Aigle Blanc – Sidelineland

I have a complicated relationship with mainstream pro wrestling. I religiously watched my local independent wrestling shows on television through my adolescence and young adulthood. Honestly, it was always primarily motivated by the erotic turn on I got from it. So, it was the matches with chemistry, with hot, aggressive drama, usually involving hardbodied babyface muscle boys getting manhandled and humbled in front of a stunned crowd. As I’ve mentioned before, I still blame a young Billy Jack Haynes, the babyface uber-muscleboy in his early career jobber stage in my local shows, for my erotic obsession with wrestling. When WWF/WWE started eating up the indies, I started getting bored with it. Maybe it was my changing tastes (or, the wrestling gods forbid, my growing maturity), but the stories seemed to get more obvious, more contrived, less spontaneous and competitive. I found the wrestlers less attractive, less compelling, the heat more scripted and less and less about the wrestling. Around the same time, I discovered homoerotic wrestling producers, and honestly, I took a long, long hiatus from pro wrestling for the masses.

Over the past 10 years or so, with the magic of YouTube, I’ve rediscovered mainstream pro wrestling. Well, I’ve mostly discovered independent pro wrestling produced outside the U.S. It’s not like I watch it religiously, and still, it’s the erotic turn on that fuels my search terms. But these days, I’d estimate about a third of my wrestling consumption is indy pro. It gives me a strong hit of nostalgia when I find myself doe-eyed and in lust with a pro hunk climbing into the ring in front of a roaring audience. I do catch some US indy pro, but at this point I’m pretty partial for productions from elsewhere. I still get about half my YouTube ads delivered in Spanish (of which I speak not a word) because I’ve watched so much Mexican lucha.

Sometimes, a particularly hot wrestler in a particularly hot indy pro match can top me off on his own. A lot of times, it serves as mood setting for me, getting me revved up before I pull up some erotically oriented wrestling produced for gay eyes. Discovering a new pro wrestling infatuation is a sweet delight that sends me and the YouTube suggestions-algorithm combing through often obscure, small wrestling productions across the globe. But I definitely have a short list of wrestlers I regularly use my date-added filter for to savor their new matches with almost as much passion as I used to hope and pray that Billy Jack Haynes would be wrestling on the Portland Wrestling’s Saturday late night weekly broadcast.

One of my current favorites is the French masked wrestler Aigle Blanc, who’s wrestled for a few different European productions. Physically, he’s just fucking stunning. I throw around the “physique like an anatomy chart” metaphor too often, I realize, but seriously, Aigle’s super ripped physique is like an anatomy chart. He’s ultra lean, in a way that honestly I’m not always into, but he wears it in such a mouthwatering way. He’s been tracked at 5’11 and 154 pounds, which is probably an exaggeration of how fucking lean he is, but I bet not by much. I always feel like I’m seeing him in double vision. Like, I see this super lean (bordering on downright skinny) dude (particularly in contrast with the solid as fuck beefcakes he’s typically facing), but almost superimposed on that is this lovingly sculpted muscle god with magnificent proportions and legitimate muscle thickness that takes my breath away. He’s skinny and stacked? Skacked? I fucking LIVE for glimpses of his face, like when he’s in a particularly vicious match when his mask gets partially clawed off. From that and the oblique angles partially disguising his face in his selfies on IG, I have this mental image of a handsome, angular face framed by his long, dirty blond locks. It’s probably totally a fiction, but I’m convinced I’d be as enamored with his good looks if I spotted him fully clothed in the wild as I’m infatuated with his hot body on display in the ring.

Hot bodies, while necessary, aren’t sufficient to satisfy what turns my crank, of course (see the past 15+ years of blog posts for further reference). Watching Aigle Blanc wrestle is a fucking kick! Like, literally, he somehow looks 6’11 instead of 5’11 when he delivers a straight kick to the face of a charging opponent. He goes by Aigle, so definitely, he’s a flyer, too, and fuck, I love that drama. He looks like he should be cannon fodder when he’s squaring off against massive muscle bear opponents with a center of gravity a good foot and a half lower than his, which makes it intensely entertaining to watch his wicked hot strikes and twist-tied submission holds more than just level the playing field. Sure, sure, I’m staring at his startlingly hot, ultra-lean, flexing glutes that nobody can possess and still be called “skinny,” but his speed, intense aggression, and elevation (the boy SOARS) get me going so hard.

And finally, I have to say Aigle Blanc’s social media game is a major part of infatuation, as well. There’s a shy narcissist vibe to the way he shared his workout vids and face-obscured shirtless selfies, like, fuck yeah, he knows how inhumanely hot he is, but he’s sort of low key about it. Like his captions are all about putting in the work juxtaposed against the images of his touched-by-divinity, genetic lottery-winner of a perfectly proportioned physique. He carries the babyface battler theme throughout his nicely populated IG profile, selling in out of the ring in this way that seems earnestly devoted to the craft of professional wrestling. And, no shit, not a single post that doesn’t get my blood pumping.