Alex introduces us to a new masked rookie.

Continuing the theme of provocatively told stories of homoerotic wrestling, I’ve updated both of the wrestling fiction sites I administer.  Over at Sidelineland, the communal collection of fiction from multiple authors, Alex’ newest chapter in The Cave Undercard series is up, introducing us to a new rook named Skull, breaking into the business of high stakes internet erotic wrestling.

Determined to break in the newbie is the return of Thunder.

Skull is up against a juicy cut of beef Alex introduced to us before, who wrestles as Thunder.  Can Cody’s protege, Skull, do any better against Thunder than Cody managed as the Pink Punk?  I’ll try not to spoil it for you, but I will say everyone (starting with me) finishes this story satisfied.

Ben Godfre inspires yet another of my homoerotic wrestling fantasies.

It’s been ages and ages since I pulled together a new match in my other fiction group, Producer’s Ring.  This collection of stories is about 95% authored by me, pulling from a recurring nightmare/erotic fantasy combo of a post-apocalyptic world in which homoerotic wrestling matches frequently determine the fate of geopolitical power across the globe.  This new story, in the Secretarial Pool series, picks up were “Global Cooperation” left off.  The executive assistants to Eli Brody (coincidentally all fitness and fashion models with insanely savvy business sense) are back at it, doing their best to play nice with executive hardbodies from rival empires.  One of my longest running fictional celebrity wrestling infatuations, Ben Godfre, is back in action and has more than his hands full.  Whereas Alex gives us a taste of beef and bears, this Producer’s Ring match is a battle of pretty boys.

Jislain Duval debuts in the Producer’s Ring.

Ben’s antagonist was specifically handpicked by a reader and fan of the Secretarial Pool.  The French Canadian sexpot, Jislain Duval, heads into the lion’s den of Eli Brody’s headquarters to hammer out a profitable partnership with Brody Productions, one way or another.  Of course, this is my imagination and the Producer’s Ring, so the one way is a sweat-soaked battle of bodies and will with suits watching on and the balance of world power teetering (and there is no other way).

Producer’s Ring fans of the character Jared will get a glimpse of what he’s been up to, as well.

I have a ton of projects started, as well as a few writing obligations currently demanding my attention, but I’m thrilled to have some new material in both Sidelineland and Producer’s Ring to share.  You can keep the Sidelineland group fresh by send me your pieces of original homoerotic wrestling fiction to share.  And members of both groups are reminded that a little feedback and a reasonable does of positive reinforcement (as in comments) goes a long way to nurturing the writing bug for folks like Alex and me and other potential authors.

Cleaning House – 2013

I’ve been imagining fashion model Ben Godfre as a top shelf homoerotic wrestling god and behind-the-scenes power hitter for years.  One glance at his Timoteo underwear shots and I was hooked.  Of course, my imagination transported him into a high stakes homoerotic wrestling universe in which Ben is the first in line among equals comprising the ranks of executive assistants to a post-apocalyptic titan who rules the world with the simple rule that the most arousing homoerotic wrestling performances are what really matters in the entertainment industrial complex. In the Producer’s Ring in which this fictional version of Ben resides, the only audience that really matters is the gay wrestling kink audience.
In a further blurring of the lines between my fondest homoerotic fantasies and real life, 2012 saw the announcement that Ben Godfre was leaving behind the world of between the lines innuendo and dipping his suckable right big toe in the gay porn world.  I know, you’re thinking I’m delusional, and that my over-achieving erotic imagination has finally made me lose the ability to distinguish between fantasy and fact. You’re wrong (this time).  Ben not only signed a contract with Raging Stallions/Falcon Studios, he wrote, directed, and starred in his own solo porn production successfully released last month.  My friends, this is starting to line up very nicely with the wildly successful career path I pictured for Ben three years ago in my fiction!  Coincidence?  Most likely.  Then again…*
Oh My Godfre – Ben Godfre classes it up at Falcon Studios
When the doorbell rang at about 6 pm on New Year’s Eve, the surprise wasn’t that Ben Godfre was standing on my doorstep.  His agent called ahead to let me know to expect him and his posse of skater boy fashion models planning on co-opting my place to do their New Year’s Eve damage.  No, the surprise was that there was no “posse.”  There was just this stunningly handsome, six-foot stud, milky hazel eyes, mussed dark brown hair, painted on black jeans, tank top.  Now, to clarify, I wasn’t disappointed, of course.  Just surprised.  “Where’s the posse?” I asked, my voice cracking just a little.

He looked away, pulled up his shirt (showing off that gorgeous torso), and pulled down the front of his extremely low-rise black denim.  His lovely trouser snake slid partway out, already semi-erect.  “Oh! there it is. Please come in,” I immediately replied.
“So, what do you want to do?” I asked, looking around at the mountain of alcohol and finger foods I’d laid out for “the posse.”  “Strip gin rummy?” my handsome guest replied.  Fuck, yes! I thought to myself. The chance to actually beat the pants off of Ben Godfre!?

Fuck me if 30 minutes later I was in nothing but my briefs, while the 6-foot fashion model porn boy still had everything but his socks on.  Godfre plays a mean game of gin rummy!  I was a little self-conscious about showing so much skin in front of the chiseled physique of my guest.  I mean, I’m in shape, but I’m no Ben Godfre.  But for a ridiculously gorgeous male model, Ben’s surprisingly engaging and a witty conversationalist, and he put me quickly at ease.  We chatted about various topics.  His career path was foremost on my mind, but Ben was a little coy about talking much about the porn-turn.  “It’s hot,” was pretty much all he’d say.  “I’m having fun with it.”

“Damn, that looks a lot more comfortable,” he said, putting down yet another 2-card draw gin (fuck, he’s got all the luck!).  By rights, it was my turn to lose my briefs, but Ben waved it off.  I get the impression that hanging around in his underwear is where Ben feels most at home.  So discarding the card game, he peeled out of his jeans, plugged in house music from his iPod, and gave me a little private dirty dancing routine.  When he started lap dancing, I was already staining my CKs with pre-cum.  That ass, sliding up and down my lap… happy new year, indeed.

I was ready to lose all self-control then and there, but Ben tugged me out of my chair (briefs at full staff), and asked me if I skateboard.  My answer (“not for that past 30 years”) earned a crotch-warming grin from the tattooed pretty boy in front of me.  He pulled out his skateboard (not euphemistically… this time) and made a few laps around my place.  I experienced only a moment of angst about my hardwood floors, but watching his nearly naked muscles flex and stretch as he flew gracefully around my furniture was… well, it was like nothing I’d ever experienced before.  He made me show him what I’ve got, which was mostly falling on my ass.  Ben insisted on giving me a lesson (note to self: bend your knees and lean into it is excellent advice for so many life activities!).  I felt stupid for a bit.  Old.  Uncoordinated.  But damn it all if some hands-on tutorial from a smiling Ben Godfre can’t bust right through my self-consciousness.

It was Ben’s idea to play some 1-on-1 quarters, too.  Last time I played quarters was only about 20 years ago, so I was marginally more skilled at that than skateboarding.  Godfre, on the other hand, is, as seemingly with everything, brilliant at it. We played with shot glasses of tequila.  I averaged about 3 out of 4, which would’ve blown my old fraternity brothers out of the water 20 years ago.  Godfre, however,  made about every 9 of 10.  I was doing shots at about three times the frequency he was.  I was a mess well before midnight arrived, while he was (as clearly as I can remember) steady as a rock.  Again, I had every reason to feel inadequate and a squanderer of a lifetime opportunity to get a male model turned porn star drunk.  And yet, Ben was charming and disarming.

Midnight came and went, but it was a bit of a blur on my end.  I seem to remember toasting the New Year mutually naked with insanely delicious cosmos he made for us (yet another thing the kid excels at).  There was more skateboarding, but I think it was almost entirely him doing the boarding with me just watching his naked gorgeousness rolling around me.

I woke up late on the 1st in my own bed and, tragically, alone.  Remember, this was right in the middle of my 12 days of Christmas presents, and so even a little dehydrated (I don’t get hangovers), I went to the tree first to find Mason Brook’s nipples delivered via Santa.  “What’s that?” The voice seemed to come from nowhere.

It was Ben, flat on his back on the floor with his feet on the couch where he slept the night/morning.  I grabbed us both glasses of water and then explained the whole homoerotic wrestling Christmas wish list thing.  I showed him the pics of Mason to illustrate the idea.  “Nice nipples!” he said unprompted (I swear).  I agreed, of course.  “What’s he like when he wrestles?”

I started describing Mason’s debut match with Blaine Janus, focusing on Mason’s surprising readiness to get down and dirty for a rookie, but then caught myself a minute into the match description.  “I’ve got it upstairs,” I said.  “Let me pop it in the DVD player, and you can see for yourself.”

Ben liked what he saw.  A lot.  In fact we spent the next three hours sampling from my rather extensive collection of homoerotic wrestling videos.  Ben was fully erect and gently stroking his pornboy cock almost the entire time.  Surprising trivia (at least for me) included that he was not nearly as into Brad Rochelle, Joshua Goodman (that’s Mr. Joshua to you!), or Jake Jenkins as much as I am.  On the flip side, he was fucking crazy for Kid Vicious, Kid Karisma, and Rusty Stevens.  It was after he sampled about 5 minutes worth of Rusty’s match with Mitch Colby that Ben abruptly turned to me and said, “Fuck, let’s wrestle!”

To recap, I had a 6-foot, muscle sculpted, gorgeously inked, magnetic eyed, naked, and erect fashion model turned porn star on my couch insisting that we wrestle.  You do the math.

It started with Ben wanting to experience some of the holds we watched on DVD.  He asked for a reverse bearhug like the one Mitch Colby worked on Rusty in their match.  Now I’m considerably shorter than Ben and not nearly as strong as Mitch, but I’m not ashamed to say that I did okay.  The porn kid was groaning and flailing, and when I slid my cock between his skater boy thighs, he gasped, “Oh, fuck!”  He requested a figure-4 choke ala Kid Karisma’s finisher against lovely, lanky Christian Taylor.   He did not have to ask me twice, I assure you.  And he polished his pulsing rod like crazy the closer I got to choking him out cold.  But things really started getting interesting when he whispered he wanted a Kid Vicious-style OTK backbreaker.  I scooped him up, paraded him around the living room a while to let his vulnerability sink in, and then slammed him across my knee, pinning his naked body there racked backward over my thigh.  And I thought he was fully erect before!  Holy fuck, that juicy whopper bouncing and swaying as he moaned, head hanging upside down, was mind blowing!  There was never a chance in hell that mouthwatering meat was not going to end up in my mouth (a la, KV), which seemed to take Ben by surprise at first.  He jerked, seemed to even protest a moment.  But my hand shoving him down by his throat and my mouth working his cock like a Hoover settled him right back down.  A lot more moaning, but he took it like a pro.

After I had my fill with him draped over my knee, I dumped his gorgeous body unceremoniously to the floor and stepped on his face, pinning him to the hardwood and flexing (just to give him the full effect of a homoerotic wrestling humiliation).  That’s when he suddenly yanked my foot out from underneath me and dropped my ass to the couch.  The “let’s try that hold” game was officially over and done with, and an intense session of competitive tussling took it’s place.  To be sure, this kid is a trained athlete with very impressive strength, lightning reflexes, and superhuman balance.  When he slapped on a tit-for-tat revenge bearhug, I had a moment of panic that not all of my ribs were going to get out of this in tact.  But having been humiliated by this adonis at gin rummy, indoor skateboarding, and quarters, I finally found something I’m better at than Ben Godfre.

The kid had no idea what to do about a pec claw, and what hot hunks of meat he has to claw!  I literally made him cry, dragging him up off his knees to his feet with my fingers sunk deep into his pectoral muscles.  I mean, actual tears streamed out of the corners of both of those gorgeous eyes!  Holy shit, that was pure magic.

A stump puller stretched the lovely skate punk out beautifully, the back of his head resting on my fully erect cock as I held onto his right ankle and stretched the naked puppy’s hamstring out until it actually quivered.  First, let me just clarify that Ben keeps his ass trimmed, but he’s not shaved smooth.  Very nice.  Second, let me just reiterate that his right hamstring quivered, jerking and jumping like a trapped animal.  He screamed that submission with total panic in his voice.  Damn, that was sweet!

He scored one submission on me.  I took an inadvertent (I think) knee to the temple, making my head spin.  When it stopped spinning, the punk had me folded over on my back, my ankles trapped in his armpits and his pulsing cock pinning my face (he like that move from Kid Karisma).  Sure, I submitted.  After about 10 minutes.

But the rest of New Years 2013 was all Bard, baby!  A standing abdominal stretch showed off my opponent’s muscled body so beautifully, but the tough son of a bitch wouldn’t submit in it… until I reached around with my free hand and crushed his balls.  Technically, I’d say there were about 5 submissions in that hold (“IsubmitIsubmitIsubmitIsubmitIsubmit!!!!!!!”).  Pulling a page out of a titan that both Ben and I appreciated together, I threatened to rip his gorgeously tattooed right arm apart at the elbow, trapped between my thighs.  Paying homage to Rusty Stevens, I not only made him submit there, but I also fucked with his head, alternately commanding him to stroke his cock and then stop stroking, working the kid up to a frothy lather completely under my control.

I dragged his gorgeous body on his hands and knees around the living room by a fistful of hair once he was pretty much wasted, swimming in his own sweat and broken in body and spirit.  Again, with a nod to Rusty, I made my fashion model pornboy give me a naked pony ride in total submission, steering him around the furniture with my finger fish hooks in the corners of his mouth.  When I slid my hips forward and tucked my cock between his ass cheeks, the bad boy of fashion actually whimpered.  The horse cock hanging from between his legs as he carried me another lap around the couch made it clearly evident that I wasn’t the only one enjoying the moment.

The kid is a trooper, I tell you, and I think he could easily fulfill almost every ounce of the homoerotic wrestling fantasy I wrote for him starting three years ago.  He’s every bit as hot as hell as he looks.  He could charm a cobra with those hypnotically intense eyes.  He’s an incredible athlete.  And more to the point, he’s got a taste for the erotic power of wrestling kink… now.

Other assets Ben Godfre has to recommend him further into the gay fetish scene and, particularly, solidly into our camp?  He knows how to be slack-jaw-dominated and to work up a head of steam every step of the way.  He takes a bare handed ass slapping session like a pro.  He gets only harder when tied up.  He tastes like honey, and he has the stamina of a marathoner.

He also makes a killer fry up in nothing but an apron.  Holy shit, this guy is a Renaissance man for the 21st century!  If this is the way 2013 starts, I think this is my year, without a doubt.  I’m on top of the world, kicking fashion model porn star ass, and recruiting homoerotic wrestling fetishists to our ranks.  And once Ben buffs the skateboard marks out of my hardwoods (naked), I’ll slap him on that gorgeous ass and send him back into the world with strict instructions to contact a couple of homoerotic wrestling producers to break into the scene that this kid was absolutely made for.  You can all thank me later.  Happy New Year, all.

*This is entirely a work of fiction, and I have no evidence that Ben Godfre, in fact, takes career advice from this blog or my homoerotic wrestling fiction.  But if he wants to, I’m ready to help.

The Whole Package

Have I gone off on a rant about this before? Probably. It bears repeating (that’s my excuse for forgetting what I’ve said already). Anyway… my thoughts today return to the beauty of men’s legs. I love legs. I love the shape and size of them. I love the concentration of power in them. I’m a big, big fan of powerful legs wrapped around another man’s torso, squeezing so hard that it makes the captured man’s jaw drop.
At moments when I’m particularly obsessing about legs (like now), suddenly I notice how often the objectifying eye cuts them out of images of beautiful hunks.
In the fashion world, pictures of gorgeous men seem much more often than not to slice just below the waist, or at most, just above the knee. What matters to the objectifying, dissecting eye is clearly the territory between (and inclusive of) the crotch and the face. Not that there’s ANYTHING wrong with those bits. Give me a couple of weeks and I’ll be obsessing over pecs or abs or shoulders or noses… you know me. I’m fickle. But when I want to linger on the beauty of hot, hard, muscled male legs, the truncated shot of a male model is so aggravating!
I’m no fashion photographer. I don’t have training in graphic design. But I think it says something about what we look for and what we see, that the beauty of the fit male form is so frequently legless. If we who are consumers of the objectified male form were all about legs all the time, surely the torso shot alone would not be nearly as preferred. What counts, what attracts, what sells is clearly, primarily, above mid-thigh. This must drive full-time foot-fetish guys bonkers. In a leglust moment, I need to search a bit to find the whole, stunning package of muscle and proportion, displaying the professional object-of-lust male form from head to toe.
Perhaps it’s not a coincidence that some of the staple recurring characters in my wrestling fiction show off their gorgeous legs full-on. Ben Godfre, who in my imagination is presently in a hot and sweaty post-match three-way muscle worship scene with Jared Prudoff and Ellis McCreadie, can be found in quite a few pics showing off his tasty, tattooed legs. Wendell Lissimore is a study in muscle and grace, with legs that stretch for days. In his one match so far in my imagination, I wrote a starring role for his fantastic legs, involving Brendan Fraser trapped in the ropes and Wendell hanging from nothing but a figure-4 headlock that just about decapitates George of the Jungle.

Zack Jonathan markets his amazing body all over the place, including in the ring and on the mats, not to mention in pin-up photo shoots. I still think Zack needs a severe, bare-assed spanking over an opponent’s knee to atone for many, many self-conscious wrestling performances (though I’m hoping his improvement on that count continues). But I give him credit. In addition to a beautiful everything else, Zack has fantastic legs and he displays them and uses them skillfully.

You know me. I’m the first to crop out everything but a particular body part that I’m presently obsessing over. I dissect the male form as much as, if not more than, anyone else. I freely participate in the objectification of the male body, turning people into objects, and those objects into disassembled pieces, and those pieces into ends, in and of themselves, for my sexual gratification. But I do appreciate the whole package, from head to toe, with every inch in between part and parcel of a beautiful, graceful, inspiring work of art. And when I’m in the mood to taste some gorgeous, hard, powerful legs, an abridged torso, much less a pretty headshot, will simply not do.

Taking Nominations

The clouds are beginning to break, and I’m anticipating some time opening up in the next few days to get back to one of my favorite past-times: writing
homoerotic wrestling fiction for fun. My mind is always drifting into imagining the sights, sounds, and smells (tastes… feels…) of two (sometimes more) beautiful men in sweaty, body-on-body competition. Brutes, beasts and babyfaces all make regular appearances in my imagined wrestling bouts, but I have a soft spot for the sight of pretty boys in an ugly battle.

My frequent co-conspirator Swito lets me know that he shares a lot of my kinks and tastes, including a taste for the picture of a male model in a fierce fight. In my wrestling fantasy world, the Producer’s Ring, male models populate the ranks of the bureaucrats of the entertainment-industrial complex. Sometimes the “secretarial pool” battles with the actors, disciplining the out-of-control egos of the headliner talents who frequently forget their place. Occasionally, they secretarial pool has broken out into intramural bouts as the pretty boys do battle with one another.
It appears that there’s a new position opening up in Brody Productions, and a new executive assistant will be hired soon to join the ranks of the secretarial pool. The qualifications are, as always, a pretty face, a body made for battle, a healthy dose of near-overconfidence, and a readiness to step into character in the Producer’s Ring. A few of the current executive assistants have been based on talents such as Ben Godfre, Andrew Stetson, Luke Guldan, Miro Moreira, and Wendell Lissimore.
As with every significant decision in the world of the Producer’s Ring, the decision as to who will join the ranks of the secretarial pool will come down to a wrestling tournament. Eight extremely eager male models will be given a shot at earning a seat at the producer’s table. Now the only question is who will be the boys with the balls to show up for what will surely be a brutal battle of pretty faces.
Swito has nominated babyface Ellis McCreadie for an invitation to the tournament. As always, Swito’s taste is impeccable. Now we’re looking for seven more body-beautifuls to put their asses on the line for a shot at a job. Fitness models, fashion models… hell, hand models could all be considered, but whoever shows up better be ready for a nasty competition that will leave most, if not all competitors, a little less pretty. As you can probably guess, tats are always a plus, but not required. Any nominations from the floor?

He Was a Skater Boy

Surely I’m nothing if not predictable. The cover boy for yesterday’s post was male model Ben Godfre. In that pic, I’m not sure why Ben might be 1) in the rain in his underwear and 2) still soaking wet despite holding an umbrella. But ours is not to wonder why…

Ben has become a recurring character in my gay wrestling fiction, sometimes as just a background character, but more recently showing up “in the ring.” I’m intrigued that Ben’s YouTube channel is usernamed btwrestle05, and I’m running with the wrestling reference. In my imagination, so far Ben has beat the living shit out of Hunter Parrish and tenaciously stuck out a brutal battle with Christopher Meloni, ultimately using that beautiful body of his to dominate, humiliate, and tame some of the Producer’s Ring’s most unruly talents.
I can’t find a bad pic of Ben, which is probably testimony to both the careful image-management of “his people,” but also, I have to believe, evidence that he is simply stunning from every angle. He oozes sex, and while “oozing” isn’t at all necessarily sexy, Ben can ooze all over me anytime. Side by side with other gorgeous men, my eyes are riveted on him. In a modelboy world of narrow waists, big pecs and smoldering eyes, Ben can hold his own next to anyone.
Despite not being able to find a bad pic of him, I do take issue with the glaringly obvious work some of his shoots have done to cover up one of Ben’s sexiest features: his ink. Some shots have him twisted and strategically covered so as to leave no tat visible on a body with ink all over the place. What the hell? It would be like a beefcake shoot of Trevor Adams in a moo-moo. Don’t let them make you hide it under a bushel, Ben!
On the other hand, some photographers are seeing exactly what I’m seeing. Ben’s calf tat is sexy, sexy, sexy (when they aren’t making him wear knee high athletic socks to cover it up). In just a couple shots, I’m glimpsing some ink across the arch of his left foot (fantastic!). And the gorgeous ink on the back of his right arm is breathtaking (then again there are multiple points in this shot that are taking my breath).
But the inside bicep tat makes me need to wipe the drool from my chin every time I see it. The multiple shots of Ben with his right arm over his head, with that incredible ink side-by-side with those almost transparent brown eyes is simply art on art on art.
I’m predictable, I know. It’s not like you’d expect anything else from me. The gorgeous boy with the bold, unique ink, wearing next to nothing: it’s no wonder he’s a rising star in my wrestling fiction. Hopefully we’ll continue to see much more of skaterboy Ben in this world and in my imagination.

There is No Debate

It’s the time of year in America when state and local elections hit the fan. Depending on where you live, you may be seeing a lot of homophobic, hateful campaigning (like I am) around polarizing candidates or
statewide initiatives. It seems like pretty much every year, lately, the gays go up for a vote. And every year, we get sucked into believing that our liberation, our dignity, our very identities are at stake as our neighbors go and vote based on how bigoted or “tolerant” they are. If you’re like me, you can’t help but get swept up in it, to get anxious, to fear what happens if the votes go the “wrong way” or the hateful candidates (perhaps once again) win the day.

So today’s post is both for you and for me: Breathe. Calm down. Turn off the television and the radio and stop reading the op-eds. Remind yourself that there is no vote that will determine whether you are acceptable or respectable. No hateful candidate will ever be able to legislate away the beautiful, passionate, precious person that you are. Your dignity is not in the hands of any citizens initiative. The haters can hate and the tolerant can tolerate, but that has nothing to do with the fucking fabulous human being you are, and they will never be able to do anything about your capacity to love and be loved.

So the next time you think they’re voting about you, or legislating about you, or judging about you, flip them the bird and consider these two gems:

1) First, if you haven’t seen it, you must check out this amazing commentary from the man who was robbed (ROBBED I say!) of the opportunity to run for the presidency (only) on the South Carolina ballot last year. This offers a nice, fresh perspective from my favorite “conservative” pundit:

The Colbert Report Mon – Thurs 11:30pm / 10:30c
The Word – Don’t Ask Don’t Tell
Colbert Report Full Episodes Political Humor Religion

2) And second, just consider all the things that they cannot take away from us, no how, no way: Like Greek gods barely squeezed into black leather pants.
And amazing, shiny bodies that will be worshipped, whether they want it or not (and they do).
And massive pecs crying out for someone to thoroughly lick them.
And stunning bodies telling the timeless tale of domination and submission, cocky control and sublime suffering, power and surrender, mastery and compliance.
Who we are, the dignity with which we live, and the passion that makes our hearts pump faster is not up for debate.