Tag: Alexi Adamov

Unmentionables

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I’ve been out of town for work for several days, but now I’m very happy to be back at home. Of course, leaving town requires that I work twice as hard before I go to prepare to be away, and then twice as hard when I get back to catch up on everything that’s piled up in my absence. On my list are several emails regarding the blog and wrestling fiction sites to reply to. Since I get some repeat questions, I thought I’d give a couple responses en masse…


First, the wrestling fiction groups are still up and operating. Anyone who signs up (and gets approved) for either the Producer’s Ring or Sidelineland wrestling fiction groups will (I think) get automatic approval to view the websites that have all the archives of wrestling fiction stories I (and some of you) have written and shared.


Some of you clever people have found the sites directly and then asked for 1:1 permission to access them. That seems to work as well, though if you aren’t signed up for the gateway group lists, you won’t get email notices of new stories posted or be able to participate in discussions that arise from them.  So if you’re interested, I’d recommend you to the sign-up pages for each group, and you’ll get full access to the whole sha-bang. Links to the websites are on the home pages for each group. And one last note on the groups, I’ve seen some very clever “reasons you’d like to join” submissions lately. To the new member who simply wrote, in all lower case letters, “please let me in,” I just have to say that’s just adorable. I had a vision of Oliver Twist standing in line for a second helping of gruel. Made me laugh (and I like to laugh).


My other administrative message is, I believe, a repeat. Some of you can’t get enough, and you’ve discovered that I actually administrate a third group called “On Deck.” This “group” is actually just a little workshop area I created to keep track of works-in-progress and try to tame the beast that is Google formatting. I think of it a little like my underwear drawer. I don’t generally show it off to guests. Some of its contents are a little ragged and would be embarrassing for others to be poking around in, frankly. Once I’ve assembled the pieces and finished them off, I promise I’ll post final products in one of the two homoerotic wrestling websites.


I have a lot of other homoerotic wrestling business to catch up on as well, with more to say (hopefully soon) about some new stories in development as well as some new products I have in hand and can’t wait to view and review. You who follow and comment on the blog and fiction continue to be a generous, entertaining, and enjoyable group of folks with which to exercise my imagination. Thanks for the support and encouragement and contribution of your ideas!

Classic Tales

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The double bicep pose: a prerequisite for homoerotic domination hotness. Deconstructing (as is my way), the double bicep is an interesting statement. The explicit point, of course, is to call attention to the size of a man’s biceps. Sweet muscleboy Gary Myers, for example, sported stunning, double-peaked biceps bigger around than his neck. There’s a simple, primal aesthetic to the double bicep. When a hard hunk has the guns and proportions, there’s an amazing, powerful symmetry that’s simply beautiful. These are muscles that have been crafted and carved with insane amounts of sweat and tears and self-worship. A classic double bicep can simply say: stand back and be awed.
Making a run to strip Rusty Stevens of the title of my favorite homoerotic wrestling pornboy, Mitch Colby frequently illustrates that a double bicep can communicate much more than just aesthetics. Not that Mitch’s body shouldn’t be under glass, but with his cock planted across his opponent’s chin and his knees pinning his opponent’s arms to the ground, Mitch lifts his arms and crunches out a double bicep to make a statement: I’m your superior. Mitch’s softballs attached high on his upper arm drive home the point of his scrap with his young challengers. His gorgeously tanned, fantastically toned muscles will, without fail, put a lesser man on his back. The gloating look on Mitch’s face in this pic is priceless. You’re owned, kid, he’s saying. And these are the muscles that broke you and made you mine.

Unlike the victory double bi, the buddy double bi seems like it’s frequently the last moment of dignity for a couple of hardbody faces heading into a world of hurt. Freakishly stunning Tyrell Tomsen and his short-lived partnership with Jimmy Gee is a recent case in point. We don’t have to even know who their opponents are to take a look at this pre-match pose and predict that these boys are going to be humiliated. The double bis telegraph the approaching story line. Massive mountain of muscle, Tyrell, is demigod anchor to this tag team. Jimmy, who’s a bit softer and sporting decidedly less impressive guns than in prior outings, is destined to be the weakest link. The double biceps are ostensibly the display of power and confidence here, but the whole text tells a different story, including vulnerability and an inevitable date with humiliated destruction.
I’ve been enjoying the forced flex in more and more recent products out of BGE. Lon Dumont, who must be worshiped in more matches to come, made an over-the-top homoerotic masterpiece with his psychic humiliation of Eddy Rey, forcing the bigger man to flex on-command in submission. Brooklyn Bodywrecker had the same tool in his arsenal of destruction, when he broke cocky hardbody Mr. Joshua Goodman to pieces. The double bicep here is no longer about victory or confidence, but about humiliated defeat. Joshua stepped into the ring banking on his muscles to power down on BBW (the silly, silly fool), so in victory, BBW forces a decimated Joshua to flex. Behind the nearly unconscious loser (and I mean that lovingly, Mr. Joshua), BBW crunches out his own double bi, illustrating that despite not having quite as smooth, ripped, or classically pretty a muscle body, he has exactly what it takes to hammer down on a muscleboy, strip him naked, and heartlessly taunt us by refusing to let us see Mr. Joshua’s owned goods.

Ultimately, the double bicep is always a complicated story of strength and vulnerability. It’s a primal display of power to intimidate would-be challengers. At the same time, the class double bicep pose stretches out and exposes the rest of the muscled body. This isn’t a defensive position by any means. As repeated maneuvers in the homoerotic ring illustrate, a strutting double bicep leaves a cocky stud vulnerable to a strike to the crotch, a surprise full nelson from behind, or an attack on the exposed core. So in the end, the musclegod who pulls off the double bicep tells a fantastically woven tale of power and vulnerability, beauty and savagery, the promise of victory and the haunting foreshadowing of potentially being owned and displayed like a tantalizing piece of meat.

How Does That Feel!?

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It’s cliche’, I know. But I can’t help myself but be sucked in when one wrestler snarls at his opponent, “How does that feel!?“

It’s not as if it’s a real question. It’s typically asked when one man is clearly suffering. The obvious answer is, “It hurts!” The question is rhetorical. It’s not asked in an effort to gather information, but to domineer. It’s a question intended to humiliate, to drive home the point that the suffering man is paid for and owned outright by his opponent. Asking the question, “how does that feel,” is about pointing out all that’s obvious here: I control you. Where your pain starts and stops is completely in my hands. I own your body, and once you acknowledge the foregone conclusion that you have no choice but submit to me, you’re entirely mine.
Let me just put it out there. When I’m watching a favorite homoerotic beat down and I hear the rhetorical question, “How does that feel,” I frequently answer. Out loud. Emphatically. As usual, even as I type this I wonder, “Am I just disclosing way too much?” Ah, what the hell. When I hear Cole or Mitch or Rusty or Derek snarl down at some muscled boy that they’ve just broken in body and spirit, asking him how it feels, I often answer, saying something like, “That feels fucking awesome!” I realize that they aren’t actually asking me, but that question can collapse the distance between entertainer and entertained for me, transporting me ringside where my muscle champion inflicts pain explicitly for my pleasure. Sure, he’s looking down into his opponent’s face as he crushes the suffering man’s balls beneath his feet, but his question is for me, “How does that feel, Bard?”
He’s digging his claws into the fantastically meaty pecs of his jobber boy, whose face is contorted with pain and near-sobs are wracking his body. And when he asks, “How does that feel?” he’s asking me, “Is this what you want to see? If I claw my fingers in deeper, how does that make you feel, Bard?”
It’s a contemptuous, domineering, humiliating throw away line that’s just meant to tell the story of one man’s complete domination. But when the fighter on top asks, “How does that feel,” the words frequently transport me ringside, where this muscle on muscle battle is being waged for my pleasure. The ars erotica of the beautiful body beatdown becomes more than just implicitly for my pleasure. The dispenser of punishment is considerately checking in with his patron. “How about if I twist his rippled body a few inches farther? What if I crank his neck until he cries. How does that feel, Bard?”
Feels fucking awesome, Mitch. Keep it up.

Words and Silences

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An online collaborator on a writing project recently mentioned to me that he doesn’t always “get” dialogue in wrestling. As for me, I’m always writing in taunting bravado, snarling verbal domination, or humiliating tirades. The dialogue makes it as much a head game as a battle of bodies, and both together are a bigger turn on for me than either one separately.

Similarly, I also recently replied to a reader’s comment by saying that the Enforcer’s epic beatdown on already beaten down Brad Rochelle in BG East’s Contract 4 left me desperately wanting to hear the big baddy say something. He’s creepily quiet as he tosses, slams, pries and pummels sweetly suffering Brad. Brad cries and whimpers, “why…?” as he’s twisted into astonishing angles, but the Enforcer’s silence is somehow even more dominating. He refuses to explain himself, to answer any question, to justify his devastating mugging. Still… if he just once whispered, “‘Cause I want to see you beg…” I’d have spontaneously exploded at the very instant.
Still again, I realize that the topic of dialogue came up in my review on Monday of Rock Hard Wrestling’s latest release. The first match between Cameron and Tommy is technically nice grappling. Two big, gorgeous bodies working up a sweat (perhaps enhanced, nevertheless), is art worth standing up and taking note of in my book. But they’re so eerily silent as they fight. It’s a little more like watching a chemistry experiment than the battle of two cocky studs both believing that they are fated to prevail. Words could tell me that this isn’t just about muscles and skill, but it’s also about balls (and cocks, for that matter), as two big boys play the game that boys have always played throughout time: whose is bigger; who’s badder; who will be the conqueror and who will be conquered.
The dialogue is one of the things that makes BG East’s new Fantasymen match debuting Lon Dumont such a turn on for me. Lon is barking at Eddy throughout the match, demanding that he flex for him. “I’ve seen that one!” he shouts when Eddy pumps out another double bicep in submission. Lon carries off cocky taunting convincingly, wrapping the physical action into a through-story based on Lon’s scene-opening challenge that he doesn’t give away poses of his hot body for free. Lon never accepts a whimpering submission from Eddy without snapping at him, “That’s not good enough!” and demanding a new, stunning flex of Eddy’s sweat-soaked, bulging body. Hell yes, that’s what I’m talking about!
One more example of what’s working for me: Can-Am is unfolding a new product called the Arena in their premium pay site, Can-Am Max,. It stars BG East bad boy, Aryx Quinn, new face Brian Bodine, and g—orgeous Rusty Stevens. After the first match up, Rusty has Brian beaten, fucked, and lying on his stomach in humiliation. Before Rusty can leave in undisputed victory, Aryx charges in, challenging Rusty to an East Coast vs. West Coast battle. They circle Brian’s beaten body, trading insults. Rusty is post-match naked and hard as a board, with that massive muscled bubblebutt bouncing with each stride. Aryx is in shiny gear and boots. Aryx says that if Rusty thinks Brian was competition, then perhaps he should walk across the street to the grade school to find more opponents he could beat up. Aryx is supposed to be the fast talking challenger, but Rusty has a very quick wit and sharp tongue that manages to best Aryx in the head-game of improv taunts, in my opinion. The constant circling of naked Brian, Rusty’s stunning, huge body aroused and on display, and the playground choreography of the taunt, the challenge, and the challenge accepted is by far the most erotic part of this match thus far (including the fuck scene).
I probably write too much dialogue in my wrestling fiction for some. The quotation marks probably serve as little more than a distraction to many fellow kinksters out there groaning to just get on with it, start the tussle, slam some bodies together. But for me, the taunts, tantrums, screams and submissions are absolutely delightful icing on the cake of hardbodies, sweat, and suffering. The talk tells the story of not just physical domination, but the domination of one man’s will over another. It’s about the ante up, the smack down, and the claim at the end of the day when one stud is helpless on his back and the other is reminding him, “I told you so.”

Between Takes

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If you’re browsing a homoerotic wrestling kink blog on Christmas morning, you’re my kind of twisted bastard! If this isn’t your holiday, or if you can’t think of any better way to celebrate than feeding your gay wrestling fetish, welcome!

It does seem like a gentler, kinder sort of day to me, regardless. So I’m celebrating by appreciating the “Behind the Scenes” treats that BG East offers every so often (not often enough!). Occasionally, Kid Leopard and his team snap some pics of the boys between takes. When they aren’t growling and snarling, squeezing and pounding, dominating and humiliating one another, it looks like they’re genuinely enjoying themselves. Mugging for the camera, grinning with good humor, these shots make me smile. I love them pounding on one another, but it’s also fun to seem them without their faces on from time to time.
I hope your day is filled with gentle smiles and affectionate embraces. I hope this is a day of sweaty, passionate, sexy good humor for you. Whatever the religiously charged content that comes along every December 25, my prayer is that none of us take ourselves too seriously.

An Instant Classic

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This is my 100th post! On this auspicious occasion, I thought long and hard about how to celebrate this milestone. I decided to return once again to one of my favorite topics: the wonder that is Mitch Colby.

Mitch appeared on the scene at BG East only about 3 years ago, but it feels like I’ve been adoring him for much longer than that. He’s listed at 6’2″ and 206 pounds, and his bodybuilding site suggests that he perfected that fine form fairly recently, reminding us all that it’s never too late to get fit. I think what first caught my attention about Mitch was, in part, his age. He’s certainly not ready to collect social security, but he’s also not quite one of the countless just-finished-puberty boys that fill the ranks of the homoerotic wrestling genre. I love those captured moments when Mitch’s younger opponents (like Alexi, here) are clearly checking out his stunning body, despite themselves.
As I’ve mentioned, another fantastically attractive quality to Mitch is the speed with which he becomes completely soaked in sweat. He’s working hard against his opponents (and for us), and it shows.
Mitch suffers nicely. He sells his character as the bodybeautiful narcissist whose cockiness sometimes gets him in over his head. At 6’2″, Mitch shows some great ability (and readiness) to be twisted and lifted and thrown. His dismantling by the much smaller hardbody badboy Cole Cassidy is that much more stunning for the size differential.
Mitch continues to evolve in his salesmanship in dishing out punishment. He gave nearly as well as he took against Cole. This scene of Cole suffering in Mitch’s prolonged bearhug is an awesome display of Mitch’s beautifully muscled back and Cole displays the exact same face I make often when I’m thinking about Mitch!
His most recent bit with Derek da Silva showed Mitch exploring a new range that is very, very promising. I’m hoping someone will please smack him (hard) when the loses his concentration and looks into the camera, as he often does (Brad Rochelle needs to give Mitch “a lesson” in this, among other things). But it is a thing of beauty to see Mitch trap his opponent’s head between his legs, face to crotch, and squeeze those muscled thighs. Mitch seems genuinely transported into an ecstatic reverie in those moments, entirely present, and him getting turned on is a very hot turn on to watch.
Mitch seems to be venturing more into hardcore, and frankly I’ll only follow him so far down that path. But whenever he signs up for another wrestling match, particularly one which devolves from competitive passion to erotic passion, I’m there.