No Laughing Matter

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I have on more review in the queue for the year-end releases, but I think this will be my final review to post this year. And fuck, Mickey Knoxx and Forrest Taylor’s Undagear 37 match is the cream of the 2023 crop! I knew I was going to be all over this pairing. I’ve spent a LOT of time in 2023 adoring them separately, so I was anxiously anticipating this release since I first got wind of it. My expectations were high, and the heat and sweat and intensity of this match exceeds them.

There are a few “themes” to this match that will speak to different kinks, I imagine. The most explicit theme is tickling. Personally, I have a complicated relationship to tickling that dates back to being held down by my big brother as a kid and tickle-tortured. That’s the vibe, right there, when Mickey’s hands stray from his sweetly sexy, generous massage of Forrest’s back to tauntingly tickle the red-headed lumberjack’s sides. Turns out both of these wrestlers are ticklish, and the difference between their groaning, writhing sell of wrestling punishment in contrast to their frantic flopping, kicking, yelping scramble when they’re tickled, leaves me thinking that, no shit, these sexy boys are legitimately ticklish. From start to finish, there’s this intense bully-tickle theme, as both beauties work to lock each other down so tightly that they can torment each other with their sadistically dancing fingers across their feet, sides, and armpits. The desperation in both of them, as they fight 3.5 times as hard to flail and flop free from their tickling predicament than they do the straightforward wrestling punishment, takes me right back to that tormented, bitterly and involuntary laughing, of my childhood nightmares.

The theme that strokes me even harder in this match, though, is the more meta-level theme of adolescent bullying. From that perspective, the tickling is just one tool in the wrestlers’ arsenals to tauntingly dominate each other with a sensationally sexy mean edge. Forrest initiates the taunting slaps to the face and seriously hard shoves to the chest. Early on, as they’re on their knees and just starting to lean in for another lock-up, the red-headed hottie suddenly slaps his palms against Mickey’s chest and shoves him so hard that the French Canadian flies completely out of the frame. Then, when Mickey comes back into frame, he’s a cruise missile in flight, in a soaring, irritated, mean flying tackle that knocks Forrest to his back with authority!

Fuck, I love that heat! The mean edge to this entire match is such a fucking turn on to me, and it certainly appears to ignite some hungry lust in Forrest and Mickey. So, it’s not just climbing on top and physically dominating their opponent. It’s not just indulging in the spoils of victory by stealing hungry kisses. It’s doing all that, and then, when the wrestler on the bottom is melting, suddenly punching him in the gut, kneeing him in the balls, and/or turning the putty of the rocked hottie into a live wire of panic with more tickling. Forrest keeps amping up that mean edge in a way that seems to take Mickey (the relative rookie) by surprise. But it’s so fucking delightful to watch Mickey’s fuse get lit. That bitterness in the back of his mouth when he gets slapped in the face hard makes this handsome hottie tap into a sadistic mean side I don’t think we’ve seen from him before.

Another theme that, of course, grabs me by the balls is the truly sensational focus on two of the hottest asses in wrestling this year. Honestly, this match is sort of my fantasy pairing of the top two contenders for my vote for Best Ass of 2023. And, as if channeling me, Forrest and Mickey take delight in each other’s luscious glutes. There are repeated fold over pins where the wrestler on top wedgies his opponent’s undagear to expose those magnificent glutes. When it’s Mickey’s turn, he kneads and spanks Forrest’s alabaster cheeks until they are an angry, visibly hot shade of dark red. Fuck, Forrest’s ass is so fucking lush!

Forrest gives Mickey’s ass the passionate attention it deserves, as well. In fact, Forrest cops a feel of Mickey’s gorgeous body repeatedly whenever the handsome rookie is on top of him. Previous opponent’s have just not shown Mickey’s stunning physique sufficient love, as far as I’m concerned, but Forrest’s groping hands know exactly what I’m thinking whenever I see Mickey in action. But it’s when Forrest is on top, with his opponent’s sensational ass in his sights, that his brilliance really shines through. He wedgies and spanks and kneads Mickey’s golden glutes, sure. But he also bites them and licks them and yanks Mickey’s white briefs down to completely expose them. I don’t know if I was ever as convinced in a match that a wrestler was thinking and feeling exactly what I’m thinking and feeling, as when Forrest is squeezing and tasting and spreading Mickey’s straining, quivering cheeks.

So there are those themes to stroke various kinks and tastes… tickling, bullying, adoration of asses. But for any fan of homoerotic wrestling itself, the intensity of the competitive side of this match is just sensationally sexy. Fuck, Forrest’s scissors make me swoon as hard as they, quite clearly, make Mickey suffer. There’s an unscripted scrambling edge to the action that feels spontaneous and ego-driven. When Mickey smoothly and decisively pries Forrest open in a banana split spladle, just owning his quivering handstrings and taking possession of the red-head’s balls, the sweat and pain and delight painted across the entire scene is classic wrestling kink. The story grows suspenseful as the action turns ragged and bitter near the end of the 30+ minutes. They’re evenly matched in size, skill, and intensity, and I don’t know who’s going to score that last submission, until the loser is getting his face pounded with the victor’s grinding crotch, alternating with the victor’s hungry lips possessing the gorgeous loser’s mouth.

Fuck, I don’t know if this settles who gets my vote as having the Best Ass of 2003. This very well may include my vote for Hottest Liplock of the year. I do know for certain, however, that Mickey Knoxx, fiercely aggressive and bitter, executing offense with authority and looking like a total badass BOSS, is deliriously sexy! And that punkish, taunting, mean edge to Forrest has never been more successful in starting a inferno that the bearded babyface beauty may, or may not, be able to handle.

Sheriff

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Another last minute 2023 indulgence I enjoyed was the rare all-out heel-on-heel battle between Brutal Brendan Byers and Monstah Mike, as part of BGE’s last hurrah of the year, Wrestle Worship 5: Power Struggle. To be honest, heel-on-heel matches don’t always land solidly for me. Too much heel energy (like too much jobber energy) can interrupt the momentum of a hot match, I find. Mike and Brendan are to absolutely hot heels who, if it were just the subtitle for this match, “Power Struggle,” might not have stroked me just right. But these two sensationally hot heels fuel the momentum of this match with something other than the classic innocence-spoiled angle, and that something is jet fuel: lust.

This is just Mike’s second match at BG East, after hitting the scene elsewhere, so his extremely cocky attitude could easily be a set up for even a sculpted muscle god like him to get slapped down. He’s so over the top contemptuous of absolutely any possible challenger that I honestly feel like Brendan might just be the pin to pop the bodybuilder’s balloon. “I’m going to dominate here, just like I dominate everywhere,” he boasts before Brendan arrives. Mike is joining me in eye fucking his superhuman proportions and luxuriously draped thick muscles. “I wish someone around here would give me a challenge. But nobody here’s going to mess with me!” And, yeah, it’s not hard to see where the contemptuous boasts come from. It’s like Mike Columbo and Joe Mazetti had a love child who went into competitive bodybuilding. And there’s just something about those trunks he’s wearing that somehow, impossibly really, make his super lean waist sitting on top of those gargantuan, rock hard muscle glutes, appear even more superhuman. I’m not exactly unhappy to report that those magnificent trunks get a bit translucent when Mike works up a thick sheen of sweat, as well. I’m even happier to report that, before this match is over, he’s yanking them down to shove Brendan’s face into the deep crevice between his magnificent cheeks.

But this is Brutal Brendan Byers who steps up to accept the challenge. Brendan towers nearly half a foot taller than Mike. I’m just going to say it again, Mike is fucking pretty, and he’s prettier than Brendan. Brendan’s got the thick, powerful, functional physique of headliner pro wrestler. He’s got this sexy layer of fur down his torso and inner thighs that contrasts sensationally against the baby-oiled smooth surfaces of Mike’s sculpted muscles. We saw what Mike’s bulldozing persona can do to an opponent when he thrashed the living fuck out of adorable Freddy Campbell in Wrestle Shack 31. But big Brendan is NOT adorable Freddy, and the seasoned erotic heel just does not whither under the scorching hot lens of Mike’s extreme self-confidence. Possibly the best line in wrestling this year is when Mike demands, rhetorically, “When was the last time you saw a chest like this,” and Brendan does not skip a beat before answering, “Whenever I look in the mirror.” Fuck, two hot bodies with massive, massive egos.

That jet fuel I mentioned earlier is spraying all over the place from start to finish in this match, as Brendan and Mike are both fucking INTO each other big time. Holy shit, it’s such a breath of fresh air when a homoerotic wrestler is saying what I’m thinking in admiring his opponent. “I’m impressed,” Brendan says, hungrily groping Mike’s Monstah pecs and shoulders, adding, “but you’re still going down.” Down the road, when Brendan is using his height to perfect advantage by wringing Mike out in a full nelson and grinding his crotch into those meaty glutes, he half-moans the confession “I love those tight muscles,” which, I swear to the homoerotic wrestling gods, I was thinking the exact same thing at that very moment.

Mike isn’t as verbally demonstrative, but the swelling bulge in his trunks and the way his breathing gets fast and ragged when he’s being “forced” to worship big Brendan is confession enough for me. When Brendan has Mike’s massive arms trapped in the ropes and he’s straddling the bodybuilder’s face, leaning forward and sucking on Mike’s nipples and licking his abs, the trapped muscle man is a study in extreme ambivalence. The way he really throws himself into his work when he’s kissing Brendan’s biceps and licking the brutal one’s sweaty pits sells the pleasure Monstah Mike is taking from having Brendan grant his wish to have someone around here give him a serious challenge.

Mike’s magnificent muscles take about 66% of the punishment in this match, and it’s thrilling to watch a body like that get worked on so hard. Watching a 230 pound muscle god cracked across an opponent’s thigh in an OTK backbreaker is just epic! And when Brendan’s got him there laid out and vulnerable, the brutal one swoops down and licks the sweat off of Mike’s heaving abs. Holy fuck, be careful what you wish for, Monstah Mike!

I say Brendan is in the driver’s sweat about 66% of the time, but it’s only the final 4 minutes that really matter in the end, when it comes to settling whether BG East has a new “sheriff,” as Mike so boldly announces, or if the old guard is still laying down the law of the land. I think one thing that keeps this heel-on-heel action in the sweet spot for me is that, while there’s a decisive “winner,” no one is hating it when the final round of forced muscle worship plays out. There’s no defense of fragile masculinity, as if being forced to worship a sensationally sexy body you are obviously hot for is somehow emasculating. They’re both fucking into the heat of the battle, into lusting over each other’s hot bodies, and neither of them is an ounce less of a total badass for it. It’s not like I think either of these sexy-as-fuck muscle heels has any tarnish at all on his sheriff’s badge, even though one of them is knocked out cold and pinned helplessly for the final 3-count victory. If anything, I’m hoping it just makes him hungrier. And hornier. And good luck to whoever is next to square off against either of these sensationally sexy bad ass muscle men!

Best Laid Plans

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The final flurry of new releases for the calendar year are out, and there are some eleventh hour gems in BG East’s catalog 173. One of the gems that wore me out is the tag team anchor match in Hunkbash 29. It features the recurring heel duo of Jonny Firestorm and Gabe Steel taking on a surprising rookie combo of former foes, Vinny Vigo and Tony Angeles. Jonny and Gabe bring the sneering, mustache-twirling, sadistic wickedness. Vinny and Tony bring the mountains of pretty, pretty (pretty!) muscle and a surprising unpredictability that made me unable to tear my eyes away to the very end.

I say “surprising unpredictability” not only because I have no idea what to expect from Team Muscle Hunk, but quite obviously, neither do Jonny or Gabe. And, I feel pretty certain, neither do Tony or Vinny, for that matter. I’m certainly not one to spread the rumor that a lot of professional wrestling is scripted, but if you subscribe to that nefarious conspiracy theory, I guarantee you that you’re going to reach the same conclusion that I did: the wrestling drama in this match goes way off script mostly thanks to Team Muscle Hunk. I honestly don’t know if Vinny and Tony don’t really understand the mechanics of tag team wrestling, or they just don’t give a shit and make up the rules as they go. The first explanation sort of jives with a hot-bodied rookie couple like these guys are supposed to be. Sort of eager, impressively endowed and enthusiastic, but maybe naive, poorly trained, a little sketchy on the idea of one partner tethered to their corner until the legal tag is made over the top rope. So, when Vinny leaves his corner, leans through the top two ropes and stretches his stunning (STUNNING) 6-foot physique to basically reach Tony in jeopardy several miles away from being anywhere near making a legal tag… maybe it’s sloppy over-exuberance and a lack of familiarity with the art and science of professional tag team wrestling. Or, on the other hand, maybe Tony and Vinny (and, honestly, mostly Vinny) have the heart of heels wrapped up in dazzlingly pretty babyface beauty, and they know full well they’re fucking with the rules because they just want to win. Either explanation sort of turns me on, for different reasons. But whatever explains it, it’s fucking genius, and I love it!

It’s not like upperclassmen Jonny and Gabe set a good example when it comes to coloring between the lines, of course. They do stick to conventional tags, but the badass boys sort of “forget” when one partner tags out that he’s supposed to actually climb back out to the ring apron and wait his turn. In other words, the double teams are fast and furious and earn this barely controlled chaos a legitimate claim to being a sensational “hunkbash.” Tony (bless his gorgeous cheekbones and astonishingly proportioned tapered-V) is the weakest link, and the heel sharks are almost literally licking their lips as they repeatedly isolate and double-team his Captain America-esque physique with gleeful passion.

Before the heels even set foot in the ring, Gabe has already called dibs on pounding the shit out of big Tony’s gorgeous bod. “That one just screams to get beat,” he explains to his heel mentor, Jonny. And, true enough, drop-dead gorgeous Tony folds like a house of cards A LOT as the hot and brutal action unfolds. And Jonny and Gabe milk the double teams on Tony longer and longer, sort of banking on Vinny not realizing that if they bust out a double-team, all bets are off when it comes to tagging. I mean, Tony was just no match for his bigger, badder tag team partner when they went at it a couple of catalogs ago in their double debut as part of Babyface Brawls 5. Sensing his vulnerability underneath all those magnificent muscles, Jonny and Gabe seriously fuck Tony up two-on-one several times, with Vinny getting more and more pissed watching on, seemingly uncertain of how to proceed.

One of the most sensational stories in this match is the evolution of how the heels regard Vinny. This dude is fucking HUGE. He’s the biggest wrestler in the ring, by quite a bit, and every pound is just ridiculously, luxuriously huge muscle. Pre-match, back when Gabe was calling dibs on Tony, perennial badass Jonny, around 50 pounds smaller than Vinny, seems unconcerned that it means Jonny’s task is to claim Vinny. But holy shit, once Vinny finally gets too pissed and impatient to care anymore what the rules are, he turns into a fucking steamroller!

Here’s where all of that chaotic spontaneity suddenly becomes intense… and fucking sexy as hell! Because neither Jonny nor Gabe can, individually, crack a dent in the 6′ wall of muscle that is Vinny. And even when they pull out the double-team on him, no shit, Vinny is most of the time STILL fucking in charge, because Gabe and Jonny, as powerful and experienced as they are, just cannot button Vinny down. At one point, when Vinny has exceedingly successfully come to Tony’s rescue and sent the heels scattering like rats caught in the beam of a flashlight, Gabe and Jonny circle back on him, determined to bring the behemoth down. The heels have Vinny’s Thor-esque physique strung taut into a double-team bow and arrow because, no shit, one of them would NOT have been able to pull that off. And, it turns out, BOTH of them together can’t pull that off! Sheer, raw, magnificent power busts big Vinny free in a way that clearly stuns Jonny and Gabe. And then, he wraps those anaconda arms around Gabe’s throat in a choke, from which Gabe is NOT going to escape. Simultaneously, his gargantuan thighs have snapped shut around Jonny, and for just a second there, I’m honestly worried about the legendary heel’s internal organs. Eventually, Tony drags his fine, fine, FINE ass back into the melee for Team Muscle Hunk to execute beautiful side-by-side take downs of the completely flummoxed heels, but seriously, Tony could have done a load of laundry and balanced his checkbook, because Vinny had the badboys rocked hard all on his own. “Hey, asshole,” Vinny snarls in this deep, deep base voice with an accent I can’t quite place but apparently my cock speaks fluently because it’s instantly responding. “I told you we’d kick your ass,” he taunts, as Team Muscle Hunk give each other high fives and flex over the fallen heels.

So, yeah, this definitely isn’t a squash. And, if you’ve ever read me before, you know that I’m thrilled to share that news. In fact, the balance of power teeters back and forth so much, and the action is so raw and messy and peppered with blown holds and abandoned moves, I’m thinking way, way near the end that this might be the most clever script-flip in homoerotic wrestling history, with the designated hunks being the ones dishing out the ultimate bashing. Tony (bless his succulent nipples and washboard abs) is in way over his head, but honestly, all he has to do is just stay in big Vinny’s wake. It’s suspenseful to the end, and I seriously think none of the four of them really know how this free-for-all was going to sort itself out until two overwhelmed wrestlers pass out in climactic side-by-side sleepers in the middle of the ring.

I’ve got a good friend who is, like Gabe, all about Tony Angeles these days. Tony’s got this smoldering, serious leading man vibe about him, with that classic babyface combo of traffic-stopping handsomeness and a fantasyman hot bod. He’s got a long way to go before he can stand up to the likes of Jonny or Gabe, but he could totally have a long and acclaimed career as a muscle jobber in the meantime. But if pressed to make a choice, I’ve got to say that I’m unequivocally Team Vinny. Not just because of those massive pecs and the light layer of fur on his lower abs, and not just because of his stunningly thick tree trunk thighs. It’s also the way he persistently climbs up to perch on the top turnbuckle to launch his rock hard body through the air like a bunker buster. And it’s the way he grabs Jonny’s ankle mid-kick and rumbles out in that crotch-stirring bass voice, “Now, it’s my turn.” And it’s because Vinny looks like he’s having fun. Like, when he’s crushing Jonny between his lushly thick thighs, he smiles and sticks out his tongue, just fucking LOVING the feel of dominating a frustrated opponent with his superior muscles. So, sure, sure, he’s a babyface beefcake… sort of. But he could totally be a muscle heel. Hell, in those few moments when he’s actually getting wrangled, his suffering sell is also lush, and he could totally be a muscle jobber. But even more exciting for me, I think Vinny could just be Vinny, an iconoclast who ignores convention and just has sensational fun making it up as he uses that epic physique to dominate opponents.

Monstah

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Monstah Mike is so fucking big and solid, he’s got the gravitational pull of planet. You can tell, because from the moment he debuts for BG East in WrestleShack 31: Cash or Cum (spoiler alert: the answer isn’t cash), Freddy Campbell is either circling him or crashing into him over and over again, and just has no chance in hell of reaching escape velocity. Mike has apparently been hired to work in accounts receivable at BG East. Some weasely red-headed jobber rented out the ring room for some private time, and then tried to skip out without paying the rent. Mike was probably told the name of the jobber, but, seriously, how many weasely little red-headed jobbers could be on the BG East payroll?

Freddy is seriously confused when Mike FILLS the doorway of the shack (and then some) with his gargantuan boulder shoulders and demands that he pay up. Unbeknownst to either Mike or Freddy, the real culprit was, of course, Forrest Taylor (honestly, doesn’t that sound more like Forrest, for some reason?). Fuck, Forrest is stirring up shit when he’s not even on site! “Bossman said to collect what he’s owed from some ginger jobber. Looks about right,” he says, giving Freddy a slow, appraising once over. “So, where’s the money?”

Freddy is duly impressed with Monstah Mike. “I don’t mind a handsome guest,” he says, checking the bodybuilder out with a grin. “But you’ve got the wrong guy. I don’t owe any money.” Future opponents take note: Monstah Mike doesn’t take “no” for an answer. A forearm smash across the chest (and, seriously, look at the size of that fucking forearm!?!?) knocks Freddy into the back wall of the shack.

The whole time, Freddy is protesting his innocence, and not for one second does it matter to the hired gun. Mike is going to beat the money out of him, and, by the looks of it, Mike enjoys his work. He tosses Freddy around like a rag doll. He repeated slams the wrong ginger jobber to the mat, and into the walls, and into his own rock hard body. Holy fuck, that’s hot! Mind you, Freddy has been putting on muscle in his last several matches. BG East has him listed at 185 pounds. But he might as well be 142-pound Forrest, for all it matters, with a fucking AVALANCHE of exquisite, gargantuan muscle pounding down on him and flattening him like a pancake.

It’s all overwhelming muscle and power in this match, and everything about it is absolutely convincing and incredibly hot. Early on, Freddy lashes out with some punches at those huge targets that are Mike’s pecs and I’m pretty sure the blows hurt Freddy a lot more than Mike. The debt collector folds Freddy like origami, wrapping him up in a small package and then, delightfully, showing just how much he enjoys his work by kneading and biting the ginger’s ass and stroking Freddy’s crotch. “Wasn’t expecting to have this much fun,” Mike mutters, good-naturedly, as he’s streamrolling and possessing Freddy at will.

The sexiest moments for me happen when Freddy finally finds the right button to push (a solid jab to Mike’s balls) to get some revenge on the strongman. When Freddy slides the debt collector between his legs to lock on body scissors, the ginger complains, “Fuck, I can barely get my legs around you!” And, indeed, fuck. Mike is just that fucking huge, every ounce of it solid, succulent muscle, to make it nearly impossible for Freddy to really lock down those scissors. Freddy makes the most of the moment, though. He gets a standing ovation from me for yanking on those ultra briefs Mike is wearing and wedgying the most muscly ass I’ve seen bared in a long time.

It’s Freddy’s spladle on Monstah Mike, though, that leaves me dizzy. Fuck, fuck, AND fuck, all that luxurious muscle ripped open wide. I’d bet cash Mike can crack walnuts with those glutes, but in that spladle, ass in the air, he’s whining and crying like a bitch. Mike SELLS that suffering, which makes the contrast between all that dazzling muscle and his complete helplessness sensationally epic. And Freddy is every fucking one of us, taunting the bodybuilder and clawing the fuck out of Mike’s balls.

Lest we blow past even my infamously adept ability to suspend disbelief, rest assured that Mike turns the tables back upright. And the hired muscle is now pissed. He snaps shut the beartrap of his monstah thighs around Freddy’s head and threatens to pop his skull like a grape. Mike picks him up and pins him against the shack wall, Freddy’s feet nowhere near the ground. He makes Freddy lick, suck, and kiss his massive muscles, wringing all the humiliation he wants out of the naughty boy for that embarrassingly sexy spladle a few moments earlier. Barehanded chokes and endlessly punishing bearhugs crush the wrongly-accused ginger like a beer can.

And speaking of beer cans… fuck, when Monstah Mike tugs his briefs down his sequoia thighs, out springs a cock to match the rest of Mike’s massively developed body. He gets himself even harder by pounding his un/lucky opponent’s face senseless with it. Naked, he sits on Freddy’s face and smothers the lucky ginger with those gargantuan muscle glutes. I go back and forth about how to describe Mike here, but I’m just going to say it. He’s fucking amazingly pretty. I mean, I don’t know how someone selling alpha dog muscle enforcer like he does would feel about that adjective. And it’s not like there’s anything delicate or demure about Mike. But nevertheless, I think he’s just astonishingly pretty, in that 5’10, 230-pound, sculpted muscle and early-80’s biker stash way he has about him. If it was a braver and better world we lived in, there’d be young homoerotic wrestling fans with posters of Monstah Mike hanging over their beds. I hope that IRL he’s got some adoringly infatuated boyfriend bringing him flowers and telling him he’s gorgeous every day, because as big and bad and intimidating as he is, he’s just fucking pretty. I can’t think of a better way to put it.

As incredibly impressive Monstah Mike is ALL over, there’s one super impressive muscle on Freddy that puts even the debt collector to shame. If you’ve watched many of Freddy’s matches, you know what I’m talking about. Even Mike’s impressed, admiring the school bus as he presses one of his hugely peaked biceps across Freddy’s throat and smothers the ginger with Mike’s sweaty briefs. Like me, Freddy doesn’t last long after that point. “Damn, boy,” Monstah Mike marvels, “you’ve been holding a lot in there! Good job!”

Freddy is a wasted pool of sweat and cum by the end. Mike looks like he’s super proud of his work, and hungry for another assignment from the boss man. Just as he’s finally walking out the door of the shack, he calls over his shoulder to Freddy, “You clean yourself up. And then GIVE ME THAT MONEY!”

Super fun, funny, and dizzyingly sexy encounter in WrestleShack 31. Freddy NEEDS to settle up accounts with Forrest somehow, and Monstah Mike needs to just keep doing whatever the fuck he wants with whoever the fuck he wants whenever the fuck he wants… as long as the cameras are rolling.

The Curated Self: Dio Characi

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Yeah, that’s right. I happened to have a brief, but deeply meaningful (to me) exchange with Dio Characi. So, you know I’m going to name drop that brush-with-fame! Fuck, that man is hot. I asked him if he could recommend a match that he thought was his best, excepting every match I’ve already reviewed (which means excluding all of his BG East matches, because I have jumped all over every one of those!). Dio was adoringly self-deprecating, but he did mention that he thought his match with Mason Brooks on WatchFighters is “good.”

So, what Dio considers “good,” I find sensational! I mean, it’s not like I’m surprised that Mason v. Dio turns me on SO fucking hard. I’ve hardly been subtle about how much Dio’s wrestling yanks on my chain. And I’ve been infatuated about Mason(‘s nipples) from before I ever even saw him. All of these awesome ingredients were guaranteed to make this battle incendiary.

I love the chemistry between them that feels genuine and passionate. Dio sells his patented brand of seduction and fire-to-dominate that carries through in every match I’ve seen of his (including the ones where he jobs). He compliments Mason in this casual way that seems so spontaneous and authentic, and it costs him nothing in terms of his ability to dominate and intimidate. I’d love to see Dio give lessons to A LOT of other homoerotic wrestlers out there about how to say what we’re all thinking (e.g., yes, Mason unquestionably has sweet, strong pecs). He can afford to hand out compliments like a snack-sized candy bar to an underwhelmed trick-or-treater, because Dio is cooly confident in his superior strength and skill. It’s like that classic underground wrestling mind game taken to the next level. Not needing to try to undermine an opponent’s confidence with a ton of trash talk only serves to put Mason on notice that the babyface beefcake from Brazil is absolutely certain that he’s going to wipe the floor with him. And I love homoerotic wrestling where the attraction between the wrestlers doesn’t have to be subtext. Dio can both praise Mason’s objectively and obviously hot bod, and he can delight in thrashing him into submission. “You have a good ass,” Dio observes, enthusiastically slapping Mason’s stripped bare muscle butt, because it’s just plain the truth.

“Just ‘good!?’ Fuck you,” Mason snarks back in classic, cocky Mason fashion. He appears to be his delightfully authentic self as well, from the moment that he sees Dio’s bare torso when the Brazilian pretty boy pulls off his hoodie, and Mason can’t help himself but give those legendary pecs a squeeze. Over the course of his career (at least since I started watching him when he debuted with BG East), he’s evolved into such a hilariously snarky bitch. He has a genuine self-consciousness about him, in a good way, like the self-deprecating shots he takes at himself from time to time. For example, the way he deflects Dio’s compliment for his handsome face (“Let’s face it, the ass is better, to be honest”). Not to suggest Mason’s ego is anything but super-sized. He’s unflinchingly cocky and wields withering trash talk with surgical precision. “You thought you had me, huh?” He taunts and sneers, when he’s turned the tables on Dio’s out-of-the-gate offense, slapping on headscissors, a hammerlock, and a twist of Dio’s leg to turn him into a deliciously mouthwatering pretzel. “I did enjoy those pecs, though,” Mason admits, savoring his riding time. “Not gonna lie.”

Both sets of pecs are profoundly enjoyable, and honestly, the stars of the show. Both of these sensationally sexy hunks have stunningly gorgeous pecs, but it’s Dio who takes advantage of his (and of Mason’s obvious attraction to them) most effectively. He smothers the snarky bad boy for days on end with Mason’s face buried in the cleft between Dio’s hot pecs. Sometimes, frankly, it looks like Mason is hating it, screwing up his face and trying to pull away in a way that makes me want to slap some sense into him myself. Fuck, Mason, if you aren’t going to enjoy that ride, tag me in, damn it!!! But soon enough, Dio’s magical pecs weave their spell over even jaded snarkmaster Mason, who isn’t exactly hating his life around the time that Dio is forcing him to suck his nipples, absolutely in control and shoving Mason’s face from nipple to nipple to make sure they both get equal love.

Both stubborn and dangerous muscle boys demand a submission, but only Dio, with that fucking sexy and chill inevitability about him, is able to milk it out of his opponent. It’s that rear naked choke, threatening to put the snarling bad boy out cold, that Mason finally can’t trash talk his way out of. “I’m sure you don’t want this bicep wrapped around your neck like this, right,” Dio asks. It’s a rhetorical question, because Mason can’t say a word with his windpipe pinched close. The level of panic in Mason’s frantic fingers, tapping out his submission like a seasoned Morse code operator, is delicious. The babyface Brazilian muscle boy literally laughs as he enjoys watching all that swagger and cockiness evaporate like dry ice, leaving Mason sweaty, bitter, and beaten.

I’m so turned on by watching this cherubic-faced muscle boy absolutely bring bad boy Mason to heel. There’s a sweet, sweaty moment where Mason has been riding roughshod on his hunky guest, and he’s sitting on his face and forcing Dio to stroke his (let’s face it, stunningly hot) pecs. Dio does such a good job of it, and Mason is so cocksure of his superiority, that the Brazilian takes advantage of Mason’s aroused distraction to pop free. “Now, it’s my turn,” Dio snarls with this deep, fierce, bitter sincerity that brings tears to my eyes, moments before snapping shut the bear trap of his hairy thighs around Mason’s head. I’m having a hard time conveying just how hot those four words are, but again, it has to do with the intimate intensity and spontaneity of this entire match. It’s not campy. It’s not forced. It’s just fucking fiercely sexy! At another point, after the fateful submission, when Dio is demanding that his beaten opponent worship his armpit, Mason is apparently half-assing it and just kissing Dio’s sweaty curls with his lips. “Use your tongue!” Dio fucking growls at him in a way that makes my crotch squirm at exactly the same instant it makes Mason stick out his tongue and start obeying.

The subission come 13 minutes into the rough and tumble session, mind you, with another 9 minutes or so left for Dio to savor the spoils of victory. There are a few moments where I think his bullying commands are going to make Mason start to fight again, but no shit, Mason got beat, and he knows it. And, judging by his hard cock coming out to play and getting totally put over the top by Dio’s battering his face with the Brazilian’s force-fed pec bouncing, Mason’s “okay” with finally admitting defeat.

The set-up is spartan, a couple of small blue wrestling mats on a wood floor. The camera work is pretty remarkable, putting you right into the room with them unselfconsciously. It’s pretty much all close-ups because space is limited, but it just feels intimate, not cramped. The product totals almost 23 minutes, with about 40 seconds of intro/outro graphics, and about a minute of pre-match chatter and sizing each other up. You’ll see Mason in all his naked glory, but Dio’s singlet, straps down, just barely stays on his gorgeous body.

I love knowing that when Dio thinks about the scope of his wrestling resume, this hot, intimate, intensely physical grappling session-turned muscle worship and domination rises to the top of his list of “good” ones. Holy fuck, can you imagine how dazzlingly sexy a match would have to be for Dio to classify it as “great?!”

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

wrestlebard6 Comments

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!