Producer’s Ring: Marciano vs. Evans

—-continued from The News Division Match 5—-

The News Division: Match 6

Marciano vs. Evans

As soon as Chris had defeated Thomas, Rob ran out to help his humiliated colleague off the beach.  As Rob reached the scene of the victory, he looked warily at Chris, still flushed with rage and adrenaline. Chris nodded at Rob, and the two of them knelt down and hooked their arms underneath Thomas’ arms, still dazed and unable to stand on his own power. They lifted him off the sand and turned to walk him back to the landing at the bottom of the stairs. Just at that moment, Carter reached Rob at a full sprint. Driving his shoulder into Rob’s gut, Carter lifted him off his feet and drove him five feet backward.   Diving on top of Rob’s falling body, Carter speared him with his shoulder as their bodies hit the sand.

Chris dragged Thomas toward the stairs, finally receiving help from Richard and Sam who helped carry the stunned hunk off the beach.

Rob gagged and choked for a moment, unable to catch his breath. Carter dropped a series of knees into Rob’s abdomen, pounding his full weight over and over again into the dazed hunk’s gut. Finally relenting, he allowed Rob to roll away onto his side, curled up, clutching his abdomen. Carter quickly peeled his own yellow speedos down his legs. His sun drenched skin sported no tan-lines, as the viewing public at home had enjoyed watching him sunbathe in the nude for the past week. Carter breathed deeply, steeling himself for the fight. His cock was thick and just beginning to swell, his crotch shaved smooth. He didn’t wait long to press the advantage on his much larger opponent.

Carter began driving his knee into Rob’s lower back. Rob arched his back, shrinking from the strikes. As the stunned stud tried to roll away, Carter stomped his right heel into the small of Rob’s back, then leaned down and grabbed hold of each of Rob’s wrists. Pulling back sharply, he stretched Rob in a stunning surfboard.  With his arms stretched straight behind him, Rob’s round shoulders and thick biceps stretched as far as they could go.  Rob moaned in agony. Confident of his control, Carter stepped his left foot onto Rob’s back, next to his right foot.  Balancing himself and leaning backward, the expert surfer rode his opponent like a wave.

Rob twisted his body instinctively, and Carter rolled off to the side, losing his grip on Rob’s wrists. Rob crawled up to his hands and knees, shaking his head to clear the cobwebs. Carter crept up behind him. In a flash, he grabbed the top of Rob’s red trunks and yanked them down, exposing his pale ass.  Rob grabbed at the front of his trunks with his right hand reflexively, falling to his stomach on the sand to avoid being stripped. Carter tried to pry the speedos backward, stretching them far beyond their limit. Rob continued to hang on to the front of his trunks, refusing to let go.

Carter gave up on the trunks for the moment. Squatting, straddling Rob’s upper back, Carter hoisted Rob’s arms up and hooked them over his knees. Lacing his fingers under the trapped hunk’s chin, Carter leaned backward, securing a Boston crab. Rob sucked down deep, controlled breaths, enduring the grinding pain twisting his spine. Carter shook his arms up and down, but Rob just grunted, sucking down the punishment.  Finally, Carter released Rob’s head and dropped his upper body to the sand in frustration.

Again, Rob crawled slowly to his hands and knees, as Carter circled him, trying to decide how to attack the big man. Carter planted his left foot and swung his right foot, in preparation for kicking his opponent in the side of the head. But before Carter could connect, Rob dropped to his stomach and pulled Carter’s left foot out from underneath him. Carter landed hard on his upper back and shoulders, stunned.

Rob rolled sideways and quickly crawled to his feet.  He tried to pull his trunks back up to his waist, but found that the seams were in shreds.  Reluctantly, he dropped the red trunks to the sand and stepped out of them.  Rob’s thick curly hair around his cock was covered in sand, and his cock bounced, semi-erect, as he crouched defensively.  If anyone was going to get the bonus for taking his trunks off, it was going to be him.

Carter swiftly rolled over and hopped up to a crouching position, his hands held up in front of him.  Seeing Rob step out of his speedo, Carter leered, “Now that’s what I’m talking about.”

Rob snapped back, “I’m going to make you pay, mother fucker!”

Both men circled one another warily in the sand. Rob finally charged forward up high and wrapped a thickly muscled arm around Carter’s head.  Holding Carter in a tight headlock against his side, Rob squeezed with all his strength.  Carter wrapped his arms around Rob’s waist and, thrusting with his powerful legs, he lifted Rob off his feet.  Falling backward, Carter dropped Rob on his shoulders and neck. Rob released his headlock, stunned.

As Rob lay stunned on his back, Carter grabbed Rob’s head by the hair and slid it between this thighs, face-to-naked-crotch. Lacing his ankles together, Carter squeezed Rob’s head between his thighs. Rob frantically tried to pry Carter’s legs apart, but the surfer’s quads were far too strong.  Grabbing a handful of Rob’s hair, Carter pulled Rob’s face upward against his balls, flexing his powerful thighs painfully around Rob’s head.  Carter pressed his eyes closed and leaned backward, his cock swelling with excitement.  “Mmmmm,” Carter groaned.  “How’s that for you, Rob?”

Rob pressed his shoulders forward beneath Carter’s upper legs, lifting Carter’s legs and folding him over, pinning him onto his back.  With his face still trapped in Carter’s crotch, he leaned his full bodyweight down on top of his opponent.  Carter squeezed his legs harder, his body piked beneath his surging opponent. Stretching his arms around Carter’s thighs, Rob managed to lace his fingers behind Carter’s neck. With a sudden burst of strength, he muscled his feet underneath him, then power-squatted up, his head still trapped, pulling Carter’s body off the sand. Arching his back, Rob lifted Carter high into the air, then drove him down, pounding Carter’s back into the sand. Carter flinched with pain, and he lost hold of Rob’s head.

Rob stumbled backward, his chest and abdomen heaving with gasping breaths. He was quickly tiring. Carter remained on his back, catching his breath with a wary eye on his opponent, his feet lifted defensively between them. Carter shifted his weight, pulling himself up on his elbows. At that moment, Rob lunged forward to mount his opponent before he had a chance to get to his feet. As Rob dove downward, trying to position his legs to the outside of Carter’s legs, Carter kicked his heel straight upward, catching Rob solidly on the jaw.  Rob’s teeth popped together, as pain lanced through his face.  He dropped awkwardly to his knees, dizzied by the blow.

Carter twisted his body, swinging his right heel around to crash into the left side of Rob’s face. Rob was flung to his side onto the sand, clutching at his jaw. Carter rapidly hopped to his feet in a low crouch, assessing his opponent. Rob’s breathing was labored, and he was covered in sweat and sand. Moaning in pain, Rob was oblivious to his opponent’s approach.

Carter dropped to his side, entwining his legs around Rob’s left leg while spreading Rob’s right leg in the opposite direction with his upper body and arms.  Carter stretched his body straight, prying Rob’s thick, lightly hairy legs apart.  Rob screamed in pain, feeling his crotch ripping.  His lower abdomen and hamstrings quivered, as his cock grew harder. Carter gently rubbed his hand from Rob’s right knee down his inner thigh, approaching Rob’s crotch. Rob screamed in fury, “Keep your hands off my cock!”

Carter laughed, prying Rob’s legs farther apart. The trapped hunk screamed again. He tried to pull his back off of the sand and reach for Carter’s face, but the pain, and Carter’s hold, kept him immobilized on his back. Carter shouted, “I think it’s about time you submitted!” Rob shook his head “no,” biting his lower lip.  Carter then pounded the knuckle of his right index finger into Rob’s quivering, taut hamstring.  The assaulted leg began to shake violently, as he screamed again. Finally, Rob gasped, held his breath for a moment, then screamed, “I give!!!”

Carter pounded his knuckle into Rob’s leg a few more times, then rubbed his hand up and down Rob’s upper thigh.  Rob groaned desperately, pleadingly, “Keep away from my cock!”

Carter released Rob’s legs and crawled to his hands and knees. Crawling over top of Rob’s prone body, Carter hung his head low, just inches away from Rob’s face, still contorted in pain.  Carter whispered contemptuously, “Get over yourself.  I have no interest in your cock, bitch.”  Then Carter turned around over top and sat his ass across Rob’s chin.  Smiling up toward the cliff, Carter flexed a double-bicep, his darkly tanned, naked body covered with sand, glistening with sweat in the afternoon sun.

After the victory ride, Carter walked away from Rob without looking back.

Fantasy Match: Connors vs. Vicious

Do you ever imagine a brighter, better world, in which a serious pro wrestling muscle hunk dips his toe in the world of the full on, no rules, homoerotic wrestling scene? Of course I do. All. The fucking. Time. Take Clark Connors, for example. Actually, keep your hands off of him, because that unbelievable ass is ALL mine. I’ve been obsessively checking the Upload Date filter on YouTube for new Connors matches since I was first stopped in my tracks by his made-for-porn muscle glutes. Fuck, this muscle hunk is a walking, talking, wrestling gay dream. But his erotic perfection will never, ever be appreciated in his indy pro wrestling circles like it deserves. So I’m irresistibly drawn to picture what would happen if Clark Connors knocked on the door of BG East, muscles bulging beautifully in gray sweats, with a duffle bag full of gear over one shoulder and an itch to ditch the training wheels and test himself in a truly no-holds-barred ring battle.

0000s_0010_-26-352x528I picture The Boss insisting on an interview with the would-be recruit. He’d listen to the muscle hunk’s pitch for a shot, slowly walking around and studying the stretch of his sweat pants from all sides. Clark would be abundantly accustomed to getting eye fucked, so he wouldn’t even blink when The Boss insists on seeing what he looks like in wrestling gear. He’d take just a beat when, in response to asking where he can change his clothes, The Boss would answer that he can change right then and there in his office. But it’s not like Clark has anything to be shy about. So he’d confidently shrug out of his sweatshirt. He’d pause a few seconds, watching The Boss’ eyes widen a fraction at the sight of his muscle-stacked torso. Unbidden, he’d gracefully strike an archer’s pose, flexing hard until he hears the light, impressed grunt of approval from his interviewer.


Dropping his arms to his side again, he’d have a hint of a grin on his face as he bounces he pecs playfully. “So far, so very good,” The Boss would approve. Clark would pause just a fraction longer before digging his thumbs into his waistband and bending forward, sliding his sweat pants down his thick, gorgeous thighs. He’d leave them around he ankles, flexing his powerful quads in nothing but a heather grey jock strap. Seriously, 2 second later, at most, The Boss would say, “You’re hired.”

Newbies show up in the BG East ring room first. It’s a rule. There’d be Clark, in serious-as-fuck pro trunks, matching knee pads, and boots. He’d be lightly tanned and impeccably toned, stretching out in the ring, trying not to be distracted by his own, sensational physique screaming at him for acknowledgement from the wall mirror. On the one hand, he’d be cocky. He’d know enough about BG East fans to know that he’ll be an instant phenomenon the half second after this catalog is published. And unlike some pretty boys in the underground scene, he’d have years of international indy pro experience to back him up. On the other hand, this would be Clark’s first dabble into whole-hearted wrestling for gay eyes. His no-holds-barred challenge would mean something distinctly different here, than in front of crowds of screaming children and straight audiences. He wouldn’t know just how far his debut match might go, and that would make him both nervous and undeniably excited at the possibility of scratching that itch he’s never admitted to anyone. So he’d check himself a bit, scan down his muscled torso, adjust the elastic in his super snug trunks to barely, but not quite, manage to cover his astoundingly beautiful ass cheeks. I’m wagering he’d have done some homework, scanning the BG East website for likely challengers, sizing up the competition, making notes of other known indy pro stars in the stable. But his jaw would drop at the sight of his opponent who finally saunters in.


Kid Vicious wouldn’t even have registered on Clark’s radar in his prep work on BG East. All Clark would see would be a 6’1″, super lean white boy with a shaved head and a curled upper lip. Honestly, the rookie would literally laugh out loud, so unimpressed with his challenger. When KV steps up to the ring apron, Clark would stop chuckling, more soberly assessing the 5 inches in height advantage that KV has on him. Then again, Clark’s 15 pound weight advantage would just look that much more imposing. He’d be put off by Kid Vicious’ fixed stare. He’d try to make small talk once KV climbs through the ropes. He might even try a little trash talk, referring to the BGE veteran as a bean pole. KV would just take a slow stroll around the ring, soaking in the sight of every scrumptious bulge and crevice. His silence would visibly unnerve the hyperbuff newbie, who’d try to keep his eyes on his opponent at all times, without looking too scared to turn his back on him.


Kid Vicious would lash out first, with a drop to one knee and a silky smooth single leg takedown. The polish would totally catch Clark off guard. He’d be on his back before he knew it, and a half second later, KV would violently twist his foot in both hands. The indy pro would try to turn with it, but the notorious heel would stomp a boot into the side of his knee, pinning the yelping hunk like a butterfly.  Clark would jerk his leg free and scoot backward into the nearby corner defensively. Kid Vicious would just watch him, with that upturned lip that may be a smile, may be a sneer. When Clark climbs to his feet with the aid of the ropes, his knee would briefly buckle. KV would definitely smile at that.


Cautiously, Clark would circle the ring, gingerly working out his knee, reassessing the threat. The pro newbie would break the tension with a swift lunge to one knee. Kid Vicious would take a half step backward to avoid the single leg attempt, but the savvy pro would suddenly rise from the feint and snap his massive arms around his opponent’s torso. With a grunt, he’d bear down on the bearhug, leaning backward. The height difference would mean KV would just rise up to the toes of his boots, but but when Clark really locks in and shakes him side to side, KV would lift his legs and defensively squeeze Clark’s hips between his knees.


Clark would stomp around in a tight circle, grunting and growling as he digs in.  With curled lips around gritted teeth, Kid Vicious would fight through the pain, clench a fist, and be just about to punch the pro’s pretty face, when the muscle man would charge forward and pound KV’s back into a turnbuckle. As Clark steps back, the infamous heel would drop breathlessly to his knees, one hand clutching his lower back.


There’d be a satisfied smile on Clark’s face when he drags Kid Vicious by the ears to the middle of the ring and shoves the heel’s rattled head between Clark’s huge quads.  The pro stud would just stand there, showboating, flexing his biceps, with Kid Vicious on his knees, helplessly stuck in the stocks. In his own good time, Clark would lean forward and drag KV’s hips upward with a savage yank on the back of his trunks. He’d lean forward and hook his arms around his waist, hoist him violently off his feet, and slam KV’s head and upper back brutally back to the canvas. With gloating deliberateness, Clark would drop to the mat, hook a leg, and slap down 3 slow counts. “Fuck,” Clark would sneer. “I thought this was supposed be hard.”


Clark would take a breather perched on a top turnbuckle, oblivious to his shockingly unprecedented achievement. He’d just watch, unconcerned, as Kid Vicious painfully, slowly peels himself off his back, gingerly rubbing at his neck and shaking away the fog. When KV would finally reach his feet, fury would pulse off of him in waves. Clark would hop off of the turnbuckle to pace defiantly in front of him, hands on narrow hips. “What do you think you can even do to me?” he’d ask.


Kid Vicious would answer with a sudden knee to the groin. Clark’s jaw would drop open silently. He’d start to fold forward, but KV would push him back upright to take another knee to the balls. The hunk’s knees would buckle, but KV would catch him in his arms and hold him upright, probably even pat him lightly on the back consolingly, before jamming his knee into his balls a third time.  Then I picture Kid Vicious letting go, allowing Clark to crumble to his knees, clutching his balls and whimpering, his face sliding down KV’s torso. On his knees, the stunned pro would be sucking air. KV could grab Clark’s head with both hands and slam his crotch into the handsome hunk’s dazed face. As Kid Vicious’ legendary billy club grows hard, he’d keep pounding, breaking out into a sweat, that look of sexual pleasure washing across his face. Welcome to the homoerotic wrestling ring, muscleboy!


When Kid Vicious finally lets go, Clark would collapse in a heap on the mat. I picture KV landing boot stomps all over the pro’s magnificent body. Clark would bounce and writhe on the mat as his punisher makes a full circuit to tenderize every inch. KV would mount the hunk in a school boy pin, pausing to enjoy the view, before digging his claws into Clark’s thick pecs. Clark would cry out and clutch at his opponent’s wrists. Ironically, he’d cry even louder when KV releases the claws and just starts stroking his throbbing chest, teasing Clark’s taut nipples. As Clark athletically bridges high, lifting his opponent off the mat still riding his torso, Kid Vicious would smoothly slide to the side and snap on body scissors. The heel would knead the muscle boy’s internal organs savagely between his  knees. Clark would initially buck and writhe, shocked by the power in the crush, but as KV tightens the vise slow and hard, the muscleboy would grow still, choking and gasping. With closed eyes, Clark’s hands would absently wander across his opponent’s sweaty thighs, just feeling the flexed muscle punishing him. “Give up?” KV would finally ask, the first time Clark would have ever heard his opponent’s voice. Eyes squeezed shut tightly, through gritted teeth the muscle hunk would gasp, “no!” The answer would make Kid Vicious smile. He’d bear down that much harder with his long, lovely thighs. Sitting up, the heel would punch the trapped hunk’s pecs. Clark would cover his chest defensively with his thickly muscled arms. Which is exactly what the heel would have intended, because he’d quickly turn his attention southward, grabbing the hunk’s balls in one hand and yanking, stretching the seams of his trunks. Clark would scream. SCREAM. In a choking break in the screams, as Clark gasps for air, KV would demand that his opponent submit. Without pause, Clark would gasp, “IgiveIgiveIgive!!!”

clark doubled

Kid Vicious would disentangle his legs and kneel next to his opponent. Clark would think he’d have a couple of minutes to recover… because Clark doesn’t know Kid Vicious. Instead, he’d take several vicious knee strike’s to his lower spine, making him arch and writhe on his side. When KV eventually climbs to his feet, his trunks would be hugely tented. He’d grab Clark’s ankles, spread those muscled thighs wide, and stomp boot strikes to his balls. Letting go of one ankle, he’d step over and squat into a single leg crab, leaning way back. Clark would pound the mat, clenching his teeth to hold in more cries of pain. That resistance would, of course, crumble when KV reaches down with his free hand and throttles the boy’s balls again. Clark would scream his second submission unprompted.

single leg

The master heel would give him no break, just transitioning to a bow and arrow, stretching Clark’s magnificent muscles out from head to toe. When Clark’s whimpers die down, KV would wind them back up with stomps into his lower back. Every hold break would give the muscle pro false hope of reprieve, only to be dashed moments later with a new form of corporal punishment. KV would snap on crotch pillow headscissors that would make Clark see stars. The pro hunk would try to pry his opponent’s legs apart, but when that proved futile, he’d leave his hands resting on the punishing legs, just appreciating the astonishing power crushing his skull. A gasping transition to face-to-crotch headscissors would once again introduce the pro stud to KV’s daunting power tool. Every chapter and verse would grind forward at that deliberate, unhurried pace this heel enjoys. He’d roll his prey over, still locked up tight in the face-to-crotch, and press his hips forward, grinding his erection into the muscle hunk’s helpless face.


Now, I’ve got say that I would fully expect a muscle rookie rally around the 15 minute mark of the match. Clark’s got too much pro experience to not have deep reserves. I’d say it’d be in one of a half dozen schoolboy pin positions, right as Kid Vicious tugs down the top of his trunks and pulls out that huge, gorgeous cock of his. It’s not like Clark wouldn’t have known this was on the table. He’d have done enough of his homework to know what no-holds-barred would mean. In fact, it’d be a prime reason he darkened the door of BG East, to get up close to the full potential that wrestling offers a magnificent specimen like him. But staring at KV’s gorgeous, glistening, naked hammer coming for his face would, understandably, give the pro hunk a turbo boost of adrenaline. He’d hook his huge legs and catch the heel’s arms. KV would try to lean into it, to hold him pinned to the mat, but have you seen Clark’s legs? Fuck, no. He’d flip KV to his back and roll on top, folding the heel over. Riding that wave of adrenaline, he’d muscle the heel into a cradle and just hold him there while he’d catch his breath. KV would obviously put up a fight, but with more than a little rage, Clark would bat away his hands and land a nasty punch to the face that would make KV’s eyes roll into the back of his head.


Clark would drag him to his feet and catapult him slamming into a corner, only to grab his wrist off the rebound and catapult him slamming into the opposite corner. The entire ring would shimmy an inch that direction from the power of the impact. Off the rebound, Clark would scoop KV up and powerslam him with authority. He’d feel the momentum turning his way, so wouldn’t let up. Bodyslam after bodyslam,


He’d use all of that muscle just right. Kid Vicious would be getting buried under, getting bounced off the ropes and bearhugged; bounced off the ropes and belly-to-belly suplexed; bounced off the ropes and clotheslined. When KV’s steel cable muscles start to soften up, the muscle pro would go to his signature fisher, climbing into the saddle of Boston crab. Clark would be so fucking proud, so fucking relieved to be snatching victory from the jaws of defeat. He’d squat low, planting his gorgeous, meaty, muscled glutes hard onto KV’s ass. He’d lean way, way back, sweat pouring off of him now, teeth gritted in effort and anticipation, feeling his opponent’s spine straining, stretched to the bitter limit. Clark would take that wide stance, placing his center of gravity right on his tailbone. You just don’t survive Clark’s Boston crab with your dignity in tact, and he’d just be listening to KV’s agonized grunts, waiting for an articulate submission to pop out. But KV would finally shimmy forward a half an inch and stretch his lovely, long arms forward. His fingertips would brush the bottom rope at first, but he’d finally latch on. “Rope,” KV would gasp. “Rope!” Clark may be a seasoned pro, but in the BGE ring, he’d be a total newbie tool, so he’d let go of the crab and throw KV’s legs down in frustration.

clark crab

Clark would be huffing like steam engine. He’d be disheartened that all of that high impact offense and his signature finisher couldn’t seal the deal. Visibly exhausted, it’d be a huge effort to circle back and drag his opponent off the mat. Out of sheer frustration, he’d land a windmilling slap to KV’s face. It’d just bring the heel’s eyes into laser focus. Clark’s follow up forearm to the chest would knock the heel back a step, but he’d come right back with a chop of is own to the muscle man’s meaty pecs. They’d trade chops in the middle of the ring, looking like they’re barely managing to stay on their feet. Finally, KV would rake Clark’s eyes savagely.  Blinded, the indy pro would be defenseless as he’s Irish whipped, at a full sprint, chest-first into a corner turnbuckle. He’d bounce backward and into his opponent’s waiting arms. Kid Vicious would scoop him into a cradle and plant him in a tree of woe, Clark’s knees hooked across the top turnbuckle. The rain of stomps and punches to Clark’s muscled torso would go for days.

Here’s where I think it’d get particularly interesting. Sooner or later, Kid Vicious would yank at the waist of Clark’s trunks. It’s not like you or I (or KV) didn’t see this coming, but up until this point, the likelihood of getting stripped in the ring would have been purely theoretical for Clark. KV would yank his trunks down (up?) the pro’s meaty thighs to reveal that heather gray jock strap now dripping with sweat. Clark would squirm and curse, but I picture him gasping, and then silent, when the heel slides his hand inside Clark’s pouch and starts massaging. In a twist no one might seeing coming (except Clark), I feel like his cock would spring to life in an instant. Seriously, as in seconds, KV would be manhandling a raging pro erection that would stretch right out the side of his pouch. Clark would groan and moan in time with KV’s hand pulsing around his meat. I just don’t think anyone is servicing Clark’s magnificence the way they should, so being brutalized, his rally dashed, strung up completely helpless at his tormentor’s mercy, I think it would take just a few seconds of tender enthusiasm from KV to get the pro’s concealed weapon locked and loaded. When KV slows down, the muscle hunk would quietly beg for him not to stop.


But he would. Kid Vicious would suddenly release Clark’s legs from the tree of woe, dumping the wasted muscle man in a heap. Clark would take forever to peel himself off the mat and get to his hands and knees, during which time, KV would nearly rip the pro’s trunks apart at the seams yanking them off. Without a frame of reference for homoerotic wrestling, Clark would probably think of this as his moment of defeat, the laying bare his last vulnerability. He’d think this hell is over, but he’d be wrong.

clark 2

Kid Vicious would take a couple wet smacks at Clark’s fantasyman ass cheeks framed so perfectly in his straps. But he’d ride a tilt-a-whirl when KV scoops him up in a cradle and pounds him down into an OTK backbreaker. All that gorgeous muscle, glistening with sweat and fear, would be laid out before the heel like a feast. KV would hold him there, working the spine brutally awhile. Clark would scream, but it would be halfhearted, because he’d have finally figured out that no one is coming to end his terror. Again, the muscle monster would be lulled to moans when KV starts massaging his cock. Yet again, he’d be pushed right to the brink of cumming, wanting it really, but denied when Kid Vicious shoves him off his knee.


Clark would lose his jock strap fast. He’d be clearly terrified, but he’d stay hard.  He never felt this much jeopardy in the indy pro ring. He never felt this vulnerable with an opponent. He just never felt this fucking alive before!  KV would drag him to his feet by his cock and lead him shuffling around the ring breathless, like he’s on a leash. Clark wouldn’t have much fight left to prevent himself from being strung up in the corner, spread-eagled across the middle ropes, taking knees to his naked balls.  Still fucking hard as granite. KV would stretch him out backward in a dragon sleeper, stroking the stud’s glistening torso, jabbing punches into his big pecs and upper abs. That big, liberated cock would still be at full attention.  When KV holds him up by his hair and makes him stare in the mirror, watching himself obediently flexing his internationally adored muscles, so utterly humiliated tears would be streaming down his face, without a doubt, he’d be awestruck at the simple truth told by his perma-hard erection staring back at him.

Kid Vicious is the master of self-control, obviously, but even he would finally reach the point where he’d peel off his own trunks and measure his own internationally adored cock inch-by-inch beside the pro hunk. Even there, fuck, especially there, the indy pro beefcake babyface would be put in his place like the jobber newbie he is. KV would have his run of the place, but I think it’d all reach climax on the mat. Clark would be prone, wasted, weeping. KV would straddle those glorious ass cheeks and lock on a full nelson. Feeling KV’s power wedged into his crack, there’d be a look on Clark’s face as his shock and despair melts into pleasure.

I think KV would shoot a massive load up Clark’s perfectly proportioned, deeply muscled back. Clark would be defenseless, just used and owned. When KV finally climbs off, the muscle pro would roll to his side and look up at him, resigned, trying to read on the heel’s unreadable face if this is over, or if he’s got more suffering ahead. He’d look long and hard at KV’s outstretched hand when the heel offers to help him to his feet. He’d know not to trust it, but in the ultimate sign of submission, he’d take the hand offered and whatever else came with it.  That’d be enough for KV, I think. He’d hoist the muscle beast up to his feet and let him lean against him as Clark gets his bearings.  Clark’s cock would still be rock hard, and he’d gasp when KV wrapped his fingers around it.  But there would be a look of hope on the hunk’s face as he realizes his opponent is just tenderly leading him from the ring by it, tugging him through the ropes, off the apron, and out the door. His huge arms at his side, Clark would follow willingly, wherever this leads.


That’s where my imagination takes me, at least.

And, Of Course, Better Looking

While I was in hibernation from blogging for the past year and a half or so, Ty Alexander made a remarkable metamorphosis. The Trophy Boy made the leap from wrestling for gay eyes to the indy pro ring. When I started blogging again, he graciously welcomed me back on social media, and welcomed my invitation for a quick Q&A about what life has been like making the transition and facing independent wrestling during a pandemic.

zQU2lH03.jpg medium

Bard: I’ve been out of touch for over a year now. How has it been, Ty Alexander? Or should I say, Tyler Klein?

gzZiIa5O.jpg largeTyler: Tyler Klein now. The days of Ty Alexander are just behind me at this point. There may be a comeback in the future, but only time will tell.

Bard: So, the days of Ty Alexander are behind you for now?

Tyler: I mean at this point, kinda, yeah. I’m grateful for my experience as Ty Alexander, but for me, it was time to look for the future. It’s never fun to say goodbye to a part of your life. I actually shouldn’t say goodbye. More like, see you later. Maybe Ty will make a comeback at some point, but who knows when.

Bard: What’s life like as a rising indy pro wrestler?

Tyler: It’s hard to explain, honestly. I wouldn’t say rising. I’m just kinda here. I’ve had some great opportunities, and that’s the coolest part. Just being able to be a LGBTQ wrestler in something, still with lingering homophobia, is a challenge. But only is a challenge when it comes to the crowd, sometimes. I’ve made a ton of super supportive friends who just see me as a fellow wrestler. Which I think is awesome.

6eni9n1n.jpg mediumBard: So Tyler Klein is “gay?”

Tyler: Yes, however I don’t want my character’s sexuality to be the one and only focal point. While it’s awesome to be gay, I don’t want to be a stereotype. I’m the premier fashion designer for the Indy wresting world. I’ve taken the Trophy Boy title, and transformed it into my own sort of brand. I’m still a heel, for sure, but one thing I’ll say about being gay is I don’t want him to be the villain because he’s gay. I want those in the crowd to “boo” me because they know I’m better than they are, and, of course, better looking.

Bard: What kind of reception have you had from the indy pro fans?

Tyler: Positive actually. People love to hate me and my tag partner, but they also show their huge support. Occasionally, there will be those who throw the slur. You learn to brush it off, so that’s not all that big a deal anymore.

Bard: How has the pandemic impacted indy pro wrestling?

Mx2A6SVf.jpg smallTyler: Greatly. There were several huge opportunities in April that I was looking forward to. One was going to my first ever Wrestlemania, and the other was working with Calvin Couture and Sexxy Eddie at Effy’s Big Gay brunch. It was going to be the first live “custom match,” which is what pro wrestlers call BG East type of matches. That was huge, and to just lose out on that opportunity kind of put me in a huge funk. It was arguably the biggest and most talked about show Wrestlemania weekend.

Bard: What do you think is the future of indy pro, when we’re able to get back to full-contact life after social distancing?

Tyler: It will comeback. It’s honestly so funny watching wrestling now, with these no crowd matches. My friends who talk about it always say, wow, I could never do that. I’ve been doing no crowd matches for years, so I’m used to it [laughing].

Bard: Do you still keep an eye on the gay underground scene?

Tyler: Every once and a while. I mean, I did do some matches for UCW. And I def look over BG East. But I don’t do it for the same reasons anymore. I look to see who’s new, and who is the future. Which, I mean, good for them, but [laughing] I don’t think they will ever find anyone as spectacular as Ty Alexander!

Bard: Well, Tyler Klein, I wish you the very best! I hope we see you back in the homoerotic wrestling ring again someday, but I also hope you get back to doing what you love most, which right now, sounds like hitting the pro ring and rubbing your greatness in fans’ faces!

Tyler Klein makes his entrance!



Tyler Klein fights his own tag team partners just like Ty Alexander always did!


Follow Tyler’s highlights on his YouTube channel here!

Saving Up to Give a Gift

Trey Dixon tastes the superhuman power of Logan Vaughn’s legs in Florida Fights 5.

Am I the only one who doubled down on leg day after reading Scott Williams’ response to my recent post about scissors? Of course, I’d get insta-hard just listening to Scott reading from the phone book (do they still make those?). So just imagine what it does to me when he waxes poetic about the raw details of a recent “session” he had with a guy who was particularly passionate and adept at applying punishing head scissors. Read between the lines, and it’s apparent that it was Scott’s head that got punished relentlessly until his opponent was sure Scott was wrecked. Scott concludes the account by simply exclaiming, “Ahhhhhhh.” That’s seven “h’s.” I counted them. And I think that they mean that Scott found getting his cranium crushed in his own signature hold a turn on. And now, I’ve never had quite this much motivation to not skip leg day. Honestly, I’ve been furiously blitzing my legs with squats and lunges, and biking around 20 miles on the other days. I’ve said it before, and I’m sure I’ll say it again: all Scott has to do is ask, and I’m ready to deliver. And if there’s ever a chance that someday I can slide his head between my quads, I’m determined to be ready to pack on enough pounds per square inch to make the man of my dreams gasp out at least 10 h’s.

Scott must have loved this moment in his match with Brad Rochelle!

In the mean time, all of this attention on crushing quads has sent me hunting for homoerotic wrestlers paying homage to sensationally sexy, dangerously powerful legs. Who knows, maybe one day when social distancing is a bad memory, my quads can earn Scott’s respect like this.  If getting wrung out to dry can get Scott off, I feel certain we can come to a mutually beneficial arrangement!

Lance Jackson cops a feel of Wildcard Carter’s tree trunks in The Great Outdoors 3.
Surge grabs hold of Magnus with both hands in Wrestle Worship 3: Masked Muscle.
Calvin Haynes sizes up Beauxregard in Muscle Worship 4: Muscle Power.
Ben Monaco is understandably in awe of Chace LaChance’s quads in Wrestleshack 20.
jake kasee
Kasee is in awe of Jake’s thighs in Vegas Battles 59.
jake dom9
Jake can’t stretch both hands around Dom9’s lower quad in No Holds Barred 143.
clark duke
Clark cozies up to Duke’s mammoth quads in No Holds Barred 92.
aspen jake
Aspen can’t believe his luck, or Jake’s muscles in No Holds Barred 151.

Wasted Wednesday

It’s #WastedWednesday, and I’m distracting myself from the 50%+ of my work week left by crushing on crushed hunks. Don’t you just want to be on the clean up crew for Wrestler4Hire, and find these sweat soaked, bruised, battered beefcakes littering the ring, used up and worn out? Is there a homoerotic wrestling angle out there of the straight heel who bulldozes the hottest slices of beef and leaves them for his gay best bro to climb in and take over?  There should be.

harper justice

Fuck, the sight of Nick Justice toying with Drew Harper, after he’s laid him out in a pool of sweat and tears, his recharging my battery.

starr muscle

Mark Muscle stands back and simply possesses the ring, just like he just took total possession of Blake Starr. So, in that straight-heel-does-his-gay-bro-a-favor scenario, I’d pay extra if the straight heel sticks around and watches.

andrews muscle alvito

I don’t know why, but anytime Ethan Andrews climbs into a wrestling ring, I’m desperate to see him ground into mush. It’s probably related to his mast flying at full staff with the likes of Mark Muscle and Zach Altovito standing over him.

vanacker zman.png

This shot of Jacob Van Acker having been plowed under by Z-Man (!?!) is frame-ready work of art. The sweat, the glazed over, heavily-lidded eyes, and those astonished lips just hanging there open, gives me just the right adrenaline rush to get me through the rest of this week.

Karn daxx.png

Finally, have I confessed the hard, hard crush I have on KARN before? I mean, I know if gushed about his ink, but seriously, this man can star in any one of my homoerotic wrestling fantasies any time, anywhere. Here he is after getting severely abused by Daxx Carter, who I’m positive would hang around to join in the fun with a buddy who’d like to explore every hairy inch of KARN’s wasted body.

He Wore It Best

Blake Hunter was the runaway winner in the voting for who wore Jesse Zane’s crotch pillow stump puller best.  All of that love for Blake inspired me to do a deep dive into the match. This was my first Muscleboy match. Popping my Muscleboy cherry is overdue, of course, but they were cumming on strong right around the time I was losing steam with blogging a while back. I’ve read Alex and Joe’s sexysexy takes on Muscleboy matches, however, so I was prepared for that particular aesthetic that they’ve made their brand.

“God damn, those fucking thighs!”

You didn’t know this, but I wrote Jesse’s very first match description when he debuted for BGE wrestling as Lorenzo Lowe. He’s come a long, long way, to now be the franchise player for Muscleboy. His mat wrestling game is second to none, and his signature icy sadism is instant drama in every match I’ve seen him. You sort of know what you’re getting with Jesse, and you know it’ll be sexy, sweaty, and painful. The wildcard will always be the hunky opponent who steps onto the mat with him. In this case, juicy Blake Hunter is instantly so, so promising.  Jesse is channeling me when he takes a look at Blake and honestly marvels, “God damn, those fucking legs!”


The match is very erotic-forward. In fact, both boys grind each other’s crotches to full erection and make out before any wrestling action has occurred. I have to admit, I love an erotic wrestling premise that starts with explicit lust. Jesse and Blake are convincingly into each other out of the gate.

bh jz 3
Blake surrenders

I’m less compelled by the wrestling, because Jesse has to really carry that narrative nearly single-handed. Of course, Jesse’s up for the challenge. He grabs hold and molds his muscleboy sacrifice like the master craftsman he is. Blake is in so far over his head, though, that the wrestling heat doesn’t match the erotic heat as much as I enjoy.  Blake sort of redeems himself by suffering hard. He has a crotch-stirring, wounded whimper that Jesse squeezes out of him repeatedly. Blake also has a sweet petulance about him when Jesse demands that he submit, and the muscle jobber refuses at first.  He never really fights it for long, though. Then, when Jesse calmly explains to him that he owns the title as the “Spladle Champ,” Blake obediently, adorably submits, “I give, Champ!”


The one bright exception to Blake getting completely outclassed is a lovely bearhug he clamps down about halfway through the match. Both sets of singlet straps have come down, and the boys are getting sweaty. Uncharacteristically, Blake takes the initiative, powering up from he knees to scoop little Jesse way, way off his feet. In that way that they weave their lust and aggression together, Jesse just takes the embrace for a second, like getting swept up by an amorous lover. Part of the sell that works so well is when Jesse suddenly clenches his jaw and grimaces, as the realization hits him that he’s caught good by his dangerously powerful opponent. But most of the sell is how Blake fucking wrings him out like a washcloth, squatting low and then suddenly jerking back upright, shaking out Jesse’s legs like a rag doll. Blake keeps his eyes on Jesse’s suffering face, eating this up, and when Jesse’s flailing about uselessly, you can see Blake’s throbbing erection signalling that he’s as fully engaged in this moment as I am.


bk jz 3
The winner from the photo shoot

I’m ambivalent about my discovery that the photos illustrating the battle on are not action shots from the match itself. That laudable crotch-pillow stump puller that you (and I) love so much doesn’t happen, at least not quite that way. The hold does pop up near the very end of the match, but both boys are naked, which isn’t a bad innovation. I prefer the singlet on, though, rather than the close-up of Blakes asshole (I realize I may be in the minority, there). However, I love that Jake starts jerking himself off, with Blake’s head trapped between his upper thighs and his head pressed against Jesse’s balls.

bk jz 3

Blake is too calm, too satisfied, when he says “I never thought I’d like being dominated by a smaller guy,” after all is said and done. He gave up far too soon for my tastes. I mean, the whole match lasts over 30 minutes, but the muscleboy with tree trunk thighs throws in the towel long before the end. He’s too satisfied. He colludes too much to keep the competitive pretense up, and so this match tilts a tad too much in the direction of soft core porn rather than erotic wrestling, for what I was hoping for. It’s a fine distinction I’m making, though. In truth, I absolutely got off to this match.

bk jz 4
Buyer beware, this does NOT happen in this match. But it should.

The money shot, for me, was Blake’s withering, totally commanding bearhug, though. If I could’ve seen Jesse’s appreciation for Blake’s tree trunks a little more, like Jesse popping a blood vessel stuck between them in standing scissors, I’d have enjoyed the ending more. The images of Jesse getting crushed like a grape between those gargantuan quads of Blake’s that you can find on the website don’t happen in the match, though the fact that they happened in the photo shoot demonstrate that I’m not the only one whose erotic wrestling fantasy took them that direction. If Blake had more of a taste of victory, before it’s diabolically ripped from his grasp by the top shelf erotic mat wrestling champ, if the muscleboy had more bitterness left in his mouth when he’s muttering, “Damn,” as he peels himself off the mat and stares down at little Jesse’s cum dripping down his mountainous pecs, I’d have loved this match even more.




Who Wore It Best?

Alex Miller suggested I resurrect the Who Wore It Best polls with a new twist: who wore the hold best. Alex is a mensch for tossing this awesome idea my way. I love it. A lot. I’m feeling high confidence this is going to be a recurring thing.

To start with, I’m dialing up Jesse Zane’s crotch pillow stump puller. Jesse loves to rip an opponent open wide and expose his vulnerable ass. I was torn as to whether to go with Jesse’s spladle, which has the same effect on the  And opponent, but there’s something extra intimate about a lucky punk’s head getting ground into Jesse’s crotch. He helps to have a sensational ass, big balls, thick thighs, and a lot of flexibility. The half a dozen hunks I found pics for in this hold sell it beautifully. But the question, my friends, is who wore it best?

Check out the contenders, and then vote below, and comment with your reasons. And make sure to check out The Cave and drop some good comments Alex’ way, to let him know what a great job he does!

zane hunterCrotch Pillow Stump Puller #1: Blake Hunter.


zane reignCrotch Pillow Stump Puller #2: Taylor Reign


zane razzoCrotch Pillow Stump Puller #3: Danny Razzo


zane danteCrotch Pillow Stump Puller #4: Dante


zane tigerCrotch Pillow Stump Puller #5: Tiger


zane lopezCrotch Pillow Stump Puller #6: Ivan Lopez


zane jj allenCrotch Pillow Stump Puller #7: JJ Allen

Call Me Goldilocks

In our recent welcome-back interview, Ash DeLeon firmly urged me to check out Three-Way Thrash 5. It promised to check off every box on my homoerotic wrestling fantasy crush list. Fierce young hunks. Extensive back story. Full-throated, explicit eroticism. Extensive lip locks. Big vs. Little (vs. Medium). Honestly, it sounded almost too good to be true, not that I doubt Ash’s sincerity (honestly, he’s one of the most enthusiastically earnest wrestlers I’ve ever met!).


Well, Ash can bend me over his knee and spank my ass for doubting him. I’ve soaked in Three-Way Thrash 5, toweled off, and re-hydrated, and now I’m very happy to report that it lives up to the hype!


First of all, I marvel at the casting. Kayden Keller was well on his way to being the heel-to-beat when I started my hiatus about a year and a half ago. Between then and now, he’s emerged from his chrysalis as a fully formed, magnificently beautiful, definitively dominant boss. I can give first hand testimony that Kayden is a tall, physically imposing drink of water, but his adorable baby face defies his cruel, heel master persona.  In his baby heel days, I persistently questioned whether he had the true grit to climb the heel ranks, solely based on the mismatch between his big, bad boy body and his boy-next-door, albeit mischievous, face. Well, color me convinced, because KKel owns the ring; he owns Ash and Luke Reel. He’s clearly not one-dimensional, but he certainly looks like a 6’2″ muscled heel daddy who knows full well he’s living large and totally in charge of the deep, deep ranks of dominant heels at BG East.


Then there’s Ash, himself. Fu-uck! He’s sporting a similar fiercely-bodied baby face vibe as Kayden. Seriously, he’s packing on mature, prime cut meat that seems almost out of place framed beneath a little boy face. Ash may decide he deserves a second swat at my ass, but I have to say I’m still deciding if I fully buy him as a hard core heel. He obviously sports a passion for dishing out pain, but even when he’s drilling an opponent relentlessly in the gut, he’s tends to color within the lines. What’s the character type of a vicious sadist rule follower? Whatever it is, it looks really, really good on Ash, affording him the air of a pit bull with a soft underside.


And finally, Luke Reel is crack. Fuck me, what is it about this hunk that makes me so obsessed with him?! I mean, I actually know what it is, but it’s significantly greater than the sum of its parts. I’ve mused in the past about the roots of how shorter-than-average hotties are a special treat for me. Luke is just the perfectly proportioned, bite-sized morsel for my little-hunk wrestling fantasy. Speaking of biting, his ass is deliciously munchable. His legs are crazy thick and powerful, which makes his astonishing flexibility the extra icing on top of this mouthwatering beefcake. His tightly muscled torso and lightly hairy chest are vintage 70’s porn-ready. He’s handsome in an effortlessly sexy and self-possessed way, like he orders his Vesper martini shaken, not stirred.


For a moment there, this nearly turned into an obsession-post about my addiction to Luke, but let me just return to giving props to Three-Way Thrash 5. Kayden is absolutely, completely, totally in charge, as he begins to mold Ash into the rising heel he longs to be. Sure, Ash is a naughty boy apprentice, like when he suggests his abs are sexier than Kayden’s. But Kayden literally takes him in hand when he starts to get ahead of himself and puts him in his place. Those moments of gentle, but absolute, control are frequent and the sexiest elements of this entire scene. KKel holds Ash by the chin and forces him to look him in the eye, until Ash breaks eye contact with his alpha. When he introduces Luke as Ash’s heel test dummy, Kayden holds Luke by the top of his head, like he’s palming a basketball, making him a beefy little puppet, turning his head this way and that to direct Luke’s attention. The heel daddy pries Ash’s head backward by a handful of hair, to position his mouth upward to receive KKel’s lips swooping down from above. At one point, Luke is painting by numbers, obeying Kayden’s instructions on just how deep to drill his punches into Ash’s gut, and Luke literally leans against Kayden’s leg and closes his eyes, adoring this closeness with his instructor even as he punches away. There’s so much unexpected tenderness, and it stops me in my tracks every time.


Don’t let me mislead you, though. This match is mean as motherfucker. The explicit story is that Ash must prove himself worthy of Kayden’s tutelage by besting KKel’s sexy boy toy Luke, bought and paid for in Ultra Heels 6. Ash literally laughs at the the suggestion, protesting that Luke is “just so delicate.” At first. Of course Luke opens up a can of whoop ass on the applicant, albeit with a little help from his doting heel daddy. Luke pitching is intoxicating. He’s tentative, adorably checking with Kayden often to make sure he’s doing it right. “How am I doing,” he asks earnestly, looking up at his daddy even as he digs a claw in deep into Ash’s abs. “You don’t make such a bad heel, yourself,” Kayden sounds surprised, spoon feeding praise that Luke laps up. Turning his attention back to Ash, Luke snarls, “You still think I’m weak, bitch?” (sooooo fucking adorable).


Ash is just too much for rookie Luke to handle, though. Kayden puts his finger on the scales frequently to even the odds for his pocket boy, but Ash is too much for little Luke to hold down for long. Ash keeps upending him, reversing, putting the pup to his back. “I’m disappointed in you,” Kayden chides him when Ash reverses him, folding Luke quite literally in half, pinning Luke’s ankles to the mat over his head (so fucking flexible!) and humping that gorgeous ass.


I’ve also waxed poetic in the past about how the voyeur angle turns me on, so it should come as no surprise how hot I find it when Kayden is sitting back and watching the training session, and he starts stroking himself. He’s visibly excited when he watches Luke making him proud, but there’s some extra passion in his piston when Ash takes the reigns and starts grinding Luke down. Watching on the sidelines, Kayden is somehow that much more in charge, with the sexy pup scrap implicitly happening for his personal pleasure. Every so often, he gets so excited he just suddenly shoves one or the other trainees off and takes his place, delivering hands-on daddy damage for the instructional benefit for everyone involved.


When Kayden takes his finger off the scales, Ash seriously starts to shine for the earnest sadist he is. Luke is stripped and stretched out, pounded for days (because: Ash), and crushed every which way. Little Luke takes every pound-per-square-inch like a sponge, though. Kayden teases Ash for being unable to seal the deal, which sparks renewed ferocity.  Ash presses the submission out of Luke eventually. And then Kayden joins in, taking his turn dominating his boy, punishing him, demonstrating his total possession of him. Luke suffer beautifully, but there’s no missing that he also wants it. He wants to dangle from Kayden’s chain. Even strung up, spread-eagled, hanging by his ankles from the ropes and ball bashed, Luke’s unleashed jack hammer swells with pride every time Kayden acknowledges how tough he is.


In the end, Ash and Kayden start to work Luke over like a well-oiled machine. Equal parts pain and pleasure, one heel tortures him while the other jerks him off. Honestly, I can’t decide if I’m aching more to feel what it’s like to have Ash and Kayden tag-teaming me in a cock lock like that, or to be the one with my hands driving Luke’s joystick as he hangs helplessly from Kayden’s torture rack.


I’m not always quite as convinced that homoerotic wrestlers are quite a genuinely turned on by each other as Kayden, Ash, and Luke clearly are. There’s a sweetly sincere authenticity about every inch of this match, from the punishment to the suffering to the carnal lust to the open, mutual positive regard. The lingering gazes and lip locks make this one of the gayest, most unashamed homoerotic wrestling matches I’ve seen in a long time.


Let’s make wrestling gay again, and I recommend that you start by cuing up Three-way Thrash 5.


And if Luke Reel would just fold himself up in an envelope (he’s seriously that flexible) and Express Mails himself to my address, I promise to send him back to heel daddy Kayden when I’m done with him. In a few months.


Hair Pull Humpday

Ray Naylor vs. Lauden Sevior – Sunshine Shooters 8

Hair pulls are one of those little, subtle pleasures that superboosts the erotic aspect of a wrestling match for me.  It’s disrespectful. It’s often unnecessarily cruel. It’s frequently functional, permitting a pitcher to position his reluctant prey for new angles of punishment. It stokes the fires of domination, often as plot device to signal that a competitive match has turned into cruel playtime. It can be affectionate, but when it comes to wrestling, it’s value added for me when it’s mean, rough, and adding insult to abundant injury. Here are a few hot and sexy hair pulls to help drag you over the weekly hump.


Joshua Goodman (that’s Mr. Joshua to you!) dragged outmatched Christian Taylor about by his leading man locks in Demolition 27. As I recently mentioned, I theorize that every act of Mr. J’s punishment and degradation transformed naive, innocent babyface Christian into the erotic wrestling institution Christian has become as BG East.


Royce Perry works to impress his new tag team partner, Jonny Firestorm, by adding insult to injury to total humiliation all over double-teamed Calvin Haynes in Tag Team Torture 20.


There’s something extra sexy about a dominant pro heel hunk who calmly demonstrates his mastery with a hair pull. Kelly King holding a sagging Lane Hartley up by his follicles in Pros in Private 13 give me that burst of adrenaline I could use to get over the hump.


Jonny Firestorm absolutely throws everything, including the kitchen sink, at Jake Jenkins in Jobberpaloozer 12: The Works.  For my tastes, the hottest moves are paired with Jonny wrapping his fingers through the muscle cherub’s curly locks and prying him apart sadistically.h0107_lg.jpg

I’m sure I’ve featured this shot of Dom the Dominator nearly ripping Brad  Rochelle’s head off of his neck in Demolition 3. But it’s worth a lingering, repeat look. Sure, a chin lock might have been fractionally more functional to accomplish the same purpose, but the savagery of using Brad’s hair as a handle here is delicious!

Hang in there, my friends! When it comes to surviving this week, it’s all down hill from here!

Stay in Your Lane

Last week there was a reckoning in pro wrestling, as victims of sexual misconduct and sexual assault stepped forward on several platforms to name the crimes and creeps they have endured for years in the pro wrestling context. While I’ve generally ignored mainstream pro wrestling for a couple of decades, for a number of reasons, I follow a few wrestlers outside of the homoerotic wrestling context, and more than a few wrestlers that straddle both worlds. Based on what I’ve read, most of the recently disclosed creepiness was perpetrated by men against women, but I’ve seen more than a few indictments of same sex assault and harassment. I don’t believe that I’m qualified or informed sufficiently to comment directly, but it does draw my attention to my lane on the road, namely wrestling produced for gay eyes.


As I’ve documented extensively on this blog, I found wrestling inherently erotic from pretty much the first time I can remember seeing it. Clearly, I’m not alone. Vintage gay beefcake pin-up boys were often portrayed grappling, perhaps as cover for the explicit tension of seeing two nearly naked men all over each other. But for me, it’s not just cover. I have access to a world of homoerotic porn today, but what seriously turns me on is homoerotic wrestling (thus, this blog). I understand that there may be companies producing content with an explicit understanding that the wrestling is pretense, that the audience is understood to primarily include gay guys who only feel comfortable getting caught with their jack-off inspiration under the bed/in their downloads if they can attempt to argue that they’re just good ole straight boys into good old straight wrestling and it has nothing to do with their dicks. I’ll come back to that in a moment, but for now, let me say that I’m most interested in self-consciously, undeniably homoerotic wrestling.


I get off on wrestling. Early in my life, it was a secret that I felt ashamed of. Mostly through blogging about it over the past 10 years, I’ve “come out” about it here, and face-to-face with some of my close friends. I still watch “family friendly” pro wrestling sometimes for the nostalgia, for the implicit connection to my young, gay self staying up late on a Saturday night, turning the volume down way, way low, and pounding a few out over the course of watching the likes of Billy Jack Haynes, the Dynamite Kid, and Steve Doll work up a sweat and put their hot bodies to the test in the ring. I realize that the producers of independent pro wrestling probably didn’t envision a whole lot of their audience consuming the product quite the way I did (though I strongly suspect producers have always known and counted on our corner of the fan base). Most of what I enjoy for the carnal enjoyment of it these days is wrestling-for-gay eyes, though, because the erotic text isn’t just the one I bring to the viewing. And in explicitly homoerotic wrestling (explicit or not), the eroticism crosses some topical boundaries (like groping, mismatched erotic desire between the combatants, aggressive kisses, gear being forcibly ripped off of each other) that are, in many ways, the very content of damning stories raised by wrestlers in mainstream pro wrestling about sexual harassment and sexual assault. But in homoerotic wrestling, it’s happening for the homoerotically-oriented wrestling audience, and it’s built on a pretense of consent. The boundary crossing is an erotic fantasy, self-consciously enacted by consenting wrestlers willingly, sometimes eagerly, rather than real-life boundary crossing perpetrated as an unwanted violation of consent.


I’ve never seen a wrestling contract from BG East or W4H or Can-Am or Naked Kombat. I’ve never sat in on labor negotiations or match planning. But as a consumer, I’m assuming a foundation of consent, that the fine, hot hunks that populate my screen have signed up for the sexy situations that they find themselves in. I’d feel like an accomplice to a crime if I actually thought that IRL Bryan Powers was put in restraints in the corner and forced to watch helplessly as his sexy little fuck buddy Liam Ryan was beaten senseless, groped relentlessly, and force-fed Shane McCall’s cock as Shane and BBW made out over top of him, turned on by their cruel domination. If all 4 of the wrestlers didn’t sign-up for, at the very least, the possibility of the erotic turns and double-teaming injustice that played out, then that match would be prosecutable. The pretense of being overpowered and forced into sexually compromised positions only works for my fantasy life if there was consent from the start.


The role of consent in my erotic fantasies has been explicitly on my mind for a long time. I remember rewriting, multiple times, one of my first homoerotic wrestling fiction stories, as I brought into focus the blurred lines of consent. The match was careening headlong into the winner fucking the unwilling loser.  But as the words hit the page, I actually felt pity for the loser. Even the imaginary violation of consent was such a buzz kill, and it sent me backward into the narrative, to figure out whether the hottest telling of my fantasy would be established on clarifying the mutually agreed upon stakes, or if the match needed to head a different direction all together.


The idea of consent pops up in other ways in my blogging history. Along the way, I’ve requested, and received, permission from copyright owners to post images from homoerotic wrestling productions. Sometimes they have specific parameters within which they give me permission to post. One producer has specified that I not re-post their images that include nudity, for example. Also, in about 10 years of active blogging, there’s been about a dozen times when someone featured in an image I’ve posted has requested the image be removed. I always do, whether they are the copyright owners or not. I do my best to celebrate homoerotic wrestling and wrestlers, and the underlying consent of the hunks seems essential to demonstrating the relationship that I want to have with the genre, built on consent.


I once pressed Muscle Master Kevin at MDW on the topic of the use of gay slurs. MDW isn’t the only company that’s invoked the themes of humiliating “the sissies,” of course. MMK seemed quite honestly surprised to hear me say that I felt resentment about it. He explained that it comes from his private fans and MDW fans who specifically call for it, who demand it as a crucial component of what gets them off.  I had to sit with that for a while, frankly. In the end, I decided that my job isn’t to police anyone else’s erotic fantasies. As long as everyone understands that it’s mutually negotiated, then what does it matter what my critique of internalized homophobia may be? Helpfully, MMK suggested they would do a better job of labeling their products, so that those willingly seeking out homoerotic material featuring anti-gay themes could find what they need, and the rest of us can steer clear. I’m not exactly thrilled that there’s a significant market for gay guys wanting to get off on being gay bashed (at least figuratively), but if everyone involved is consenting, what does it matter what I think?


Maybe #speakout will trickle down to homoerotic wrestling, and we’ll learn that there’s not always fully informed consent operating on camera, or that there’s harassment or assault off camera. I’ve heard rumors, but no first-hand accounts. For the record, I’m only interested in celebrating homoerotic wrestling in which what shows up on camera reflects willing consent (and hopefully eager enthusiasm) of the wrestlers involved. If there are aggressive liplocks, ripped off gear, muscle groping, cock stroking, sexual domination, erotic humiliation, humping, frottage, or full on fucking, then it should be willingly consented to by all parties involved. If it isn’t, I don’t want to watch it or promote it. If there are any hot, naive young hunks who show up on camera not knowing that the whole purpose of the product is for gay guys to jerk off to them, they should be informed. I think there’s a problem with fully informed consent, otherwise, and I don’t want to be crushing on some hot young muscle hunk who’s desperately ashamed and feeling duped to be associated with homoeroticism.


If I go to wrestling-for-gay-eyes sites and see guys feeling each other up, grabbing each other’s crotches, sucking on each other’s nipples, bumping and grinding, stripping naked, making out, getting hard, dick whipping, cock sucking, muscle worshiping, or, best of all, doing all of the above in a ring full of baby oil with a dozen other like minded, fully aroused beefcakes celebrating the homoeroticism of wrestling for kindred spirits to enjoy over and over again on an endless repeat recording, then I fully expect everyone to have willingly consented, and hopefully exuberantly endorsed the production of an erotic wrestling fantasy. If anyone in mainstream pro wrestling, underground wrestling, homoerotic wrestling, or anyone else, thinks that they’re entitled to coerce, manipulate, or physically force anyone else against their will to participate in your erotic fantasy, I think that’s creepy and should be shut down every time. If your fantasy includes coercion, enjoy the creative and inspired artists, athletes, and producers who can indulge that fantasy without anyone being harmed, dehumanized, or criminally assaulted. Otherwise, stay in your own lane, and keep the eroticism out of your wrestling lives.