My Thing

wrestlebard6 Comments

Next May, I’ll be celebrating the 15-year anniversary of starting this blog (someone remind me to celebrate). Just FYI, it’s the crystal anniversary, in case you’re searching for a gift. In those early days, I was figuring out what this blog was about and working to find my voice. There was more pop culture, more hunky journalists, more attempt at incisive critique, and a LOT less use of the word fuck.

Fuck, we’ve come a long way. So much has changed, but some things haven’t. Like, back when I was trying to decide if I’m a homoerotic wrestling “critic,” I posted a lot more about things I didn’t like than I do now. These days, if a wrestler or a match or a gimmick or a company isn’t a pleasure, I don’t take time to try to execute some take down about what doesn’t work for me. But more than a decade ago, I posted the occasional bitch and rant about a particular wrestler who’s overexposed, or a wrestler who (however pretty he might be) irritates me because he sucks so bad as a wrestler.

In hindsight, it makes sense to me that I got pushback, heat even, and sometimes brutal attempts at taking me or my tastes down. Like, I’d bitch about Rio Garza looking soooo pretty, but being overexposed and a poor sell, and one fierce Rio fan would come to his defense with a flame thrower. I complained about Z-Man being a ham and self-consciously over the top, and Z-Man devotees would insult my character and disparage my intelligence. In those early days, I sort of thought that “call ’em like I see ’em” approach to lobbing complaints into the ether lent me credibility, but it set a tone that I honestly regretted, pretty quickly.

I really started trying to right the ship when commenters began leaving scathing, intentionally cruel insults about wrestlers that I praised. There have been a few moments when I’ve debated just turning off all comments, but I’ve generally leaned toward just disallowing particular comments that become personal attacks on specific people. Particularly after I began to interact with these wrestlers, it seemed in poor taste to allow anonymous commenters to talk shit about them, probably mostly just to irritate me for some opinion that they didn’t like. I’ve intercepted or deleted some seriously messed up shit that commenters have put out there, insulting wrestlers’ looks, their bodies, their intelligence, all lobbed facelessly from proxy email addresses in an attempt to torch someone, apparently just for sport.

Again, I realize I contributed to that dynamic early on, but holy fuck, some homoerotic wrestling fans just want to burn some shit down! And it’s as if we all want to “win” the homoeroticism Olympics, or something. Like, there are readers who seem to NEED to convince me that I MUST become infatuated with what they are infatuated by. It includes the superfans who get irritated with me for not writing more about their favorite wrestlers, but it also includes the kinks and niches of homoeroticism that I may, or may not, necessarily get into. There was a superfan of foot worship who came on SO fucking strong for a while, like some sort of televangelist implying eternal hell and damnation if I didn’t spontaneously ejaculate over a sexy pair of bare feet. I mean, honestly, I was curious and explored the intense world of erotic foot worship when he started commenting about it, to really give it a chance. It’s not exactly my thing, I concluded. I mean, fuck, sexy feet are sexy feet, and there’s some value added to the rare toe suck in a homoerotic wrestling match for me. But I’m not exactly a convert, and it isn’t at the heart of what turns me on hard enough to take the time to write about here.

Gut Bash 14: Ash DeLeon vs Kenny Starr(‘s abs)

Gut punchers sometimes come on super strong that way too, like they must convince me to obsess over gut punching and only gut punching or else they must destroy me. Again, enthusiastic gut punchers (front of the line, of course, is Ash DeLeon) have definitely got me to watch a lot more gut punching-themed content than I might have otherwise, so the enthusiasm is NOT wasted on me, I swear. And fuck, some solid punching to a chiseled set of rock hard abs is like exclamation points to the sexiest beat poetry ever. I certainly get what watching gut punching is giving me, which is a little espresso shot of adrenaline around the time my heart is already pounding in my chest, my cock already in hand, and I’m riding the wave for as long as it’ll take me. Watching gut punching by itself, though, doesn’t get me off. It’s a super nice element in the overall drama of a homoerotic battle, but I don’t experience it quite the same way you hardcore gut punching fanatics do. It’s not my thing in quite the way it is for some.

Ultra Fights 2: Scott Williams vs Brad Rochelle (this is my thing!!!)

And I’m totally cool with that. Actually, I really love that! Homoerotic wrestling is a whole lot more delightfully nuanced than anyone outside of our community realizes, I’m sure. My tastes and triggers have been shaped by the enthusiasm of others, and I think that’s an amazingly awesome outcome to blogging for 14+ years and commenting with readers and exchanging emails and interacting on social media. I don’t need everyone to agree with me that what turns me on hardest has to turn them on hardest, as well, though. If you don’t fucking swoon over the sight of Scott Williams slightly dropping his jaw open a bit as he twists his hips and injects pulses of power into his headscissors in a match, that’s okay with me. I mean, I find it bewildering, but I accept it. As I’ve told Scott often and recently, I defy him to find someone to challenge my self-appointed status as his #1 fan and president of his fan club. If your crotch didn’t instantly twitch with excitement when you first heard Lon Dumont’s baritone voice dispassionately demanding that Eddy Rey flex on-demand for him, I can still sleep at night, because my thing doesn’t have to be your thing for me to be incredibly pleased that it’s my thing.

This is most definitely my thing!!! (Fantasymen 32)

This is a rambling post, I realize, but here’s the point: the homoerotic wrestling community is big enough for us to celebrate our diverse passions, and not have to try to burn each other to the ground if we don’t hang our hats on the same pegs. I realize I’m sounding like someone’s grandpa here, but it feels to me like there’s so much slash and burn happening in public discourse in general, and sometimes, it feels to me like it’s got a strong foothold in homoeroticism and wrestling kink circles. I won’t allow comments here on the blog that insult wrestlers, that trash the people who have the balls to strip down to nothing/next to nothing and grapple with one another for our pleasure. I’m relatively thick-skinned in terms of critiques of me and my tastes, but honestly, I’m not interested in being converted by anyone. I enjoy the passionate fan, the commenter eager to make sure I’ve seen a wrestler or a match that particularly turns them on. That’s what this blog has become for me for most of its life, really. Me sharing what’s turning me on, in the hopes it may promote the things that I find so hot, and occasionally me getting the benefit of a few hundred other sets of eyes and tastes of similarly (if not identically) minded fans of homoerotic wrestling. But no one wins if anyone’s enthusiasm succeeds only in shaming and scolding someone else away from doing what they love or enjoying what turns them on.

Ray/Rio vs Zack/Z-Man from Rock Hard Wrestling back when

For any wrestlers who I’ve offended in the past with misguided attempts to deliver harsh love in the form of brutal critique here on the pages of this blog, I apologize. I like to think that I’m more mature and wiser these days, so I hope that hasn’t happened in a while. And, those of you you slayed in the spirit televangelists out there that want to threaten me or anyone else with hell and damnation if we don’t see things the way you do can keep doing your thing. I certainly can’t stop you, even though I can, and occasionally do, prevent you from trying to set fires in the comments here on this blog. I honor your thing, and am happy for you that it gets you off. But it’s okay with me if my thing isn’t your thing, and if your thing isn’t my thing.

Stars Aligned

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Not all homoerotic wrestling videos have equally abundant measures of the ingredients that I look for. Sometimes the boys are wicked pretty, but can’t wrestle for shit. Sometimes they’ve got legit pro wrestling skills, but absolutely zero personality. Sometimes opponent’s just don’t seem to click, like I’m not really convinced that either of them really care about who’s going to win and who’s going to lose. Truth be told, I sometimes key off on a match that I think is objectively lacking in something that would have made it just that much hotter. I don’t typically review matches or wrestlers that I objectively just don’t like (anymore… 10 years ago or so I did some take-downish reviews, but didn’t enjoy writing them). But then again, sometimes every fucking thing falls into place, and a match grabs me hard from start to finish.

Florida Fights 11 is one of those matches where all the stars align. Separately, Lobo Gris and Zach Ramos are on my short list of current favorites to check out anytime they’ve got new releases. They’re both fucking hot to look at at, in different ways. Lobo is hairy and handsome and just looks like a classic babyface hunk from a mid-80’s pro wrestling ring. Zach gives me porn star vibes, but like a promising porn star who likes it too rough for conventional porn. His long, curly locks and sinister Van Dyke make him look like no other homoerotic wrestling obsession on my short list, and his luxuriously thick pecs make my mouth water. These boys have got the looks in still frame that instantly grab my attention and turn me on.

They’ve both got sweetly compelling personalities in the ring, too. I’ve only seen Zach in a couple of matches, but he sells this rough and raw rookie bruiser vibe beautifully. There’s nothing “inevitable” about him in either direction. He can be sloppy and get rocked hard, and he sells it so hard it makes me gasp. But he can also convincingly muscle his way into the driver’s seat, and I swear to the homoerotic wrestling gods, he fucking LOVES making an opponent suffer. He’s got this great mix of competitive and erotic notes that’s seamless and so fucking sexy. Zach is hungry to dominate, and he always looks like he’s picturing, with delight, what his battered opponent will look like with Zach’s cock up his ass.

Lobo’s personality (at BG East) is wicked smart and sincere. He has an earnest angle to him that I think puts him squarely in the babyface box for me, but he effortlessly slips across the line from competitive to just plain fucking mean and back again. Lobo always makes me laugh, because he just nails these rich moments in a match with effortlessly on-point commentary. I just keep coming back to the word “smart” for Lobo. He wrestles smart. He has a fully-present, smart mouth that can point out the over-the-top truth of a homoerotic wrestling match without breaking character. He’s smart enough to outmaneuver most of his opponents most of the time, and he’s smart enough to acknowledge when he’s been beaten.

Honestly, there’s so much that could work about pitting these two against each other than it almost made me worry it wouldn’t work. But fuck, it does. The chemistry is perfect. Hard-working Lobo is full of snark and contempt for Zach’s half-assed excuses for being late for their match. Zach is messy and all blunt-force offense, that’s quickly neutralized and taught a scolding lesson in humility by his seasoned, internationally renowned, top shelf opponent.

“Come on, big boy,” Lobo says with a sneer as he drags the snarling beefcake up off the mat by a fistful of shaggy hair. Lobo fucking pounds the shit out of him in the early days, scoop slamming big Zach hard, again and again. Like the calculating pro he is, Lobo picks the big boy apart in the corners with shoulder blocks and forearm smashes. Zach’s unblinking faith in his unpolished brute force gets him nothing but hoisted over Lobo’s shoulder in a fireman’s carry and paraded around the ring, with that succulent ass of his spanked like the naughty, naughty boy he is. I think Zach could well be on his way to the most humiliating squash of his BG East career, when he’s crawling up Lobo’s hot, hairy body, only to find himself locked up helplessly in a full nelson and rag-dolled hard. “Where’s all that strength and cockiness,” Lobo demands to know, because it’s what we’re all asking at that moment.

Spoiler alert (sort of?), this is NOT a squash, and Zach most definitely does not take a lopsided humiliation from Lobo. Just like Lobo does what Lobo does with his devastatingly calculated and practiced pro take down, Zach does that he does with sheer force of will and audacity. He lifts Lobo high to drive him over and over hard into the mat and knock some of that momentum right out of him. Then he climbs on top of Lobo, pinning the hairy hunk’s wrists over his head and immediately grinding their crotches together so seductively I honestly can’t imagine even the straightest of straight boys failing to get turned on by it. “You’re not looking bad,” Zach taunts with faint praise. “Look at you. You like being underneath me!”

This is a delightfully suspenseful back and forth match. The action is harsh and fierce, and the boys have entirely believably big egos that both take a bruising. Lobo leads the way with his sexy-as-fuck brutal wrestling offense. Zach leads the way with his brutally stymieing erotic beatdown. With masterful storytelling, they end up meeting in the middle. Zach elevates his wrestling and gets just a little more fiercely focused. Lobo chuckles when he has to admit that he’s not even sure he wants to escape from some of Zach’s more provocative holds. The boys start to steal kisses, and damn it all if they don’t look so fucking hungry for it! “That’s what you came here for, isn’t it?,” Zach demands, when he’s sprawled over top of Lobo and grinding his crotch in the handsome hunk’s face. Lobo’s erection tenting his trunks is answer enough.

I was surprised by the final fall and who climbs out of the ring as the undisputed victor, and, fuck, I LOVE being surprised. The loser is marched out of the ring with a slap on his ass and a promise of a post-match tandem shower to celebrate such a hot, hot, HOT match. Incredible wrestlers, incredible chemistry, and incredibly hot wrestling drama from start to finish. Fuck. I just want to see how things go down in the shower, now!

Stunning Scott

wrestlebard5 Comments

Wrestlefest 1, and specifically, Scott Williams’ barn burner match against Bryan, has come up in two different conversations for me recently. I took that as a sign that I need to go back and enjoy the match again and finally get around to writing a review of it.

This was catalog 17 (just for context, notice that BG East just released catalog 172). The copyright dates on the images are 2009/2010, but I’m pretty sure Wrestlefest 1 was recorded and released around 10 years earlier than that, based on other clues. These were the days when BG East match descriptions were 4 sentences long (obviously predating my long-winded contributions), but the brief marketing teaser for this match introduces Scott as a “tough ‘n talented newcomer,’ describing him as “tall, ripped, hairy-chested Scott, a nasty private fighter.” Wow. So, on the one hand, not a lot has changed AT ALL!

Bryan was a absolute fixture in those days. Kid Leopard is literally awarding Bryan the first ever “BG East Lifetime Achievement Award” just before his match with Scott. Bryan is so fucking adorable, accepting the honor with a blush and stuttering, ah-shucks gratitude. “‘I’m thankful to be a part of the brotherhood of BG East wrestling,” he says. “It’s really been an important thing in my life.” I know I’m the biggest mark, but damn it, I swear he and Kid Leopard are having a little moment there. A little less gimmick than you might expect. A good deal more sincere respect.

Newcomer Scott, on the other hand, isn’t so respectful. Bob Wood, the ring announcer, calls the 6’2, 195 pound “nasty private fighter” “Stunning Scott Williams.” So, again, yeah… not a lot has changed since then. He looks fucking stunning, to say the least, in his sensationally tight grey square cut trunks and black boots. The announcer’s introduction suggests Scott is just a few inches taller than Bryan, but he seems to tower over the muscle-packed pro pretty boy. Maybe he just looks taller, when he’s attacking Bryan from behind before the award-winner can take off his ring jacket. His debut match, and Scott is playing it mean and dirty. Yep, yep. Again, not a lot has changed.

By this point in his career, I’m pretty sure that Bryan has legitimately put in a-couple-careers’-worth of blood, sweat and tears as an internationally prolific pro wrestler. He looks SO much like my Stretch Armstrong that I had (and lusted over) as a kid… solid fucking muscles, beautiful proportions, but more like a heavy lifter than the aesthetics of a bodybuilder. On paper, this match ought to have been an absolute romp. Bryan almost surely had more tricks in his back pocket that Scott had visible abs (which is to say, A LOT). I can’t imagine Scott had had much ring experience before this match (note: this is the only published match with Scott in the ring ever). Just playing the odds, a betting man would surely have put money down on this being a super lopsided squash of the newbie at the seasoned, powerful hands of the lifetime award winner. But, guess again!

I love the dynamics of a match like this so fucking much. It’s fucking aggressive and non-stop (again… nothing’s changed for Scott from then to now, I can attest). It’s smooth and calculating, but simultaneously feels authentic and spontaneous. I love being surprised with a match, and watching Scott fucking steamroll the blond beefcake babyface veteran is such a delightful surprise! In the opening minutes of the best-out-of-three falls competition, I keep expecting the early flurry of nasty offense from the hairy-chested muscle hunk to give way to the experience and expertise of the headliner. But Scott is fucking relentless! He catapults Bryan, still in his jacket, corner to corner, and nearly decapitates the seasoned pro with a clothesline when he comes bouncing back. Another corner-to-corner slingshot, and Scott has the gasping beefcake scooped up in his long, powerful arms, suspended there for days, and then slammed down so hard that it even makes Scott bounce a half a foot off the mat. I keep thinking that the veteran’s just about to deliver a rude awakening, but no fucking chance, with Scott driving elbow drops from 6-and-a-half feet in the air, drilling into the stunned pro’s chest. Whoever put money on the long shot odds that Scott would be in charge, dominating and relentlessly owning Bryan for at least 65% of this match would’ve raked in a boatload of cash!

As a fellow follically-challenged individual, I have to say it’s value-added watching Scott yank Bryan around by his thick blond locks. Like, sure… let’s see an opponent try a tit-for-tat hair pull on Scott. Showing a flair for heeling that’s honestly inspired, I’m also getting OFF on him violently ripping the silk ring jacket off of Bryan and using it to choke the seriously rocked veteran pro. And then he yanks Bryan up to his feet and legitimately snap mares the gasping, flailing beefcake over his shoulder by the jacket wrapped around his throat. Woah. WOAH! He repeatedly rakes the pro across the eyes and claws him in the balls. Private wrestlers, even “nasty” ones, just aren’t supposed to have this much aggression, skill, and relentlessness in their first time stepping into the ring. I mean, sure, sure. They’re supposed to look like that… ripped muscled hunks, cocky, stunning to look at, maybe even putting up a good fight. But Scott is having his WAY with Bryan through the majority of this bout, and it’s gorgeous and surprising in all the right ways.

I’ve described a few times before why Wrestlefest matches are some of my favorites, so I won’t belabor the point too much here. I will say, however, the crowd reactions in this match are sort of sending me. The crowd is almost entirely pulling for the babyface beefcake award winner Bryan from the start (okay, so maybe I’m not the only mark). At the beginning of the match, the applause is raucous and rowdy for him. When Stunning Scott climbs through the ropes, however, there are literally boos and hisses for the sexy newcomer. Of course, Scott waves off the haters with a sneer, but he’s sailing into the wind when it comes to winning over this crowd. The crowd reactions to every hold, every move, every cocky sneer and taunt inject adrenaline straight into my heart as I’m watching this match. And the crowd is bitterly chastising the man-of-my-dreams for all of his dirty tricks and devastating brutality as the minutes roll by with Bryan rocked so hard he can barely defend himself. But there’s this one, lone voice in the crowd cheering Scott on. I swear it sounds like Shane McCall (who does wrestle in the next match for Wrestlefest 1), which would be sort of funny if it is Shane. I mean, I know that Scott and Shane go way back, but then again, it was Shane who said, “I just threw up in my mouth” when I referred to Scott as the-man-of-my-dreams in my interview with Shane in 2014. Whoever the lone Scott booster is in the crowd, he’s calling out helpful advice, like when Scott is fucking up the veteran’s knees with an Indian leglock, and his fan from outside the ring recommends that he add a chin lock to really fuck up Bryan’s spine. Of course, Bryan’s fans go fucking WILD when the veteran finally hits his groove and starts to battle back against the relentlessly nasty newcomer’s offense. When Bryan is crushing Scott’s skull in headscissors (and we all know how Scott feels about headscissors!), there’s a particularly mean-sounding fan from the crowd who shouts, “Squeeze that little bald head! Trash his ass!” The ringside fans stay off camera, but the cheers and applause and roars dial up the intensity and immediacy and intimacy of this match so sensationally!

Scott spends a whole lot on credit at the start of this match, bullying and taunting and clearly enjoying humiliating the veteran pro in front of his frustrated fans. So, it’s extra ripe and delicious when Bryan muscles his way on top and starts making the hairy-chested newcomer start to pay back his debt. While Scott is banking riding time about 65% of the match, Bryan’s relatively concise offense is fucking expert and potent. Scott’s deep, resonate baritone rises a half an octave in agony, like a panicked echo of all of those gloating taunts earlier. Time-wise, Scott has controlled the pace, but the sudden and violent reversal of fortune is so fucking hot when Bryan snags an ankle lock and quickly spins his opponent into a gorgeously vicious single leg crab. Time on top is almost 2-to-1 for Scott, but total pain inflicted is a lot closer to 50/50.

Again, I love suspenseful, competitive matches like this. I love it when Bryan is working Scott hard, whips him into the ropes and launches himself into the atmosphere for a drop kick to knock Scott’s block off, BUT Scott clings to the ropes, refusing to bounce back, and leaving Bryan crashing to the earth HARD. Scott looks genuinely stunning when he hops into the saddle of a super sweet camel clutch, those two sets of gorgeous muscle glutes grinding together. He fucking WORKS the camel, but Bryan battles back, pushing his shoulders off the mat and upending the tenacious newbie. A few moments later, it’s Scott paying up in Bryan’s nasty chin lock, sitting on his back, that square chin of his wrapped up tight in the pro’s fingers and his head about to get screwed off the top of his neck.

In Scott’s four published BG East matches, he decisively loses two and wins two. I’ll let you guess if this is a victory or a loss for the man-of-my-dreams, until you’ve watched the match for yourself. The video is a total of only about 20 minutes, with only about 16 of those being these two studs locked in combat, so it’s super concise. But there’s more action, more moves, more drama and intensity in those 16 minutes than some other matches manage to pack into 30. Bryan shows why he deserves his Lifetime Achievement Award, and Scott absolutely tells this story in a way that a muscle hunk newbie shouldn’t be able to. He’s sexy as fuck, all taunts and contempt and daring this fucking charging-bull-of-a-veteran to try to make him shut up.

Again, some things never change.

Have I Got a Surprise For You!

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New kid on the block Damian Pike is in way, way, way over his head. As Dark Knights 20 starts, he’s got his back pinned against the ring post and Kayden Keller’s tongue down his throat. He’s certainly not complaining, of course. The sexy rookie’s also copping a feel of Kayden’s famously hot ass while he’s getting his tonsils tickled. It’s like a little dessert before the main course, really, establishing the tone of this match/encounter as breathlessly sexy and hungry from the start.

I love this “star struck newbie” vibe. It has that feel of a long-time fan getting his big break into homoerotic wrestling and deciding to just fucking go for it. Call out the big dog. Of course, the raw rookie is fucking putty in the legendary heel’s hands. Kayden tosses him into the ring like a bitter Logan Airport baggage handler shot-putting a Samsonite across the tarmac. The opening action is Damian cracked in half in an effortless OTK backbreaker. Yeah, that’s the dynamic from the start. The beautiful babyface rookie is just holding on for dear life.

This is Kayden’s fifth appearance in the Dark Knights franchise, and he wears that harsh master mantel well. I’ve opined before about how much I enjoy Kayden’s “vulnerable heel” matches, when a super lucky jobber gets some riding time in on the 6-time Top Heel award winner. But the only vulnerability in this match is Damian’s lusciously sexy body, being molded and pounded and forged by a master artist. Kayden is big and bad and relentless, terrorizing the awestruck rookie with brutal punishment seasoned liberally with equal measures of threats and promises. This is a total squash. Damian gets nothing in on the reigning heel daddy, other than a fraction of surprise when Kayden unwraps that shiny metallic jockstrap and the impressive hardware he’s packing underneath. Kayden is completely in charge of his new toy, body and soul, for the entire 38 minutes.

Damian is cast so perfectly as the prettyboy for his new heel daddy to plunder. He’s curiously handsome. He looks achingly young and innocent, but his tenacity in staying in the ring and getting used so hard tells another story. He’s got a little punishment slut side to him (said lovingly), that compliments that adorable babyface faux-innocence beautifully. At one point, Kayden refers to him as “my muscleboy,” which is just a perfect description. Damian’s body is gorgeous and powerful. Kayden makes him stare at himself in the mirror a lot, being brutalized and dominated, and the way Damian looks at himself makes me think he’s sort of amazed by his own muscles. Like, maybe he didn’t know, deep down inside, what a fucking slice of beefcake he really is, until he saw himself through the eyes of this snarling, salivating heel daddy so totally turned on by possessing the new kid’s body. I don’t know if that’s even remotely true, but that’s the drama this match brings to me.

Kayden and I are both awfully infatuated with Damian’s sweet, sweet ass. He has this lush, round bubble butt that looks better and better the more bright red hand prints Kayden leaves on him. At one point, the heel viciously pounds the prettyboy down in a gut buster and pins him there, bent over his knee. Damian is grunting and groaning, exhausted and still sucking down more punishment. And I swear, his ass is demanding it when Kayden spanks him hard and then possessively kneads those sweet, smooth, vulnerable cheeks.

To be honest, for me, I’m not into ropes. There’s something that seems just unnecessary when Kayden has owned every inch of his muscleboytoy, and then hangs him by his wrists from the rafter. I’m totally feeling myself as this armchair quarterback, muttering about unnecessary roughness… and then Kayden rips that shiny jockstrap off his boy….. Wait. Fuck. Honestly, what was saying? No shit, suddenly it’s yet another stroke of perfection, Damian hanging there, cowed and helpless, collared and naked and just so fucking delicious! And I’ve got whiplash going back and forth between trying to decide how I feel about that cock ring and just muttering to myself, “Fucking perfection!’ The look on Damian’s face as he’s getting devoured is intoxicating!

Around the time that a match like this typically turns totally about being forced to cum, Kayden flips the script again, exercising total control over the slack-jawed prettyboy who’s completely come-to-heel. Just to seriously leave the kid reconsidering if he’s ready to run with the big boys, Kayden leaves him with one last diabolical humiliation to make sure Damian remembers the pain and the pleasure a long time to come, and promising a little public humiliation to top off this intensely brutal private humiliation.

I usually like my wrestling more competitive than this, as regular readers know well. I couldn’t survive on a steady diet of a Dark Knights boy bashing squash. But this delivers exactly what it promises, and fuck it all if I’m not completely turned on watching this handsome, defiant, tenacious muscleboy living the dream/nightmare and getting totally tossed into the deep end!

Artistic Liberties

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Mickey Knoxx is asking for it. I mean, just showing up on the mats, looking like does, that body, those eyes, that ass squeezed into sensationally tight gear… fuck, he’s asking for a seriously hungry fight. But more than just subtext, he shows up in BG East’s X-Fights 60 to pick a fight. Mickey’s an artist (not just a kayfabe gimmick… I’ve seen his sketches on social media and the dude is fucking amazingly talented!). He offered to focus his talented eye on the seductive form of Freddy Campbell in repose. I guess Freddy follows him on social media, too, because he jumped at the chance to be the subject of a Knoxx pen-and-paper original. Energizer-bunny-earnest Freddy jumps up with excitement when Mickey finally puts down his pen and lets Freddy finally take a look at his masterpiece. “Um, this is not a picture of me posing,” Freddy says, suddenly a lot less excited. “This is a picture of you giving me a wedgie.”

“Well, you know,” Mickey says with a sly smirk. “I took some artistic liberties.” See what I mean? Mickey fucking wants a fight!

The chemistry between Freddy and Mickey in this match fascinates me. Just physically speaking, the two of them, squaring off, is a pretty dramatic story. BG East claims that Freddy is 3 inches taller and 25 pounds heavier than Mickey, and I bet that’s pretty accurate, but somehow the contrast seems even more stark to me. Freddy fucking dwarfs Mickey, on the one hand. But on the other hand, Mickey reads more dangerous to me. He’s got this savvy, sexy chill about him that makes me think he’s a heavy equipment operator, skilled at pushing buttons and pulling levers to make big guys do what he wants.

The action is instantly fucking mean! I mean, the opening offense is Freddy grabbing the artist by the balls and dragging him around the mat room by them. Yanking the living fuck out of each other’s testicles is a delightfully recurring theme throughout, and it’s coldly vicious and relentless. Sometimes, homoerotic wrestlers abuse each other’s balls and it’s sort of tentative, you know? Like they’re a little hesitant to seriously crank on those raw nerve endings with gusto. Freddy fucking goes AT it like Mickey’s balls are a fun pack of silly putty. And Mickey returns the favor with some extra muscle and a twist of the wrist. I don’t know if all that vicious heat comes from Freddy’s insulted artistic sensibilities, or if back-hoe operator Mickey is just over there punching buttons and getting things down and dirty like he likes it.

Mickey got squashed in his debut match against Chase Addams in Jobberpaloozer 22, and I have to say, it’s really delightful to see him dish out some sweet, sweaty punishment here on the mats against Freddy. In a sensationally erotic case of life imitating art, he grabs the back of Freddy’s low-cut red singlet and wedgies the hell out of Freddy’s famously round ass. Fuck, Mickey’s hot body working hard, his biceps flexing as he rips the fucking seams of Freddy’s gear apart, is intoxicating to watch! His sweaty dragon sleeper on the veteran babyface is lush, pounding the trapped stud’s spine across his knee, clawing his balls, wringing him out, and smothering Freddy buried deep up his armpit.

Mickey collapses like a house of cards, though, when Freddy goes back to his bread-and-butter offense in this match: his padlock ball claw. I don’t know if it’s this fucking hot because of Freddy’s adorably innocent-looking babybabybaby face contrasted with his sadistic sneer and vicious low blows, or if it’s this hot because or Mickey’s hot, muscled bod quivering and quaking in agony as he writhes and screams. Okay, of course the answer is both.

Freddy reads my mind when he rips Mickey’s singlet off and steps back to admire that scorching hot bod. “So much muscle, and nowhere to go,” he says, with the big, bad babyface bruiser mounted on top of him in a schoolboy, pinning Mickey’s wrists to the mat under Freddy’s knees. When he’s really working up a head of steam, yanking so hard on Mickey’s super brief trunks that he can nearly stretch the back of them over Mickey’s head, the real star of the show for me comes into focus. At one point Freddy has Mickey’s arms tied behind his back, and Freddy just dives in and kneads the Canadian stunner’s dazzlingly sexy glutes, and again, I’m pretty sure Freddy is reading my mind.

Mickey is precisely as vicious in turn, mind you. He literally rips Freddy’s gear apart at the seams, getting it off of him. When he’s returning the favor of that nasty schoolboy pin bullying earlier, Mickey grabs Freddy by the wrists and forces the trapped hunk’s hands to rub all over Mickey’s bronzed, beautiful torso. Yeah, nobody (not Freddy, not Mickey, not me) is hating that moment.

The “winner” shoots his load, but honestly, I’ve lost mine way, way earlier… like somewhere around the time that Freddy is ripping Mickey in two in that crotch pillow foldover spladle (<–my name for it, trademark pending). I’m pretty sure a trained eye should be able to certify a prostate exam just from watching the video, but fuck, Mickey’s magical ass (I mean, seriously, 7th year Hogwarts advanced standing wizardry has gone into making that ass that fucking gorgeous!!!) makes me swoon. His screeching, whimpering, toe-curling sell sends me there, too, of course.

And if I hadn’t already lost my load on Mickey’s ass in the spladle (hmmm, let me just let that image linger a little…), by the time that Freddy yanks the snarky, sexy, hot bodied beauty up in a bearhug, I’ve definitely lost it (to be honest, lost it again… like, at least the third time by that point in the match). It’s a stroke of genius on Freddy’s part, the way he yanks on that wedgie and bounces Mickey’s clenched cheeks for days until the snarky, bad ass visual and performance artist screams his submission.

Fuck, this match is intense! I love the ferocity. I love how these boys are holding nothing back. I hope someone has framed that Mickey Knoxx original sketch, and while they’re at it, framed the shredded remains of Mickey’s orange trunks. This is one of those matches where it’s rough and mean and nasty, and it seamlessly veers of the tracks of caring who’s “winning,” because wrestling like this is 100% erotic.

And Mickey’s ass needs a fucking award! Immediately!

“He was cute when he came in”

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If you heard a collective gasp of shocked excitement about a week ago, it was me and a few hundred other homoerotic wrestling fans reacting to the news from the Arena that Brad Rochelle was going to star in a new release for BG East. Those full-throated shouts of near-ecstasy that you heard last Thursday were our reactions to Catalog 172 officially dropping, and seeing Brad returning to his coverboy status, standing alongside of Jonny Firestorm, who’s not coincidentally pointing at Brad’s gorgeous abs, that this decade or so later are still ripped hard enough to wash your laundry on. I can’t overstate how excited I am by The Comeback 3, and seeing the return of one of the first muscle hunk wrestlers I fell in virtual lust/love/infatuation, showing up at BG East at almost the same time that I was originally discovering the intoxicating and validating world of homoerotic wrestling videos. Just the anticipation and photos are so sensationally satisfying, that I have to admit that I was almost a little worried that the match very well might not be able to live up to my hopes for it. I’m sincerely pleased to share that it’s a fucking phenomenal match, showcasing the hot bodies, just a little larger than life personalities, and knee-bucklingly sexy wrestling style that BG East was the first to introduce to me, and is still producing so beautifully.

I’m not sure if it’s a blessing or a curse for the poor, gorgeous fantasyman, Kal Connor, that he’s making his debut at the same time that Brad is coming out of early retirement. I’m guessing that it’s awesome exposure for the new kid, being introduced to the BGE audience when a whole lot of homoerotic wrestling fans are tapping deep into nostalgia like this. But holy hell, the pretty boy is in the ring with Jonny Firestorm and Brad Rochelle! Fuck, seriously, those two superstars could upstage … fuck, I’m at a loss for a comparison big enough to approximate just how big Jonny and Brad’s presence is in the ring. So, let me make sure and give Kal credit where due, right at the start of this review. Namely… FUCK, this kid’s body makes me swoon! And he’s got the babyface to match his magnificent proportions and sculpted bulges. As one of my friends put it, Kal’s “wardrobe malfunction” (when Jonny is yanking him around by the front of his tiny trunks and Kal’s luggage completely spills out) instantly dials up the heat in this match. And the lucky unlucky kid’s astonishingly meaty glutes are displayed so perfectly in one severe wedgie after another. Of course, his still frames are fucking compelling. But holy hell, Kal legitimately wrestles, and holy hell, he SELLS!

In fact, the incredibly tasty newbie, who adorably calls himself “the heel” in this threesome, is more than Jonny can handle. He exploits cocky Jonny’s sloppy overconfidence just a few minutes into what was looking like it was going to be a total rookie wrecking. Kal grabs the bull by the horn and does NOT let up, absolutely pounding the shit out of Jonny and keeping his foot on the gas pedal the whole time. It reminds me of some seriously brilliant moments when Dio Characi was delighting in humiliating Jonny in front of a live audience at WrestleFest 4 last year. Only, Kal is about 30 pounds lighter than Dio, and, let’s face it, shouldn’t be a serious challenge for legendary heel. When the handsome kid snaps on a totally legit figure-4 leg lock and threatens to end Jonny’s infamous career then and there, at least it’s not another public humiliation for the notorious heel… until Brad walks in on the scene.

“What’s going on here!?” Brad’s first words back on the scene are thick with nuance. He’s in dark sunglasses and bright, metallic silver square cuts that showcase his gorgeous ass. I know it’s been at least 10 years, probably more, since he climbed into that ring with the cameras rolling, but fuck… he hasn’t missed a beat. Rewind back to the finale reckoning of The Contract 10, and fuck, if anything, Brad may look even better!

Serious Rochellophiles may remember that Jonny was reluctantly selling out his buddy Brad at the start of Contract 10. There’s an implication that they’ve buried the hatchet since their extremely hot and contentious first meeting in Contract 6. Apparently, the hint of a friendship between them wasn’t bullshit. Because 13 years later, Jonny hedged his bets when he was preparing to square off against the newest newbie, Kal, by calling up his buddy Brad to check in on him after the match had started, to make sure the winds were all blowing Jonny’s directions. The enemies-friends-enemies trope in professional wrestling is an oft-told story, but you know what? I actually totally buy it, that Jonny and Brad are buds. Not only have I seen recent photographic evidence that they enjoy beating up on a lucky hot, handsome muscle hunk together, but they are amazingly in sync when they seriously tuck in to picking apart this tasty rookie morsel. I mean, there’s some fun and funny chemistry when Brad is trying to “help” by yanking on Kal’s arms, which only has the effect of wrenching more brutally on that figure-4 leglock Jonny was already trapped in. But genuinely, Brad and Jonny are pretty fucking amazingly coordinated in their attack on Kal. If I’m being brutally honest with you, I don’t always get on board with a double-team like this, not because it can’t be hot, but because it’s often a little messy, a little bumbling with unequally yoked double-teamers. This match keeps me laughing, awestruck, and turned on from start to finish, mostly propelled by the magic of Jonny and Brad seriously sending what two synchronized hunks can do to an unexpecting lone opponent.

Honestly, there are too many sensationally high quality moments for me to do justice to them in this review. The holds that epitomize the magic that Brad and Jonny bring include a double-team Mexican ceiling hold that looks like an absolute house of cards, the heel team members each taking one of Kal’s arms and legs and hoisting him suspended above them. Seriously, I can’t count the number of times I’ve seen a regular Mexican ceiling hold blown, because it’s a fucking hard hold to apply, secure in place, and then maintain. The added complexity of having to have the entire thing coordinated between two hunks working over their prey seems like it is not something to be attempted by the faint of heart. And damn it all, Jonny and Brad pull it off and fucking own the hold (and Kal) with total command. It takes serious timing and skill. Brad is (still) over half a foot taller than Jonny, so they had to negotiate different lengths of limbs and centers of gravity. And then they just fucking hang him up like laundry on the line, flapping helplessly in the wind. Fucking gorgeous!

The other hold that’s just something I’ve only seen before in graphic art is this… what the fuck to even call this? Let’s just call it a wishbone muscle buster (someone will correct me and make sure to snort with contempt at my ignorance… go ahead). Kal is hanging upside down, draped between the heels, one shoulder resting on each of their shoulders. The bad boys grab him by the ankles and wrench his legs apart, and fuck does Kal scream in panic. Jonny suggests they make a wish, and you can see the terror make Kal’s taut hamstring quiver in response.

I’ve having trouble restraining myself from writing a 30-page essay on this match, but indulge me in just a couple more points that I want to celebrate. First of all, chemistry. I know I’ve already used the word, but I cannot say enough about how hilarious and spontaneous the chemistry is, particularly between Jonny and Brad in this match. There’s a moment when they’ve got a double team bow-and-arrow locked on, down on the mat. Each of them have an arm and a leg, and once again, they’re using the ripped-to-shreds hot rookie hunk like a wishbone. As far as that goes, definitely, it’s all good. It’s gorgeous and a study in complete ownership and savoring of suffering. Kal is screaming… SCREAMING. Brad and Jonny are stomping their heels into Kal’s side, jerking the poor stud’s arms and legs out of their joints like he’s being drawn and quartered. And Brad comments on how handsome young Kal is. “His face is kind of pretty,” Brad observes calmly, as Kal is screaming bloody murder. “His face feels like an affront to us,” Brad grows philosophical, ignoring Kal’s screeching, panicked submission. To rectify the situation, Jonny and Brad shift position, placing one boot each on either side of Kal’s face and smashing his once-pretty mug between the soles of their boots. “I don’t like handsome young men,” Brad barks louder, to be heard over the tortured screams. “They make me feel old and angry!” I fucking love that line on so many levels!!! But without waxing too philosophical right now, it’s a great example of the spontaneity and cleverness of Jonny and Brad, and, again, it’s just that much more perfect with Kal’s full-throttled sell of his demoralized, terrorized suffering.

I’ll try to wrap this up with just one last reflection on what I find super brilliant about The Comeback 3. From Kal’s adorable assertion that he’s going to be the heel, to Jonny getting seriously rocked, to one of the most standout babyface heroes of Greek tragedy/homoerotic wrestling licking his lips with delight over the suffering of a jobber, this entire thing is a sensational mind-fuck on classic wrestling tropes of heels, jobbers, and babyfaces. No one here can be easily reduced to the time honored, overly simplistic roles in classic professional wrestling. I don’t really watch a lot of mainstream pro wrestling for straight audiences these days (though I have a few YouTube infatuations from feds in other countries), but I believe the post-modern twist on these tropes is evident there as well, these days. But here, at BG East, in this match, for this audience, I think it poses even more provocative questions about the role of age and beauty in homoerotic wrestling (and homoerotic circles in general, really). It fucks with overly simple ideas of who’s a victim and who’s a bully, as well. The character arcs of Jonny and Brad, stretching over some 20 years, tell stories that much less ambitious or brilliant professional wrestling productions (especially those for straight audiences) just don’t even attempt, I think. I’m now infatuated with how that chemistry between frenemies plays out in real time, as the fraternity of homoerotic wrestling veterans builds ties that transcend on-camera rivalries, and then crash back into on-camera dramas separated by over a decade.

I walk away from The Comeback 3 absolutely fascinated by Jonny, the vulnerable heel, Kal, the devastatingly dangerous jobber, and Brad, the manically sadistic babyface hero. And then I push play again, because I fucking love this match!

“You’re So Hot!”

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I realize that I’m not subtle, but for the sake of new readers, let me state what’s abundantly obvious to anyone who’s read me over the past 12 months or so: I am a fan of Dio Characi. I’d really love licking honey off every inch of his ridiculously beautiful body, of course, but my fan-status is based on more than that. Dio seems to seriously enjoy wrestling. I can’t say the same for all wrestlers who show up on our small screens, but Dio has this delightful presence, this immediacy in his matches that never fails to sell me the story that the cherubic Brazilian babyface with a sizzling hot body gets off on wrestling. Of course, for all I know, it could be bullshit. Dio could be like a lot of wrestling-for-gay-eyes guys, just clocking in and earning some extra cash off of eager marks like me. But if so, he’s even more brilliant than I already think he is, because he tells that story so fucking well.

I’m also a fan of Forrest Taylor. Honestly, I’ve taken some shit for saying that out loud, because Forrest seems to collect haters like overripe fruit attracts gnats. And I get that, truly and deeply. There’s something about his tenor voice, spitting out cocky, contemptuous trash talk, demanding to be praised/worshiped, that makes me want to gag him with his own sweat-soaked trunks. But about 42% of the way through every match I’ve seen of Forrest’s, I completely forget to be irritated by him. Instead, I just marvel at his remarkably hot body, his lily white complexion and fiery red hair pulled straight out of the same gene pool as I come from. Fuck, Forrest’s rock hard muscled ass and thick, aesthetically stunning thighs make all the argument needed to convince me that he deserves the praise he demands. I mean, sure, he deserves to have someone shove his own sweat-soaked trunks down his throat and spank those shockingly white glutes crimson. That, too. But fuck, I can’t quit the guilty pleasure of letting his relentless wrestling offense and carved-from-ivory physique make me forget, for a little while, how annoying his over-the-top overconfidence and smirking trash talk is.

So Dio, grinning hungrily at the start of Mat Scraps 4, openly acknowledging how hot he finds it watching Forrest’s thick quads stretching and flexing as they warm up, is all sorts of right. “It looks like you have good quads,” the Brazilian bombshell says what we’re all thinking, even if I’m the only other one saying it out loud. In that classic Dio way, it’s not so much a compliment as it is a come on. Dio’s fucking famished from the moment the video starts, and that lick smacking hunger is the slow burning vibe that keeps their mat scrap hot and homoerotic. I swear, 95% of hunks showing up to wrestle for gay eyes seem to bitterly loathe the idea of giving an opponent an ounce of credit. Now, that’s fucking irritating! Dio, on the other hand, pays Forrest well-deserved compliments from start to finish in this match, and not only is he the bigger man for it, he’s also lighting the match in my crotch as I eagerly watch to see where his relentless attraction is going to drive the two of them.

Forrest is… well, Forrest. Without skipping a beat after Dio’s honest opening compliment of his hot legs, the red-headed hottie smirks and says, “Oh, I know I do.” It’s this oddly hot subtext throughout the match, that Dio hungrily praises Forrest, and Forrest just keeps throwing sneering trash talk back at him. Fuck, it’s SO audaciously irritating when Forrest sucks up Dio’s compliments and serves him damningly faint praise in return. “Yours are nice, too,” he deadpans. “Just not as nice as mine.” Half the match later, Dio gasps, full sell, “You’re so hot.” Then, as Forrest is getting fucking swarmed by the Brazilian, forced to worship the Brazilian house-on-fire Best Body at BG East winner last year (his DEBUT year!!!), Forrest deadpans again, “You do have a good body, I’ll admit….” You can hear the “but” hanging silently in the air, as Forrest let’s the tension mount. “…even though you’re weaker than I am.” It’s a patently ridiculous statement, as he’s staring up at Dio, force fed Dio’s bulging biceps, made to lick Dio’s pits and squeeze Dio’s pecs. I’d be so fucking irritated with him, if it weren’t for the fact that he’s now wrestling in a jock strap, and that magnificent alabaster ass is bare and so fucking beautiful. What was Forrest saying? I can’t remember now.

Dio clearly forgives/forgets Forrest, too. When Forrest is taking a turn accumulating riding time, squeezing (convincingly!!!) Dio’s coverboy torso between his tree trunk thighs, the Brazilian both suffers and manages to tug Forrest’s trunks off his ass. Holy shit, Dio kneading his fingertips into the red-headed hunk’s glutes blows my mind, all by itself. Forrest’s ass DESERVES the greedy, possessive clawing and groping Dio gives it. When Forrest cockily shoves his opponent’s face between his cheeks, there’s this sweet, sweet moment of perfection, as Dio, unsolicited, offers, “I’m enjoying the view a lot from here!” Like, FUCK. Such a fucking authentic moment that speaks volumes of truth about both of these gorgeous hunks, as well as you and me.

It will surprise no more than about 3% of Forrest’s marks (me NOT included) that Dio is just too much for him to handle. The Brazilian is 5 inches taller and a good 40 pounds of solid, succulent muscle heavier than the impertinent bearded pretty boy with such a smart mouth. It’s not a squash by any means. It’s got some playful highlights to the schoolyard who’s-bigger/badder feel to it, as they trade holds and hurts. And Forrest makes the big boy hurt! Fuck, Dio’s suffering sell is luscious. But just like gravity pulls us just one direction, there’s an inevitability about Dio wearing Forrest out hard and long. There’s one sensationally hot moment when Dio is really building up a head of steam, crushing the snarky red-head, digging his fingers deep into Forrest’s rock hard core. He crushes Forrest’s balls and smothers him in his pit. Then, trapping Forrest’s left hand behind his head, he claws the living FUCK out of the red-head’s impressive lat muscle. It looks like he’s ripping meat of the bone, and holy shit, it makes me swoon!

In the end, Dio shuts up the relentless, notorious trash talker in the second best way I can think of. In case my take on how erotic this match is leads you to think the boys get naked, let me transparently point out that no cocks are visibly unsheathed. Two of the sexiest asses in the business are beautifully bared, and every other inch of their bodies is explored and destroyed, admired and tasted, though. Dio is a force of nature, and I’ve got a spare bottle of honey waiting in case I ever get the call from him. And Forrest is so fucking irritating, his confidence so overblown, and then about 42% of the way through the match, Dio rips off his trunks and kneads those tasty glutes and… what was I saying about Forrest? I just can’t remember much after that moment. Damn.

The Importance of Being Earnest

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I often describe wrestlers as “earnest.” Definitions of the word include “serious and zealous in intention, purpose, or effort; showing depth and sincerity of feeling.” So, of course, when I’m describing a wrestler as “earnest,” that wrestler is a babyface. That quality of guilelessness, of unwavering devotion to overcome by unmatched effort, of faith in the rightness of one’s purpose and certainty in deserving victory… fuck, I love earnestness in a babyface wrestler. It’s in stark contrast to a heel who embraces duplicity, who cheats and steals his way to victory regardless of whether he’s the better man. I enjoy the way pro wrestling can play with earnestness. For example, when an obviously superior physical specimen, or a clearly superior technical wrestler, gets low-blowed and upended, that twist of fate is lovely drama. Or when a steadfastly righteous babyface gets poked one too many times, gets cheated out of the victories that, by all rights, should have been his, and he gets seduced by the darkside, turning vicious and vile and shedding the shackles of his earnest belief in hard work, that play on the vulnerability of earnestness is an awesome hook for me in enjoying wrestling drama.

“Beach Ken” – artistic rendering of Ryan Gosling as Ken, by ArtReplicant

A very good friend of mine (who would like it to be made clear that he is NOT obsessively infatuated with Ryan Gosling) talked me into going to the theater for the first time in about 6 years to see the movie Barbie. This friend, who HAS seen all of Ryan Gosling’s movies (and can quote extensive sections by heart), assured me that Gosling’s oiled up bare pecs in Barbie would be sufficient payoff for me. And, fuck. Yeah. I’m a total mark for that deep, deep crevice between Ryan’s pumped up pecs. He’s been building that rocking hot bod of his bigger and more beautiful, movie after movie. I think I noticed it first in Blade Runner 2049. He’s always had a pretty body, but, fuck… more muscle looks fucking good on him. My friend (who is NOT obsessively infatuated with him) confirms that in the sequence of when Gosling’s movies were filmed, he’s been steadily getting hunkier and more action-adventure muscly. The strategically pre-released teasers showcasing his hot shirtlessness and gorgeously displayed cleavage in Barbie should have been enough to drag me by my dick into the theater. But it helped that my friend (who may have made sure to be first in line for the very first screening he could possibly get to), who knows me well, assured me that I’d enjoy Gosling’s stellar body and probably broader themes in the movie.

Gosling plays Ken. Not “the” Ken. Just “a” Ken. And in Barbieland, the Kens are support players, at best. Kens are one dimensional, with little self-awareness. They’re serious and guileless. They focus on doing whatever they’re doing (e.g., “beaching”) to the very best of their ability, and that’s their whole ambition. Over and over, they’re mostly just window dressing for the real stars of the story, there to make them look good like an accessory. In other words, they’re earnest. Earnest babyface jobbers.

There are a lot of actually cool and sophisticated themes in Barbie, but the one with a homoerotic wrestling analogy I like best is the folly of the discontented jobber. Ken (Gosling) gets a glimpse of what life might be like if he were the master of his own fate. Spoiler alert… the Kens (all of them babyface jobbers) take over Barbieland in a misguided effort to claim the mantle of patriarchy that woman-centric Barbieland had remained immune to before then. They act bro-y and insensitive. They’re entitled and nasty. They leak piss down the side of the toilet and assume someone else will clean it up (<– that last one isn’t in the movie… Kens don’t have genitalia). They make their own rules and ignore the consequences. In other words, the jobbers turn heel.

But here’s the kicker (more spoiler alert): Ken’s just pretending to be an insensitive dick. All the while, deep down, he’s actually still earnest as hell. It’s not exactly that he wants to be dominated. He doesn’t want to be loser. He just needs to be earnest more than he wants to lie, cheat, and steal his way to being a winner.

I think that’s what must motivate any babyface jobber to keep climbing into the ring, time and time again, to get demolished. In a pro wrestling universe that transparently rewards might over right, deep down, a Ken has to be more devoted to his own earnestness than to winning. He has to love his earnestness more than he treasures his own dignity. He doesn’t want to get beaten. It’s not masochism or self-hatred. It’s just, deep down, he is, tried and true, earnest.

Barbie clearly isn’t a homoerotic wrestling movie, of course. Well, there is the epic fight scene with lot’s of over-the-top flashes of shirtless flexing and muscle posing. And Ryan Gosling has certainly starred in a lot of my homoerotic wrestling fantasies. And he’s oiled up and flexing and posing throughout almost the entire fucking movie. But it’s not a homoerotic wrestling movie. But if you’re like me and my friend (who may or may not be the amazing artist who rendered the image of Ryan Gosling as beach Ken above, and the pre-fight stretch of Gosling below), you might find it just kenough to make Barbie thought-provoking and titillating at the same time.

Ryan Gosling as a homoerotic wrestler in the Producer’s Ring – by ArtReplicant

The Curated Self: JJ Allen

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Adorable JJ Allen

I bumped into JJ Allen on the Discord server The Wrestle Shack recently. He’s adorable. He insists on calling me “sir,” which gives me an intense urge to spank that bodacious butt of his. I’ve told him that. And, he keeps calling me sir, so…. you do the math. Anyway, I asked JJ what’s his favorite match of his that I should write a review of. Alex and Joe have reviewed several of JJ’s Muscleboy Wrestling matches already, with great things to say about them all, but I haven’t reviewed him here yet. It’s time to remedy that oversight, and JJ tells me that he thinks his hottest match was probably with Jake/Jesse Zane way back in catalog #3 for MBW.

JJ is a hunk. Period.

The first thing I need to say is JJ is a hunk. Alex adoringly describes JJ as a “soft-bellied jobber,” and Joe is on record as referring to him in a complimentary fashion as a “sexy doughboy.” I get it, really, I do. JJ’s doesn’t have washboard abs. But holy fuck, I do NOT get a soft or doughy vibe from him. He’s got way more muscle than I think of classic doughboys having. He’s got sweet, strong pecs and arms, which I mention first to make sure and not forget them once I start admiring JJ’s legs. Because, FUCK, his legs!

Fuck, his legs!!!!!!!!

His thighs, in particular, are fucking thick and juicy. His blue trunks look sewn onto his narrow (I stand by that 100%) waist and magnificently round bubble butt. And I LOVE that JJ knows his legs are dangerous as fuck. He pretty much says that, point blank, to Jake, and it’s not like there’s an argument to made to counter him. I stand up and cheer out loud when JJ’s snaps those monster quads around his lucky/unlucky opponent’s head in standing scissors, absolutely wringing Jake/Jesse out relentlessly. The babyface prettyboy gloats so beautifully, flexing his hot biceps and believably threatening to snap Jesse/Jake’s head right off his neck. And then his crotchpillow headscissors basically swallow Jake’s head whole. JJ has got a solid-as-fuck read on his own assets, as far as I’m concerned, and the yelps and screeches and whimpering submissions from the resident MBW It-Boy demonstrates that, no shit, JJ’s legs are NOT to be fucked with.

JJ likes to watch

I’ve lost track of Mr. Zane’s wrestling-as name, so I’m not entirely sure what to call him. Back in his early career days when I first saw him at BGE, he was Lorenzo Lowe. Then “Jake” appeared in quotes (Lorenzo “Jake” Lowe), and then he seemed to mostly be called Jake. At MBW, his profile is Jesse Zane, and all of his match descriptions name him that, but in the match (and in the URLs), he goes by Jake. We all know who he is, of course, so maybe someone of his stature doesn’t need to worry about branding. He’s that lightweight, shredded, handsome little babyface stunner with mat skills that, 9 times out of 10, will fuck over opponents significantly bigger than he is. He’s cocky. He sneers with contempt a lot. He clearly loves wrestling and is turned on by the heat of his body grinding and sliding and pumping against a sexy opponent like JJ. So, when he gets ROCKED for almost exactly the first 50% of this 32 minute match… woah. JJ rides roughshod over him! I realize JJ’s brand is on the jobber side of the tracks, but, damn. His casual, delighted sell as he destroys Mr. Zane is compelling! JJ scoops him up in a feet-off-the-ground bearhug and looks like he’s literally wringing the sweat from Jake’s pores. And most compelling for me, JJ smiles slyly as he watches. He leans his head back to get a little perspective and soaks in the sight of his opponent’s adorable face twisted in agony. I feel really confident in saying that JJ enjoys being on top and watching what his hot body can do to an overwhelmed opponent. He wrings three honest-as-fuck submissions out of the notorious Mr. Zane, and I’m lapping up every one of them. “I think you know who’s got the better body,” JJ snarls at his writhing, wriggling worm-on-a-hook of an opponent, crushing those massive bodyscissors so hard that Jake is about to pass out.

Jake feels the power in JJ’s pride-and-joy legs

Those first 16-minutes of the match are a delightful surprise to me. I get a little worried for the pretty boy with gargantuan thighs, though, when he starts counting his opponent out when Jake clearly still has some gas left in the tank. Heel-turn notes for you, JJ: don’t let up. I totally get that you want to savor your victory by shoving your crotch in a beaten tough guy’s face. Seriously, I’ve been there. But don’t count those chickens until a notorious terrier like Jake is flat out on his back and beaten to a senseless, motionless pulp. And even then… poke him a few times to make sure he’s not playing possum. Otherwise, you’ll get what Jake dished out to you, namely, a punch to the balls.

Savoring the spoils of victory?

JJ catching is super compelling as well, for (obviously) different reasons. The second 50% of this match, the notorious franchise player grinds our prettyboy down to a raw, throbbing nub. JJ gets folded like origami and twisted like a pretzel. And at every damn turn, Jake delights in spanking his balls. JJ’s cool, cocky facade shatters into a million pieces, and it’s lovely to watch. The smirk on JJ’s pretty face melts into ugly, twisted agony. He whimpers and whines breathlessly, balanced on the edge of a sob. Jake drags him around by his hair, administering equal parts punishment and seductive face sucking. JJ’s stubborn fight evaporates out of him, and he’s begging for mercy early and often. Jake has to tell him to call him “sir” just once, and JJ dutifully says it every time thereafter that he’s pleading for his submission to be heard. The heel makes JJ call beg him by name. And JJ does it, frantically, with a little boy whimper, which is all that’s left of his smirking, pretty boy cockiness he was laying down 20 minutes earlier, when he was slapping his monster thighs proudly and crushing the fuck out of his opponent’s head in those standing scissors.

Hot. Fucking. Sell!!!!

Jake makes JJ pay for his leg pride in the end, just about twisting the prettyboy’s right leg right out of its hip socket in one of those messed up, sadistic contortionist holds that Jake does better than almost anyone else. And then JJ sees from the other side what a victor can do when he’s squeezed absolutely everything out of an opponent. I don’t think either of them are really hating the victory lap at the end, to be honest. I certainly wasn’t!

Origami

I can see why JJ would pick this match out of his catalog as his favorite. It offers an outstanding, long, lush look at his range. He looks sweet enough to eat with a spoon. And those big fucking legs and that gorgeous bubble butt steal the show, both when he’s pitching and catching. Check out JJ’s MBW matches, and if you want to see more, browse his nearly 2 dozen videos on WatchFighters. I’ve seen a recent pic of JJ shirtless, and if anyone thinks they’re going to catch a match with him and face a doughboy, think again! And JJ, if you want me spank that bubble butt of yours, just keep calling me “sir.”

What a Shame

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Someone who has wrestled for both indy pro promoters and homoerotic wrestling producers once told me that in mainstream pro wrestling, making cash on the side by wrestling for gay eyes is considered a dirty little joke. Like, everyone knows that a lot of “legit” pro wrestlers do it, but it’s sort of an embarrassment that you aren’t supposed to talk about. I get the impression that it’s an “understandable” (to the straight gaze) side hustle, but it’s a roll-your-eyes-and-smirk sort of thing. Wrestling kink is the nudge-nudge-wink-wink punch line in an otherwise (still) hetero/macho dominated bro-y locker room culture. Playing up a gay trope in the ring has been around for generations. Openly gay wrestlers have been making a name for themselves in mainstream pro wrestling for a few years now, and while I’m sure it’s hardly easy sailing, it’s marketable enough for them to still get work. But having wrestled for BG East or W4H or Muscleboy or Weekend or any of the wrestling producers marketing not just to gay eyes, but to the homoerotic gaze turned on in particular by wrestling, isn’t something to be proud of.

Adrian Adonis, not gay, but wrestled gay for a mainstream pro wrestling audience

Over the past 14 years of blogging, I’ve occasionally had wrestlers contact me to ask me to pull down images and reviews of them as they take a run at breaking into mainstream pro wrestling. Sometimes, it’s specifically more erotically-oriented wrestling that they’d like to expunge from the internet record. Sometimes it’s just the fact that they wrestled for a company that explicitly markets to a wrestling kink-oriented audience. In either case, I always do it; and it always feels a little like I’m propping up the erotic-shame machine that so many of us have had to come to terms with in one fashion or another. The only reason I can think that it would help a wrestler’s chances to catch a break in wrestling for a mainstream (<–read hetero) audience is that the audience and the producers figuring out how to squeeze their marks couldn’t see their wrestling talent through the blurry haze of social stigma and shame encircling them for having done their thing knowing full-well guys like me are getting off on it. It’s not how talented they can be in the ring or in front of the camera. It’s the scarlet letter “K” tattooed across their chest for having been stained by association with wrestling kink.

Sonny Kiss, pro wrestler

I’ve been mulling all of this anew lately because MeetFighers recently released, with some aplomb and fanfare, an announcement entitled “Welcome to: Dating, Erotic content, Porn, Fetish, Kink, and Sex!” (exclamation point and misused colon included). You can read it here, but what’s been provoking deeper thoughts from me about it is this careful line that the administrators of MeetFighters and related sites are drawing between wrestling (and other combat sports) and wrestling kink. Apparently, they’ve received a lot of feedback for a while asking for them to reconsider their “firm stance on erotic content limits, especially when it comes to avatar pictures.” As back story, publicly visible pics on MeetFighters cannot be “too” erotic, and especially avatar photos used for MeetFighters accounts. What is “too” erotic, as you might guess, is a matter for debate among wildly disparate points of view. Ostensibly, if someone might see similar content and body exposure on mainstream television, then it’s okay. However, I’ve spoken with several guys who’ve shared avatar pics that have been disallowed as “too erotic,” and honestly, I cannot tell what line they’ve crossed. No full frontal, but having a big package, for example, appears to trip the sensors (sorry, Mr. Joshua, I hope you don’t dare show your award-winning bulge around those parts). The approval process for MeetFighters is crowd-sourced, and for the past several months, I’ve been diligently reviewing photos and giving my feedback on how erotic they appear to me to be. After you’ve assigned a rating, you can later see how you rated a photo and what the “final decision” was based on other crowd sourced ratings, and, seriously, I seem to be some sort of raving libertine, always (always) rating content at least one or two standard deviations less erotic than they’re eventually deemed to be. Anyway, all of that simply to say that MeetFighters has apparently been trying to police the incredibly subjective moving target of eroticism for a long time, in ways that many have disagreed with and found frustrating, of course.

Clayton Nash & Ross Davidson, Frisco Fights 2 (gay)

What catches my attention most in the MeetFighters announcement is the line that says, “Simply put, your public avatar and profile should represent the sport, not porn.” That is, there’s a clear and marked distinction between the sport of wrestling and kink. “The sport” refers to wrestling (and other combat sports represented on MeetFighters, but as far as I can tell, it’s predominantly wrestling-focused), and “porn” appears to refer to open acknowledgement of being turned on by wrestling. For context, when you sign up for MeetFighters and set up your profile, as I did a few months ago, there are several categories of preset, point-and-click options that the platform offers for you to provide your interests/reasons for having a profile:

“…profile should represent the sport, not porn.”

One of those sets of potential interests is entitled (by MeetFighters) as “Fetishes,” in which you can click on preferences such as being interested in sex, wanting to “wrestle for top,” be interested in cock-and-ball torture, having an interest in jacking off with an opponent (among many others). That’s part of the built-in options MeetFighters gives for users’ profiles… and… “your public avatar and profile should represent the sport, not porn.” I’m not pointing this out trying to call anyone out for hypocrisy or point fingers, but simply to point out that there isn’t an objective, clearly identifiable demarcation between what is “wrestling” and what is wrestling kink, and disentangling the two is… well, I’ll just say that it’s obviously fraught.

Pro wrestlers Effy and Chris Dickinson wrestling for Beyond Wrestling (performatively gay to a presumably non-kink audience)

MeetFighters new move in this chess game of social propriety is to create a new, separate platform. This new platform is called Lustfinity.com, and “promises to be an inclusive sanctuary for every imaginable fantasy and kink.” The roll out of Lustfinity appears to be all about kinks and fetishes, with nary a word about wrestling. It feels a lot like… well, like everything else that’s part of the erotic-shaming industrial complex, that says, “Your erotic interests in wrestling are not a wrestling interest. Don’t sully recreational meet-up wrestling with too much open discussion of your motivation being about how turned on you are by wrestling, by watching wrestling, by wrestling other guys, by talking about it and writing about it and sharing what you find hot about it. That’s a conversation about lust, not wrestling.” And those who are interested in meet-up wrestling and also clicking the “not interested in fetishes” preset option in their profile, apparently may be scandalized by the not-so-well-kept secret that a whole lot (a WHOLE FUCKING LOT) of MeetFighters profiles are for guys deeply invested in one or more homoerotic aspects of wrestling. These are all, ostensibly, adults, mind you (you have to be to sign up for an account). Of the 20 newest accounts created just today, as I write this, 16 of them list specific fetishes they’re interest in under “fetishes” or describe erotic scenarios they’re interested in as part of their introduction. I have no idea how representative of a sample that is of MeetFighters as a whole, but… that line between being turned on by wrestling and “the sport” is not objectively discernible.

Wade Cutler and Phil Latini in X-Fights 15 (gay)

The social project of policing the erotic (not just sex, but what is erotic) has a long, complex, and pretty insidious history. The “shame industrial complex,” as I described it above, reinforces all sorts of structures of social power that disenfranchise some and privilege others in concrete ways. MeetFighers’ Lustfinity project isn’t the first effort, and certainly won’t be the last, to distinguish eroticism from more socially acceptable topics, even when everyone reads the erotic subtext long coded into those socially acceptable topics (especially when everyone reads the erotic subtext!). I don’t think there’s any singular nefarious actor or tsk-tsking church lady to blame, because we’re all swimming in this same stream of history, in small ways and big ways going with the flow (and thereby making the flow that much more compelling for everyone), or, occasionally, swimming up stream, and bumping into and irritating the majority of folks who’d just rather be swept along with the subjective, changeable, ultimately unequally apportioned opportunities that come with the status quo.

MJF and Jonathan Gresham wrestling for Limitless Wrestling (not gay)

But all of this makes me think of a couple of things about my own swimming strokes. One of the things that has consistently surprised me from blogging about my homoerotic wrestling interests has been the number of individuals who have reached out to say, “I thought I was the only one!” I think that’s the way the shame industrial complex works, really. Silencing the erotic leaves most of us questioning why do we have these feelings? Why do we react this way? If it’s not heteronormative erotic-romanticism force fed to us in popular media, then we’re left under the mistaken impression that our experience is novel, niche, marginal, and aberrant. So, stumbling upon someone naming something that propriety defines as out of bounds for acceptable conversation feels revelatory. I can’t tell you how much back channel feedback I got about my recent post about growing up keying off of wrestling and fitness magazines, from so many readers who had the same experience, or close enough of that experience to feel seen by me writing about my experience. I’m proud of that, and it’s something that keeps me investing in writing more posts. I think that Lustfinity and other kink-positive corners of the internet offer some of that normalizing atmosphere. But I also think that a kink-ghetto probably advances the shame industrial complex at least as much as it works against it. The aspect of it all that says, “you aren’t into wrestling, you’re into your kink, so take that conversation elsewhere” probably isn’t 100% oppressive or liberatory, but I think it’s a little more the former.

Tyrell Tomsen and Braden Charron in Strip Stakes 1 (gay)

The other thing that this has led me to reflect on more deeply is the ways in which I buy into the shame industrial complex. I disclose A LOT on here about myself, but strategically don’t disclose everything, in order to try to bifurcate my life into what is and isn’t socially proper. A lot of people in my life who could know that I’m into homoerotic wrestling don’t, because I haven’t chosen to have that conversation in all of the places where people might otherwise casually talk about their erotic interests. I don’t exactly know where even I think the line ought to be between how I engage in the world as someone who participates in erotic interests and as someone who participates in any of the other interests that define me. My hunch is that shame tends to lean on that line more than I’d really like it to or am aware of. And when I don’t disclose with friends at the same level they do with me about what they find attractive, titillating, provocative and sexually exciting, I’m doing my little part to hold the whole edifice of shame and social power up. Like we all do, whenever we get tired of swimming against what feels like an irresistible current.

Pro wrestlers Kip Sabian and Dom Kubrick wrestling for Bar Wrestling (not gay)

I’m not sure what my point is here, other than to say I’m into wrestling. Maybe not the way you are, or for the same reasons. I’m into wrestling, and it’s a primary turn on for me. In into wrestling, and its homoerotic text and subtext give me a lot of pleasure. I’m gay, and turned on by wrestling, and turned on when I’m wrestling. I’m into wrestling, and I reject anyone else trying to tell me to pipe down and take that “naughty talk” out back. I’m into wrestling. Deal with it.