Calvin Haynes scored the clear victory for best legs with those gargantuan, thickly draped quads and beautifully bulging, veiny calves. I feel like it’s time for us to see Calvin in a seriously sexy Wrestle Worship match, with Calvin earning the the kneeling, gasping, awestruck, licking adoration those tree trunks so richly deserve .
Brad Barnes huge pec pillows came just shy of getting the outright majority of voters in a seriously beautiful field of contenders. I think the pec claw was invented for the comic book superhero proportions of Brad’s chest. I’d give a kidney for the chance to see runner-up Lon Dumont (my choice, of course) climb into the ring with Brad and tear him to shreds!
Dev Michaels pulled out the victory in the seriously competitive category of Best Arms. This category had me struggling to settle on just one of these magnificent, mountainous set of biceps, but I have to admit I went for Dev’s stunning, thickly veined, aesthetically gorgeous, and functionally devastating arms. Have we seen an opponent openly acknowledge just how fucking SEXY Dev’s muscleman bod is?
The Best Back category was another super competitive battle. Van and Dev scored an exact tie (as of my counting this morning) for second place, but it was Dr. Cooper who pulled the victory out. There’s so much about Austin to love, and I bet his beautiful tapered-V isn’t always the first thing that comes to mind to admire, but fuck, yes, his back is a work of art! I actually voted for Van, because Dark Skyler has been haunting my waking dreams since I had the pleasure of watching his Muscle Showcase last year. But I have no problems at all with crowning Coop as sporting the best back at BG East in 2020.
The Best Ink category always brings out the haters. I used to feel defensive when I’d get comments about how tattoos universally suck, and it’s a waste of a hot body to ink it up. Some of you know I sport my own ink that I actually adore, so I feel pretty swept up in the sweeping generalizations. But there are clearly plenty of us who appreciate fine body art, and by a razor-thin margin, Zip Zarella came out on top by a fraction over his indy pro buddy Elite Eliot. My vote actually went to Ash, but Eliot and Zip are perennial favorites of mine for so many reasons, not least of which is their fine, bold, in-your-face ink. The two of them burned the house down in Wrestling with Pride 1 a couple of years ago, but I ache to see them show even more pride in a rematch, strip stakes, loser kisses the winner’s ass (lovingly). And if that idea were to materialize, I hope that Eliot knows I’m ready to be his corner man.
The Prettiest Face category was the only one to turn into a total route in the polls, with Kip Sorell leaving all 4 of his competitors in the dust and taking an actual majority of votes. I’ve never been as huge a fan of Kip’s as I know most BGE fans are, not because I wouldn’t love to strip him naked and fuck him for days on end, but because he’s such a fucking jobber. Not that I don’t love jobbers, mind you, but Kip just doesn’t quite suck me in to the wrestling drama. But that’s me. He’s ridiculously pretty, nonetheless. My vote went full-heartedly for Nino, who I feel like is way under-appreciated relative to his wrestling skills, passion, and raw sexiness. But that face of his is so boy-band pretty it makes me dizzy sometimes.
It was such a nail biter to the finish for the Sexiest Nipples vote! I started crushing on Chase’s nips from about 2 seconds after I first saw him in action a few years ago, so I have no complaints about him bringing home the gold. I also started crushing on Mason’s nips about 2 seconds after I first saw him in action a couple years before I first saw Chase, so I love that their sexiest nipples rivalry that played out in Gazebo Grapplers 20 played out in the voting, as well. I didn’t expect Dev to bring home the tie with Mason for second place though, which is an awesome surprise. I think this now deserves a 3-way contest, in the ring, climaxing with Mason and Chase cooperating just enough to tie Dev in the ropes and each of them work over one of the big man’s nips until he cums hands-free.
My hearty congratulations to all the winners, and I hope that the also-rans know that you are adored by an army of devoted fans, even if you didn’t get the votes in a totally useless poll like this one (or any of them). I think every wrestler who put in an appearance in a 2020 BG East release deserves a medal for making lock-down bearable, and I would personally be more than happy to demonstrate to any one (or all) of you just how much fans worship your beauty, strength, and skill!
First of all, a quick word about my housekeeping here around the blog. I redecorated just a tad, to keep things slightly fresher. I’ve also changed up some standard features to reflect my focus these days. Rather than crown a homoerotic wrestler of the month, which I haven’t had time to keep up with in years, I’m just naming whoever my latest obsession is (regardless if they’ve appeared in recent new releases). I’ve also crowned a new reigning homoerotic wrestler, which I deliberated about long and hard, because I fucking LOVE the longest reigning champ in that category, Kid Karisma, with a passion reserved for very few. However, I have to say, my longstanding wrestling crush on Scott Williams has been dominating my thoughts and posts in recent months, and I am awed at how he can just comment on the pages of this blog with two sentences and I’m fully aroused and savoring an endorphin hit. So Scott has officially, forcibly removed the crown from Kid K’s freckled forehead and planted it on top of his own gorgeous pate. If ever Kid K wants to settle this in person, in what would be the most spectacularly sexy old-school-meets-new pairing in homoerotic wrestling history, I will beat anyone else who wants the privilege of reffing away with a stick.
In honor of the newly reigning champ of these pages, I’ve done an extra leg workout today and savored BG East’s recent release of Science of Scissors 2. As far as I’m concerned, Scott is the final word in all things scissors, because he has demonstrated repeatedly, in action and word, that he knows exactly what I like most about them. So I’m hoping the new champ will weigh in on my quick review of this new entry in the annals of the homoerotic wrestling obsession with scissors.
The combatants are Kip Sorell and Brad Barnes, which frankly, is a little bit of a surprise to me. Brad I get, because, fuck, look at the quads on that beast of a man! Kip, though? I mean, he’s fuckable from every angle. But while his legs are sensationally lean and cut, with a topographical map of his circulatory system clearly visible across the surface of his quads and calves, his legs are not particularly big. Again, let me be clear, I would worship Kip’s body from head to toe for days on end, but I do not think of him in the top 10 of “legs most likely to punish.”
Brad clearly agrees with me. “I don’t know what you’re going to do against these bad boys,” Brad boasts, squeezing an almost audibly crunching flex out of his massive quads. “Yeah, you may have some size on me,” Kip counters, flexing his darkly tanned thighs in reply, “but I think I have a leaner, more aesthetic look.”
Reading my mind, Brad calmly asks, “Oh yeah? I don’t know if that’s going to compete with this power. I’ve been doing all those squats and deadlifts; been going up in weight, too.” Kip refuses to tear his eyes away from his own dazzlingly sexy image in the mirror as he mutters back, “Deadlifts and squats aren’t that important.” “It is when it’s about to end your wrestling career,” Brad deadpans back. Fuck, that is choice trash talk. I haven’t always been on the Brad Barnes bandwagon, but he is serious as a heart attack and sexy as hell, slapping down his smack and starting to crowd lovely Kip out of the center of the ring with his huge, round pecs and magnum-sized ego. “Let me see what these little chicken legs of yours have got.”
They take turns testing each other, which is curiously super-erotic to watch for me. They agree to let Kip go first, and they both ease their hunky, hot bodies down to the mat. Kip spreads his golden thighs open wide, and Brad willingly, compliantly, slowly leans back to rest his head on Kip’s crotch. Fuck. Their mutual consent in just getting right down to business like that is almost as much a turn on as it is when Kip deliberately positions his legs around Brad’s head in then suddenly clamps down the crotch-pillow headscissors. Brad instantly winces. He screws up his superhero square face in pain and grunts, breathlessly, “Okay… not bad.”
Kip milks it beautifully, twisting his lean torso to pry at Brad’s neck like he’s working on removing a stubborn wine cork from the bottle. “How’s that,” he asks, knowing full well he’s making the muscle hunk eat his own words. “Not bad for chicken legs, huh,” he demands to know. He barrel rolls Brad in those headscissors tauntingly, which always turns me on hard. Finally, they roll close enough to the edge of the ring for Brad to grab a rope at get the break. “I guess I’ll let you have a turn,” Kip chuckles, letting him go. “Though, I don’t think you’re going to do much with those stubby little things, anyway.”
They switch positions, and again, there’s something supercharged about the intimacy of Kip gently and willingly lowering his head in between Brad’s waiting thighs. When Brad bears down, Kip squirms and whimpers immediately. His head is nearly swallowed between those huge, lightly hairy, epic tree trunks on Brad. “Oh, shit,” Kip gasps in shock as he feels his skull compressing. Brad does this sensationally sadistic little trick of relaxing, even opening his legs apart an inch or two, which instinctively makes Kip gasp in relief. But then Brad snaps his thighs back together again that much harder, which causes Kip to cry out in shock. Brad works in his own sexy barrel rolls, though he delights in stopping part way and slamming Kip’s adorable face into the mat. Flex. Release. Flex. Release. Edging closer and closer to submission. Kip tries to pry Brad’s knees apart, but Brad just laughs at him. “Oh, you can forget that idea. You’re not spreading those bad boys!” Kip wriggles and squirms, his face flushed dark red. “Shit, shit, SHIT!” he screams out. It’s his turn to grab the ropes and get the break.
The rest of the action isn’t so willing or compliant, so this kicks back into the center aisle of my main turn on. “How about you try this on for size,” Kip suddenly pounces before Brad has peeled himself up off the mat. Kip lands on top of him, crotch slapping down into Brad’s face, and instantly snaps together his legs. “I hope you’re enjoying the view,” Kip crows, grinding his pink bulge into Brad’s gasping face. Kip’s go-to move to double down on the punishment is swiveling his hips. Not only does it highlight his infinitely munchable ass, it also cranks viciously at Brad’s neck, with his head locked up so nice and tight in the face-to-crotch headscissors. Kip does tricep dips, hangs from the ropes, mostly just showboats, rolling Brad around the ring at will and making the powerhouse hunk scream.
Brad drives a double-fisted axe handle into Kip’s gut to get the break, and then seriously starts to dominate. He forces Kip’s head high up between his thighs, and when the position isn’t quite to his liking, he reaches behind him and drags Kip by the hair so that he’s nice and snug, smothered deep up Brad’s meaty glutes. Flex and release. Flex and release. Fuck, Brad is playing Kip’s screams of panicked pain like a player piano. Kip gives. What the fuck ever. Brad is on a role now.
The money shot for me is when Brad drags Kip to the edge of the ring and climbs out onto the ring apron. He delivers standing scissors, first crushing Kip’s skull between his huge calves. Then he drags him up to his knees and drapes the boy across the middle rope, trapping his head between his monster quads. Brad flexes… everything at once, and it’s so fucking beautiful, and it makes Kip scream, “O, God, nooooooo!”
Then Brad spins around, to crank on a slightly different pressure point with Kip’s head now sticking partway out between the front of Brad’s flexing quads. Kip screams, and Brad just leans back and punches the wriggling fucker in the back. Total ownership.
When he lets him go, Kip is gasping and clutching his head, and Brad just leisurely muscles his opponent around, to bend him backward now across the middle rope. He steps across Kip’s neck like he’s mounting a pony, and then reaches behind him again and grabs Kip by the hair. “Let me see this pretty little head,” Brad chuckles, yanking on Kip’s hair until he’s positioned the kid’s face high up against his spectacular cheeks to cinch down the pressure to perfection. Kip arches and wails, and Brad just punches him in the gut. Fuck, yes, complete domination.
It’s not over. There are a couple more reversals of fortune. There’s a 69 scissor-off that is pretty climactic, as both battlers squeeze their hearts out to be the one whose scissors put him on top. It’s Brad that wins. It was Brad that was always going to win, as far as I’m concerned. I love luscious little Kip for believing otherwise, but sweet-fucking-god, Brad is in his element here. It’s all about power and punishment. And I had no idea that Brad, with his unbelievably perfect, round, huge pecs and unbelievably square jaw, was such a little sadist at heart! I’m totally reexamining my viewing history of his matches to figure out how I missed what a fucking beast he is.
The final scissors are a figure-4 choke out. “Good thing about having all this power,” Brad smirks, “is I don’t even have to try.” Credit where due, Brad makes this look easy, but I don’t believe for a second that he isn’t trying, because his performance here is inspired. Kip wheezes out a feint submission, struggling for air. “That’s not good enough for me,” Brad barks dismissively. “Say, ‘I can’t handle the power!'” Kip whispers, wheezing, “I can’t handle… the power.” Brad smiles brightly, but continues. “Say, ‘You’re too strong for me!'” Kip is groggy, slurring the words hissing out of his constricted airway: “You’re… you’re too strong… for…me.”
So yeah. Some nice surprises in this match for me. The scissors are awfully delightful, and I’m not nearly as into them a I know some fans are. The little bits of color and character that Kip and Brad bring to their scissors are sweet and nuanced. Frankly, if you combine Kip’s penchant for twisting his torso as he applies his headscissors, with Brad’s pulsing, pumping, flex-and-relax action, you get Scott Williams’ sensationally punishing scissors. I’m dying to hear Scott’s take on some of the key plot points. For example, Scott has mentioned that the thickest quads don’t always translate into the most punishing scissors. I think that’s the territory Kip is trying to lay out to start this match, but shit, he does NOT deliver there. With the wide variety of scissors applied in this match, I’m wondering which catches Scott’s attention (for good or bad), and why. And if Scott could test his scissors against just one of these hunks, who would it be, and upon which crotch pillow would he prefer to rest his head when he feels the power? And finally, can I be Scott’s corner man when this Science of Scissors: Old School Meets New School piece of brilliance goes down?
I’ve seen a lot in eight years of blogging about wrestling. I used to wonder if reflecting on my infatuation with wrestling might make me jaded, if reviewing as much homoerotic wrestling as I do might habituate me to such an extent that it doesn’t get me off anymore. Happily for me, there’s no sign of that happening anytime soon. However, it does take quite a bit to seriously surprise me anymore. I won’t say I’ve seen it all, but I’ve seen countless variations on most of it. I love a surprise, but they are fewer and farther between having seen hundreds of sensationally gorgeous wrestlers applying several dozen different holds in more than a couple of handfuls of different contexts. So to say there’s something novel, even shocking, about Muscle Domination Wrestling’s Oil Hunks 10 is a major compliment coming from me.
The most obvious shocker is the moment Damien Rush steps on the mat, snarling at Brad Barnes about bogarting the weights back stage at a bodybuilding competition. The backstage bodybuilding story is sweetly novel. It’s the same garage in which most MDW is taped, but the MDW boys continue to put the fantasy in fantasy pro wrestling, and they’ve put their finger on a scenario rich with homoerotic potential. I’ve been turned on by the idea of marginally naked muscle freaks with carb-deprived short fuses strutting and flexing in front of each other with tensions high awaiting their turn to be physique worshipped by screaming fans at a bodybuilding competition. That’s the set-up for Oil Hunks 10. Brad is in minuscule red posing briefs, marginally more than a thong, but not much more. I’ve never seen him in better condition, and I’ve seen him a lot over the past few years. He’s tanned, smooth as butter, and absolutely whittled to massive muscles, bone, and prominent veins. Check out the vascularity on his inner thighs (which sounds like a double entendre, but it isn’t). Fuck, he’s sensationally gorgeous.
But no, the real shocker isn’t any of that. It’s Damien. Holy fucking homoerotic wrestling gods! He’s GARGANTUAN! I’ve been a studied fan of Damien’s hot, hairy body from the beginning, but… fuck, his size leaves me speechless. There are gains, and then there’s THIS! Damien is hugely muscled, and his luxurious coat of dark hair typically covering his torso and legs has been entirely shaved (which is a shame, but then again, of course he’s smooth for competition). He’s tanned, but still looks pale compared to the dark bronze of Brad. His weight class is apparently not due to hit the stage for a little while, because Damien is in relatively modest blue cotton briefs. He flexes a double bicep and POW! Those upper arms are just about the biggest I’ve ever seen. He’s lats are magnificently broad. His quads are monstrously huge. Damien has always had a mouthwateringly sexy body, in my estimation. But he has seemingly abruptly gone from sexy pin up boy to, no shit, legitimate bodybuilder in the blink of an eye!
“I’m going win this competition,” Damien growls, waving Brad away from the weights he was using to get that last minute pump before hitting the stage. “You got that small fry?” Damien growls. “Okay, big fry,” Brad smirks, looking directly into the camera as if to say get a load of this character!
I’ve found Brad stingy in the past with digging deeply into the homoeroticism of homoerotic wrestling. But he takes a slow lap around Damien, pumping up his huge upper body, and openly admires the heavyweight’s hot muscles. He even goes so far as to agree with Damien that he almost certainly will win his superheavy weight class. Brad is impressed, slowly appraising this newly minted muscle god. “So you’ll take the super heavies,” Brad concludes decisively. “I”ll take the light heavies,” Brad announces without any false modesty. “And, obviously, I’ll take overall.”
Yep, that’s the backstage bodybuilding competition melodrama that I’ve fantasized about plenty long before now. Both boys seem to concede the facts that Damien’s size is superior, but Brad’s conditioning is out of this world over the top. Quantity versus quality. Mass versus aesthetics. Self-infatuated bodybuilder versus self-infatuated bodybuilder, moments before they vie for screaming worshippers. Fuck, the homoerotic potential is tastable.
There are obligatory arm wrestling and tests of strength. They all end up pretty much even, though a highlight for me is watching relatively petite Brad muscle the mountain to his knees. I can no longer find a Wrestler Profile page on the new MDW site, which is a loss, but elsewhere in the homoerotic wrestling universe, I find it suggested that Damien is about 3 inches taller than Brad. I don’t know if it’s the titanic muscle mass Damien is now sporting, but he looks gigantic in comparison to Brad now. So getting powered to his muscled ass in that test of strength is absolutely lovely drama to watch.
Damien fans will be unsurprised to hear that he’s now pissed. If there’s one thing that is entirely static here, it’s Damien’s dialogue/monologues. “Real men wrestle,” Damien growls in that way he has of bitching and whining about getting shown up. “That’s the true test of strength of a real man,” he announces, insisting on a wrestling match mere minutes before they’re both supposed to go on stage. I have to say that MDW has made me sort of hate phrases like “real men,” and “alpha dog.” Damien is one of the chiefest offenders of selling us the packaging that the eroticism of wrestling is rooted in discovering the flawed masculinity of one man when pitted against another. I don’t subscribe to this gender theory. At all. It strikes me as a lazy way of framing homoerotic wrestling motivation for wrestlers who, my hunch is, don’t get it. Damien’s bluster and comic book villain snarling could sour me, frankly, but then I flash back to his sexy ass, erotic-forward humbling by little guys like Charlie Evans and Lorenzo Lowe and I can forgive the bad gender politics and fragile hold on masculinity implied by Damien’s classic “real men” banter.
Another surprise in this match is Brad’s wrestling. I’ve always thought he’s ridiculously pretty, and I’ve been satisfied that he’s game for the genre enough to put his superhero jaw and massive pecs at our disposal in a wrestling match. But no shit, Brad sells pro wrestling in Oil Hunks 10! He’s quick and decisive. He fucking dances around Damien’s lumbering muscle bod, smoothly transitioning from a rear bearhug to side headlock to hammerlock with authority. Seriously, he fucking owns all of that hot new beef on big Damien, sucking on the feel of D’s head stuck in the vice in standing headscissors, standing tall and flexing proudly with the big man doubled over and humiliated.
One of the best moves I’ve seen in a long time happens when Damien muscles free and starts exploiting his size advantage, bullying Brad around. He squeezes and stretches him. He monologues like the Penguin with Batman suspended by a thread over a pit of alligators. Then he bends Brad backward into a sensationally sexy dragon sleeper. I haven’t mentioned just how tasty Brad’s tightly contained package is in those red posers, but fuck, what a teasing treat seeing him arching backward, totally at Damien’s mercy, his rippled, diamond cut muscles stretched and laid out like a feast. But shockingly, Brad jackknifes, pulling his legs off the mat and snapping them with total authority around Damien’s head. Damien is appropriately stunned, losing his grip on the sleeper and staring wide-eyed at the business end of Brad’s muscled ass now planted across his face. With an expert shift of his center of gravity, Brad yanks Damien off balance, flipping to his back, and landing still locked up sexy-tight in headscissors. Fucking magnificent counter!
They don’t talk about it explicitly, but there’s a hot drama to the moment that they start landing strikes. Mind you, Brad is due to be on stage any second. Damien will be up minutes later. So when Brad drives a sharp elbow into Damien’s ribs, I’m thinking, fuck, that’s going to leave a bruise! Moments later when Damien has slammed Brad to the mat and starts stomping the shit out of his gut and upper legs, I keep thinking, damn, you are NOT going to look so pretty after all out there on stage, are you!?
The turning point in the match is when Brad locks Damien’s left arm nice and snug between Brad’s huge upper legs and starts prying Damien’s head off his neck with a sick chin lock. Again, there’s a decisiveness about it that I just don’t expect from Brad. It’s commanding and vicious, and Damien looks like he’s fucked good. Right up until the point that he ducks free from the chinlock, muscles his way up to his knees, and basically arm curls Brad’s entire bodyweight off the mat before slamming the SHIT out of his back pounded across Damien’s knee. It’s over, right there. The power move blows my mind! Damien owns this gorgeous slice of competitive beef then and there, as Brad arches his lower back in agony and genuinely looks like he’s sucking on air.
There’s more muscle domination. This is MDW, after all. Damien starts up the comic book monologuing again. Eventually, he picks Brad up in a fireman’s carry and threatens to throw him across the room. By Brad’s genuine look and sound of panic, I think it’s occurred to him that he’s going to look like shit in a couple of minutes with shiny, oiled up bruises from head to toe when he strolls out on stage. Damien gives him the option of conceding that Damien is destined to win it all. “You’ll win! You’ll win!” Brad pleads.
The “oil” in this Oil Hunks match disappoints me. Brad cannot get this done fast enough. He manages to lather D’s huge body up in under a minute. Muscle worship fans everywhere are going to call a red card on this party foul. This is one of Brad’s perpetual weaknesses, I find. I’m guessing he’s straight, and I’m assuming he doesn’t quite get why I’ve got my dick in hand as I’m watching this match climax, because he doesn’t take his job as “towel boy” (applier of the oil) seriously. If Damien were to actually walk out on stage with an uneven oil application like this, he’d get laughed right back off the stage. More importantly, the sensationally ripe moment of one muscle hunk putting the palms of his hands all over another muscle hunk’s body is woefully undersold by suddenly-bro Brad. I’ve seen him pull away from the spoils of defeat like this before. It gives an unmistakable hit of a dude choking down the “ick” factor and clocking in his most superficial attention in order to just get this discomfort over with. I wish he ‘d just fucking suck it up and sell his appreciation for another man’s body about half as well as he sells his own suffering (as of late). He can be bitter about it all he wants. Mores the fun, really. But the self-consciousness ruins the denouement of this otherwise shockingly hot, hard, huge hit.
Damien looks a little pissed about it as well, which makes me rescind some of my earlier comments about his not getting it. “Get on your knees,” he commands Brad after getting the sloppiest oiling up in bodybuilding competition history. I shit you not, Brad rolls his eyes a little, because he’s so fucking self-conscious in this moment. “Get on our knees and enjoy staring up at the true champion!” Damien barks, flashing his huge, shiny (in patches), shockingly developed physique for his vanquished opponent to garnish and you and I to feast our eyes on.
Oil Hunks 10 has a sweet balance of story and wrestling. The physiques are s-t-u-n-n-i-n-g! The scenario is sensationally novel with a hit of authenticity (like, I feel pretty convinced that these guys are actually, genuinely, both bodybuilding competition-ready). Brad sells himself as a legitimately skilled pro wrestler better than I’ve ever seen him before, and Damien is… MASSIVE. I’ll knock them both for perennial character weaknesses, but honestly, this is super satisfying bodybuilder on bodybuilder pro wrestling gut checks.
And if either of these beasts needs a more willing “towel boy” than Brad was, to meticulously apply baby oil to every last inch of their gorgeous muscles with perfect precision and enthusiasm, give me a call boys.
I’m following the trail of one of my favorites and tucking in to watch Drake Marcos bring a fantastic new authenticity to W4H. Not that I think W4H hasn’t always featured sensationally authentic sell. It just hasn’t always read “homoerotic” as much as I think it’s supposed to. That’s officially old news as of right now, because Drake is the gay wrestling avatar for all of us when he stares down beefy Brad Barnes and muses out loud about playing “tops and bottoms” once this oil wrestling match is over.
“Brad Barnes here, master of the oil wrestling!” Brad lubricates his flexing muscles slowly and seductively, bragging about being the king of this sub-genre. No one can argue with his well-established position in the pantheon of homoerotic wrestling stars. He’s not as big nor as ripped as we’ve seen him in the past, but damn, he’s every ounce as tasty as always. The beard disguises his ridiculous beauty. Maybe he’s cottoned on that being too pretty is a liability in this business.
Drake strolls in and shakes hands respectfully. Hell, he even offers (and is welcomed) to finish oiling up Brad’s bulging physique in those hard-to-reach spots where Brad’s massive muscles get in the way of him reaching around. You know how, when we’re watching wrestlers apply oil, you can tell when they aren’t into it? How many times have we noticed probably straight grapplers look a little bored and engage in the least possible bodily contact while still, ostensibly, being able to claim to have oiled an opponent up? Drake, on the other hand, is happy to help. He’s the Cheshire Cat for a reason, so just watch the corners of his mouth curl in delight as he liberally coats Brad’s mile wide back, then drop to his knees to get the backs of the bodybuilder’s monster thighs (Brad’s meaty ass right at eye level, of course). Drake reaches around from behind and palms Brad’s abs, slides his hands slowly and expansively up and all over Brad’s juicy pecs. If a wrestling match wasn’t in the offing, I’d say Drake just might have kept this up until he was pounding out a load across Brad’s gorgeous muscles.
But Brad pulls away, looking uncomfortable. That bitch. Right then and there, I want to see Drake kick his mother fucking ass. Drake is the everyman on the mats here. More precisely, he’s you and me and every gay guy who’s been told he should apologize for getting turned on by a hot, cocky gym bunny flaunting himself provocatively and then pretending he wasn’t cock teasing all along. They shove each other in the chest, the aggression coming to a quick boil. Brad’s got a lower center of gravity and a ton of power advantage, and our gay avatar looks momentarily like he’s about to get muscle bullied (….again….). Then, suddenly, Drake swings his open right palm and lands a cracking, hard, wet slap across Brad’s way too pretty face. Oh, fuck yes, this is going to happen!
I’ve wrestled Drake, so I’m not nearly as surprised as Brad appears to be when the Cheshire Cat deftly slides to the side when the muscle tank comes charing in a rage. Smoothly, Drake lassos a side headlock and efficiently muscles the bodybuilder to the mat. “Master of oil wrestling?” Drake asks, cranking hard and making the bodybuilder whimper. “Looks like master of shit right now.”
I’ve faulted Brad for being flat-footed in the past. I’ve chided him for lacking initiative, for rolling over and taking it too quickly. And, honestly, this match could have easily been pulled down by that same dynamic if it weren’t for one thing: Drake makes him hurt.
Brad actually mentions out loud at one of his brief moments in the driver’s seat that Drake is working the match way stiffer than Brad expected. Read: Drake is actually, genuinely, pushing the pretty bodybuilder baby-ass right up to the point of seriously hurting him. He repeatedly tries to wrench Brad’s left shoulder out of joint with a severe hammerlock. He threatens to snap his oil-lubricated spine in multiple camel clutches. Hell, he looks like he nearly rips Brad’s massive pectoral muscles off the bone in long, deep, vicious pec claws. Fuck, Drake does us proud, gay wrestling fans.
Two things, in particular, Drake does that seriously bring excellent notes to the W4H catalog. One, he gropes the meat salaciously. The dragon sleepers lay Brad out best for Drake to use his free hand to slide his palm all over Brad’s fantasy man body. Brad bucks and kicks (more than usual, again making me believe the subplot that Drake is working this match harder than Brad is used to), and the Cheshire Cat just smiles brightly as he squeezes and feels up all of those bulging gym muscles. “You’re the kind of guy I admire at the gym,” Drake muses out loud at one point, treating himself to gently kneading, and then hard slapping, Brad’s muscle ass cheeks. “But, it looks like it should be the other fucking way around!” Drake narrates this drama beautifully, pointing out in both word and deed that Brad’s impressive muscles are nothing but fuel for Drake’s lustful fire. “This has got to be humiliating for you, right?,” he asks, mostly rhetorically. “I mean, look at your big ass! I’m destroying you!” More to the point, the relatively average physique on Drake is equipped with everything he needs to not just neutralize the pin-up boy, but to so completely break him down as to leave him wide open for an erotically turned on opponent to familiarize himself with Brad’s body the way we’ve all fantasized about taking possession of those hot muscleboys strutting and grunting and posing for themselves (though, really, you and me) in the mirror at the gym. He strokes the writhing bodybuilder’s pecs. His hand slides down to Brad’s lower abdomen. He drags his hand, fingers stretched wide, down Brad’s quivering inner thigh, and then briefly, but unmistakably, takes an appreciative squeeze of Brad’s vulnerable crotch.
The other thing that Drake brings to the table that is a sensational addition to W4H is the narrative itself. It’s hard for me to describe this match without dipping extensively into the dialogue (Drake’s), because it’s accentuating and counterpointing every move and reversal. “You say you’re the king of oil,” Drake crows, saddling up across his upper abdomen and diving in deep with double pec claws, “but it looks like oil might be your kryptonite.” The reference to Brad as Superman, to the medium that the bodybuilder was convinced showed him and his skills off to perfection as his ultimate weakness, is multilayered and a loving nod to the comic geeks among the gay wrestling fan audience. “In some circles, I’m known as everyone’s favorite jobber,” Drake explains in an obvious reference to this blog. “But it looks like you’re about to be my favorite,” he sneers, nearly decapitating the man of steel with a camel clutch until Brad frantically taps out. Again. And again.
It isn’t quite a squash. Brad actually fights back, which isn’t always something we can count on from the pretty boy. His most successful offense is trying to snap Drake off at the neck with monster headscissors and an angry showering of oil. If he were half the wrestler Drake is, he’d have ridden those moments of momentum and the crushing weight of gravity all over the Cheshire Cat until he shut the prattling provocateur up decisively.
But let’s face it, while Brad is undeniably gorgeous, while his muscles are magnificent, while that cleft chin is straight out of a comic book, while his body is the perfect, living rendition of my Stretch Armstrong doll from my childhood (which, yes, so got me off), he is not half the wrestler Drake is. I’ve long fantasized about Drake living into the moment and unleashing the heel within. I’ve told him, frankly, that he’s got all of the makings of a sensationally nasty, cruel, incredibly effective erotic heel. But this is the first time I’ve really seen that brilliance shine through quite this openly and directly.
No shit, Drake accidentally sleepers the bodybuilder out cold. Now, if it were you or I, what would we do with Brad Barnes, flat on his back, unconscious and completely at our mercy? Yeah, Drake drizzles on more oil and feels this side of beef up one last time, just to make his own crotch swell that much more and enjoy the spoils of victory.
Super sweet drama. The gayest thing I’ve seen on W4H, and believe me, I’ve been watching and hoping for them to highlight the “homo” in their bid to stake out more territory in the homoerotic wrestling market. Brad as the big, bulging, pretty muscle boy all shut up and humiliated and possessed by an unapologetically gay, obviously, superiorly skilled opponent is delicious. And seriously intense mat wrestling sold this hot and furiously is rare, and incredibly so when it comes to that most homoerotic of all contexts, oil wrestling.
I’d wager to bet having Lon Dumont in your corner increases your chances of pro wrestling success by a factor of 10. Lon disclosed in my interview with him several years back that in his very early years of coaching, he had a hand in shaping the foundation of the babyface dynamo Cameron Matthews, and just look at all that Cameron’s accomplished on the scene! In addition to wrestling around the world and starring in dozens of blockbuster homoerotic matches for BG East, Can-Am, Thunder’s Arena, and the predecessor to Movimus, Cameron now runs Wrestler4Hire, a growing player on the homoerotic wrestling scene, featuring high quality indy pros as well as established studs from other homoerotic wrestling companies. I’ve sampled Cameron’s products in the past, before the formal launch of W4H, and liked what I saw. So I recently signed up to sink my teeth into the meaty membership catalog and see what the newest kid on the block (although captained by one of the most established and productive kids of all time) is offering to the scene.
W4H has a provocative pro feel about it. Even the occasional mat match has pro attitude. There’s also a strong whiff of overflowing testosterone, with big, beefy bros messing around at the chapter house, but knowing full well the cameras are rolling and the audience is whipping out their dicks. If Rock Hard Wrestling and Thunder’s Arena had a baby, it’s be a lot like W4H (I’m probably not the first to make that analogy, but I think it’s apt).
With Cameron’s extensive connections in indy pro and homoerotic wrestling circles, the roster is pretty fucking amazing. There are up and coming, quickly rising indy pro stars showing up against sex wrestling veterans. And knowing Lon Dumont and Cameron go way, way back, little wonder Mr. Dumont shows up frequently on W4H. Even less a wonder, knowing my perpetual infatuation with the wrestler-turned-bodybuilder-turned-wrestler, I was immediately drawn to one of Lon’s match on W4H to enjoy first.
Coach Lon has apparently taken Brad Barnes under his wing, and holy fuck, it’s about time. Brad is as beautiful as they come. You can see Brad go full monty and jack off at Randy Blue. He has a sensational sexiness about him, built like Adonis and sporting a painfully pretty face with a superhero square jaw and leading man cleft chin. However, all that magnificent, mouthwatering muscle and beauty have been, at best, a liability in his homoerotic wrestling appearances to date. He’s so fucking pretty and so completely ill equipped to seriously defend himself in a wrestling match. You get the impression that the long, long line of opponents who have beat his pin-up boy ass senseless never, ever get tired of owning all that hollow promise and impotent raw talent.
So thank the homoerotic wrestling gods that Lon has accepted the job of whipping the jobber Adonis into shape. As A Hard Lesson Learned starts, Coach Dumont is urging big Brad on as the kid does sit-ups. Lon is dishing out well-earned praise, liberally spiced with smart ass backhanded compliments (just the way I adore him). But despite Lon’s credentials as a physique star and personal trainer, not to mention his illustrious career heeling like a mother fucker for multiple indy pro circuits, Brad seems somehow a tad… ungrateful. It’s hard to put my finger on it at first. Lon has to remind the beefcake to show him the respect of calling him coach. There’s a spring in his step missing as he slowly rises to follow Lon’s instructions. But when he implies that Lon may not be strong enough to pick up the heavy bag that Brad has, moments ago, hoisted overhead, his contempt for coach really rings out. Not strong enough?! Are you fucking kidding me?! Have you seen Lon’s ripped, stage-ready physique and mountains of bodybuilding trophies!?
It seems like Brad senses he may have crossed a line, because when coach orders him to test his abs by lying on his back (so Lon can gingerly drop the heavy weight on him, simulating the bodyweight of an opponent), Brad looks nervous. “Just don’t drop it on my nuts,” the jobber beefcake insists. He again expresses concern that coach may not be strong enough to handle the equipment. But he need not worry. Lon can handle his equipment like champ. He can also hoist high a heavy bag and slam it with authority into the unsuspecting gut of an ungrateful trainee.
“Ahhhh, FUCK, DUDE!” Brad screams, clutching his gut. Lon follows up with a stomp to one of the kid’s hamstrings. “Dude, what the fuck!!!?” Brad protests. Lon follows up with a stomp the chest, slamming his trainee to his back hard. “Don’t question my leadership skills, Brad!!!” Lon screams, slapping the kid’s ridiculously handsome face. “That is NOT something you want to do!” Lon unzips his warm-up jacket and peels it off, showing off the master-carved torso that has made me swoon for years. “Coach Dumont does not take kindly to that kind of activity!”
The heel clinic Lon treats Brad to is classic Dumont. He pounds fists into the kid’s gut with abandon. He chokes the kid with is bare hands. Ominously, coach picks up Brad’s ankles, spreads them wide, and then drives his full bodyweight down, pounding his knee into the prettyboy’s testicles. “Why don’t you try a sit up for me now, Brad!?,” Lon yells furiously. “How do you like my coaching style, Brad?!,” Lon screams in his face as he’s twist-tying the screeching manboy into an abdominal stretch.
Perhaps Brad is, finally, learning something from the avalanche of heel abuse he’s received up to this point, because he knows enough about pleasing fans to use Lon’s ridiculously long locks to pry his way free from one hold. He latches hold of Lon’s balls with a claw that elevates the heel’s typical baritone to a wailing countertenor. Brad racks coach across the top rope, bouncing him up and down on his balls a bit, to drive home the fact that he has, indeed, been taking notes.
I probably ought to be getting off on gorgeous Brad getting his big, bulging muscles owned like a bitch, but regular readers will be completely unsurprised to learn that I cannot take my eyes off of coach. When he has Brad screaming incoherently in a camel clutch, it’s Lon’s magnificent chest and shoulders that bring a tear to my eyes. I know that it’s Brad’s bubble butt that I probably ought to be obsessing over, but it’s Lon’s zero-bodyfat glutes I can’t stop staring at as he digs a wedgie out of his crack.
I’m aware that Lon’s incessant, smart ass banter and perpetual psychological warfare make some fans absolutely hate him with a passion. Knowing Lon, I suspect he’s sort of proud of that. As for me, a match like this one demonstrates why I think Lon remains one of the most entertaining, provocative, engaging personalities in the homoerotic wrestling ring, and why I continue to submit my resume for the job of rubbing baby oil into every last one of his beautiful muscles before every bodybuilding competition and wrestling match. At the end of the day, I don’t know if Brad Barnes has what it takes to really benefit from coach’s lessons, but as for me, today, tomorrow, always, count me as a lifelong member of Team Dumont.
For the record, A Hard Lesson Learned (copyright 2014) is one of 9 “new” videos available for streaming for the price of membership at W4H. There are also dozens of photo galleries of many more matches available for members to peruse for the price of admission. The roster is pretty damn charming, with brief, one-sentence character descriptions (presumably in Cameron’s own words… Lon is described as “The most intelligent wrestler on the roster,” so maybe they’re Lon’s words), along with the vital stats that, inexplicably, turn me on. There are also dozens more videotaped matches for streaming or download for an additional price or the purchase of credits, that will cost you between $9.50 and and $12 per credit, depending on how many you buy (and it looks like most matches cost 2 credits for download). The math seems to me to be getting complicated. There’s a 3-day streaming rental option for a break in the purchase price. The combination of abundant photo galleries and relatively few full matches seems pretty typical of the industry these days, though it is frustrating to feel like you just ponied up for sizable membership dues and then have to dole out more for access to 90% of the catalog. But, like I said, I don’t think W4H is remarkably dissimilar to other sites with membership upgrades.
The production quality is solid. It’s not the most polished you can find. It’s certainly not the roughest. There aren’t many close ups so the effect is sitting ringside, which has both its value added as well as its drawbacks. Just one camera, but also almost no cuts, so the narrative feels fresh, the gasping and clawing their way off the mat feels authentic. This match is right around 20 minutes in total, including the opening “coaching” session, which looks right around the average run-time for most of the matches in W4H.
I’ll keep exploring W4H. Like all of the homoerotic wrestling productions I follow, I certainly want it to succeed, so I’m keeping my eyes open for value, quality, and innovation in what can feel at times like an increasingly crowded field of homoerotic wrestling productions.
I’m on the record many times over as a big fan of hot and hairy Damien Rush. It seems like he’s tried to shed the ignominy of being daddy’s little rich boy, but personally, that back story makes it that much more captivating to see him stripped to wrestling trunks and pounding that hot body of his into another man’s muscles. His return to the Muscle Domination Wrestling ring in Six Pack Bash 8 portrays him as a freelance fitness coach, thrusting his services upon Brad Barnes without waiting for an invitation.
Brad is working his abs in the ring, sporting orange very-briefs and nothing else. Damien offers to enhance the work out with some light punches to Brad’s contracted abdominals, a la Rocky. Naive, dare we say, thick Brad concedes at first. But you and I know what happens next before we even see it. “Light” punches turn harder, more vicious, until Damien is beating the crap out of the muscle hunk’s gut with two fisted chops.
Damien is luscious in his familiar sparkling purple trunks that manage to ride up high on his waist but not quite cover his sweet ass cheeks. Both studs are barefoot, and I love barefoot ring wrestling. It has a direct line to my adolescent self slack jawed in lust over a young Kevin Von Erich.
“People pay for my services in the ab conditioning world,” Damien explains, clawing the living fuck out of Brad’s gut. “Because I give it to them better and harder than anyone else.” I love it when the double entendres fly thick and fast. “I dig in deep!” Damien grunts through gritted teeth, clawing his fingers past the first knuckles into Brad’s beet red gut. “And I pull out hard!” Like instructions in a sizzling hot night of rough sex, Damien marries physical brutality with a running narrative. “And then I stretch them in all different ways!” Yeah, Damien. Dig in deep and stretch me out in all different ways, rich boy!
I know I’m a broken record for pointing it out, but knowing some wrestling fans like I do, I feel obliged to warn you this is a complete, total, unequivocal squash from start to finish. There is one moment where Brad desperately slaps on a bearhug, but the look of unhurried contempt on Damien’s face makes this one of the more pitiful moments in the match for big Brad. And there are just so many moments to pity him!
I also don’t quite get the rope. Damien appears to exponentiate the ab torture by stretching a rope across Brad’s gut. Huh? I mean, rope burn sucks, but… I’m just not buying it as the muscle crushing maneuver it’s made out to be. Brad’s capacity to sell is sorely tested there, as it is later when he’s “trapped” in the ropes (really, just draped backward across the top rope, but seemingly paralyzed). Brad suffers non-stop through this match, but you can see his skills wearing thin right around the same points at which the plot does.
Watching Damien work up a thick sheen of sweat, though, is never wasted time for me. Damn, this kid’s got my number. I mean, literally, I’ve been begging for an interview with Damien for years now, but I somehow never get past his personal assistant (not daddy’s little rich boy, my ass). The one-sided specialities at MDW do not serve him up nearly as movingly as Damien’s work elsewhere in the homoerotic wrestling universe. But those hairy pecs, that 5-o’clock shadow, and his sweet ass keep me tuning in, over and over.
I’d love to see both of these boys work about 10 times harder than they do (or at least sell that much more). I’m still lobbying MDW for fewer squashes and more wrestling competition drama. But this is Damien Rush and Brad Barnes and muscle domination and monologuing, so I know there’s plenty of market for Six Pack Bash 8.
When the stars align and my homoerotic wrestler of the month is also my reigning favorite homoerotic wrestling overall, it’s time to sit back and appreciate what makes a particular hunk so dominant in my affections. There are a lot of stunning attributes to Kid Karisma, many of which I don’t mention nearly enough. Those glacial blue eyes are riveting. There are not nearly enough hot, hunky gingers populating homoerotic wrestling, so again, Kid K fills a necessary role in what turns me on. And he suggested in my interview with him a while back that he’s actually particularly proud of his mammoth horseshoe triceps. But let’s face it, there will never be enough said, nor enough photographic studies done to exhaust the wonder that is his stunning ass. So, again I say, let’s face it…
Regular readers know that my infatuation with Joshua Goodman (that’s Mr. Joshua to you!) and his bulge know no bounds. I’ve long muttered that I wish I knew how to quit him, because he’s a horribly cruel tease. But the moment I see that there’s a new Mr. Joshua release, I salivate uncontrollably and start obsessing all over again. So I was thus already entirely physiologically aroused when I sat down to slurp up Tag Team Torture 18: 2 on 1.
The “2” are similarly slurp-able Braden Charron and Brad Barnes. Braden has recently emerged from jobberhood as an increasingly dangerous ring veteran. He’s still full of attitude, but these days he actually has a lot more than just looking pretty to back it up. Brad seems appreciative as hell to learn at the feet of seasoned Braden, as the two quickly and effectively establish their characters as muscle master and obedient apprentice.
When Joshua shows up dressed in badboy black and announcing his tag team partner has stood him up, B&B can’t quite believe that Mr. J has decided to take them both on singlehandedly. Joshua doesn’t seemed concerned about his odds. Atypically, he’s checked out the competitions’ resumes and seen them both repeatedly manhandled. He doesn’t seem to have noticed Braden’s more recent graduation to the ranks of the serious competitors, though. Too much Mr. J arrogance? Or does he know something about the B&B boys that evens the score?
Mr. Joshua joins the long line of BG East badboys who have sunk their claws deep into Brad Barnes and made all of his mouthwatering muscles melt in agony. He OWNS musclestud Brad beautifully! Perhaps J’s strategy is simply to pick the muscle jobber clean and never allow badass Braden a moment to intervene. If he can manage that, I totally believe the odds have tilted in his favor.
Soaring on top, Mr. Joshua gets cocky (I know, that’s redundant). He taunts Braden who, as a competitive face, has to watch helplessly from the ring apron as his muscleboy partner is completely humiliated. J flaunts his domination of crumbling Brad, pointing out to worrying Braden exactly where team B&B’s achilles heel lies (somewhere between Brad’s ears). J provokes and preens the fresh muscle master, riling him up and daring Braden to take a dip on the dark side and fuck the rules.
You knew it. I knew it. Mr. Joshua’s overconfidence would come back to bite him in his gorgeously muscled ass (sign me up for that job!). Brad tags in his muscle master partner. Braden demonstrates to J that he’s no longer the infinitely crushable muscle jobber he was in days gone by. He out hustles and outmuscles Joshua with total command, seriously stroking my homoerotic kink by revisiting upon J revenge torture for pretty much each and every humiliating maneuver that Joshua had subjected Brad to. How dare you hurt my partner, the subtext screams. Now I’m going to teach you a lesson for making my baby boy cry!
Brad grows visibly excited on the ring apron watching his muscle master take control and defend his honor. Taking in the sight of his muscle daddy beating up his bully, the muscleboy literally bounces on the balls of his feet, pleading to get tagged in to savor the moment of making cocky Mr. J submit. Braden’s got J trussed up gorgeously in an abdominal stretch, millimeters away from wringing Joshua dry. He shakes his head, clearly pissed that earnest Brad is pleading to give up a sure thing in order to wrench revenge out of his bully’s battered body. Braden is an indulgent muscle daddy, however. Against his better judgment, he tags Brad in.
Brad quickly, just a little awkwardly wraps Mr. Joshua’s aching body back up into an abdominal stretch. But his center of gravity is too far forward. He doesn’t quite stretch Mr. J out to the limit. Braden tries to coach him into position from the corner, but Joshua is obviously catching his breath in Brad’s clumsy control. Brad struggles to nail the submission hold down when abruptly J flexes those stunning abs, twisting forward, pulling the jobber off balance and flipping him over, slamming him to his back. Brad’s blown it!
If Mr. Joshua was cocky before, if he was taunting and shaming-by-association Braden before, he’s out of control now. Brad is putty in J’s hands. Joshua scolds Braden for letting his muscleboy suck him into such a rookie mistake.
As long as everyone is playing by the rules, with Mr. J staying on message by neutralizing Braden by monopolizing Brad, he’s got this all wrapped up. But this is Mr. Joshua, and self-restraint is not his strong suit. He both provokes Braden a step too far and completely unnecessarily cheats in his possession of withering Brad. Faces B&B hear the dinner bell ring when Joshua signals that the rules are out the window.
Here’s where the most epic promise of this match is realized. Mr. Joshua is absolutely brutalized in a muscle bashing double team. The visuals here are simply stunning. Joshua is completely overwhelmed under two mountains of muscles bearing down on him. B&B toss him back and forth, both muscle daddy and his boy staying perfectly fresh even as Joshua is wearing down to pieces.
Mr. Joshua is nothing but B&B’s plaything as they trade him back and forth in bear hugs. Mr. J’s legendarily dangerous muscle physique clad in badboy black suffers with the majesty of a mighty predator-turned-hunted.
When B&B turn Mr. Joshua into deli meat in the middle of their muscleboy sandwich, I’m thinking that this has become a game changer in Mr. J’s career arc. Mr. J has suffered before. He’s been crushed by some of the best. But squeezed like jelly between two of the prettiest wrestlers to have jobbed for BG East, Joshua’s humiliation has never been more poignant.
The crushing of Mr. Joshua is complete. B&B are delighted with themselves as they soak in the sight of the notorious badboy turned into their bitch. Brad, in particular, is intoxicated, bouncing for joy and luxuriating in flexing over the once mighty king of the ring. The Best Bulge winner two years running is an impotent puddle on the mat, not just outmuscled, but outmuscled by a pair of pretty boy jobbers-no-more. I’m smelling fresh meat, and if I know the ranks of ambitious young BG East wrestlers (and I do), I’m certain I’m not the only one. Mr. J’s hot ass and massive, pendulous, legendary package have got a pair of bullseyes painted on them.
The weekend I leave home for vacation, BG East goes live with Catalog 104.1! Damn! There’s a lot of eye candy I’m already enjoying on the website. I’ve had a chance to enjoy a couple of the new releases already, but I’m not sure if I’ll be able to give any of these fine offerings a fuller treatment before I get back. Damn, damn, damn! There’s some fine temptations here!
“I’m not fucking around! I’m through with this! Fucking oil my leg! Fucking. Oil. My calf. Right now!”
There are a lot of classic, dominating heels in homoerotic wrestling who I might expect to say those words. There are brutal sadists with a passion for crushing opponents’ spirits as completely as they destroy their bodies, who you just know would get OFF on then forcing their prey to spread baby oil all over their bodies. But the hot hunk who said those words took me by surprise. Those words came out of the mouth of notorious muscle jobber, Brad Barnes.
I’ve been on the record for expressing concern about homoerotic wrestling hunks who get overexposed. Too many appearances across too many producers all happening at the same time can diminish any brand, I think. But this isn’t the first time that also I’ve noted with some delight a wrestling fantasy man crossing promotions in order to push an entirely new side of himself. In this case, big, beautiful, comic book hero hunk Brad Barnes has been jobbing like a madman, first at Thunder’s Arena and more recently lighting things up at BG East. Now that Muscle Domination Wrestling has got a hold of him, we get a glimpse of what Brad can deliver when he’s pitted against a twink half his size.
In Oil Hunks 1, Brad is as gorgeous as ever, with his ass not nearly squeezed inside of a pair of incredibly brief orange posing trunks (no matter what the online description says). He’s not as ripped as we’ve seen him before. His conditioning isn’t as peak as he’s reached in other matches. But there’s no denying he is one incredibly juicy, meaty hunk of man. So it’s no wonder that Brad immediately starts schooling lanky, awkward Enrique from the moment the young lightweight climbs underneath the bottom rope to enter the ring.
Brad talks trash, and I’ve never been turned on so much by him before (and that’s saying A LOT). What’s a luscious specimen of thick, masculine muscle to do when faced with a clearly intimidated punk who’s clearly embarrassed by his own inadequacy as he stares across the ring at one of the pretty faces on camera? There’s nothing to be done but to insist that the gangly lightweight gets down on his knees and starts to oil Brad up, starting with his calves.
I do not remember seeing Brad so cocky, decisive, and absolutely and utterly in charge, and it sits really, really nicely on those mile wide shoulders of his. His deep baritone is silky sexy, and if I’d been in the room, I’d have tossed reluctant Enrique over the top rope and thanked my lucky stars to obey the magnificent muscle man who just wants what’s coming to him, namely, a personal assistant to rub oil into every single muscle and crevice on his gorgeous body.
The one thing that does not work for me in this match is Enrique. I mean, I’m getting a major kick out of watching Brad humiliate and absolutely own the concept of muscle domination. But when Enrique concedes, over and over, body part by body part, to obey Brad’s command to spread oil across his body, the kid looks like he’s about to vomit. Talk about buzz kill. Again, I say, get a certain fanatical blogger to toss Enrique’s ass to the curb and give Brad’s every mouthwatering inch the adoring, oil-soaked stroke it deserves!
This season at MDW is a significant turning point, I think. Like their reimagining of beautiful Brad Barnes, MDW is actively and obviously reframing their focus on wrestling. Oil Hunks 1 is clearly in MDW’s stable of domination videos, but the hot squash wrestling action punctuates the psychological domination like the perfectly paced grasp of an expert lover. Muscle Master Kevin has been promising that MDW is ready to reclaim their block of the homoerotic wrestling neighborhood, and with tasty rookie Carter Alexander and a heel-reinvented Brad Barnes, I like the reboot.