrash’s eyes on the prize

I love an unmasking done with such respect for the genre, so I’ll leave you in suspense as to who is unmasked and whether the exposed mystery man is a known quantity. But I do have to say that his shameless, weeping, open begging not to be unmasked, not to be revealed for the mere mortal underneath, is satisfying as fuck. The uncontested and merciless winner literally shoves the mask down the front of his own trunks and uses is to jerk hard on his already aroused cock. The unmasking is so incredibly intimate, so intoxicating for the contrast between one man’s invincibility placed side-by-side with another man’s complete vulnerability.

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Thrash glistens as he works up a head of steam

The explicit narrative is that the winner leaves the ring with the loser’s mask still wrapped around his cock, soaking in the sight of his vanquished prey to play over and over again in his erotic fantasies. But I’m just saying a prayer to the homoerotic wrestling gods that these two studs were as genuinely turned on by each other as it appeared on screen, and that they fucked each other for days like the supermen they are.

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The odds turning against the favored one?

This is an incredible sexy match for all of the reasons that make me such a fan of homoerotic wrestling. Both incredibly hot wrestlers tap into a ferocity and libido-driven wrestling narrative that I desperately hope we see from them both again soon. If you’re only satisfied with underwear models and bodybuilders, then I’ll understand if you give this a pass, but if what gets you off is hot, beautiful men in highly skilled pro wrestling drama, pick your favorite and tuck in. This is a magnificent masked match.

Our Man Inside

I just found on my doorstep the biggest haul of BG East contraband, behind-the-scenes stash of candid photos I’ve ever seen in one place. Our Man Inside (OMI) of BG East dropped off way over 100 photos of never before seen shots. This smacks of either astonishingly brash cockiness bordering on a secret wish to be caught, or the move of a man with the law hot on his heels and determined to smuggle out every last possible gem moments before he’s found out. Either way, I sense something ominous in this massive moment of homoerotic wrestling espionage, and I’m sending my most positive thoughts OMI’s way, wishing him good health and an “accident”-free near future.

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Mr. Joshua will eat you alive!

In the meantime, I’m combing through this treasure chest of a manila envelope and trying to decide how best to organize these homowiki-leaks for public consumption. It should come as little surprise that the large collection of photos of a long-time favorite, Joshua Goodman (that’s Mr. Joshua to you!!!) instantly grab my attention and make my crotch swell. And speaking of swollen crotches… fuck. me. senseless.  Of course Mr. J was immediately a front runner for Best Bulge of 2017 with his early year appearance in Ring Wars 26 wearing a leopard print loin cloth. But take a gander at what these bright red low rise trunks do to accentuate the elephant’s trunk he has stuffed in that pouch! As usual, the heft of his carry on luggage does not entirely fit in the overhead compartment, and the gap between his upper, inner thigh and the fabric of his trunks is precisely the magnificent tease that has made me love/hate/love Mr. Joshua for well over a decade. Again, I say, who the fuck has got what it takes to compete with this for Best Bulge of 2017!?

While OMI did not smuggle out action shots, these shots of Mr. J and Gil Barrios sneering at one another in the BG East weight room seem to strongly imply that Gil may be the next lucky son of a bitch to get an up close and personal opportunity to inspect the dizzyingly sexy body of Mr. Joshua.

Whatever Mr. Joshua is selling, I’m buying!

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Gil Barrios looks ready to take on someone in the ring

And if Gil is the lucky bastard who gets the next opportunity to get his hands on Mr. J’s body, these separate shots I dug out of the massive haul left on my doorstep might suggest that Gil has a hard time handling all that beef Mr. Joshua slaps down on the table.

How in the fuck do I preorder this slighty-more-than-hypothetical bout!? Could this be the match that catapults Mr. J back on top of my favorites list, unseating Kid Karisma’s world class ass for the first time in years? Will this finally be the contest in which Mr. J’s long-teased anaconda finally makes its first free range appearance on camera!? As always, OMI leaves us with more questions than answers. But we’re profoundly grateful for your brave service to the fans, OMI, and we hope you survive long enough to smuggle out more gems. If you need a safe house to escape the BG East muscle about to tie you up in the dungeon for your homowiki-leak bravery, send word. Use the codeword “OTK,” and I’ll know it’s you.

I’ll post more of this latest stash of contraband soon…

#JobberJune

I’ve got a little crush on whoever is charting the social media course for BG East lately. I have bitched and complained mercilessly for a while about the need for homoerotic wrestling companies to up their social media game. It feels like the industry is solidly migrated to almost entirely a virtual existence online (DVD’s seeming to be going the way of the dinosaur, e.g.), so relying on eyes to reach company home pages on their own seems risky these days. And any failure to engage and titillate and evoke and provoke a virtually networked audience in between catalog releases feels downright old fashioned. So I’ve noticed with pleasure BG East’s increasing social media presence, including the excellent designation of this month as #JobberJune.

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Wade Cutler

I’ve been accused in the past of hating on jobbers. I deny it vehemently, of course. Jobbers are an essential ingredient to the pro wrestling universe, and they populate plenty of my fondest homoerotic wrestling fantasies. I admit to being provoked hardest by heels and babyface heroes, but the doomed jobber is always a strongly compelling character as well. We can, and I’m sure will, debate the essence and the margins of what it means to be a jobber. I think of them as those wrestlers who routinely get their asses kicked, for whom a victory would seem an honest surprise. I don’t think of them as merely squash bait. A jobber can put up a fight, and personally I prefer it that way. But considering the sum total of their careers, when a wrestler seems fated again and again to end up beaten and humiliated, he meets my criteria for jobberhood.

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Casey Cutler

The BG East social media maven has been celebrating #JobberJune with sensational call outs to classic jobbers. Casey Cutler, Wade Cutler, and Tony Consenti completely deserve this walk of shame, and seeing their photos  suck me right back to lush, key moments in which watching them wrestle had me rock hard for the potent melodrama of seeing them earnestly throwing their hot bodies into the breach again and again, only to get trashed and tossed to the curb. My nostalgia button is punched hard with seeing this retrospective of hot, doomed hunks from across the decades.

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O, Ken Canada!

Adorably upright Ken Canada got a richly deserved spot in the #JobberJune rotation. A long-standing friend of this blog, Ken was that upstanding, earnest babyface brand of jobber. His lean muscles, lightly hairy pecs, and button nose were the sensational framework for a jobber. Especially after interviewing him, I think of Ken as this supremely earnest, eager, fully game hunk who had sensational raw material for competitive wrestling, which made his lamb-to-slaughter narrative that much more compelling.

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Reese Wells

So I’m putting #JobberJune on my recurring calendar notifications for years to come. And I’m excited to see who the social media maven at BGE comes up with next for the #JobberJune walk of shame. I’d most definitely nominate gorgeous little firecracker Reese Wells, who always seemed right on the edge of wrestling glory, only to be literally upended before the final fall.

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Ricky Martinez

Then there’s Ricky Martinez. Everything about him in still frame screamed sensationally equipped competitor, but over and over his pristine beauty was ruined by viciousness, cunning, and extravagant dirty tricks.

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Rio Garza

Surely top contender for the most popular jobber in BGE history has to be Rio Garza. I always longed to see Rio mobilize that fantasy man body to do better in competition. In retrospect, Rio’s capacity to make me call him out as a doormat has been, of course, testimony to what a compelling jobber he’s been. Being literally a winner of fan polls for best body AND possessing one of the most lopsided win-loss records on the books points to some of the most potent elements to why jobbers inhabit our wrestling fantasies. Beauty spoiled. Hot bodies broken down and laid bare. Ambition and promise crushed by an opponent more than willing to go darker, deeper, and nastier. Jobbers tell a story that turns us on.

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Tommy Tara

Tommy Tara, Christopher Bruce, Mr. E, Muscle Mask… we keep watching not because we actually expect to see them pull out a victory. Personally, I want to be held in suspense, even if I know that fates are aligned against a particular hunk in the long run. But we watch because there’s something provocative about watching a man charge into the fray courageously, without a shred of realistic hope of coming out on top. It’s less about how a wrestler stacks up against any particular opponent, but more about a psychic flaw within him that makes the tick in the loser column inevitable, despite his most valiant efforts and magnificent potential. Somebody’s got to lose, and I think it’s a relatively rare wrestler who can do it so compellingly that we’re eager again and again to watch him do it, to see what inadequacy an opponent will discover amid a hot, powerful hunk’s blatantly obvious assets for kicking ass.

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Mister E

Who’s your favorite jobber?  Post a #JobberJune reply to BG East’s Facebook page and give the jobbers some well deserved love.

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Muscle Mask

So a summer sangria toast to the jobbers, this #JobberJune. And to the BG East social media maven, the first round is on me.

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Christopher Bruce, where all jobbers end up

“I’m a big fan!”

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Lauden Sevior

Little Lauden Sevior is a mystery to me. He a gorgeous little flower. Hot, petite body. Delicately pretty face accentuated and framed with his long, flowing hair. Of course I understand why I want to see him stripped to a thong and showing off his beauty for a gay wrestling audience. I just think he may be better suited to be the eye candy ring girl (ring boy?) drawing hoots and leers in the intermissions between the bell than one of the fighters (I know, I know, this is a boxing metaphor rather than a pro wrestling metaphor).

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Gold Shaft’s semi-sweet initiation of Lauden

But he keeps showing up on the BG East wrestlings mats, and he keeps getting crushed like a grape. The maulings of Lauden seem to me to be getting crueler and more lopsided with each go. Sensationally sexy erotic warrior Gold Shaft probably treated little Lauden with the most tenderness.  Of course that means that he terrorized the kid every which way, but by the attention with which Gold Shaft meticulously studied Lauden’s dancer’s ass, you could tell that he was going to save just enough of the kid’s dignity to make Lauden beg for his Gold Shaft. Ethan Andrews, on the other hand, fucking bullied Lauden relentlessly.  Similarly, the pleasure was all Ray Naylor’s as he snickered and taunted and laughed his way to one of the most heartless, vicious squashes I think I’ve ever seen. LJL kept little Lauden in the match just long enough to feast on the kid’s magnificently shattered dreams. Lauden seems to bring the nastiest out of his opponents. Frankly, I get why they all want to hurt him. I just don’t get why he keeps showing up for more.

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Lauden can’t wait to get his hands on Drake

But I have my suspicions about why Lauden agreed to return to the scene of so many crimes to square off against the Cheshire Cat Drake Marcos in Undagear 27. Lauden makes no mystery of the fact that he is, like I am, a huge Drake Marcos fan. In his delicate high tenor Puerto Rican accent, he’s practically stumbling over himself from the start, fanboying all over Drake. There’s a possessiveness about it. He’s just counting his lucky starts to have made it through the gauntlet of previous muggers to have earned the opportunity to get his hands on (and especially, vice versa) his favorite BGE star. Little Lauden seems to think of himself as the president of the Cheshire Cat fan club, for which I say Watch yourself, prettyboy. I’ll join the long line of users and abusers to stomp my foot up your taut, athletic ass before you can rip that title from my hands.

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“Can you get out of it?” Drake asks.  “Why would I!?”

Anyway, there’s instantly a different vibe about this match than all of Lauden’s previous outings. For one, he takes up more of the space. Not physically, of course. He’s still insanely tiny. But he’s got a voice. He’s shown up with eager motivation to face his hero. He’s excited and determined, and I completely get why he’s here this time. He wants to feel the steel trap of Drake’s scissors first hand. He wants to watch that handsome face up close, beaming down in pure erotic wrestling joy. He wants to earn his hero’s respect, taking what Drake dishes out and, just maybe, turning the tables, all in the service of a little positive regard. Trust me, Lauden, I know exactly what you’re thinking.

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Who’s happier?

Despite his win-loss record, it should come as a surprise to no one that Drake dominates most of this match. He presses his advantage in height and weight early and often, and he’s got magnificent mat skills beaten into him by the most accomplished mentor an aspiring erotic wrestler could hope for. He bullies little Lauden into position like so many of the prettyboy’s opponents before him, but the punishing holds are savored long and beautifully. There’s an explicitly sexy mutuality about the way Drake bears down on the dancer boy. Seconds in, Lauden is getting snapped in half in those body scissors (fuck, those hurt). He gasps in pain, feeling the pressure compress his rib cage. “Nice!” Lauden gasps, his face a mixture of agony and pleasure that I have to think is exactly how he looks when he’s mid-orgasm. “Can you get out of it?” Drake asks, smirking, soaking in the sight of what he’s doing to his opponent. Nine times out of 10, an opponent will try to play mind games right there. Most wrestlers will dismiss any hint that they’re getting hurt. You’re most likely to hear the phrase, “Is that all you’ve got?” in moments like this. But not this match.  Not Lauden, staring up at that sincerely delighted smile. “Why would I!?” Lauden coos, instead. Yeah, this is not your typical underground wrestling story.

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Drake is delighted with his front face lock, hammerlock, bodyscissors trifecta.

 

So Lauden wants to suck down everything Drake’s got. And lest you underestimate him, Drake’s got plenty. He slams him to the mat with authority. He rips him apart at the shoulders with chicken wings. He rag dolls Lauden in as standing full nelson, that curtain of hair flying all over the place. More scissors.  A whole lot more scissors. With variable condiments on the side like an added hammerlock, a squeeze and slap to the ass. He rips off Lauden’s red trunks, leaving the lithe dancer in sensationally tight, brief, ass-revealing undagear.

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Drake inspired

“You’re a lot easier than I thought,” Drake marvels, having his way from hold to hold, periodically surveying the damage in schoolboy pins. “Well, I don’t want to hurt my favorite wrestler,” Lauden winks. That’s right, Lauden delivers the hottest backhanded compliment of the year.  He implies that he’s letting Drake walk away with it, that he could hurt the Cheshire Cat at will, but that he just doesn’t want it. Whether it’s sincerity or bluff, it lights a renewed fire under Drake’s ass to squeeze every last ounce of fight out of his #1 fan (behind me).

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Between a rock and a hard place

And then again, I suppose that’s option number 3. Not exactly sincere challenge or bluff, but rather Lauden is calculating just what concoction of compliments and trash talk he needs to feed his hero to inspire the punishing brutality that he knows Drake can deliver, when properly motivated. Drake hoists the dancer off his feet in a bearhug, making Lauden whimper. He charges into the wall, crushing little Lauden between his rock and the hard place. And speaking of hard places, when Drake pulls Lauden off the wall and snaps him back into a humiliating full nelson, Lauden’s swelling pouch telegraphs exactly what Drake’s brand of domination is doing to him.

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“Nice body.”  “Thanks.”

It’s a dangerous game to play, poking a bear with a stick in order to see it roar. There are mini-climaxes of Drake being sincerely furious and putting a nasty hurt on the little guy. You know which ones hurt by the smile evaporating from Lauden’s face, and the Puerto Rican jobber coming charging at him seeing blood. And no shit, Lauden puts some hurt right back on the Cheshire Cat. Grinding the ball of his foot into Drake’s balls steals a little of the wind from the Cheshire Cat’s sails. Lauden mounts him in a schoolboy pin and shoves that semi-hard poker right into Drake’s gasping face. Just to keep him focused on the task at hand, Lauden leans back and claws at Drake’s balls, squeezing out a scream. And then, slowly and savoringly, he strokes the palms of his hands up Drake’s sweaty torso. “Nice body,” Lauden coos. “Thanks,” Drake smiles up, a half second before hooking the dancer’s shoulders with his long legs and slamming the kid to his back.

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Drake meets his #1 fan (behind me)

There are tears of agony shed from both wrestlers. They’re pushing themselves just that hard. They’re coaxing out of each other a gorgeously nasty street fight, and the give and take is the most compelling wrestling I’ve seen Lauden pull off.  There’s a whole lot of spanking, and in fact, I’d guess that if we were able to torture an honest answer out of him, that would be Lauden’s secret most desire. My hunch is that he isn’t just a masochist. I don’t think he enjoyed any of his previous matches as much as this one, because just getting stomped into a pool of tears and sweat isn’t his thing. But by the screams and final submission to Drake as the Cheshire Cat bends him over his knee and spanks his ass blood red, I think right then, there’s nowhere else in the world little Lauden Sevior would prefer to be.

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Yes sir, may I have another?!

And when Drake climbs on top, post match, and they start making out, I get the impression that Drake is equally as happy with this moment, and not just because it’s a much overdue tick in the win column.

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What everybody wants

Hump Day

It’s been a while since I took a break from interviews and reviews for a more thematic post. Today, I’m thinking about that peculiar idiom, referring to Wednesday as “hump day.”  I actually missed this convention growing up.  It was some time in my early adulthood, probably perusing commentary about homoerotic wrestling, when I first heard the term “hump day.” Now, I see and hear it everywhere. I still associate it with sex, but considering how mainstream it is, that’s clearly not implied by everyone. But among those of us into homoerotic wrestling, what else would come to mind?

An enthusiastic pelvic thrust in the midst of a wrestling match is one of those relatively subtle moments that instantly turns a confrontation sensationally erotic. Personally, I get off on wrestling beyond any direct analogy to sex acts. But there’s an extravagant openness about a wrestler taking an opportunity by force to tease his crotch grinding into his opponent’s crack. It opens up exciting possibilities about stakes. It signals to those of us aroused on this side of the screen that at least one of the hunks on that side of the screen is also turned on. It’s impassioned and motivated and pulls a wrestling match out of the closet by the scruff of the neck. In those rare moments when the wrestler getting humped responds receptively, when his mouth gapes open in frustrated desire, when he’s visibly struggling with a momentary lust to get fucked by the hot hunk on his back competing with his desire for wrestling victory (I’m looking at you, Drake Marcos), then a wrestling match is elevated for me beyond any hardcore porn scene I’ve ever seen.

So, happy hump day, homoerotic wrestling fans. And a thousand thanks to those wrestlers who kick the competition up a notch with a hearty, grunting, sweaty pelvic thrust.

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Drake immobilized by Skrapper’s cock – Matmen 26
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Lauden Sevior starts punching Drake’s ticket – Undagear 27
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Oh, look, Drake’s ass pinned to the wall by Ethan’s monster cock – Undagear 25
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Jaysen Minx mounts Goren Ford’s hot ass and makes him ask himself just how bad he wants to fight back – Undagear 27 
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Shocked heel beefcake Hawk Rodman’s final concession is cradling Fabrice’s thrusting cock between his cheeks – Mat Rookies 2