Newsbreak

Throwback Thursday yesterday reminded me that I haven’t crushed on hot newsmen in a little while. For those who are just tuning in, I have long argued that mainstream news media outlets have conceded that sex sells, and the really adept newsrooms have been promoting hot hunks to give us something sweet to make the medicine of today’s events go down a little easier. I first started hitting on this subject when Good Morning America put their then-newsreader Chris Cuomo in a dunking booth and made sure we got to see his tight white t-shirt soaked to the skin overtop his bulging pecs.

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The glorious state of morning news programs: Chris Cuomo’s rippling muscles beneath a soaking, wetly transparent undershirt (circa 2009).

There was a time when I played with the homoerotic male news tease as a “what-if” concept. I’ve written homoerotic wrestling stories exaggerating the theme for you and me in particular. I’ve intentionally allowed myself to “read into” the subtext of big, beautiful, beefy boys nailing positions in front of the news cameras as a device for sexing up and turning on the portion of their audience titillated by male beauty. But somewhere along the line, I think reality overtook my imagination.  It doesn’t take much imagination at all to recognize that hardbodied hotties behind the news desks and on assignment are a thing. No longer are we turning to grey haired, grandfatherly types with jowls and expressionless faces to convey trustworthiness. In these post-structural days of impossible-to-escape subjectivity, the old boys, later replaced by the not quite  young pretty girls, are now giving way to young, pretty, conventionally handsome hunks with big muscles.

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These days, Chris Cuomo can’t stop flexing those gargantuan guns!

So for today’s news break, let’s get caught up on a few of my newsboy infatuations who have been dropping more and more pretense and proving more and more explicitly that they know why we’re tuning in. They know what we’re looking at. And I’m confident that they’re getting just a little turned on by being exhibitionist hunks squarely in our crushing gaze.

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It’s about the fish. Yeah. Right. (look at the vacularity in Cuomo’s deltoids!) 

The newsboy hunk I’ve prattled on about longest is, as I mentioned, Chris Cuomo.  Now with CNN, formerly with ABC, Cuomo is, yes indeed, the younger brother of the current (and a former) New York State governor. A reader once mistook my infatuation for the Gov, but rest assured, I’m all about the younger Cuomo.  Chris has owned a special place in the homoeroticization of news in particular for his frequent shirtless fishing pics he posts.

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Uh-huh. It’s about the fish.

These days, there’s less and less merely implied about our cravings for his hot, bulging bod. He writes a column for a fitness mag.  He posts videos of gym workouts. And I came across (pun intended) these video clips that prove Chris both knows we’re noticing his big, juicy muscles and he’s more than happy to stoke those fires with muscle teasing.  This first clip is a little hard to see, but it’s Chris videoing a close up of his big, flexed bicep staring us in the face as he imitates James Earl Jones’ deep throated voiceover introduction to his network.

Tell me, would you have wanted to see Walter Cronkite role up his sleep and muscle tease his audience? No, Chris is a big, hardbodied newsboy hunk of the 21st century, when we like them not only ridiculously good looking and sexy fit, but showing it off. Then there’s this second clip I came across from his reporting from the World Cup from last year. I’d noticed his hot, bulging muscles squeezed into that jersey in still frame, but I’d missed this video of him.  I’m not exaggerating so watch this now, because, no shit, Chris Cuomo is explicitly taunting us by bouncing his big, meaty pec.

Yes, that’s what I tune into the news for! Frankly, Chris can’t stop flexing.  Sure, there are fresh new fishing shots (iconically Chris Cuomo) in which he rolls up his sleeve before he holds up his catch, to show off those peaked biceps. But he’s also showing off his sexy goofy hotness flashing a gasp-worthy double bicep in celebration of his 45th birthday this past week.

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I know exactly what those massive biceps should be doing every damn day…

Hell, yes.  Just try to stop me from imagining that heavy artillery pounding some other news hottie in the ring.

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Clawing his way to the top of the ABC news heap, hottie David Muir is ready for any takers.

The top echelons of national news are rife with industry intrigue. Not everyone was expecting young David Muir, who always looks ripped from the pages of a last-decade Abercrombie catalog, to land the evening news anchor desk. He did though, and I’m not ashamed to admit I tune in more often just to soak in his dazzling hotness.  David has been a little more coy about showing off his bod than Chris Cuomo is. But he does it.  And clearly, it’s his chiseled triceps he’s most proud of.

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Just this morning, filling in on GMA, David took the opportunity so squeeze into a short sleeve shirt 2 sizes too small and make sure the cameraman got his favorite, flexed tricep in the pic.
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It’s all about the triceps.

Strip them down to speedos and lets see how painfully pretty Muir stacks up against 6’2″ Italian stallion Cuomo. David is long, lean and strong. If it were a marathon match, he’d be slapping on a front-face sleeper on a gasping, exhausted Chris before it was all over.  Which is why Chris would make sure this doesn’t go the distance, with one high impact move after another, body slamming, clothes-lining, and suplexing David’s magnificent body all over the ring. I predict Cuomo takes the match with a rag doll full nelson submission, but Muir would make him work for it. Hard.

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Gio Benitez appears to have his eye on a particular baby blue-eyed muscleboy!

And speaking of working it hard, Gio Benitez has certainly been my biggest newsboy crush in recent months. His desk colleagues at Good Morning America have openly called out Gio’s bulging, hot bod, and producers keep insisting he cover “features” that require him to get soaking wet. There’s been a ton of speculation about where Gio’s lustful gaze lands (okay, I’m sure I’m projecting there, but I know I’m not the only one), but I’ve not been able to find any confirmation one way or another whose team he bats for.  However, checking out his online pictorial archives, I’m noticing a certain sky blue-eyed slice of beefcake heaven appearing more and more frequently in his Instagram feed, including being featured prominently in Gio’s recent beach vacation photos.  If he doesn’t play for our team, or at the very least is a switch hitter, he’s the most sexually secure straight Latino man on the planet.

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A tag team partnership made in homoerotic wrestling heaven.

I’ve speculated long and hard on the fireworks that a Cuomo v Benitez ring battle would incite. Fuck, Cuomo and Benitez have explicitly been comparing fitness and muscle fans. As for me, I’m sure muscle daddy Chris would demand face-to-crotch headscissors forcing Gio to suck on the agony while staring up at the Italian stallion flexing his biceps and pecs back at him. Gio’s blue-eyed, hotly muscled beefy “friend” would interfere from outside the ring, because no homoerotic wrestler wants to see his lover tag partner getting completely owned by a domineering muscle beast. Sooner or later, though, Cuomo’s got them both stacked into the corner and spearing the fuck out of them with shoulder blocks. A figure-4 sleeper putting down Gio and one of those coiling pythons choking out baby blue-eyes at the same time, and Cuomo is left flexing in victory atop both of them.

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What road?

My other low boil newsboy hunk crush is Mr. GQ, Matt Gutman. This son of a bitch is downright stingy with his beefcake shots, which I guarantee you is a factor in why he’s been struggling for airtime at ABC with Gio’s dazzling star on the rise. But ABC news producers have also treated us to making Mattie get wet, many times, including one segment in which we get a glimpse of his fabulously furry, ripped, sensational bare torso. Of his more recent postings, one thing is for sure. That lush head of hair and sexy as fuck furrowed brow can make any terror fade into the background for me.

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What forest fire?

Here’s where things get seriously interesting in my homoerotic wrestling imagination.  Mattie’s got some ice in his veins and heartless mystery about him that make me think what he gives up in sheer brawn to Cuomo, he may just make up for elsewhere. I picture him a smooth operator, chill. A graceful flyer who can plant a flat footed standing drop kick squarely into the Italian juggernaut’s collarbones.  Chris muscles him around because, fuck, this is Mr. Muscle we’re talking about. But I say Gutman is the man with the plan, crippling the Italian stallion with a knee-snapping figure-4 and then exploiting a masterful ground game and, sure, some illegal use of the ropes, to wear Cuomo out. He submits to a reach from behind nut claw that the hairy correspondent uses to make Chris crawl on his hands and knees around the ring in weeping humiliation.

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I may need to towel off now. Can I borrow yours, Matt?

My thanks to the postmodern era for delivering newsboys who would have been muscle mag coverboys just 50 years ago.

Throwback Thursday

WordPress tells me that I this is my 1,295th blog post. No wonder I can’t remember what I’ve talked about over the past 6 years. Since I migrated the pages of this blog to a new server just over 2 years ago, over a quarter of a million visitors (statistically measured with replacement) have clicked more than 991,000 page views. For those curious about trivia, the most page views in a single day happened on September 3 of last year, when there were 2,845 views in 24 hours.  Interestingly, the most popular time for people to check out what’s happening here is 11:00 am on Sundays (US Central Time Zone). Fascinating.

What summary cross-sectional statistics can’t say, however, is something about the landscape of the distance we’ve traveled over 6 years.  So let’s do a longitudinal look and see what we may learn about how my attention has evolved.

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Sam Champion & Chris Cuomo. You could see the sexual tension pulsing off of them (Sam).

Exactly six years ago I was obsessing about an enduring topic here, hot newsmen. Specifically, I was bitching about some transparent PR work to make sure viewers knew that hot Italian of my dreams, Chris Cuomo, was straight. Yeah, yeah, yeah.  I was also raising questions about his bromance with weatherman Sam Champion, significantly before Sam came out publicly.  Not like the sexual tension between the two of them, both featured on Good Morning America at the time, was difficult to notice. These days my morning newsmen obsessions tend toward desperately hoping to see more shirtless, soaking wet features starring Gio Benitez and Matt Gutman, preferably together. Oh, who am I kidding, preferably in g-strings and coated in sweat pounding the fuck out of each other in a wrestling ring.  Maybe in 2016…

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Brenn Wyson asks Jack Hammer the eternal question: “Who’s Your Daddy!?”

On August 13, 2010 I was reflecting on how hot verbal banter can make so many near misses a bullseye. This was back when I was actively subscribing, and sincerely enjoying, Naked Kombat. Specifically, their then-recent release of Brenn Wyson squaring off against Jack Hammer was on my mind. I mentioned in the post that I was in a pretty-boy mood, and neither of these battlers were tickling my bone.  Yet it was Brenn’s aggressive, smart ass mat banter that was holding my attention and making me grab my crotch, demanding that Jack “call me fucking Daddy Wyson!” Yeah. Personality has been turning my crank for the duration of my blogging days. I miss those good old days when Naked Kombat had more personality.

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BG East Wrestlefest 1 Battle R’Oil descended into total chaos. The fabulous variety.

If you checked in here this date in 2011, I was deep in homoerotic wrestling metaphor to make sense of riots around the globe.  Sociological theory meets hardcore gay wrestling fetish.  There’s still something bewildering to me about mass violence and killing. Of course, these days we have sanctimonious ISIS nut jobs quelling dissent with beheadings and institutionalized terror. I think, as I did 4 years ago, that there’s something in the human condition that can be pushed only so far, though. Bullies and oppressors are notoriously shit at gauging it, but it’s there, inside each and all of us, ready to go ape shit and fuck conventions and rules and throw our lot in with desperate chaos, when pushed over the line. Revolutions seem to always take us by surprise. But clearly, they shouldn’t.

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Of course Roman Sebrle trashed the homoerotic wrestling decathlete competition. Look at that body!!!

On this date in 2012, my homoerotic wrestling imagination was still running wild from seeing so many Olympic athletes pumped and primed in competition. The summer Olympics were over, but my obsession with translating those stunningly world class bodies into homoerotic wrestling scenarios was still roaring full speed.  August 13 was for crushing hard and imagining the pleasures of watching the Olympic decathletes climb into the ring and work their phenomenal cross training bodies. Damn, I enjoyed writing those Olympic Spirit stories!  For the record, the singles homoerotic wrestling decathlete title went to hot daddy Czech Roman Sebrle, heeling his salt-n-pepper hotness all over golden boy American Trey Hardee.  However, Trey won a taste of retribution, pinning the hot naked Czech ass to the sky for team America. Damn, I can’t wait for Rio 2016!

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Kevin Crows naked back is a work of homoerotic wrestling art!

Two years ago today, I was fixated on hotly muscled backs as wordplay on celebrating being back from vacation and getting back to updating the blog. This reminds me of the way that continuing this blog has been about ebbs and flows, sometimes finding a ton to say and time to say it, sometimes not. Over the years I’ve often emphasized that this is truly just at the edges of what pays my bills. So life often keeps me from musing further. But I always miss it when that happens. And as much as I mull over whether I’ve said absolutely everything I have to say about the topic of homoerotic wrestling, I keep finding more to write.

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Three cheers for Jake’s bro Eli Black for putting Jake out cold!

If you tuned in exactly one year ago, you’d have found my grand finale of my Making Jake series.  It took over a year to work my way through the alphabet, marveling at how pleasurable it is to watch opponents bring out so much, such variety, and every bit of hotness from Jake Jenkins. Of course, the end of the alphabet sucks, but still, I was pretty pleased to call out the joys of seeing opponents make Jake unconscious, vertical, wet, x-rated, yelp, and zealous.

A lot has changed in 6 years.  A lot hasn’t. Looking forward to seeing what next year brings!

The Victory Lap

Is there anyone else who gets off on that moment when a wrestler just totally fucks around with his beaten opponent just because he can?  Of course there is.

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Bulldog Barzini makes Denny Cartier witness his own humiliation staring back at him.

Personally, I prefer that little bit of juicy drama to cap off a suspenseful back and forth battle of brawn and brains. I like to be kept guessing, tempted back and forth to jump to the conclusion of which hot hunk is going to reign victorious, only to have my assumptions and predictions called into doubt over and over. Then, once one roaring stud is driving that bus all over his opponent’s bested body, it’s incredibly provocative for me to watch him just mess with the defanged loser. You know, flex in his face. Rip off his trunks. Or, and here’s the topic I’m working a head of steam up about today, toss his broken, once dangerous body across your shoulders and take a victory lap around the ring.

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Brad Rochelle looked nothing short of orgasmic pinning beautiful Patrick Donovan in front of a roaring crowd of their peers.

I’m certain that the most satisfying victory lap I’ve ever witnessed is from the opening match of Wrestlefest 2. Moments before being awarded rookie of the year, Brad Rochelle is in a surprisingly tough tussle with then notorious jobber, sexy Patrick Donovan. The stakes are higher than normal because there’s a packed audience of fellow wrestlers watching, critiquing, urging on the boys from ringside. Brad is the it-boy. He’s tanned and phenomenally toned. Fans have been popping their corks uncontrollably for the past year since Brad debuted at BG East. Patrick has been racking up loss after loss, each one seeming to inspire yet a longer line of prospective opponents who want to dig their fingertips into his luscious pecs and make the pretty boy scream. There’s some sweet back and forth to start the match.  Patrick is no pushover. But Brad folds baby cakes up like a peanut butter sandwich, pinning Patrick’s shoulders with his noggin nestled nice and tight between Brad’s muscled thighs.  Someone eagerly urges Brad to make him squeal.  Brad takes the first fall to the applause of his peers, giving the jobber a light slap in the face somewhere between playful and insulting.  The fan favorite babyface rising looks like he’s got the jobber’s sweet ass tied up in a bow.

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Dazzling babyface totally humiliated by a “jobber.”

And then suddenly Patrick pounces.  The lean, handsome stud with mouthwatering pecs flips over his opponent, folding Brad up in the very same, humiliating hold he was just submitted to.  Patrick is raging, punching Brad’s ass, calling the jock stud a pussy.  There’s laughter from the audience, as it starts to sink in that it-boy Brad Rochelle is currently getting his fantastic ass beat bad. Patrick refuses to relent until Brad is tapping, yelling out his humiliated submission. The boys ringside can hardly believe it, as Patrick pumps his fist in the air and then strolls over to take a seat on the top turnbuckle, soaking in the sight of Brad flat on is back in a pool of sweat, nursing his abused shoulder.

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Just because he can.

What happens next? Fuck, I love that suspense. As it turns out, Brad opens up a can of testosterone fueled, face-saving whoop ass to what climaxes to a standing ovation from the hooting audience. He’s working out a little rage at being publicly humiliated. He’s gratuitously brutal, egged on by his bruised ego and the cheers of the audience. Patrick is laid waste, and Brad hoists pec boy across he shoulders and jogs around the ring as the boys at ringside go wild.  Brad’s face beams, feeling the victory deep down. He laughs at his total mastery, his complete ownership of the hot punk who a few minutes ago was calling him a pussy and punching him in the ass.  Shimmering in sweat, flexed, magnificently victorious, he takes another lap just because the moment is so fucking sweet he needs to savor it.

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The face of total victory.

I don’t think I’ve ever seen a more titillating victory lap. But I typically love one when I see it. It’s less compelling for me in a squash. When a boy’s been owned from start to finish, there’s less plot, less resolution of homoerotic wrestling tension wrapped up in a victory lap.  But yeah, when all is said and done, it’s definitely value added for me to see a winner just fuck with his battered prey. Just because he can.  Just because it feels good to demonstrate that he can do whatever the fuck he wants with all that potential, all that bluster and posing and prospective danger wrapped up in the muscled beauty beaten and now at his mercy.

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Brad relished the victory lap again against muscle hunk Billyboy.
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…and yet again in his legendary heel turn all over gorgeous Alexi Adamov.
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However, The Enforcer demonstrated this truism to Brad: karma is a bitch.
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Blue Rage dishes out the punishment and the victory lap humiliation all over Bad Dog.
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Cole Cassidy takes a leisurely stroll with Rob Berlin completely done.
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Dom the Dominator enjoys the feel of smart ass Rolando hanging helpless as he takes a lap.
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Pausing from a victory lap, Shane Styles lets Brendan Byers see what complete humiliation looks like up close.
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Jake Jenkins gets a kick out of parading Eli Black around the ring with Eli’s partner impotently watching on from his corner.
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Nik Knox and Shane Layne can’t stop congratulating each other as they take tandem victory laps in their tag team beat down of Cameron Matthews and Paul Hudson.
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Austin Cooper drove home the point that he’s the king of the ring by taking a victory lap with newbie Adam Atom.

Homoerotic Wrestler of the Month

I was on the road about half of July, but I still managed to squeeze in some viewing time. I didn’t come close to making it through Jose’s exhaustive list of every homoerotic wrestling new release in the month, but that’s not unusual. My homoerotic wrestler of the month title has less to do with an objective sampling of the entire catalog than it does with what wrestler, who I managed to watch, turned me on most. So this month the title was decisively won, but in an unconventional manner. Practically slapping me in the face with his claim to the title, July’s homoerotic wrestler of the month is…

Ty

Ty Alexander.

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Ty cops a feel of Jonny’s big, beautiful muscles.

Ty just barely squeezed in under the wire with his Custom Combat bashing at the hands of Jonny Firestorm on Jonny’s pay site, Club Firestorm. The match was released for a limited time for Club members on the last day of the month. Like Jonny’s Custom Combat match against (steamrolling over) Drake Marcos on BG East, Ty was treated to what must have amounted to about 15 hours of video recording to come up with over an hour and a half of choose-your-own-adventure style wrestling narrative, bashed, thrashed and tenderized in such a way that you, the viewer, can order up your favorite dish of destruction, then come back to the buffet for an entirely different encore meal moments later. The jobber extraordinaire is pressed to, and then beyond, the edges of sanity and consciousness again and again, striking a fabulous chord paired with one of the most accomplished and technically masterful heels in the business.

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Sometimes Ty’s agony looks suspiciously much like orgasm to me.

Strip wrestling always has a spot in my heart, so beautifully vulnerable Ty getting ripped out of one gear to the next, each one skimpier than the last, is lush. The kid screams like a lamb heading to slaughter, which, frankly, is just barely a metaphor. You have to wonder if the jobber boy bit off more than he can chew partway through. Sure, Ty has been campaigning to be resident top jobber with a fierceness I don’t think I’ve ever seen before. He’s tightening up his baby smooth body, sucking down more and more punishment, getting picked apart again and again (in this case, repeatedly in the same product), and then climbing back up to his chair at the big boy table and demanding another heaping helping of corporal punishment. There’s that motif of the jobber who is such an obsessive masochist that the only question is whether his body is capable of surviving the level of torture that his mind and soul lust for. Yeah, that’s Ty.

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Ty is right where Jonny wants him.

And Ty looks so good doing it. Jonny’s face squeezed tightly between Ty’s thighs as he positions the jobber for a spine tingling piledriver gives us (and, obviously, Jonny) a fabulous view of Ty’s pride and joy bubble butt. Sleepered, slammed, submitted again and again, this is a marathon for Ty (though probably, if we’re honest, a dozen or more sprints to the finish for you and me).

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Jonny works Ty’s every last vulnerability. And there are a lot of those.

But here’s the thing, Ty worked me hardest in July not just because of his July 31 Custom Combat release on Club Firestorm. No, behind the scenes, Ty has been reaching out to let me know, in no uncertain terms, that he believes he’s long overdue to have earned the homoerotic wrestler of the month title. Like, half a dozen or more times Ty has chatted me up about this in recent weeks.  He’s plied me with photos documenting his fitness progress. He’s demanded the title be his. He’s pleaded. He’s threatened. Then he’s pleaded again.

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Ty has a firm handle on how to make a persuasive case.

And somewhere along the line it occurred to me, this is fucking turning me on! And as I just mentioned, that’s the raison d’etre of the homoerotic wrestler of the month title. It was a little surprising to me the first time I came across confirmation that a homoerotic wrestling infatuation of mine not only read my words, but was pleased by them. It’s only a certain slice of homoerotic wrestlers who read reviews of their matches, I realize. And I certainly don’t begrudge a hot slice of beef with better things to do than track the confessions of this particular fanboy. But yeah, there’s an undeniable ego stroke that comes from a wrestler starring on my screen one day and commenting on my review the next. Perhaps it’s a deep character flaw of mine that it’s not just my ego that gets stroked when a handsome stud sends me back even a small fraction of the love I toss his way.

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Ty offered me this Ty’s-eye view of his bronzed bod oiled up and soaking in the sun.

Ty isn’t the first wrestler to campaign for some attention, but he is, without a doubt, the most vociferous. He teases me with near naked selfies and gear fetish pics. He taunts me, shoving that round bubble butt in my face, flashing his come-hither blue steel, showing off his hardening core. He dangles little treats just out of my reach, like telling me he’s just wrestled a private match with some other favorite infatuation of mine, but refusing to tell me who it is.

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What do you think of this, Bard?

I have a strong feeling I’m not the first to get played by adorable young Ty. And I mean no disrespect by that. I’m more than willing to follow a silky smooth babyface jobber with a bodacious bubble butt and an all over tan who lassos me by the cock. There’s something particularly tantalizing about a lithe, limber jobber who runs headlong into walls of muscle like Jonny Firestorm, and then turns around and slaps down a charm offensive on “his media” to wring out every ounce of applause and adoration he richly deserves. No, he may look like a barely legal lamb, but that cocky charm, those titillating teases and taunts, that shake of the ass and heavy lidded smirk are professional class. I have no doubt I’m just joining the back of the line that wraps around the corner, populated by appreciative gay men who’ve willingly been cornered by seductive wiles of Ty Alexander.

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Speaking of being sensationally cornered…

For those readers who bitch that my opinions have been biased, that I’m showing favoritism, that clearly I’ve been swayed by Ty’s persistent campaigning behind-the-scenes… uh, yeah.  The pages of this blog are devoted entirely and unabashedly to my favorites and my biases And fuck, yes, I’m more than happy to welcome back door campaigning from any enthusiastic wrestler pushing his brand and demonstrating that he knows how to grab me by the balls off camera as effectively as he does on camera.

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21st Century-style homoerotic wrestling self-promotion at it’s finest.

In fact, I’m doing a little campaigning myself to encourage wrestlers and producers to toy with that fourth wall, to bring those characters we crave off the screen and at least give the impression of interacting with their adoring fans. Because, honestly, I’m starting to seriously prioritize the wrestling that acknowledges those of us fueling this homoerotic economy. I’m no longer just counting it as bonus when wrestlers mention their fans in their matches, when they openly acknowledge knowing, and appreciating, what it is about them that makes us line up and pull out our… wallets. No, that’s not just value added for me any longer. I’m also actively docking points from those wrestling products that offer nothing but subtext to acknowledge their audience, who seem reluctant to even imply that they know that the wrestling they produce and star in is the stuff of erotic fantasies turning on the vast majority of their audience composed of gay men with a wrestling fetish.

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Obviously, it isn’t only what happens outside the ring that matters.

I hope that Ty Alexander is a glimpse of things to come, when homoerotic wrestling turns increasingly social media-forward, increasingly committed to engage their gay audience in the erotic fantasy that, for god’s sakes, we all know is fueling our attentive gaze. I saw a lot of beefcake on the mats last month. I watched hot muscleboys flexing and grunting and squeezing in ways that I truly enjoy. I saw a lot of men ripped right of my erotic fantasies, squeezed into suction packed trunks, getting crushed and clawed and slammed and stomped. And fuck, yes, that’s all sensationally satisfying stuff that holds my attention. But nobody came close to turning me on, winding me up, and igniting my erotic imagination in July like Ty Alexander.

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July 2015 Homoerotic Wrestler of the Month – Ty Alexander

Enjoying Your Work

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Kid Vicious has a thing or two to show you.

I know few fans who spend nearly as much time as I do trying to put into words what it is that is so compelling about homoerotic wrestling. There’s something to be said for just experiencing the moment, not trying to analyze and categorize it. But for good or ill, I tend to spend a ton of time in my head, and I just have to marvel at the place wrestling holds in my homoerotic fantasies.

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Kid Vicious wants to be no where else in this moment.

Ironically, I think that an essential quality of the very best homoerotic wrestling is, for lack of a better word, “presence.” That is, I always dock a wrestler a few points for overthinking, for telegraphing he self-consciousness, for failing to sell me on his singular focus on this moment, this man facing him, this battle of bodies and egos and desires. I’ve bitched about wrestlers not quite hitting this mark often. But I’m working on bitching less, so let me focus on a wrestler who I think is one of the absolute best, perhaps the best, at possessing the moment with complete, all-in, entirely focused presence: Kid Vicious.

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The consummation of everything an over-the-knee backbreaker should be

Doing a quick review of my archives, I find that I’ve not really devoted an entire post to Kid Vicious, though he’s one of the most frequently mentioned wrestlers here at neverland. The word “master” and its derivations seem to be the most common description in my reflections on KV.  I’ve called him the master of the OTK, because no one exploits the total vulnerability and self-serve sampling of an opponent’s crotch locked up tight in an OTK quite like him.  I once dubbed him the master of the maneuver of an offensive liplock, with the apparent power to suck the will right out of an opponent and leave him in a pool of total erotic submission at his feet.

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Ken Canada learned the hard way how much Kid Vicious enjoys ripping jobbers apart.

Obviously, I’m not the only one who recognizes Kid Vicious as iconic in the world of homoerotic wrestling. I I asked Ken Canada to reminisce about some of the wrestling icons he faced in the ring, Kid Vicious was the first name off his lips. Then it was my interview with Shane McCall that really got me thinking about what it is that KV does so, so right. Shane remembered several devastating private training sessions he experienced at the hands of Kid Vicious (what I wouldn’t pay to be a fly on that wall!). In addition to learning from the best how to brutally crush and humiliate an opponent, Shane reflected on more metaphysical aspects of homoerotic wrestling he learned from KV. He summarized Kid Vicious’ heel philosophy as, “if you are not enjoying every moment tearing a jobber apart piece by piece then your fans are not going to enjoy watching it.”

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Kid Vicious shows Shane McCall what it means to enjoy brutalizing an opponent.

That gets me most of the way to what it is that makes me such a Kid Vicious fan. I enjoy watching him wrestle so much in large part because he so clearly enjoys his work. I believe him when he smiles with delight as a hot hunk is crumbling before him. It isn’t just that he smiles at all the right times, but that he inhabits each moment with an emotional authenticity that I can’t help but be captivated by. He growls and snarls at the same time his magnificent cock swells, leaving no doubt when a particular moment, a specific hold, a singular whimper or spasm of pain from his opponent is turning him on. His Billy Idol lip curl makes me weak in the knees for all of its self-congratulatory cockiness and hunger with just the right sprinkling of amusement at how far his opponent is about to fall. But yeah, it’s that smile the probably testifies most directly to the truth in Shane’s words: Kid Vicious makes me enjoy watching him tear his opponents apart because he, so clearly, enjoys every moment of tearing his opponents apart. Piece by throbbing piece.

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Speaking of magnificent, throbbing pieces…

At the top of my list of blogging frustrations is never (yet) getting an interview with Kid Vicious. I did get to meet him when I made my pilgrimage to BG East a few years ago.  After picking my jaw up off the floor and wiping away the drool from my lips, I got to talk for quite a while with him, but it wasn’t exactly an interview. And that was one of those rare moments when the present was just too overwhelming for me to analyze and categories and take notes to remember in order to report later. In follow up correspondence, I did get him to agree to an interview sometime.  Sometime.

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Kid Vicious fucking loves this!!!

In the mean time, I hope we see more of the iconic homoerotic heel in the ring soon. And I hope that a lot of the sexy, young slices of beef strutting and preening their way into homoerotic wrestling matches today take a few notes from the master about enjoying your wrestling matches, taking pleasure in your opponents, and turning off the “am I doing this right” inner monologue long enough just be in that fucking ring with that hot opponent trying to conquer you.

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Like me, Kid Vicious left Liam Ryan slack jawed . 
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Kid Vicious’ pleasure in ripping up Jimmy Clarke in Motel Madness 3 is newly available for rent in BG East’s Arena.
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Watching Joe Driver’s pendulous package quiver and shimmy brought out the delightfully vicious in KV.
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Not sure if Kid Vicious ever looked better than glistening under the lights and taking so much pleasure in destroying Lobolito.

The Big Bad Wolf is Back

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The Big, Bad Wolf

Having documented my instant infatuation with Thunder’s Arena’s newbie sensation Wolf, I ponied up for a second helping of the big slab of beefcake. Testing the theory that two great tastes taste great together, I settled on what appears to be Wolf’s debut match, staring down Thunder’s current It-Boy, June’s Homoerotic Wrestler of the Month, smooth, seductive, sexy Marco.

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Marco stares at Wolf’s crotch, and, I believe, Wolf’s crotch stares back.

Rough & Ready 59 is classic Thunder’s Arena mat wrestling. Wolf is awe inspiring in nothing but those outstandingly over-stretched baby blue and white trunks that never quite successfully manage to cover the muscled expanse of his ass cheeks. Marco is packed tightly inside his lime green and dark blue very briefs and also wearing black wrestling boots. Visually the two are a stunning study in contrasts.  Wolf is 5’11” and listed at 225 pounds, all muscle. Marco is 5’8″ and weighing in a much more mortal 180 pounds, similarly all muscle, just leaner, less massive.  Wolf is groomed just like I like him, his torso and traps covered in tastefully, but not aggressively trimmed hair, whereas Marco is lickably smooth. Wolf has a full, sexy beard unable to disguise an adorably baby face and tantalizing lips. Marco has a few whispy whiskers on the tip of his chin, looking like I did when I was 15 and working on coaxing my peach fuzz into a manly need for a razor. The side by side has already written a fantastic homoerotic wrestling narrative before the boys even lock up. Now, if only they can pull it off…

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“I bet your boyfriend lays his penis right here.”

Marco brings his fearless homoerotic trash talk and slaps it down instantly, calling out what you and I have been entranced by from the start, Wolf’s “big hairy tits here.” He even cups the low hanging meat playfully, suggesting that Wolf’s genetics give him almost feminine proportions. Noting the astonishing separation between Wolf’s hairy pecs, Marco presses the side of his hand between them. “I bet your boyfriend lays his penis right there,” he says. He tauntingly wonders out loud if the big rookie has a vagina. Misogyny and mention of the female anatomy can throw cold water on a steamy set up for me, but the supposition is so patently ridiculous, it merely serves to call my attention to Wolf’s pouch. You can see the outline of the head of his cock, stretching to the right like it’s eager to make contact with the gorgeous young pup paying so much attention to Wolf’s bod.

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Marco is man enough to pay some attention to his opponent’s magnificent physique.

It’s that explicit attention paid to his opponent’s clearly impressive body that makes Marco such a sensational storyteller on the homoerotic wrestling mats. If he’d tried to ignore this magnificent specimen of muscle in front of him, if he’d not mentioned Wolf’s remarkable pecs, his stunning overall fitness and mass, this would turn the burner on low like so many homoerotic wrestling matches do. But Marco is always so fucking secure in his own masculinity, so pleased with his own awesomely aesthetic proportions, he doesn’t give up an ounce of raw sexiness to pay abundant attention to his opponent’s physique.

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Wolf looks like he likes what he sees.

Now here’s where rookies far too often drop the ball. Marco calls him out for having a boyfriend (let’s call it an involuntary outing rather than a homophobic locker room taunt, because there’s a lot more obvious homophobic crap in the industry than this). He draws attention to the rookie’s pecs, fondling them even. He speculates about what the newbie is packing in his trunks. So many rookies just can’t handle that heat. It unsettles them. They act insulted, threatened, turn the narrative to having to defend their masculinity from the homoerotic implications. But fuck yes, Wolf just smiles like he’s eating this shit up. Far from needing to turn to violence in the face of the erotic subtext, I get the impression that the big man just can’t wait to get his paws all over the young pup poking him with a stick. There’s a lot more eagerness than defensiveness, more hunger than anger about the rookie’s response. He’s game, goddamnit! I fucking love this guy!

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“You like that, boy!?”

The rookie suddenly grabs hold of his opponent and drives three solid, swift knees to the pretty pup’s gut. He throws the veteran babyface to the mat, and with Marco lying vulnerably on his stomach, the big bad Wolf straddles the kid’s tiny waist and applies a nasty arm bar.  “You like that boy?” he asks, shoving the kid’s face into the mat. Holy fuck, I’m already pushing pausing and rehydrating!

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Marco dangles his meat in front of the hungry Wolf.

The narrative is one of a middleweight, very dangerous amateur pro with a ton of homoerotic pro experience putting his speed and technique up against the jaw dropping mass and power of an inexperienced rookie. Happily for me, this is not a squash by any definition. The boys trade riding time. Marco luxuriates in shoving his balls in the rookie’s face in a gorgeous schoolboy pin, but the newbie puts in the time to work his way free and return the favor, delighting in demanding to know how his crotch smells after skipping last night’s shower. “That’s right,” the rookie crows with a grin stretching ear to ear, “the big bad Wolf is going to put that in your face!” He tugs at the top of his own trunks, like he’s just barely restraining himself from yanking out his cock and dick-whipping Marco’s beautiful, trapped face. Absolutely, Marco controls the pace overall, but there’s an impressive sell from the rookie using his mouthwatering, grade A beef to muscle the kid into some sweetly vulnerable positions.

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“That’s right, the big, bad Wolf is going to put that in your face!”

When you’ve got a 45 pound weight advantage, clearly one of the most effective offensive tacts to take is to just fucking sit on your opponent. Again, showing the newbie’s got an impressive presence of mind, he does this often. After one sexy scramble of limbs, Wolf finds himself sitting on Marco’s lower back, facing the kid’s feet. Marco tries to squirm free, but Wolf wisely lets gravity do the work for him, leaving him plenty of time for the rookie to play bongos on the kid’s gorgeous ass. He laughs with pleasure that seems to be less about being a sadistic fuck, and more about an honest, raw delight in the opportunity to take liberties with the power packed muscle kid.

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“Mmmm, you like that, don’t you?”

There’s a second narrative, a sub-plot, if you will, that starts to change the tenor of the match about halfway through. The big, hairy, muscle beast of a rookie seems more and more hungry to take possession of his opponent’s hotly muscled young body. Personally, I think this is the perfect response to Marco’s opening homoerotic head games. He stokes the beast with talk of impressive muscles and speculating about what’s stuffed inside those trunks, and after a while of trading intimate holds, grinding muscles together, shoving each other’s faces in crotches, the big bad Wolf is licking his lips. At one point he has Marco trapped between his legs, the muscle kid’s ripped abs stretched backward, his pouch bulging beautifully. Wolf murmurs, as if startled to realize how erotic a wrestling match can turn, “Mmmmm, you like that, don’t you!?”

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“Look at that ass right there.”

A little later, he’s got Marco trapped in kneeling head scissors. The kid grunts and squirms, but have you seen those fucking massive thighs? He’s not going anywhere. Wolf stares down at the kid’s body with that look of hungry pleasure. “Mmmmmm,” he coos, “look at that ass right there!” Of course we’re looking at that ass, but more importantly, so is Wolf!

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“Yeah, I gotcha now!”

He flips Marco on his back and, I kid you not, sits that magnificently muscled ass squarely atop the kid’s trapped, sensationally smothered face. The plot could be all about dominance, which is of course a favorite narrative of ours. This moment could be punctuated with withering taunts about what a weak piece of shit the veteran is, so helplessly stuck in such a humiliating predicament. But Wolf stretches his hands forward and tells a totally different, 100% homoerotic tale, beginning to eagerly stroke Marco’s six-pack abs. “Yeah, I gotcha now,” he coos, his eyes following his hands as they stretch down to Marco’s thighs, squeezing, stroking, and then gently cupping the kid’s pouch.

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“Look at these fucking muscles right here. I like these!”

I’m not sure if Marco saw this coming. Remembering how much attention Marco paid earlier, the rookie smothers his face for days between those epic, hairy pecs. Near the end of the match, standing in the middle of the mats, Wolf takes advantage of controlling the kid from behind. Someone more focused on the competition might have sealed the deal then and there with a big, bulging bicep pressed across the kid’s carotid artery. But between Marco’s homoerotic taunts and the intoxicating elixir of sweaty muscles and adrenaline, Wolf just strums his finger tips down his opponent’s washboard abs. “Look at these fucking muscles right here,” he murmurs like it’s pillow talk, brushing his palm across Marco’s pouch again and feeling the kid’s strong upper quads. “I like these!” he announces unnecessarily. He kneads Marco’s sweet pecs in his big hands, playfully pinching the kid’s magnificent nipples. “Yeah, you like that?” Marco replies a little breathlessly.

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Marco puts down the big, bad Wolf.

The end of this story is abrupt and a little jarring. Wolf gets sleepered out cold (sort of), and Marco stomps off leaving all of the homoerotic tension just lying there. I’m left wondering if all of Marco’s infamous security in his own sexuality and masculinity may have been tested farther than he’s been tested before. He didn’t have nearly the sweet, game retort he typically has. He just puts the beast down and walks away.

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Marco flexes over his prey.

Kudos to both of these studs. They not only lived up to the hype and promise, they far exceeded it. Particularly the big bad Wolf brought something that I’m just unaccustomed to seeing on the Thunder’s Arena mat. If there’s any justice in this world, wrestling producers will be relently throwing sensationally hot pretty boys at this gorgeous, hairy beast, feeding his obvious hunger to explore just how erotic wrestling can be.

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Who’s next!!!?

Sense8tional

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Sense8 is a feast for the eyes.

I recently binge-watched the Netflix series Sense8.  I echo Superherofans’ judgment that it’s the hottest show of the year. It was the most effective antidote to the empty hole that the end of True Blood left in me. In fact, the award I once wanted to give True Blood for best cast beefcake may need to get ripped from Ryan Kwanten & Joe Manganiello’s hands and bestowed upon Sense8.  I’m a sci-fi nerd from way back, so the marriage of beefcake, eroticism, and sci-fi strokes me from nearly every direction.  I know Sense8 is particularly fantastic because from scene to scene I keep changing my mind as to which gorgeous hunk is my favorite.  The only thing that would turn this series into a full blown inferno would be some homoerotic wrestling.  I almost wrote “naked homoerotic wrestling,” but I don’t think that additional qualifier is really necessary with Sense8.  So much fabulous, on point, R-rated nudity in this show!  I’m about to spoil the fuck out of this show, so be warned if you haven’t watched it.

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Alfonso Herrera (l) and Miguel Angel Silvestre (r) are now my favorite fictional couple of all time.

If there were a show stopper, I think it would have to be Miguel Angel Silvestre. He’s supposed to be the sexpot of the crew. He’s playing the steamy telenovela hypermasculine hunk turned mindblowingly hot for being partnered on the side with sizzlingly sexy Alfonso Herrera.  When Silvestre undresses in episode 2, prior to climbing into bed to get it on with his nerd hunk lover, I have a similar reaction to watching Manganiello strip naked in TB. Unlike Mangeniello’s character, though, Silvestre’s storyline treats us to watching Herrera slide his hand down the showstopper’s underwear and latching hold of the Monte Perdido beneath.  In a super sexy, over the top unself-conscious way, Silvestre’s wildly sexy lap dance for Herrera, just prior to them getting naked and fucking like porn stars, is a whole level of hotness that TB never approached. Regular readers know my fondest fantasy for tag team partner lovers, so sign these two up to strip to skin tight trunks and climb in the ring together.

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Brian J. Smith’s pecs completely disorient me.

Just when I’m feeling torn between who I’m most infatuated with, Silvestre or Herrera, the scene shifts to Brian J. Smith’s storyline, and my crotch instantly aches for some whiteboy next door hunkiness.  Fuck, this guy is phenomenally beautiful! You could cut diamonds on this cheekbones, and I’d entertain myself for days with a pint of honey and those luscious pecs.  So I get completely sold on Smith as the it-boy of the show, craving more screen time for him, more skin, more everything, then…

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Dazzlingly hot Max Riemelt makes jaws drop on screen and off.

…Max Riemelt takes over the script, and I’m dizzy and disoriented by his gorgeous face. And then they pan back and give us some shots of his sweaty ass pumping in the air as he fucks (a woman, ignore that), and then they linger long over his naked body swimming across a pool, and then he climbs out and there’s a close up full frontal of his cock and balls (because, in all seriousness, this is entirely part of the plot).  And I’m struggling to remember what the other hunks in the show look like, as I’m delirious with lust.

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Never has a finer Schwanz been so integral to the plot of a television show.

So those are the headliners steaming up my glasses. The other male main character, played by Aml Ameen, is cast as an oddly naive, asexual character in comparison with the others. He’s adorable as fuck, but without seeing more skin or getting hand fed some hot erotic content for him, he’s totally benched thus far in the homoerotic wrestling inspiration (here’s hoping for a season 2, though).

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Raul Mendez is a sensational heel. Take a little private time to watch his fight scene with Miguel Angel Silvestre in episode 10.

There are some additional hot hunks as secondary players deserving of mention and a place in a homoerotic wrestling throw down. Raul Mendez plays a fabulously written character crying out to be a pro wrestling heel as far as I’m concerned.  He’s fucking insane, sadistic, vile, and he’s got a rocking, ripped body. Mendez is the type of heel character that would make grown men quiver. Think Kid Vicious. Fuck, think Kid Leopard with a side of barely-holding-it-together psychopathy. Fuck yes, suit this guy up for the big leagues!

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Kai Fung Reick isn’t above cheating.

Another all too brief bit player shows up early as an MMA opponent for one of the female leads.  Kai Fung Rieck is the actor. His pro wrestling character is basically already written, because in his MMA bout on screen, he’s a vile, vicious, cheating mother fucker with a ripped bod and calculated blood lust. When he’s moments from being forced to tap out in an armbar, no shit, his character bites his opponent’s leg.  High impact, super fast, and did I mention ripped, ripped, ripped?

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The only thing that turns Herrera and Silvestre on more than each other’s bodies is tag teaming the fuck out of a couple of cheating heels.

With my principal infatuations in this cast, there are plenty hunks for a 3-way tag-team double elimination round robin in my imagination.  To start the competition, Silvestre and Herrera outmuscle heel daddies Mendez and Kai, but the vicious badboys put a major hurt on Herrera along the way. Double teaming, low blows, they’ve got the Latino heart throbs rocking until Silvestre finally manages to tag in and open up a can of whoop ass. He’s got balls of granite, so the heels lose their mojo when their ball jabs fail to make a dent.  They go down in side by side cock pins in the middle of the ring. Seriously pissed at the foul treatment, Herrera and Silvestre make them suck cock while the lovers make out over top of them.

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Sensationally sexy Silvestre flat on his back, clutching his balls.

Match 2, it’s Silvestre and Herrera facing down Riemelt and Smith. The German-American connection is a mixed bag, with Riemelt a horny heel and Smith playing babyface hero. High impact, high flying wrestling from both sides, though Smith gets outmuscled and isolated. But Riemelt doesn’t bother to wait for a legal tag, dropping Herrera with a kick to the balls and bulldogging Silvestre into a pool of helplessness. Determined to bust those granite balls, the German stomps them relentlessly until Silvestre screams and pleads for mercy. Just to keep things above board, Riemelt drags his partner’s hotly muscled, wasted body across the ring and on top of Silvestre for the 3 count victory.

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Riemelt for the pin!

Match 3, and the heel B-listers are fighting to stay in the competition taking on Riemelt and Smith. The heel daddies pick Riemelt as the linchpin, so they isolate the German and bash the fuck out of him, trapping him in their own corner, leaving Smith helplessly watching from across the ring. Kai rips the trunks off of the blond bomber, because that ass and that cock are so fucking notorious at this point. Mendez holds him in place while Kai drives knees repeatedly into the German’s gut. It’s looking ugly, until Smith proves he’s not such a Boy Scout after all, charging across the ring illegally and German suplexing the Korean heel. The heel daddies pounce all over Smith’s hot body, but giving Reimelt time to recover is their fatal mistake. Smith holds his own until his partner joins the melee, knocking Kai out cold in a figure-4 sleeper while dropping Mendez to his knees with a ball claw submission. The German-American team heats up the place with a tandem jack-off across the losers, sending them home wasted, sticky and humiliated.

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Smith cannot handle the sexy!

Match 4 sees Herrera and Silvestre facing possible elimination against the unbeaten juggernauts Riemelt and Smith. The German-American team has wasted these boys once already, so momentum is on their side. Herrera and Silvestre have to beat them twice in a row to avoid elimination and take the crown. Herrera presses the advantage first, targeting Riemelt’s balls for revenge. Both teams tag in and out frequently, but it’s the face off of Smith and Silvestre that becomes decisive. Smith works the Spaniard’s lower back in a powerful bearhug, but when Silvestre grabs the back of his tormentor’s head and smother’s Smith’s face between his huge, hairy pecs, Smith gets disoriented and clearly aroused. Silvestre powerslams the stud several times, pounding his big, beautiful muscles relentlessly into his fading opponent. When Riemelt ducks through the ropes to interfere, Herrera is on him this time, dropping the German with a knee to the balls and tossing him out of the ring. Flat on his back in the middle of the ring, Smith screams a submission to Silvestre’s ball claw with the stunningly handsome hunk’s lips hovering just overhead.

There’s one last match to be wrestled. Both teams have lost one to each other. Silvestre and Herrera have the momentum, but winning two in a row is a tall order. Exactly how does this play out?  Let me know what you see happening next by commenting below. And keep in mind these guys are no strangers to full out orgies (see episode 6 again, and again, and again…).

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Herrera (l) and Silvestre (r) bump and grind!
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Sense8 leaves little to the imagination. But you and I are up to the challenge.
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All in.

Squash Me Just Right

Despite my explicit preference for homoerotic wrestling fare with an element of competitive suspense about it, I’ve been finding myself watching, and enjoying, quite a number of one-sided matches lately. The “squash” is a particular subgenre that I can enjoy, but, like I’ve said, I tend to prefer to see more give and take, more narrative suspense. So it’s interesting to find myself sitting in front of a whole lot of lopsided squashes. Sampling more than my typical diet of them, I’ve been reflecting on what almost always does work for me in a squash, what can but doesn’t always work, and what almost never works for me in a squash.

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Morgan squashes Joey in Back Buster 5.

First, what almost always works for me is seeing a dominant pitcher deeply delighted by the feel of mastering his opponent. This is what I’m talking about when I prattle on about “owning,” when one wrestler doesn’t just beat the other, doesn’t just make him tap out or submit, but takes visceral pleasure in controlling an outmatched contender.  Obviously, the absence of this element can make a squash a bore for me. The squash where the dominant stud seems thoroughly dismissive, so out of his opponent’s league that he can barely be bothered to pay attention to the suffering he’s causing, tends to disappoint me. I’ll feast for days off of a viscious, dominant heel who obliterates an opponent in a landslide and convinces me, one way or another, that he could very well need to rub one out soon before or soon after the camera’s are turned off, because he’s just too damned turned on. Frankly, this doesn’t even need to be entirely about sexual tension. I’m less interested in whether the winner wants to fuck his opponent’s ass in victory than I am in whether the experience of conquering, controlling, and possessing an outmatched opponent in and of itself seems capable of giving the winner erotic pleasure.  Whether he cums all over the catcher’s face on camera, or just leaves me believing that he needs a little “alone time” in the locker room to pound one out on his own, I’m buying it, if he’s selling it.

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Kid Vicious owns opponents just right, every time.

A lot of examples come to mind. Most of Kid Vicious’ catalog falls neatly into this category. If KV doesn’t bust a load all over a lamb-to-the-slaughter opponent, I feel 99% certainty that he took care of it soon afterward.  He always looks to me like he’s mentally getting off on destroying an opponent (the prettier, the harder). Kid Karisma taps this consistently as well.  His recent Undagear 23 match with reigning homoerotic wrestler of the month Marco Carlow is a perfect example. Kid K looks like he’s eating this squash up with a spoon, and when he rips Marco’s gear off, poses overtop of his fallen prey, and beats a hasty retreat from the mat room, I’m convinced it’s not just a hasty retreat he’s about to beat.  Jake Jenkins muscle mauling of it-boy Kip Sorrell in Backyard Brawls 8 is another specific example. I think of JJ as one of the most G-rated wrestlers on the scene, but his laughter, his luxuriating in Kip’s total destruction beneath him leads me to write the off camera script that has JJ needing a moment to himself to celebrate beating the living fuck out of that ridiculously pretty pin-up boy.

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Kid Karisma glistens with delight as he crushes Marco’s every luscious muscle.

There are other elements of a squash that can, but don’t always, work for me. A predator who plays with his food, for example, can sometimes turn me on, other times no. I’ve written my appreciation for trash talking taunts in the wrestling ring for ages, but in a squash, withering derision can seem more like dickishness than homoerotic tension. Personally, I find taunts more erotically provocative when the battle is close, when there’s suspense as to whose brash boasts will be born out as true, and who will be humiliated in regrets for winding up his betters with checks he couldn’t cash. In a squash, taunting trash talk and verbal humiliation are tricky for me. Sometimes I’m stoked hotter. Somtimes not.  Cathweight squash scenarios also can go either way for me.  When the opponents are so clearly, ridiculously mismatched in size, a big-beats-little squash can sometimes work for me in a big way, but at other times leave me a little bored with what turns out to be the forgone conclusion.  Competitive catchweight matches or, even, little-beats-big squashes typically float my boat big time, all else considered, but it’s a touchy thing if it’s a big-beats-little squash from the start.

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Guido walks the line muscle bullying baby-babyface Kirk Donahue.

Guido Genatto’s matches teeter back and forth with me around some of these coin toss elements. He won’t relent in physical or emotional abuse until an opponent is a pool of sweat and tears, sometimes just this side of the line for turning me on, sometimes just the other. For the big beats little squash dilemma, big Joe Robbins similarly sometimes comes up heads, sometimes tails.

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Big Joe Robbins is a big-beats-little Catch Weight veteran.

Finally, it’s a little hard to put my finger on precisely the element that almost never works for me in a squash. I know it by how I feel, rather than by the specific content of the wrestling.  When I’m left genuinely feeling sorry for the loser, when I have this impulse to call the principal’s office and report an incident of homophobic bullying in the halls, then I’m totally not on board. When it’s so one sided and the dominant stud is heaping on misogynistic insults, questioning the battered boy’s masculinity, then it touches a nerve that makes it hard to stay in the mood for. There’s a particular stripe of sadism that’s more sociopathic than homoerotic, that delights in inflicting suffering but seems more likely to end in the winner pissing on the loser than cumming across him.  That schtick is not in  my wheelhouse (no judgment implied, though if it is in yours).

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Ethan beats Jayden in the first 3 minutes, then just taunts and tortures the pretty kid for 15 more.

My most recent experience with this is the third match in Undagear 23, in which Ethan Axel Andrews fucking brutalizes delicately gorgeous Jayden Mayne. I’m not just saying this because Jayden charmed the pants off me in his interview here late last year, selling the living fuck out of being an earnest, ambitious babyface on the rise (though that, he did). And fuck, Ethan’s turned my crank more times than I can count. But then there’s this crime scene that unfolds in Undagear 23.  Ethan mauls Mr. Hollywood in such a way that I’m sort of hoping for someone on the camera crew to break this shit up. I’ve seen Ethan sell me over and over on his erotic delight in owning an opponent, but here, he just strikes me as a bully. He’s just mean, not because he’s getting off on it, or he cares if you’re getting off on it, or he secretely intends on stripping Jayden’s fine, fine ass bare and taking the spoils of victory with a Trojan on. He just comes across as enjoying hurting defenseless creatures, just because  he can. Call PETA. There’s a sicko who enjoys torturing puppies!

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Ethan just keeps fucking the kid over.

Now, I’m 100% certain that there are plenty of homoerotic wrestling fans for whom Ethan’s mugging of Jayden is pure gold.  Jayden is genuinely outmatched and outclassed from start to finish, and there’s an undeniable beauty in his spoiled masculine innocence. I’m not suggesting that anyone else does or should feel about it the way I do. I’m just musing, in my own little corner of the internet, about this thing that can take me a little by surprise: a homoerotic wrestling match that simply, essentially, fails to push my buttons. Squashes are just like that for me.

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Yes.

Sometimes they turn me on hard.

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Not as much.

Sometimes they don’t.

The Big, Bad Wolf

It’s been a while since I’ve settled in with a Thunder’s Arena match, but several promos and teasers from their new releases have been grabbing my attention hard. My first toe dipped back in the Thunder’s pool was sampling seriously big, beautiful, hairy Wolf.

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The Big, Bad Wolf – 5’11, 225 lbs.

“So this is the big bad wolf, right here,” Braden Charron checks out the rookie.  “That’s right,”  Wolf replies, just a little awkwardly, with just a slight tinge of stage fright in his voice. “You’ve got size. Some good definition,” Braden concedes. But the veteran muscle hunk is leaving so much more unsaid. Wolf is visually striking. Thunder’s promotes him as 5’11, 225 pounds. And those numbers, too, don’t come close to describing this handsome stud. The full beard, receding hairline, tastefully but not aggressively groomed body hair all over his torso, even a light coat across this bulging traps and upper back, place this rookie in the hyper-masculine end of the homoerotic wrestling pool.

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Wolf’s hands fondle his package as he checks out his preening prey.

His massive muscles do as well. His pecs are incredibly thick, meaty, and astonishingly separated. His armored core screams out for a load of laundry, and from behind, his back tapers gorgeously into a tiny waist placed aesthetically atop incredibly, massively, beautifully built glutes. Honestly, a hiker could get lost for days in those mountains! His thighs are proportionally thick and powerful, and then there’s the most prominent bulge of all, his cock and balls cinched up tight and pulled slightly away from this body by that particular style of pouch-accentuating square cut trunks. Delightfully, the rookie can’t seem to keep his hands off his protruding crotch. He seems somehow both slightly distracted by the push-up pouch and, at the same time, thrilled by it. He persistently gives it gentle tugs. He delicately cups his balls absent-mindedly in the middle of posing, wrestling, and even as he’s being sleepered out cold near the end of the match. Top to bottom, Wolf checks off all the boxes in a made-to-order fantasy man gladiator.

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The prettier a rookie is, the more he has to pay his dues. Hypermasculine Wolf is just pretty enough.

Braden has been a fixture in most corners of the homoerotic wrestling scene for what seems like a long time now. From his early days as a Randy Blue cam boy, Braden has come (and cum) a long way. These days, I’ve seen him most often cast as a seasoned, albeit narcissistic muscle pro who has picked up enough experience to be a serious competitor. Personally, I think I like him better as a dumbstruck physique star who can’t quite believe how easily his enthusiastic opponents take delighted possession of every inch of his mouthwatering body. In his Thunder TV confrontation with Wolf, Braden isn’t a heel, by any means. Through some rough scene cuts, he slowly ends up in the driver’s seat, though, muscle bullying the hypermasculine rookie with authority. He comes across to me a stern tutor, taking the inexperienced newbie to task relentlessly, doing his best to tip the scales of justice toward experience and beauty. An unwritten rule written in the pro wrestling stars is that pretty rookies must pay their dues. Hot, hairy, hunky Wolf is just pretty enough under all that hair to have to suck down some humbling from the veteran here.

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Wolf hungrily licks his lips, sliding into place to take the muscle boy from behind.

The star of the show for me, however, (other than Wolf’s phenomenally meaty ass) is the hairy rookie’s newborn homoerotic wrestling character. That initial awkwardness I sensed when Braden strolled onto the mat is quickly replaced by an aggressive, hungry, baby heel attitude that thrills me. As Braden condescendingly gives him muscle posing pointers, Wolf slides in from behind and locks on a luscious full nelson to interrupt the veteran’s lat spread. “You’re too slow!” the chuckling muscle rookie crows. “You’ve been around too long! It’s time for me to take care of the competition.”

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Wolf laughs heartily after using Braden’s balls for a punching bag.

Just to drive home the point that Wolf is a baby heel at birth, he delivers a completely unnecessary rake to his opponent’s eyes. He smirks and struts, happy as fuck to hear his bodybuilder opponent grunt and strain against the rookie’s bigger body. Wolf likes the hurt. He enjoys the control. He somehow swells bigger and badder as he swarms all over the smooth, beautiful veteran’s muscles. Thunder’s says there’s only 3 inches difference in height, but fuck it if the big, bad wolf doesn’t completely dwarf the gorgeous, muscled Ken doll under his spell.

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Wolf in charge.

A minute in, and I’m hooked on Wolf. Cockily, he lets his prey go and flexes his gargantuan guns, consciously turning his back on his dangerous opponent, confidently challenging the popular muscle boy to try to reach up (up, up) and just see if he has the height to cinch on a full nelson, the legitimate muscle to maintain the hold, the fucking balls to enter the fray again with this sensational newbie.

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Wolf likes the direct approach to countering a headlock: a swift, solid punch to the balls.

Like I said, Braden’s learned a few things in his years of getting his bubble butt beat. He slaps on a side headlock and cranks hard, dragging the rookie to his knees. He absolutely milks it, like he’s trying to squeeze a glass of orange juice out of Wolf’s skull. The veteran chides the newbie for celebrating too soon, for strutting too boldly, for sticking his dick out too far. And telegraphing absolutely nothing at all, Wolf jabs his fist hard into Braden’s low hanging balls!

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Something just looks so right about the Big Bad Wolf riding his screaming opponent’s muscled ass.

Oh, fuck, yes. The rookie doesn’t just trash talk, either. He narrates. “You gotta be careful,” he offers the veteran some unsolicited advice. “You got too comfortable,” he smirks.

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Braden shows off the show stopper.

I assume this match will be released in its entirety at some point, but what’s on Thunder’s TV cuts awkwardly to a bearhug challenge. More precisely, to Braden locking on a deep, hard bearhug on the hirsute hottie. Whatever the lack of choreography, I can see why this had to happen, and why the TV version quickly cuts to this hold: because Wolf’s ass is mind blowing!  Captured, suspended, his lower back slightly arched in agony, those sensational, massive mountains of gluteus muscle take my breath away.  As strong as Braden is, he clearly reaches exhaustion and flings the rookie to the mat.  A few seconds to catch his breath, though, and he scoops Wolf back up in his arms, the rook’s prominent pouch sandwiched tightly against Braden’s lower abs.

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That looks like just too much muscle man for you to manage there, Braden!

The remainder of the cut and paste clips are of Braden completely in control, Wolf with nothing left to offer even the most minimal defense. The rookie’s bulging muscles sweat and glint beneath his fur. I get the impression he’s meant to be a vision of cocky muscle made impotent, but even in utter defeat, I’m not quite buying it. Braden struggles to hoist the huge beast across his shoulders, and even as wide as Braden’s boulder shoulders are, Wolf just looks like too much man, too much muscle, just fucking too, too much for me to believe that he’s completely tagged and bagged.

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I can’t quite forgive Braden for closing his eyes.

Braden lifts the wasted newbie upside down, squeezing Wolf’s skull between his knees, holding him there a couple of sweet seconds before delivering a piledriver. The top of the rookie’s head hits the mats. All of that magnificent, hairy muscle flops down, twitches a little, and then lies still. Braden flexes in victory overtop of the felled Wolf, but my eyes are riveted on the hairy beast flat on his back.

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Pass me the baby oil!

I’m lighting a candle, burning some sage, and pouring out a shot of whiskey in offering to the homoerotic wrestling gods in prayerful hope of several things for young, handsome, hairy Wolf. First, I’m hoping that as soon as I can get my hands on his tussle with Rough & Ready 59, I will discover that last month’s homoerotic wrestler of the month, Marco, brings the sexy right out of the tantalizing rookie. Second, I’m praying that Wolf will grow into a full fledged muscle heel someday with a lust for explicit, sexual domination. And third, and closely related, I’m pleading to get to see Wolf’s ass unleashed, to see that epic physique in all it’s glory wrestling naked, to see every last inch of this hypermasculine gladiator bearing down like a force of nature on some lucky son of a bitch who will pay for the mistake of facing down this beast by enthusiastically and unapologetically worshiping every hairy bulge.

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On your knees, bitches!

“I’m pathetic.”

“You think it’s going to be that easy?” Morgan Cruise asks incredulously.  He’s been beating the shit out of adorable boyband beauty Joey Carter for several minutes already.  “I hope,” Joey says, with more than a little smart ass tone in his voice. “Then you don’t know a damn thing about wrestling!”

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Devastatingly pretty Joey Carter

While this moment happens partway through the match, this pretty much sums up Muscle Domination Wrestling’s Back Buster 5 from start to finish.  Joey, literally, and yes, I literally mean literally, doesn’t know a damn thing about wrestling.  Morgan and I don’t just mean that Joey’s got zero wrestling offense. We don’t must mean, as Morgan states explicitly, that Joey has absolutely no clue about executing a reversal or counter move. It’s so much worse than that for dimple cheeked Joey.  He doesn’t know the first thing about selling his own suffering.

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Morgan puts him through the ringer, but Joey isn’t nearly juicy enough.

Those who commented on my recent post advocating for more mature wrestlers on the homoerotic wrestling scene, who said that young, barely legal boys do nothing for them, well, I’ve got bad news. Joey looks like he was handed his high school diploma yesterday (at best). He’s smooth and supple and with dimpled cheeks that need either pinched our slapped hard. If the achingly young, unspoiled baby-babyface is not a character who can move you, Joey will do nothing for you. However, I am not so burdened, thankfully.

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Morgan turns up the heat, but Joey can’t keep a straight face.

The action starts with Morgan tossing the kid into a corner and “bashing” him in the chest with a forearm. It’s a showy move, meant to convey high impact brutality. But obviously there’s little actual force behind Morgan’s blow. I say “obviously,” because Joey literally, and yes, I literally mean literally, looks at the camera and smirks.  It’s like he’s struggling not to laugh at the melodramatic play acting. There’s almost a hint of “Fuck, you’re paying me to do this shit?” in his twinkling, dreamy eyes.

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Morgan mauls the kid, but only slowly does Joey cotton on that this hurts.

“Please, you’re stronger,” Joey pleads for mercy as Morgan locks on yet another in a long series of back-busting pro holds. I say “pleads,” but there’s no panic in his voice. He’s fucking underselling this like a chump! Maybe he’ll be able to go back to his buddies and save a little face by pointing out that this was all just paddy cake, but in the homoerotic wrestling universe, Joey Carter is a fucking chump! If there’s any cardinal sin that offends the homoerotic wrestling gods (and, more importantly, the fans), lazy ass underselling has got to be one. I’m thinking early on here, please, oh please, Morgan, actually hurt this beautiful twink just so we can hear him literally, and yes, I literally mean literally, cry.

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Joey spends a lot of time hiding his face, so Morgan has to force the kid to stare into the camera and try to sell.

So there are a ton of elements here that should mean I hate Back Buster 5. A totally unprepared, uncommitted rookie twink. A start to finish, no suspense, frankly little drama squash. And Morgan delivering exactly everything that we’ve come to expect from him, not a penny less, not a penny more.  I’m supposed to be sitting here and writing a scathing review, or, as has been my default in the past couple years, just ignoring this match entirely because I don’t have anything good to say about it.

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The breakout star of Back Buster 5: Joey Carter’s ass!

But I do. Shocking even me, I have to say, this match turned me on harder than the average homoerotic wrestling fare I sample these days. What the fuck, you may be asking. I’m asking that myself. But if I have to put my finger on the one thing that spins this train wreck right back around and tosses it squarely in my wheel house, I know what it is.  Joey Carter’s ass. And yes, I’d literally like to put a finger (and both hands, and other body parts) on that ass!

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Morgan never mention’s Joey’s ass, or seems to pay much attention to it, but MDW already knew what I was going to be obsessing about.

Holy fuck, this kid has got a phenomenally beautiful ass! If MDW did year end awards (which they couldn’t because Muscle Master Kevin and Morgan would have to win everything or else it would damage the “alpha dog” shtick), I would both nominate and be campaign manager to get Joey the title of Best Ass. Whoever writes the online match descriptions for MDW knew that the real break out star of Back Buster 5 would be the rookie’s sensational butt. The match description is as fixated on Joey’s ass as I am. The text mentions Joey’s ass 5 times, which is exactly 100% more often than Morgan does during the match, despite the heavy innuendo throughout the description implying Morgan wants to fuck that tantalizing butt hard. I feel a little like an American shorthair who’s just been tossed a toy full of catnip.  Fuck, I cannot tear my eyes away from Joey’s ass!

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Suddenly, the rookie’s struggle selling isn’t what I’m paying attention to!

It’s not just his ass though that manages to redeem this match for me. Truly, Morgan pries and pummels the kid, pushing his tolerances enough that near the end, with Joey finally screaming his pleas for mercy, I’m almost believing him. And I suppose there’s the sufficient suspense that grabs me. That’s the narrative that I’m always saying I crave in my wrestling. In this case, the narrative that captures me is wondering if Morgan is actually going to hurt the kid enough for me to hear the sincerity wrenched out of Joey’s lickable young body. The rook says all the right things. He weeps and moans. He screams and sobs. But moment to moment I’m still trying to decide if I buy it. Is this punk still going to go back to his bros and talk shit about homoerotic wrestling as full of pussies and playacting? Or can I believe that the kid is going to wake up tomorrow honestly bruised, aching, and wondering if he has what it takes, and if it’s worth it, to pick up the phone when Muscle Master Kevin calls to try to book him and his sensational ass in the ring again?

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Come on, Joey, sell it!!!

I go back and forth on the verdict, frankly. It’s not like I’m ever totally sold, but I enjoy watching Morgan press the envelope, and I get a kick out of watching Joey scream just a little louder, humiliate himself just a little worse, as the minutes tick by.  And in those moments when his phenomenal ass isn’t in the spotlight, I’m completely mesmerized by Joey’s eyebrows. Those fucking eyebrows sell about 20 times better than anything that comes out of his mouth.  His eyebrows dance and bounce, as if pain is washing over his face. They pucker up in an anguished Darwin’s V, and then arch as if astonished by the pain. His mouth may be saying, “All right. I’m pathetic. I’m sorry,” almost like a petulant child, but his eyebrows are fucking working it like an Oscar winner.

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Perhaps the first time I’m turned on by eyebrows?

In the end, Joey has conceded that Morgan is stronger and more handsome than he is (definitely, do not try to put that to a vote, Morgan!). He’s repeated over and over that he understands truly and deeply that he is now and forever Morgan’s bitch. He acknoweldges that his only reason for ever stepping into the ring and getting his “pretty little face” bashed in by anyone else will be for him to assure his future tormentors that Morgan Cruise punished him worst of all. He will be Morgan’s bitch. He will be his spokesperson. He’ll be his ring announcer.

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As long as that ass is in the picture, I’ll saddle up for another ride with Joey any day.

As long as he shows off that sensational ass and continues up the learning curve of both selling and wrestling, I’ll buy it.

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Come on, Joey. Scream for me!