Our Man Inside

A few years ago, I mentioned in a post that I have a particular fondness for candid glimpses of homoerotic wrestlers. I love seeing them when they aren’t “on,” when they’re obviously just being the beautiful men they are in those moments between climbing into the ring to rip each other apart. A few wrestlers have openly shared with me their private camera rolls from wrestling shoots, but BG East (the source of most of those), officially embargoed me before that could go on for long. My sources dried up, and rumor had it that some of the wrestlers involved were sorely and corporally punished for sharing the insider information with “the press.” And then, quietly and mysteriously, I received my first batch of smuggled contraband from an anonymous source who I have come to know only as OMI, Our Man Inside.

I always wonder if my latest batch of OMI treasure will be the last, and the Boss will sniff out the mole and squash him like a bug. I take it as testimony to the size of OMI’s balls and the apparent affection he must have for me that he tempts fate by feeding my adoring obsession with peaking behind the curtain.

I’ve posted precious little about the recent live wrestling show BG East produced for the Fort Lauderdale Pride event last month because, 1) I couldn’t get off work to go down and see it in person, and 2) I’m bitter about #1. Somehow, OMI knew how envious I am of all of the social media celebrations of that event, and like manna from heaven, again I’ve been fed some dizzyingly delightful snapshots from something other than the “official” camera.

Clearly, the event was a who’s who of BG East celebrities. I have no problem with acknowledging that even the pics of these gorgeous hunks fully clothed gets me hard. The fraternal camaraderie in their playful smiles and warm embraces highlights one thing I love about BG East: the “esprit de corps” as several wrestlers I’ve talked to have named it. Even when they do their best to rip each other’s balls off in competition, once egos and bodies have been tested and placed in their proper hierarchy, most of these wrestlers clearly enjoy the community formed by what unites them, namely, a passion for wrestling.

To be honest, I can sit on OMI caches way too long because I want to obsess about every single photo in detail. In order not to fall into that trap with this incredibly tasty OMI collection from the Pride event, I’ll post most of them without comment, but not without deep appreciation and arousal. But, of course, I will comment on a few that grab me by the balls just right.

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First of all, look at the assembly of hotness! Fuck, so many names, so many muscles, so many immediate associations in my mind with wrestling matches that I’ve written about and gotten off on repeatedly.   There are exactly 5 faces I don’t recognize. Identify everyone in this shot and you can be queen for a day here on the blog.

These assembled shots from the Pride event raise so many summary questions. Who is the guy in the front row snapping a photo of Ty’s sweaty ass as Jonny works him over outside the ring? What sadistic, sexy machinations is Kid Vicious working there in the shadows? Where can I get a leopard print suit!?

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I have no doubt that OMI knows exactly what he’s doing to me by sending me shots like this of three of the sexiest wrestlers of all time who I have unapologetically fawned over repeatedly in the pages of this blog. Seeing Scott Williams, Shane McCall, and Brad Rochelle embracing and smiling brightly blows my mind. The time since these stunning wrestlers were last seen in the ring has done nothing but make them sexier. How is there not a Daddy Division at BGE, to scratch that itch, that I know for a fact I’m not the only one who has, to see classic wrestling stars like this back in action? Shane has been quite clear in his interview with me a couple of years back, as well as ongoing comments since then, that he’s still nursing an appreciative rivalry with hot daddy Scott. How is this not a thing!? Look at Scott’s bronzed, bulging deltoid muscle there and explain how the the fuck he isn’t starring in a Returning Classics Championship tournament or, at the very least, his own muscle daddy Wrestler Spotlight!?

Refraining from commenting at length on every one of these photos is killing me, but I know this post will never get published if I start. However, the questions that come to mind in this collection include how is there not an UltraFight 2.5 (The Rematch) in production right now? Exactly how did Brad and KL manage to bury the hatchet after Brad was last seen shoving the Boss’ head in a toilet!? And can someone please tell Shane that if he’s going to build pecs like that, he is morally obligated to get his hotness back into the ring, preferably starting by settling that score he has with Scott?

Newkids.jpg I sort of think that OMI may know me better than anyone I’ve never met. Not only does he satiate my lust for classic homoerotic wrestling stars, he knows how much I also adore catching those first glimpses of hot, young, aspiring beauties. This pic of assembled youthful hunks makes me desperately hopeful that the known wrestling stars there (Kayden, Ash, Noah, Tommy, Kieran) interspersed among ridiculously pretty young faces I’m not familiar with, hints at some fresh, meaty newbies on the horizon. The backward baseball cap duo have GOT to be the most mouthwatering tag team I’ve never seen in action. Blond Ambition there on the left, the one with the lips, looks ripe for a beating. And holy fuck, Kayden , with those arms, wearing those glasses, is making me swoon. I’d like to order up a 2-on-1 battle in which Tommy and Noah team up to take on Kayden, and, for the record, I’m putting all my money on Kayden.

Again, how NOT to comment for the next 3 months about each and everyone of these hot shots? I know from the poster that Elite Eliot was on the card for the Pride event, but fuck me, those lickable legs of his make me ready to beg to see him in the BG East ring for myself (please tell me this is true!). Is it possible that Ace Aarons got his crack at rubbing the shit-eating grin off of Kirk Donahue’s face? Who in the hell are the too achingly pretty young hotties that Kirk has his arm around, and how long did it take for them to get annoyed by Kirk and double-team his better-than-mediocre ass? Why am I NEVER around to be invited to join in the sexy pool parties!?

As always, OMI, I owe you more than I will ever be able to repay.  Keep the smiles, and the dimples, and the beautiful men who make homoerotic wrestling what it is, coming!

Olympic Spirit

The spotlight snaps on in the middle of the ring, centered on ring announcer Johnny Weir. “Let’s keep the good times rolling, boys!” The cheers from the crowd signal their enthusiastic agreement. “Introducing first, from the Kingdom of Tonga, weighing 220 pounds at 6’3″ tall, sponsored by Johnson’s Baby Oil™ and straight out of last night’s wet dream, Pita….Taufatofua!”

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Pita Taufatofua

The roar of the crowd is deafening as a spotlight lights up the curtains to the backstage. Almost tentatively, Pita parts the curtains and stepped into the light, raising the screams to a frenzy. The spotlight glistens off of his liberally lubed muscles. He looks self-conscious as he strides barefoot toward the ring in tight white trunks with a red cross printed across his sculpted ass. As he climbs up to the ring apron and ducks through the ropes, he gives the swooning fans a demure smile and a wave.

Johnny fans himself as he stares at the glistening islander. Finally composing himself, even as the cheers for Pita continue, Johnny’s voice booms back over the PA system. “His opponent, originally from Pittsfield, Massachusetts, weighs in at 190 pounds at 6’1″ tall. He’s ‘Chris’ to his friends, but just ‘Fuck-Me-Daddy’ to the rest of us. Chris… Mazdzer!”

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Chris Mazdzer

The roar of the crowd greets the American luger as he emerges from the curtains in bulging blue square cuts and mid-ankle black wrestling boots. He smiles brightly as he makes his way to the ring, slapping hands with the fans along the aisle. He hops up to the ring apron and ducks through the ropes, suddenly looking serious, staring down his opponent.

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The Ref

Johnny holds the microphone as referee Jake Dalton calls the wrestlers to the center of the ring. “Advance to the next round with a 10 count non-response, a submission, or by some miracle manage to pin your opponent despite all of that lube,” Jake smirks up at Pita towering over the 5’5″ ref. “Other than that, do whatever the fuck you need to, gentlemen!”

The bell rings as Johnny quickly retreats through the ropes and the ref backs into a corner. The wrestlers circle one another, their eyes roaming up and own each other appraisingly. Pita comes to a halt, his fists closed in front of him. He offers the barest of a nod of acknowledgement for his opponent and then lifts his fists in front of him, turned slightly to the side, knees bent and rocking lightly on the balls of his feet. Bluntly, the American reaches his hands forward to grab his opponent by the collar and elbow, but Pita bounces to the side, swinging his right knee hard into Chris’ lightly hairy gut. The luger folds forward, clutching his abdomen in pain and sucking on air. Pita bounces backward, not pressing the advantage, just squatting low with fists raised patiently.

After a moment to catch his breath, Chris stands erect again, circling to the left and giving his opponent a wary new assessment. Pita circles away. Suddenly Chris lunges low, driving forward, leading with is left shoulder aimed at his opponent’s lower abdomen. The luger’s long arms reach wide to encircle the smooth Tongan. With shocking speed, Pita shifts his weight to his left foot and corkscrews his torso, lifting his right knee and connecting, with perfect timing, striking upward into the American’s jaw. The blow makes the luger’s knee crumple underneath him. His head flies backward, leading the big, burly beefcake’s body as he drops limply to his back.

The ref is on one knee instantly checking to see if Chris is still conscious. It takes a couple of seconds for the American to respond. Pita bounces from foot to foot, watching patiently. The ref asks if Chris is able to keep fighting, which gets him shoved away as the American scrambles to his feet and charges at his opponent in fury. Pita has time to brace himself, but Chris’ momentum lifts the Tongan off his feet and drives him backward, pounding into the nearby corner. Holding onto the middle ropes on either side of the turnbuckle, Chris pulls back and then drives his left shoulder into his opponent’s lower abdomen. Again, the American momentarily pulls back before spearing Pita, folding him over across his back. Winded, Pita stays on defense as Chris stands up, pressing the Tongan bent backward over the turnbuckle with his left hand across his throat, setting him up for brutal punches to the abdomen. Pita’s six-pack abs flex as repeated strikes pound wetly into his core.

Chris lunges low and wraps his thickly muscled arms around the Tongan’s waist, hoisting him up off his feet. Twisting out of the corner, the American rag dolls his opponent back and forth, grinding his bearhug powerfully as Pita pushes against Chris’ huge shoulders, attempting to pry their bodies apart.  The Tongan’s oiled torso is too slippery for Chris to hold the bearhug in place for long. Pita’s long, muscled body slips down in his opponent’s grip, his bare feet reaching the mat, aided by a height advantage over the American.

Just as Pita appears about to break Chris’ grip on the bearhug, the American steps his right foot behind his opponent’s heel and shoves. The Tongan loses his balance and falls backward. Chris goes down with him, landing hard on top of him and knocking the air out of the oiled hunk’s lungs. Instinctively, Pita snaps his legs around his opponent’s waist and pulls him into his guard, yanking Chris by the back of the head just as the American starts landing sharp punches to Pita’s face. With their bodies locked tightly together, Pita limits his opponent’s range of motion, making Chris’ quick jabs far less potent and largely limited to striking the Tongan’s powerful pecs.

Slowly, powerfully Pita extends his legs, still locked at the ankle behind his opponent’s back, dragging Chris’ hairy chest down the Tongan’s lubricated torso. Chris’ abbreviated punches pound into Pita’s lower abdomen.  The Tongan continues to trap the American’s face between his oil-soaked pecs, limiting his range of motion.  With another surge of strength, Pita extends his legs again, sliding Chris’ face down his torso until the luger’s nose is in his opponent’s crotch. In a panic, Chris tries to jerk his head away. At the same moment, Pita releases his scissors, pulling his legs over Chris’ big shoulders and snapping shut again in figure-4 face-to-crotch headscissors.

The Tongan’s bulge is visibly aroused beneath the translucent, oil soaked white trunks. His thick, hard erection presses against his opponent’s cheek. The stimulation is in no way evident on Pita’s gorgeous face, staring down with a grimace as he squeezes his opponent’s head viciously between his thick thighs. Chris tries to pry his head free, but Pita counters by rolling to his side and reaching behind him, pulling on his ankle to lock the hold into place like a vise. Chris’s hands try to claw into the massive, rock hard leg muscles wrapped around him. Desperately, the American lunges forward on his knees, sliding Pita backward across the ring, but earning him no reprieve from the smothering hold.

Staring down the Tongan’s dark, thick rod grinding into his face, Chris’ hands uselessly wander up Pita’s oiled torso. He palms his opponent’s powerful pecs momentarily before sliding slowly down Pita’s narrow waist. Chris’ fingers dig appreciatively into the Tongan’s flexed glutes. Releasing his ankle, Pita extends his legs straight in front of him, transitioning to standard face-to-crotch headscissors. He grabs Chris’ wrists and drags his hands up his torso again, demanding the American assess every oiled inch of his six-pack abs.

When the ref asks if Chris is ready to submit, the American jerks and writhes in protest. Pita grabs him by the hair to hold his head in place as the oiled hunk twists his hips to the side and hooks his right ankle under his left knee, locking on a figure-4 sleeper.  Chris violently arches his back, his fingers prying at the ankle pressed powerfully across his throat. His legs kick and writhe uselessly in panic.

As the luger’s hairy body starts to grow limp, Pita looks up from his work and acknowledges the roaring crowd. Leaning on his left elbow, he flexes a glistening, fan pleasing right bicep. The ref lifts Chris’ right arm off the mat and releases it. Chris’ arm sags slowly, still enough sense to pull his hands back to the vise choking him. Pita drags the palms of his own hands down his slick, ripped torso, sliding his fingers through the thick oil. His right hand comes to rest on the head of his erection, tugging breathlessly at his cock through the fabric of his trunks, now soaked and transparent.

The ref lifts Chris’ arm again. This time it drops lifelessly to the mat. He starts a deliberate 10 count as Pita throttles his cock with excited anticipation. At the count of 10, the ref signals the bell to ring and lightly taps Pita’s left knee, instructing him to release the sleeper. Disentangling his legs, Pita climbs to his feet and allows the ref to pull his left arm over his head in victory. The crowd cheers in approval as the Tongan wrestler flexes his left bicep, showing off his magnificent muscles and his massive member straining the fabric of his drenched trunks.

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Round 1:

Steve Langton (USA) def Jesse Lumsden (CAN)

Pita Taufatofua (TON) def Chris Mazdzer (USA)

 

 

Olympic Spirit

How it all started is the stuff of legend at this point. Everyone agrees that trash talk broke out on the Olympic podium, and two world class athletes had to settle a personal score that a gold medal just couldn’t. No one definitively remembers the sport or the athletes who began the underground post-Olympic homoerotic wrestling battles, but the tradition has continued out of the sight of the judges, off the snow and ice and in a professional wrestling ring. The cameras are off. The fans have departed to their respective corners of the earth. But an elite group of Olympic athletes have accepted the exclusive invitation to remain in Pyeonchang a few more days to test their world class bodies against one another in a balls out, brutal, no holds barred pro wrestling elimination tournament.

While the uninitiated fans have left, an enthusiastic audience of fellow athletes and global capitalist elite underground wrestling fans have filled the small auditorium constructed within the walls of an abandoned warehouse on the outskirts of town. Sixteen winter Olympians have been selected to populate the brackets of the single elimination tournament to crown the singular champion of the 2018 Winter Olympics. When the lights snap off and a spotlight hits the wrestling ring in the middle of the auditorium, a roar of excitement rises from the bleachers. Climbing through the ropes to grab the microphone being lowered from the ceiling, the bitch everyone loves to hate most in the world sneers as the crowd erupts into cat calls and taunts.

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“Ladies and gentlemen,” Jonny Weir’s voice booms through the PA system, “let’s get ready to rumble, bitches!” Despite themselves, the crowd rises to their feet cheering. Johnny puts a hand on his hip impatiently waiting for the roar to subside. “Our first wrestler of the 2018 Winter Olympics is 34 years old, weighing in at 227 pounds at 6’2″ tall. He’s heading to his hometown of Melrose, Massachusetts empty handed from these games unless he can take home the title belt from this tournament.  Welcome to the ring the beast from the Northeast, the man known by his teammates as Pilot Push… Steven….. Langton!”

A second spotlight snaps on just in time to illuminate the U.S. bobsledder flinging back a curtain and strutting into the auditorium with his fists raised above his head victoriously. Snug, blue square cuts squeeze his massively muscled glutes. Wearing red knee pads and white wrestling boots laced halfway up his shins, he strides to toward the ring soaking in the deafening roar of the crowd’s adoration. He’s unhurried but eager as he climbs up to the ring apron and ducks through the ropes.

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Johnny Weir’s mouth hangs open in obvious lust as Steve flexes his massive biceps to the stomping approval of the fans. Seeing the effect he’s having on the ring announcer, Steve stands in front of Johnny, bouncing his pecs with a wink and a smile, eliciting laughter and louder screams of approval from the bleachers.

Clutching his non-existent pearls, Johnny clears his throat and pulls the microphone toward him again. “The lucky son of a bitch who gets to grapple with Steve is 35 years old, weighing 223 pounds and 6’1″ tall. Hailing from Calgary, Alberta, the Canadian Cowboy, Jesse…. Lumsden!” The fans roar again as Jesse flings the curtains wide and stomps into the auditorium. Wearing cut-off jeans shorts and work boots, the burly, blond bobsledder with a lumberjack beard bounds up to the ring and dives under the ropes, jumping to his feet directly in Steve’s handsome face.

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Johnny starts to back away from the massive muscle hunks towering over him. “Your referee for this match is the reigning Summer Olympic Wrestling champion, Jake Dalton!”

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Jake Dalton steps from the shadows wearing tight black trousers and a striped referee shirt, suctioned to his massively muscled upper body. He calls the wrestlers to the center of the ring and gives his instructions, as Johnny holds the mic for him. “I want a clean fight,” Jake says, staring way up at the behemoth’s towering over a half a foot above him. “But it doesn’t matter what I want,” Jake smirks. “Because there are no rules, other than beat your opponent with a submission, a 3 count pinfall, or leave him unresponsive for a count of 10, and you’ll be the one to advance to the next round of competition. Get it on!” Jake shouts. Johnny prances in a panic from the ring as the bobsledders begin to circle one another and the bell rings.

The initial lock up between the huge hunks is more a traffic collision than a collar and elbow. They struggle to get handholds on each other’s gargantuan arms, awkwardly shoving and pushing as their meaty pecs pound into one another. Suddenly, Jesse wraps his arms around Steve’s waist, locking his fists behind his back. He squats low, violently pulling the American off his feet and slamming him hard in a textbook suplex. As the crowd roars, Jesse bounces to his feet, pumping a cocky double bicep pose to ratchet up the screams of approval from the bleachers. Steve looks seriously winded, slow to pry himself up to his hands and knees. Jesse “helps” by yanking him up by a fistful of hair before abruptly swinging his right arm up from underneath the American’s jaw, bashing Steve’s sculpted, leading-man chin with the Canadian’s prominently peaked bicep. Steve’s eyes roll up to the back of his head as he falls like a Sequoia in slow motion. The audience erupts in screams of excitement, punctuated loudly by Steve’s fans pleading for him to get his ass off the mat.

The ref is on one knee checking if Steve is still responsive. The American’s eyes flutter. He’s awake, even if flat on his back. Suddenly Jesse shoves the ref in the chest, sending Jake tumbling into a corner. The Canadian grabs his opponent’s head in both hands, dragging him off the mat and leaving him kneeling at his feet. Jesse holds the dazed American by the chin with his left hand, while with his right hand he unzips his zipper. The crowd is in a frenzy as the straining pouch of Jesse’s jock strap spills out in front of Steve’s gaping mouth. Suddenly grabbing the back of his head, Jesse force’s his opponent’s dazed face into his crotch.

Steve tries to push his hands against Jesse’s huge, hairy upper thighs to pry his face away. With a sudden jerk, Jesse shoves the Pusher’s head down, adjusting his stance just wide enough to squeeze the handsome hunk’s head between his huge, hairy thighs before snapping his legs shut tight, flexing his massive quads. Like a Pilgrim in the stockade, Steve’s muffled cries punctuate his helplessness. His fingers dig into the rock hard quads crushing his skull. He has no idea what is inspiring the sudden new screams from the crowd, unable to see his opponent lift his arms and flex a cocky, smirking double bicep pose. “Look, no hands!”

On the other hand, Steve knows exactly what’s happening when he feels Jesse’s hand grab the back of the American’s trunks, wedging the blue square cuts up his ass cheeks as he pulls Steve up to his feet. Jesse looks like he’s about to set his opponent up for a piledriver, but desperate pleas of “Spank him!” from the front rows of the bleachers make the Canadian pause and deliver. The first couple of whacks across Steve’s lily white muscled ass are playful, but as the crowd responds to the humiliation, Jesse’s swats grow more violent. Steve’s ample white cheeks start to show handprint-shaped welts as the dominant Canadian showboats.

Jesse plays the crowd pleaser for a couple of minutes of total humiliation before finally leaning forward and wrapping his huge arms around Steve’s waist, with the American’s head still stuck between his legs. With a low squat, the Canadian pulls Steve’s feet off the ground, pulling him up to hang upside down in preparation for a piledriver. Knowing full well the jeopardy he’s in, Steve kicks his legs hard, managing to shift his center of gravity to thwart his opponent. When his boots reach the ground again, Steve squats low and drives his shoulders upward. There’s obvious shock on Jesse’s bearded face as he realizes he’s the one now being lifted off his feet. Steve’s powerful legs drive upward with a strain, finally pulling him erect and sending his opponent dropping hard to his back behind him.

It’s more out of exhaustion than strategy that Steve drops to his ass, landing with a thud, now seated on top of his opponent’s muscled chest. Regardless the intent, the move successfully drives the air from the Canadian’s lungs. Two, quick, closed fisted jabs into Jesse’s face muddle his senses. Rolling to his side, Steve pulls his opponent’s face into his crotch and snaps his huge, smooth thighs together for face-to-crotch head scissors.

The crowd is screaming with excitement at the reversal of fortune. Steve shakes the cobwebs from his head, exploiting the advantage to recenter as his opponent is smothered with his mouth covered by the American’s big bulge. Finally fully realizing which way the scales have tipped, Steve smiles brightly, flashing a cocky right bicep and nodding to the fans screaming their encouragement from the bleachers. He gives them a wink and an I-got-this lift of his chin.

The ref checks and confirms for Steve that, although Jesse isn’t flailing like he was a moment ago, he’s still conscious. The American releases the scissors and hovers over Jesse on his hands and knees, confirming that the Canuck is still seeing stars. Steve grabs the belt loops at the sides of Jesse’s cut off jean shorts and yanks them violently off his massive legs. Jesse’s white jock strap pouch is stained with sweat.

Pulling violently on Jesse’s whiskers, Steve drags him slowly off the mat. Jesse is having a hard time getting his legs steady underneath him. It doesn’t matter, because Steve swiftly lunges low, hooking one arm between Jesse’s legs and the other around his neck, and powerfully hoists him up horizontal across his chest. There’s a hush of anticipation as Steve makes a slow lap around the ring, clawing the fingers of his right hand into his opponent’s bare white cheeks. With a turn to the middle of the ring, Steve lifts his opponent up and drops to one knee, driving Jesse down into a gut buster across his thigh.

What air that Jesse had been able to suck down was again forced out of his lungs in a loud rush. Holding him there across his thigh, Steve starts slapping loud, cracking a palm across Jesse’s exposed glutes. The crowd quickly picks up the count starting at 3, and Steve treats them to a total of 10 loud, punishing blows leaving revenge welts on the Canadian bobsledder’s bum. With contempt, Steve shoves him off his knee.

The crowd is going wild encouraging Steve to finish him, and they grow nearly apoplectic when the American, instead, starts unlacing Jesse’s workboots. Sensing a potentially deadly tactical error, Steve’s fans scream in desperation, but the American takes the time to pry Jesse’s boots off of him. Even as Jesse is visibly starting to recover, pulling himself up to his elbows and blinking away the haze, Steve takes more time completely unlacing one of Jesse’s boots.

Apparently Jesse isn’t the only one who fancies himself a modern day cowboy, because with studied skill, Steve uses his remaining momentum to wrench his opponent’s hands behind his back, now kneeling.  With lightning speed, Steve lashes Jesse’s wrists together. A sudden boot to the back of Jesse’s head topples him to face first to the mat. Kneeling on Jesse’s wide upper back, Steve pulls at the Canadian’s ankles and uses the remaining length of boot lace to hogtie him in the middle of the ring.

The ref gets in Jesse’s face to demand to know if he submits. Jesse screams stubborn obscenities instead. Steve takes a couple of breaths, sensing victory anyway. Finally, with the crowd again lulled to a breathless hush, Steve sits on the back of Jesse’s head and grabs his crossed, tied ankles.  Violently, he yanks upward, bending the muscle bear’s back sickly. Jesse screams, but refuses to answer the ref’s inquiries. Until, that is, Steve reaches a free hand between the Canadian’s bare ass cheeks, grabbing Jesse’s balls from behind and squeezing. In the suddenly impossibly silent auditorium, Jesse’s submission echos. “I GIVE!!!”

The bell rings. The ref tries to lift Steve’s arm overhead in victory, but the 6’2″ bobsledder climbs to his feet and the ref can no longer reach his wrist. The American advances.

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Always Wrestling

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I’m still contemplating taking up fishing on the off chance I get to see Chris Cuomo shirtless.

I used to post a lot more around here about largely non-wrestling related things. Well, I posted about things that are not inherently wrestling-related, but that in that perverse way I have, I can’t help but overlay with homoerotic wrestling innuendo. Well, really, I posted about hot hunks who, as far as I know, don’t have any relationship to wrestling, that I fantasize about in raucous, rowdy, balls out, full throttle gay wrestling scenarios.

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Alexander Skarsgård inspires so many fantasies

My posts have become more and more focused on the world of unapologetic homoerotic wrestling, in part because I have less time in the midst of a busy life. That said, my remarkable penchant for recasting beautiful men into homoerotic wrestling fantasies in my imagination has never skipped a beat. I’m just not writing about it so much.

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Perfect combo: Speed skaters and headscissors

I was reminded of this when “Commenter” commented on my most recent post, asking if I was planning on authoring another Olympics-gone-wrestling series. I’ve done this a few times, basically documenting what I’m always doing when I’m watching the Olympics, namely, looking for arousing, hot hunks and, regardless of their actual sport, picturing them wrestling one another.

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I’m imagining the USA bobsled team has inspired more than just me this month

As I replied to “Commenter,” my time is achingly short to invest as much as I have in pulling off some round robins like I have for past Olympiads. However, if someone else wants to do the preliminary work of identifying the fantasy-worthy athletes and drawing up some brackets, I would do my best to sketch out where my mind goes. If different readers submit competing brackets, I will be happy to have you wrestle one another naked to determine whose brackets I should use.

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I have intrusive erotic fantasies that star Eliad Cohen

In the mean time, I thought I’d just offer a quick update on the hot men who have made recurring appearances in homoerotic wrestling matches in my mind’s eye in recent months. For example, and as always, Eliad Cohen. Fuck, I can’t even open Twitter in a public place anymore because the first glimpse I get of Eliad’s magnificent, hairy muscles make me instantly erect.  Eliad appeared in a New Year’s Eve wrestling fantasy I wrote last year, as he appears in fantasy after fantasy ever since. Hey, wait, New Year’s Eve wrestling fantasies! There’s another fond tradition I slacked off on this year.

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Marry me, Pedro Andrade

Another Twitter-infatuation I have that persistently drives me into wrestling fantasy territory is Pedro Andrade. I love this Brazilian beauty’s politics, his eye for photography, and apparently he’s a poet. So, fuck, yeah, I’m ready to propose marriage… and then he shares a little skin. Damn, he is gorgeous in every way. Brains and brawn? What a total threat he’d be as a babyface in the ring!

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I’ll fuck this “sleeve”

I almost nearly lost my shit as I started watching the Netflix series Altered Carbon. I am a ridiculous Sci-Fi junkie, so believe me when I swear I had no idea that this series was packed with so much mouthwatering beef. And then basically in the first scene, Swedish stunner Joel Kinnaman shows up naked and glistening, covered in lube. And moments later he’s naked in a communal shower. And in the next episode he’s naked and having sex. And then people show up to his hotel room, and he just stands there naked, the camera strategically positioned with a potted plant or some such nonsense obscuring his crotch. So much naked hotness! Kinnaman reminds me again how easily I’m turned into a slack-jawed fanboy for pretty much any 6’2″ blond, stunningly handsome Swedish man who takes off his shirt, which in my experience is pretty much any Swedish man.

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Squeeze those shoulders into my newsboy infatuation ranks, Baruch Shemtov!

My newest newsboy crush is apparently openly gay and buddies with Gio Benitez and Tommy Didario, so of course he’s got a place at my table anytime. But it’s not like he needs any coattails. Just fucking LOOK at the size of Baruch Shemtov’s biceps!? I vacillate between picturing him as the smooth beefcake jobber to Eliad’s sadistic ring villainy, or seeing the two of them as contenders for the prettiest tag team in history.

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Warm up the winter Olympics with some sweaty wrestling, please

Those are the current roster of studs slapping on face-to-crotch headscissors and making each other scream. In a better world, I’d write down some of the matches in which they star in my imagination.  In the mean time, I’ll try to clear a little time in my calendar in case you come up with a Winter Olympics 2018 bracket of homoerotic wrestling contenders to work with.

Striving for Perfection

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19

I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again: numbers are sexy. Take the numbers 19, 26, 7 and 3. That’s the number of inches around Joey Nux-Justice’s upper arms, inches around his upper legs, times Joey bashes Ronnie’s back into a turnbuckle, and times I’ve gotten off on watching Joey and Ronnie pound it out in the ring for Wrestler4Hire.

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Reaching for perfection

Of course, when I say “pound it out,” I’m referring to Joey tenderizing Ronnie like a stubborn cut of beef.  “You think you have the perfect body,” Ronnie muses, arriving to find Joey measuring his bulges and shoving them in our faces. “Well, I think I’m the perfect wrestler,” Ronnie explains. “So how about we wrestle and figure out who’s perfect?” It’s a classic narcissist bodybuilder meets savvy pro heel scenario, with a sensational twist, namely that the bodybuilder beats the living fuck out of the veteran pro wrestler.

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What gum chewing deserves

Both Joey and Ronnie get a little ire from me. One of my pet peeves is a wrestler chewing gum in a match, so I’m hating on Ronnie the moment he steps into the ring and starts gnawing on the wad in his mouth. It’s too casual. It feels disrespectful to the audience. It makes me want to see his opponent slap him so hard his gum flies out, then pick up up, shove it down the front of his trunks, and force the gum back down Ronnie’s throat on the tip of his cock. As far as I’m concerned, a wrestler chewing gum in the ring needs to suffer that much more bitterly for the faux pas.

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Joey is all about the optics

On the other hand, there’s Joey, who persistently digs his wedgied trunks out from between his muscled ass cheeks throughout the match. This is less a matter of respect than it is just a stubborn refusal to satisfy an audience that wants to appreciate every nook and crevice of his gorgeous physique. I typically root against a wrestler, particularly a gorgeous specimen like Joey, who keeps stretching his trunks to cover up his cheeks.

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Ronnie screams. A lot.

So I suppose I start the match a little ambivalent about who I want to get thrashed more. But that question is quickly resolved as Joey assertively grabs Ronnie by the wrist and flings his back crashing into a turnbuckle. Perhaps if Ronnie hadn’t been caught flat footed from the start, this would have been a more competitive match. I know for a fact Ronnie’s got more moves than MJ, and 9 days out of 10 he’s a devastating ring tactician. But Joey injures him early, and then often, and unlike 9 out of 10 rookies, Joey doesn’t relent for a second until Ronnie is screaming like a bitch and writhing at his feet.

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All about the back

It’s mostly about breaking Ronnie’s back. The Irish whips corner to corner make Ronnie’s knees buckle out from under neath him. The body slams over and over and over again reduce the handsome pro to a quivering, screaming, drooling puddle. Bearhugs, torture racks, a camel clutch and Boston crab all concentrate every overpowering muscle on Joey on the task of fucking up Ronnie’s spine. The only thing missing, and don’t think I didn’t notice, is an OTK backbreaker to show off Ronnie’s hot, packed bulge.

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“You have something to say to me?” Joey asks.

“Are you sure you wanna wrestle?” Joey asks, mostly rhetorically. He doesn’t really wait for an answer, even if he expected one. He’s come such a long way since his debut MDW match in which he tearfully confessed that “I don’t really wrestle, man.” He’s no Ronnie Pearl, but fuck, he does a sensational impression of an assertive, aggressive, confident muscle pro with something to prove. “You have something to say to me,” he demands, holding Ronnie by a fistful of hair and shouting in his whimpering face.

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Ronnie dials it up to 11

The match feels like a solid intent to put Joey over. It’s all about Joey. It’s about his gorgeous muscles and power. It’s about his shocking dismantling of a seasoned pro. It’s about his cocky swagger and deafening gun show. If anything, Ronnie oversells his suffering, which is not nearly the mortal sin that underselling is. Either way, Ronnie gets reduced to impotence by a gorgeous hunk of a man bigger and, as it turns out, badder than he is. Joey never needs to plead, humiliatingly, “I don’t really wrestle, man,” anymore, which feels like the story arc of this match.

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But as for me, I’m mostly infatuated with watching Ronnie. I’ve been entranced by him for years, since I first saw him climb into the ring with his long mane of curly locks, his smoking  hot body, and an obvious feeling of being right at home in a pro wrestling ring. He has decidedly improved from that stellar starting point with age and experience. He has the best head of hair in wrestling, as far as I’m concerned (maybe that’ll be a year-end award for 2018). I’m skeptical of most beards on wrestlers, but there’s a classic Steve Reeves-does-Hercules look about Ronnie that makes me crush on him even more. His muscles are certainly not as huge as Joey’s. He’s not a competitive bodybuilder. But line Joey and Ronnie up and let me have 57 minutes to do what I want with their naked bodies, and no shit, I’m giving even stunning Joey a hard pass to get my hands on Ronnie.

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I call dibs on that ass!

Ronnie’s absolute obliteration at the hands of the muscle-newbie shows off his smooth, gorgeously proportioned body from every angle. He twists and writhes, flexes and stretches, until the camera has treated us to a detailed inspection of pretty much everything one can see with Ronnie’s trunks still on his body. His ass, in particular, makes me push rewind often. There’s something effortlessly sexy and infinitely fuckable about his black clad ass cheeks that incite intrusive images of me pounding him doggie style, my hips wet-slapping into his beautiful butt.

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Not where you expect to find a seasoned pro heel

The longer I enjoy homoerotic wrestling, the more I realize how much I enjoy these comeuppance moments when a terrifyingly destructive heel gets shocked, awed, and owned. The humiliation is that much more poignant. His screams and begging and sobs make my crotch twitch that much more persistently. “You have something to say to me,” Joey asks, getting up in the heel’s agony-twisted face. “You said you wanted to wrestle, right,” he taunts the crushed and helpless hottie, driving home the powerful plot point that a devastating pro heel is getting his fuckable ass handed to him because 1) it turns out overpowering muscles can be pretty useful, even on a ring rookie, and 2) gay wrestling fans like me want to see an invincible, straight-laced, handsome hunk like Ronnie witness his body and his illusions shatter before him.

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I really wrestle, man!

In the end, even my skeptical self has to admit that Joey could actually be a player on the scene. He’s got some moves that a decently equipped opponent can sell solidly. He’s obviously got the pin-up boy angle entirely covered. Bring on more Joey.

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Fuck, I love Ronnie in jeopardy!

But as for Ronnie Pearl, please, oh please, keep me guessing. My infatuation with him is only enhanced by the possibility that he could, on a given day, get the shit kicked out of him and get his gorgeous body pried apart and laid out like a Thanksgiving turkey. Or he could dazzle and destroy like a cruise missile. I love the suspense almost as much as I adore his quivering ass cheeks.

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Hold him right there for me, Joey!

Achilles’ Heel in Socks

I had no idea how much I needed to see Van Skyler square off against Fabrice until I was watching it happen in Undagear 29: Sock It to Me. I’m a fan of both of these beautiful men, but somehow it hadn’t really occurred to me to picture the magic that might be conjured by pitting them against one another.

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Van eyes his prize

I’ve talked before about the value added for me when contrasting bodies face off. Van and Fabrice stroke that spot sensationally. It’s definitely as big vs. little scenario, but who’s big and who’s little sort of depends on the camera angle. On the one hand, Fabrice towers over Van. A wrestler staring down from a 5 inch height advantage is so inherently domineering! Fabrice is his mysteriously frosty self, cocky and quietly fierce.  On the one hand, Van’s lush lips line up in a perfect position to clamp onto Fabrice’s ten cent nips.

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Magnificent muscle built for dominating lesser men

But on the other hand, Van weighs in at a reported 40 pounds heavier than the tall boy. I maintain a healthy skepticism about wrestler stats, but I buy these astonishing numbers. Fabrice is almost painfully lean, which he wears gorgeously. And Van is built like a Tom of Finland powerhouse. He earned a legitimate second place for Best Body in voting this year for excellent reasons. Frankly, I’ve suspected that Van may be significantly more coverboy than battle boy, but even if I still thought he was mostly glitz, I’d have to admit that his muscles are luxuriously thick and dense. So even staring eye-to-nipple with Fabrice, the gravitational force of Van’s vastly superior mass pulls the big/little contrast magnificently in his favor.

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Van forefeeds a mouthful of his gorgeous ass!

So the set up is instantly titillating for me. But the execution turns my crank hard with both hands. One reason this is the case is watching Van calmly, confidently, and convincingly assert a commanding offense. Fuck, I’ve been waiting for this pretty boy to develop his wrestling chops. His Undagear 26 match with Payton Meadows shows some flashes of Van’s potential brilliance on offense. I’m guessing this match with Fabrice might have been recorded around the same time. Maybe it’s Fabrice’s thin man presentation that inspires the muscleboy to open up showing some sweet, powerful, gorgeous offense. He musclebullies the French beauty early and often. When Fabrice makes an effort to slip free at one point, Van growls, “I don’t think so, buddy,” and then presses Fabrice’s face against his taut hamstring and reaches behind him, pulling on his ankle and absolutely crushing the blond’s head in a vise. The harder Van squeezes, the more firmly this opponent’s face is smashed into the muscleboy’s gorgeous, mountainous glutes. There’s just so much right about this hold, but first and foremost, it’s an awesome glimpse into Van’s growing awareness of just what he can do with that drop dead gorgeous body of his.

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So much for that height “advantage”

The optics are similarly perfect when Van cinches on a dragon sleeper. I’ve never really considered the mechanical physics of this move nearly as much as I did watching this musclebound “little” guy lock it onto his long, lean opponent. The results are that Fabrice is laid out even more vulnerably than most in this humiliating hold.

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Van shoves his socked toes down Fabrice’s throat

The second biggest surprise to me in this match is how engaged I was by the sock kink angle. Perhaps what makes it such a turn on is discovering that the impetus behind making this a “sock fetish” match comes from Van. Fuck, he is into this! He makes Fabrice suck on his socked toes. He slowly, indulgently pins the Frenchman’s cheek to the match, quite transparently taking deep pleasure in using his socks as devices for debasing his deceptively delicate opponent. Fabrice seems irritated by it at first. Of course, being physically forced to suck on your opponent’s socked toes would be irritating, but even more than that, it feels like Fabrice is personally pissed to being made a prop in what is quite obviously Van’s kink for sock domination. So these are Van’s terms, and I am loving this implicit little insight into the lusts behind the muscle.

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Shimmering muscle god

The biggest surprise, however, comes when Fabrice finally cottons on that Van is taking way too much carnal pleasure in using his socked feet as a tool for humiliation and domination. Honestly, I was already counting the Frenchman out about 2/3rds of the way through, because this was so completely Van’s match. The muscleboy, slicked up with sweat, starts flexing overtop of the opponent who he just had to literally capture and drag back to the middle of the mat before Fabrice could complete his crawling escape from the room. Fabrice becomes our avatar, obediently putting his hands on Van’s stunning muscles. I so fucking want to trade places with him right then. Perhaps that’s why I’m just as convinced as Van is that Fabrice is ready to concede, for the stark pleasure of worshiping the muscled god who so clearly has bested him. Fabrice milks it, stroking and exploring to do us proud.

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Show of hands, who wants to take Fabrice’s place?

But then, rising to his feet and abruptly towering over Van, he snaps on a sleeper from behind. That’s not really the surprise. We’ve seen aesthetic beauties like Van get suckered into their own hype, undone by believing the erotic control they have over us fans will automatically translate to every opponent. No, the surprise comes as Van starts to sag in the Frenchman’s arms. They slide to the mat, with Van nestled intimately between Fabrice’s super long legs. Van pulls at the arm pinching off his carotid artery. He struggles to maintain a desperate grip on consciousness, and frankly, he’s strong enough to prevent Fabrice from sealing the deal entirely.

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Van muscles a tiny bit of breathing room into that sleeper

It’s a stalemate moment, with Van incapable of escape, but Fabrice not strong enough to apply the pressure to finish him. The Frenchman slowly extends those super long legs and grinds his knees into Van’s tiny waist, using the extra leverage for more pressure on the sleeper. His legs are just so fucking long, though. Fabrice’s ankles cross directly overtop of Van’s swollen package. Tentatively at first, the Frenchman presses his socked feet into Van’s bulge to try to break the stalemate. Van groans, his face twisted in defensive strain or erotic pleasure or both.

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By any means necessary

And then Van takes one hand away from his defensive grasp on Fabrice’s forearm crushing his throat, and he grabs the Frenchman’s ankle, slowly and unmistakably pressing Fabrice’s socked feet pressed even harder into his bulge. Van groans with pleasure. He cannot get enough of his opponent’s feet manually stimulating his muscleboy cock! This isn’t torture. This isn’t humiliation. This is one of the most mouthwatering specimen’s of aesthetic muscle currently competing getting his buttons pushed so completely that he willingly gives up the fall to ride this ride to the very last split second of consciousness before gasping a submission that sounds like he was just about to cum in his undagear.

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The tide turns

He likes it. He loves it. And now that Fabrice knows it, he’s going to carve up this beefsteak and serve Van on a platter.

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So much mountainous muscle to conquer

This is momentous character development, as far as I’m concerned. I’ve always known exactly what it is about Van that gets me instantly hard, but now we know just a little of what drives Van over the erotic line.

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Van undone by his own kink

If anyone sees Van, let him know that I’ve got a sweaty pair of socks and a bottle of lube with his name on them. In the mean time, I’m cuing up that epic moment once again where the muscled beauty telegraphs the biggest tell, the most sensational Achilles-heel-reveal I’ve seen in a long time.

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Button: pushed.

Twitch for Me

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Have Damien’s muscles outgrown the boss’ ability to control?!

In what way has Muscle Master Kevin NOT humiliated Damien Rush over the years? The archives of MDW are littered with daddy’s little rich boy getting thrashed and trashed again and again by the boss. It’s been done so often that I didn’t actually expect to see anything new in Season 27’s “Zzz 14.” In one sense, I was right, in that the age old story of Damien squashed and trampled by Kevin plays out pretty much like we’ve come to expect. On the other hand, I was wrong, because there are some provocative new elements in the classic formula, and the chemistry gets me off like a space shuttle launch.

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The first thing that’s new is Damien. Oh, sure, we’ve seen Damien countless times. But we’ve never seen this Damien before. Fuck, he’s huge. I mean, fuck, he’s HUGE! He says he’s getting ready for a bodybuilding competition, and I believe him. A physique like that has little other purpose, really, than to be strutted nearly naked on stage and judged for it’s aesthetic beauty. One might make an argument that a body like that could also be well employed dominating opponents in a homoerotic wrestling context, but this is Damien Rush we’re talking about. Other than a few dazzlingly inspiring moments of clarity and purpose in which daddy’s little rich boy ran rough shod over an opponent in the past, for the most part, he’s mincemeat.

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The boss’ muscles

The more pertinent issue as Kevin walks in is what value Damien’s huge, fuckable body is to the entrepreneur-in-chief. “You need more size, because size sells,” Kevin explains patiently over the course of his muscle domination. “We’re going to get you in competition shape, and we’re going to get me some cash.” I’ve always wished that Kevin enjoyed heeling for its intrinsic value. I’ve wished there was more of an insider’s appreciation for the eroticism of wrestling at MDW. But short of that, I have to admit there’s something erotically compelling about a relatively straightforward story about cultivating gorgeous muscles for mauling as an acknowledgement that you and I get off on it. Eroticism is in the room, even if it’s a pretty straight-edged nod to your and my erotic interests.

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All in a day’s work

While I typically tune into MDW for the flashes of hot wrestling, I have to admit there’s something profoundly moving about the domination aspect of this match. It’s not a match, really. Damien puts up nothing but his whimpering, wheezing, will-bended, forced-to-flex obedience to his muscle master. But Damien’s jeopardy tweaks my kink for the delight of watching his self-appraisal go up in flames at the hands of his constant tormentor and employer. The gear itself is deeply arousing to me. Watching one hunk’s vulnerability represented by the briefest of posing trunks, contrasted by his opponent in street clothes (well, if you happen to walk shirtless down the street in sensationally sexy, skin tight leather pants), is an angle I’ve struggled to put into words before. Personally, I’d have enjoyed it even more to see Kev stroll in in a business suit and slowly pull off his tie and unbutton a couple of buttons on his shirt as he dices this meat just like he does. One guy clothed, casual, getting down to business as if he wasn’t planning to have to grapple, digging into another guy who’s nearly naked, prepped and fluffed for obvious erotic examination, is a seldom satisfied erotic taste I have.

 

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Muscle Master Kevin’s use of his legs also gets me off hard in this match. The theme is variations on the sleeper, which isn’t always at the top of my list. But Kevin uses his legs so seductively to accomplish his tasks. And of course, legwork which is typically near the top of my list. His crotch pillow leg choke is that much sexier for the fact that he’s in pants.  His leg nelson is gorgeous as fuck both for the sexy way it highlights Kevin’s legs and for the sensational way it shows off Damien’s hot, bodybuilder body.

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The camera work also strikes me as different, in a great way, than a lot of MDW matches. The camera lingers long and hard on Damien’s suffering muscles. There are several up-crotch close ups as Damien sits on the precipice of unconsciousness with his legs spread wide and his tiny posing strap wedged up his ass crack, leaving plenty of mouthwatering gluteus muscles bare. Whoever is behind the camera this time gets my applause for unflinchingly following our gaze.

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Every single magnificent muscle here belongs to the boss.

“You may not be the top wrestler, but I’m going to make sure you’re one of the top grossing wrestlers,” Kevin explains as he shoves Damien back and forth over the line of unconsciousness. He hits that seductive domination element that is corporal ownership skillfully. Kevin possesses Damien’s magnificent muscles. He claims them and owns them. “So you’re going to keep training like you have been,” Kevin explains why he’s willing to dish out some compliments to the big stud. “You’re going to get bigger and better by the day. You’re going to watch that diet. You’re going to hit those weights. You’re going to stay at peak shape, so that I can film all of the quality matches that I want with you.” While I consider the master/slave/dom/sub scene in the neighborhood but down the street from my kink home, I absolutely get off to this element of physical possession between Kev and Damien.

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The last element that catches me by surprise in this product is when Kevin force feeds Damien a banana. There’s something kitsch about the idea of this, but in its execution, fuck it’s hot to watch. It helps matters that Damien deepthroats the banana.  Twice. If I can’t be there to face fuck him myself, it turns out watching Kev shove a banana down his throat is a reasonable stand in, at least from a voyeur angle. Honestly, I’ve never gotten off on watching food play before.  I won’t be able to say that now.

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Damien’s whimpering, beaten, completely dominated hotness is forced to flex on command. At one point he literally attempts to flee the scene, which earns him some leg torture as Kevin works to make sure the beast won’t be able to walk temporarily (and happily for me, more close up focusing on those monster quads). “I want you and your muscles to understand who your fucking Boss is,” Kevin explains patiently. “Every time I walk into the room, your muscles are going to twitch.”

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I’m twitching, too, Muscle Master Kevin.  Short of me stuffing my ripe banana deep down Damien’s throat, this muscle mastering confrontation hits all the notes that crank on that part of my kink that wants to see some hot bodybuilder beaten and erotically owned. It’s not as if I haven’t seen Damien plowed under by Kevin in the past. But I’ve never seen Damien this stacked. I’ve never seen Kevin so explicitly committed to possessing Damien’s muscles for our delight. And I’ve never enjoyed it quite this much before.

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Ripped for your pleasure