Wrestling with the Stars

Screw dancing. Get beefcake pin-up boy Ben Cohen in a wrestling ring!!!

Rugby veteran, LGBT ally, and all around stunning beefcake Ben Cohen is reportedly making everyone swoon on the British version of Dancing with the Stars.  Damn, there’s a particularly hard to reach spot that few can scratch quite like a hot, pumped, hairy rugby hunk like Ben.  He’s tagged at 6’2″ and 227 pounds, and I’ll go out on a limb and say that those precise numbers have never looked as good on another body.


This is not the first time I’ve been caught joining in the mass swoon that seems to swell in big Ben’s wake.  And like every object of lust that grabs my attention, it’s guaranteed that he’s instantly transported into a homoerotic wrestling fantasy of mine.

Too, too pretty Tom Brady went pec-to-pec against Ben Cohen in my homoerotic wrestling imagination.

In Ben’s case, he was featured in the “All-Stars” division of my Producer’s Ring series, competing to make the transition from sports superstar to Hollywood actor.  As in every PR story I’ve written, Ben’s promise as a fan favorite actor is gauged entirely upon his capacity to both crush a homoerotic wrestling opponent and look good doing it.  In Ben’s case, he faced American footballer and fashion model wannabe, Tom Brady.  Brady is ridiculously pretty, which 4 times out of 5 translates to serious doom in professional wrestling (9 times out of 10 in my particular homoerotic imagination).  In the imagined battle between Ben and Tom, the American has a couple of inches in height over the Rugby stud, but they’re pretty damn close to the same weight (translation: nasty, high impact battle of the big boys!). Tom is accustomed to having wealth and success shoved in his face, so imagine his surprise when it’s Ben’s meat-packed, sweaty jock strap that’s slapping the pretty boy’s cheeks.  Tom mounts a modicum of offense to make this barely not a squash, but there’s nothing but big Ben pounding the living shit out of the quarterback morning, noon and night.  And there’s a standing headscissors transitioning to an inverted, reverse bearhug, so counting up the fantasy favorites of mine in that match requires a calculator.

I don’t know if that glitter is digestible, but that gorgeously muscled physique is 100% lickable!

On DWTS, Ben is playing to his fan base by dancing shirtless, with a little body glitter to accentuate the sweaty lather the big boy works up on the dance floor.  Sweet Jeebus, that body glitter better be edible, because if my tongue was within striking distance of that glistening, furry body and, in particular, those hypnotizing nips, Ben Cohen would be pinned to his back and licked from head to toe before he knew what hit him. UK readers, I trust you’re voting for Ben, because I’m hoping to see more shots like this in the coming weeks!

Boys and Balls

I followed organized sports half-heartedly up until the moment that I came out. Prior to that, I tracked college football and basketball and the occasional professional football season. But it was mostly just a perceived obligation of masculinity. I never really cared about the stats or the standings. As soon as I felt liberated from the heterosexist hegemony that equates homophobic contact sports with male virility, I stopped pretending to care. Homoerotic wrestling aside, my interest in the world of sport is seriously weak.
Australian Rugby Player and Gay Rights Advocate, David Pocock 

My ignorance of the world of rugby is filling me with regret as I see headline stories of rugby hotties “coming out” as either gay or allies. Like this fucking muscle monster by the name of David Pocock. All of the juvenile comments to be made about his last name evaporate when I read that this red-headed beast is a seriously outspoken ally of The Gays.

David Pocock and his gargantuan arms.
Seems that Pocock has stated repeatedly and clearly that he’s not getting married until everyone in Australia, including its gay citizens, have that right. Hot damn! I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again, nothing, but nothing is sexier than a smoking hot muscle body paired with a visionary commitment to social justice.

David Pocock’s gorgeous ass and tree-trunk thighs

Well, nothing could be sexier, unless the aforementioned smoking hot muscle body paired with a visionary commitment to social justice was engaged in some nasty, ferocious, rules-be-damned wrestling. To the best of my knowledge (which is extremely limited), those ridiculously huge legs of David’s have not yet been used to their fullest potential: namely, crushing the skull of some lucky bastard in a forever-and-a-day face-to-crotch headscissors.

David Pocock meditating on social justice at the beach

David comes to my attention (thanks again, Towleroad), on the heels of my growing infatuation with Welsh rugby hunk, Gareth Thomas, coming out as an openly gay muscle beast.

Out Welsh rugby muscle beast, Thomas Gareth

Again, I say, look at the beef on those legs!!! Good God almighty…

Hairy rugby hunk and ally, Ben Cohen

And of course there’s hairy rugby hunk Ben Cohen who’s working full time combatting anti-gay bullying these days. Ben has already worked his way into a fan-inspired homoerotic wrestling match in my imagination, in which he crushes American footballer Tom Brady in a bone crunching hangman.

Rugby player and physique god, Nick Youngquest

And then there’s Australian rugby sexbomb, Nick Youngquest, who has also appeared in my homoerotic wrestling imagination. A collaborator helped me write Nick’s appearance in the Producer’s Ring, marking the beginning of the end of Andrew Stetson’s rise through the ranks of homoerotic wrestling producers in a locked door office mauling. Nick is, yet again, another rugby muscle stud happily committed to advocating for The Gays and, possibly even better, stripping naked to appear in gay rags and inspiring millions of boys’ wet dreams.

I realize that the world of macho sports, much less the world of professional rugby, is not suddenly rushing to embrace the gays. The fact that these rugby gods being openly gay or gay positive is headline news seems to most certainly imply that they are the exception, rather than the rule. Still, I’m suddenly considering whether ore not I need to give my local gay rugby club a new look. These boys are definitely inspiring me to give team sports a second glance.


Some people report feeling as if they were born in the wrong era. I was born in the wrong country. I’ve said it before, and I’ll almost certainly say it again: my heart belongs to the UK. Well, perhaps not my heart. The politics there lately are looking more and more like they’ve torn pages out of the US Republican Party playbook. But they do have same-as-marriage civil unions. Much, much more importantly, as far as I’m concerned, they have fantastic eye-candy entertainment.

I’ve finished watching season 3 of Being Human, and I’ve put the box up on my shelf in a place of honor.  It illustrates why I wasn’t quite right in my first inclination that the American/Canadian version of Being Human was innovating on the original. It just turns out that the version this side of the pond was poaching concepts from the third season that I hadn’t yet seen. The pregnancy. The dog fights. The “old ones.” But one thing that the version over here simply can’t quite pull off is the priceless treasure that is Russell Tovey’s naked ass.

Truthfully, Russell is incredibly entertaining for more than his frequent nudity. He’s a fantastic actor with comedic timing that slays me constantly, especially when I least expect it. But equally as truthfully, if BBC ever decides that they can pull off a new season of Being Human without at least a couple scenes of Russell waking up in the morning after a full moon with a full moon, someone needs to slap them upside the head. My sense of loyalty made me ache for the climactic ending of season 3, but Russell is clearly on board should there be a season 4 (yes, please). However, should the American/Canadian version try the plot twist that is the season 3 jaw dropper from the BBC, hang it up, because the one thing that keeps me tuning into SyFy will have been lost.

But back to my Anglophile theme. In addition to feeling bitter that I have to wait for the most excellent BBC shows that I love more than ANYTHING on US basic cable, there’s mounting evidence that I was simply born in the wrong country. There’s adorable Ashley Ryder’s Grapple 101 that I am forced to miss every week due to being several thousand miles away. There’s Chris Geary’s go-go boys that never, ever show up at my local Pride parade. And then there’s Ben Cohen leading a flash mob of strippers across the Thames as a publicity stunt (thanks, AfterElton).

These things simply don’t happen where I live. We did see Ben cruise through these parts not long ago promoting his anti-homo-bullying campaign (you rock, Ben… just wish macho bullies over here had a clue what Rugby is). But we did not see him engage in public stripping.

If I ever do get to spend more substantial time in the UK (this is a possibility), I will insist on a few things. First, Ben Cohen must take off his clothes in public in front of me once a month, at a minimum. Second, Russell Tovey simply has to take me on a date to the Tate, where, if we see Ben Cohen stripping on the Millennium Bridge out front again, all the better. Third, I need a personal tutoring session from Ashley Ryder in the fine art of sock-wrestling. Fourth, Daniel Craig must emerge from the surf in those sensational square cuts (you know which one’s I’m talking about) every time I go to the beach.

These things happen all the time in the UK, right? Can I apply for some sort of reverse-immigration status that undoes what my ancestors did three generations ago?

It’s Like a Heatwave Burning in My Heart

The oppressive summer heat has arrived across almost all of the United States, including my normally moderate little corner. I’m not a fan of serious summer heat. I much prefer to generate my own.
My workplace is not air conditioned, which accounts for some of my unhappiness with the heat. Still, working inside, there are options that aren’t available to the fine folks whose labors require them to be outside. In their honor, I’ll resist the temptation to whine… too much.
But what to do when the heat sucks the energy out of you and you find yourself sweating while sitting absolutely still? Like Cristiano Ronaldo, you can always just grab a hose and wet down your massively muscled legs and the side of beef you’re smuggling in your trunks.

Or like Aussie Hugh Jackman, soak your glistening, hairy, hard muscles from head to toe by frolicking in the ocean.
Admittedly, finding the nearest muscle hunk and offering to lather him up with sunscreen may not cool things off, but it’s certainly a way to turn lemons into lemonade, now, isn’t it?
Lathering up your own sweet pecs and mounded arms is always a good idea, as well. I’m all about skin health. If you do it real slow, pinching your nipples a little as you go, the sun screen covers better (I swear… just try it, you’ll see).

Like rugby musclegod, Ben Cohen (appearing in a wrestling fantasy near you), you could let your inner child (encased in your hairy, hunky, brick house of a body) bust out on a water slide.
Did I mention frolicking in the ocean making sure every inch of your rippled muscles get good and wet? It’s worth mentioning again.
Finally, perhaps the best way to beat the heat is with some naked sword play in a cool, dark space. However you cope, I hope that you regulate your temperature effectively… cool when you need to be cool, and hot when you’re in the mood to get hot.

Boys with Balls

I’ve received a few requests from readers of my celebrity wrestling fiction to add sports stars into the matches. While it’s true I don’t particularly follow most sports, I’m not as sports-illiterate as some gay men I know (though “icing” in hockey still bewilders me). I even enjoy taking in some of the action, particularly when it’s live (going to the ballpark is awesome… watching on TV is not). Still, I’ve had to do some research to find who in sports today needs to be body slammed, and who in sports needs to do the slamming.

I found that Towleroad has a very, very nice running feature called “Sportraits” that displays some of the prime beef in sports entertainment. If not for this search for talent to write up in the wrestling ring, I’d NEVER have discovered the fantastic torso of NASCAR driver Carl Edwards. I believe I detect a little airbrushing, but Carl’s beautiful body is still just aching to get tortured in a camel clutch, don’t you think?
And then there’s rugby boy Ben Cohen. The fact that Ben apparently has body issues is endearing – completely ridiculous and a tragic indictment of society, but endearing . In my mind, Ben’s prime for pile driving some cocky muscle-head hardbody in the middle of the ring.
And though he’s retired now, a reader put me on to the beauty that is soccer/footballer Hidetoshi Nakata. I’ve got a whole slate of soccer boys just aching to mix it up in the Producer’s Ring (Freddie Ljungberg and David Beckham have already posted a match). I’m already picturing Hidetoshi and some great, crippling arial work.
Finally, I am summoning a supreme act of self restraint not to make lewd comments about the stunning beauty of Brendon Ayanbadejo.
My self-restraint is in honor of the Baltimore Ravens football player’s outspoken support of human rights protections for the gays. I’ll keep him out of the fictional wrestling ring so that he’ll have more time to wax philosophical about the role of religion and human rights in a capitalist democracy. A man with fantastic lips, gorgeous body, classy ink, and he’s both politically reflective and articulate!? … restraining myself…. restraining myself….
I probably won’t start following many more sports any more closely. But I can’t wait to get some of these sports studs introduced to my homoerotic wrestling fetishist imagination.