Tag: Brad Rochelle

Breaking Down the Unbreakable

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When I was about 7 years old, my older brother offered to let me punch him in the stomach. “Sure!” I said, since he was always bullying me. I swung for the rafters, not really knowing how to put much behind a punch, but fueled with a desire to make him hurt. He winced, but his flexed abdomen was none the worse for wear. “Now it’s my turn,” he said ominously, beginning a gut punching session that I had never agreed to. He was often a dick that way.
So gut punching tends to take me back. These days, I more often identify with the puncher. Perhaps I’m living out my fantasy of what I should have done to my brother when given the free shot. Frankly, though, I don’t really have my brother in mind when I see Ricky Martinez’s tasty ass planted on Troy Baker’s babyface as he humiliates the goldenboy while rapidly pounding Troy’s stunning abs.
Vinny Trevino’s double fisted pounding on Patrick Donovan is an awesome example of the erotic testing of a muscle stud’s core. Patrick was destined for this moment of agony painted across his face from the moment he stepped into the ring with this badass bodybuilder. He should have known that outweighed and outmuscled, there was nothing but humiliating pain in his immediate future. But cocky overconfidence is a jobber’s bread and butter, and so Patrick squeezed into his pink and white trunks banking on his ring-veteran savvy to overcome Vinnie’s power and youthful invincibility. Fifteen minutes later, Patrick is on his back, clutching desperately at Vinnie’s wrist, screaming in pain with his ankles in the air. Very nice story.
In babyblue and white trunks, Justin Pierce was similarly suited up for a devastating pounding from the fists of sadist musclepunk, Joe Mazetti. The systematic picking apart of the muscle stud who has complete faith in his own invincibly shredded abs is absolutely awesome. I want to see the muscled babyface on his back, writhing in pain, with his pride-and-joy six pack quivering and defenseless. I want to see Justin owned. Joe does not disappoint.
Sadist extraordinaire and aptly named, Kid Vicious never fails to deliver. His relentless attention to Steven Thomas’ wall of muscle is a work of art. With Steven’s wrists bound overhead and his lower abs bright, bright red from being used as a punching bag, Kid drives home the point that some beautiful bodies are simply made for suffering, and when it’s done right (KV always does it right), it’s a win-win-win situation.

Not that KV needed it, but he does take advantage of a 2-on-1 scenario at times to break down Steven. The 2-on-1 gut pounding is a particular delight for me. I know, I know. Not everyone is into a double-team beatdown. I’m a big booster of the 2-on-1 most of the time. When two gorgeous muscle sadists, Daz and Big John (where the hell did those two priceless gems disappear to!?) capture and immobilize infinitely arrogant Mr. Joshua Goodman, Joshua’s truly marvelous, ripped abs are primed for punishment. It’s not like Daz or Big John needed to double team Mr. Joshua. They’re both powerful and nasty enough to have broken him and his lamb-to-the-slaughter partner, Kieran Dunne, singlehandedly. But the double-team, like the gut punching session itself, is about the story of breaking down the hunk who believes he’s unbreakable. Much more than just about a decisive victory, it’s about proving the arrogant face wrong, destroying his ego, transforming him into a humiliated piece of property who will never again be able to strut and preen without one eye looking over his shoulder.

So when SteelMuscleGod offers to let his sidekick use his abs for a punching bag on YouTube, I’m seeing so much potential opening up for SMG. I’ve suggested that Lon Dumont do the honors of welcoming SMG to America (admittedly, in order to see more of Lon as much as to see SMG in the ring). BGE has a whole stable of hungry studs who could do the honors nicely, though. Who would you suggest to roll out the red carpet for SMG’s debut in the arena in which his godlike status was clearly born to be tested?

Spittin’ Image

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I’m okay if no one else sees that hockey star and Canadian savior, Sidney Crosby, looks an awful lot like Brad Rochelle. I know what I see.
It appears that Sidney may have one of those faces that everyone thinks reminds them of someone else, though. Someone’s drawn the comparison with Adam Sandberg. Hell, more’s the better, I say. They could all use a serious spanking over my knee.
But the resemblance to photos of Brad from about twelve years ago is striking, I think. Of course, Brad’s bigger than Sidney and looks like he could crack him like a peanut, then and now. Still, even without Brad’s extra beefiness, Sidney’s packing a nice shape that just makes me think of Brad.
I’m sure Sidney’s untouchable now, and he’ll be raking in dough until the day he dies planting that gorgeous face on products from breakfast cereal to gym equipment. But still, wouldn’t a face off with Brad be breathtaking? Brad squeezing the boy wonder in a bearhug until he literally cries… tell me that’s not an image that would bring you to your knees, regardless of your nationality.
Okay, so it’s entirely possible that today’s post is just an opportunity for me to lust after Brad once more and imagine him in yet another scenario that would make me fire over the shoulder. Kid Leopard has offered teasers in the BG East yahoo group that, although we haven’t seen much of Brad on camera lately, he’s still connected with the operation behind the scenes and may still show up in action someday.
I can think of more than a few opponents I’d be whipping out my… credit card to see Brad in the ring with. While Sidney will probably have to remain a grappler merely in my imagination, I’d be ready to provide my own economic stimulus effort to own Brad pec to pec with my reigning favorite homoerotic wrestling pornboy, Mitch. Throw him in the ring with eager young stallion, Denny Cartier to let him crack the veteran’s whip on one of the newest flexible musclestuds. But make sure that we get to see Brad do some serious suffering, say at the hands of Cole Cassidy.

Olympic Spirit Finale

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Okay, so even I have to admit that the gold medal men’s hockey game was high drama. I generally can’t follow hockey (my eyes must be getting too old to see the puck), but what an exhilarating end to the 2010 winter Olympics! And the gold medal-clinching shot came from a Canadian hottie with known shirtless pics circulating! Score again!
Sidney Crosby is 5’11, 22 years old, and 200 pounds of hot, hot (hothothot)muscle. But it’s his lips that are driving me nuts! Any sport that requires this man to suit up in a uniform that disguises every inch of his stunning body and face is seriously in need of retooling (my apologies in advance for all of you hockey fans who are offended by that comment).
Is it just me, or is Sidney looking like Brad Rochelle’s secret love child. Don’t tell me that it’s just me. I’ll resent it. I’m not actually sure that Brad could be old enough to have a 22 year old love child, but I think that they’ve got to be from the same corner of the gene pool, one way or another. Yes, Sidney has got to be Brad’s love child, and I’m sensing a fictional wrestling match coming on. Perhaps a new generation vs. ring veteran who sort out their daddy issues to eventually team up for serious tag team destruction.

He has a serious fanatic blogging about his every sneeze, and I totally respect that in a stalker/fan. I suspect after the emotional climax of his overtime goal to win the Olympics last night, Sidney will be coping with a lot more post-coital fanatics and stalkers.
Way to go Canada, for an excellent Olympics, a smoking hot field of Canadian competitors, and the setting for world class athletes to test themselves and one another.

Prometheus Bound

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What is the relationship between a homoerotic wrestling kink and bondage? Is the wrestling kinkster a subset of S&M bondage kink? Are they kissing (punching) cousins? Is it all the same, just packaged differently?
Like Prometheus bound or St. Sebastian, the image of a muscled hunk suffering in restraints is essentially homo-provocative, I think. Power captured, virility claimed, challenger conquered… the bound hardbody certainly tells a story that rings true (and rings my bell) to what gets me so hot and bothered about wrestling. The virile, arrogant young hot shot with all the confidence in the world in his powerful muscles and determination to be victorious is highly eroticized for me at the point that he is restrained, made vulnerable, and suffering in the humiliating realization that he has been bested.
The bound hunk shows up regularly in homoerotic wrestling. Is Paul Perris, with his arms bound at his sides in a rope and suffering the sadistic whims of Bart Tyler, essentially the same provocation that makes me hard at seeing Paul Perris body scissored, writhing and immobilized in pain? The wrestling hold is, after all, simply another means of binding a hot hunk in sweet vulnerability.
Still, I’m not so sure it’s all the same thing, at least not to me. Some days I’m hot for a hunk tied up like a rack of lamb, but somedays I’m not. My tastes for bondage with ropes, chains, shoelaces (etc., etc., etc.) are inconsistent. Justin Pierce finding himself literally tied in knots with the boxing tape that was moments ago wrapped protectively around his wrist is not always the scene that I keep rewinding over and over again to see until I’m driven irresistibly to climax. Sometimes it is, but not all the time.
But Brad Rochelle sobbing in pain cracked backward across any opponent’s knee is always, always, always instantly gratifying to me. The humiliation of Brad taped into the corner of the ring, hanging in unconscious humiliation between beatings is a sweet sight, but seeing the Enforcer tie him up with nothing more than Brad’s own arms twisted around his own neck like a Christmas bow is, without fail, guaranteed to make me salivate.
Affectively, then, the hunk bound and the hunk wrestle-bashed is not necessarily the same (again, at least for me). The elements are almost identical: the battler suffering, paralyzed, captured, and claimed. But the means of achieving his vulnerability seems to make a difference. Mr. Perpetual Erection, Dino Serra, is always in need of a severe spanking. Admittedly, suspended from the ceiling certainly displays his most impressive muscle more vividly than almost any other means of his destruction. Frequently, watching him be bound, stripped, and have his cock and balls worked over with sadistic glee is entirely filling: check please! But it isn’t as invariable as watching Dino’s erection get slapped around as he’s squeezed between the thighs of his grinning opponent.

Of course, sometimes the bondage with other than human restraints and the wrestling domination is indistinguishable. When Brooklyn Bodwrecker and Shane McCall tape Brian Powers into the corner, and then proceed to drive Brian’s partner, Liam Ryan, inverted and crushed against him… well, where does the bondage begin and the wrestling humiliation end? For that matter, where does BBW begin and Shane McCall end? The scenario of immobilizing capture and sadistic humiliation is complex, creative, and frankly an impressive feat of physics and human ingenuity.

Perhaps it doesn’t really matter. If we just follow the lead of our cocks, I suppose like any form of art, we’ll know what tweaks our kink when we see it. Still, it all makes me wonder what is the essence of the wrestling kink that gives me (and so many of you) so much pleasure. Not all bondage does it for me, by any means. Even the bondage that does it for me a lot of the time doesn’t always do it for me. But wrestling hardbodies telling the story of cocky competition to decide who’s on top and who’s destined to suffer the humiliating defeat at the hands of the better man… these are always what gets my blood pumping in all the right directions.

Never Had a Chance

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The Canadian women’s hockey team has been criticized for beating their first round opponents 18 – 0. It’s not in the spirit of the Olympics, so the story goes, to humiliate your opponents. Just beat them. What is it that goes into deciding to score those 5 goals in the 3rd period? It’s simply not about winning anymore. It’s about statement. Frankly, it’s not really about making a statement to your opponent, really. It’s about making a statement to potential opponents who might be considering taking you on. Show no mercy in utterly humiliating your outclassed opponent and tell the world you’ll fuck up anyone else who dares to go toe to toe with you, too.

A recent conversation at Ringside at Skull Island made me think some more about the wrestling squash match. Some folks just aren’t into the squash. Seeing one man completely outclass his opponent on the way to devastating humiliation doesn’t turn everyone crank.
Most often, though, it turns mine. For me, it isn’t that there’s no competitive spirit in a squash. The competition just isn’t all happening in the ring. The humiliating squash is the message sent to the arrogant punks sizing you up back in the locker room later on. When Billyboy took a jab at Brad Rochelle’s balls, Brad completely demolished the doe-eyed hunk. Brad tortured the punk far past the point of necessity as a message to the next piece of shit that might think it was worth a stab to use Brad’s testicles like a speed bag. The testosterone laced kink is the sneering challenge to the hot shot who thinks they’re ready to take you on next. Just try me, and you’ll see me unleash the merciless destruction on your ass that I’m unleashing on this piece of shit.
It’s a fascinating, titillating sight to see an eager/dumbass young hopeful climb into the ring when the rest of us know that he’s got no chance. It doesn’t have to be a mystery to be hot in my book. When Jeff Phoenix showed up without his partner for his tag team match against Jose and Cruze, the hardbody hunk was all mouth. He boasted he could beat both heels by himself. You knew and I knew that Jeff was in for complete destruction. Jose knew it. Cruze knew it. Hell, for all his bluster, Jeff knew it. The heels took their time in systematically double teaming Jeff’s muscle ass like artists, illustrating that it’s not the science of the knowing that always matters, just like it isn’t strictly the competition that tells the story in the ring. Sometimes, it’s the artful execution and merciless thrill that makes it worth it.
The demolition as art can be a beautiful thing that revs my engine. Kid Leopard’s skills have always been awe inspiring. It’s not like we can’t tell when he steps into the ring with another eager/dumbass musclehead destined for humiliation. We watch because we want to see just how he’ll go about it this time. In what way will he twist and torture the stud? What gravity defying position will he force the unsuspecting blowhard into, and how long will he toy with his victim before forcing him to finally scream in submission? How will he make us gasp and his victim cry?
Kid Vicious is the same sort of battler. The smile on his face as he crushes Joe Driver’s hhhhhuge package under his boot makes me a little lightheaded. KV sells his sadism with such mastery. His inevitable dismantling of the fresh meat dangled in front of his face is never seriously in doubt. It’s his style, his savagery, and the systematic ownership of his opponents that keeps me coming back for more. Like several voices at the BG East listserv, I’m all for a long overdue KV spotlight. I just vote to throw him at least a couple bright-eyed, hardbodied rookies who actually think that they have a chance when they step in the ring. Their shock will be my happy ending.
Finally, Mitch’s motel match against Jeremy Burk comes to mind as one more squash done right, in my book. The reigning champion for my favorite homoerotic wrestling pornboy title, Mitch is relentless. Jeremy is his plaything from the moment he steps into the room. Mitch overpowers him and completely owns him just about every step of the way. And I turn every page eagerly, not because the climax is somehow in doubt, not because the “what” of the plot keeps me guessing, but because the how is so delightful to see unfold. Spank that punk’s ass with his own shoe, Mitch! Suspend him upside down with his head squeezed between your knees. Do those push ups on top of him, grinding your crotch into his face over and over again. I knew you could do it. I just wanted to watch. It may not be the spirit of competition, but it gets me off.

Intimate Impact

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Pro-style wrestling, when done well, is all about pacing. I love me some long-held torturous holds where a poor battler has the life squeezed out of him inch by inch. Still, sometimes I’m in the mood to seem someone slammed to the ground… hard. While I enjoy watching a man scream in pain while his joints are slowly ripped apart, today I’m more in the mood to watch a cocky musclehead get shut up by a body slam. I can think of a few people who deserve a silencing pounding from six feet off the ground. I think of the body slam like the exclamation point at the end of the sentence, “Fuck you!” That’s the sentiment I’m going for today (not necessarily you personally… unless you deserve it…).

The body slam is fast and blunt, when it satisfies. Today I’m hot for a stud snatched off his feet and immediately driven into the mat hard. Brad Rochelle is 100% golden when he’s suffering, but note his superhuman body awareness. In the split second before his ass is pounded to the mat, Brad’s hand darts out and clutches at Jed Jamison’s crotch dangling tantalizingly in front of Brad’s face…. a master at work….
This amazingly muscled hardbody in jeans slamming the bruiser in trunks (via Wrestling Arsenal) is exactly working for me on so many levels. The street-clothed stud ripping off his shirt and diving under the ropes to take on the wrestler in his natural habitat tweaks several of my kinks. His fierce hold on the dude’s trunks, looking like he’s about to rip them off his helpless projectile, tells a nice story of ferocity and presence. Blue jeans-boy is intent on controlling his victim and delivering precisely the dose of pain that he has coming to him. Whatever he did, I instantly believe that trunks-boy deserved it in spades.
Jaxx O’Doul setting up the stunningly skilled BG East babyface jobber, Cameron Matthews, connects the dots between impact and intimacy. First of all, have you SEEN Cameron’s ass? I frankly can’t quite understand how his opponent’s can restrain themselves from commenting on it all the time (or at least staring for a good long time). In this pic, Jaxx has somewhat demurely cupped Cameron’s ample left cheek in his hand, suggesting that he’s self-consciously avoiding really digging in his fingertips for a good solid grip. His carefully avoiding sinking his claws into Cameron’s glute only goes to show that Jaxx is just as keenly aware of Cameron’s #1 asset as I am. Going out his way to avoid a serious grab of that booty is Jaxx’s tell that he’s absolutely taken note of the booty-in-question. Cameron, for his part, is selling like an Amway Double Diamond, looking awed, frightened, and already in the throes of anticipatory suffering. Cameron’s all business, so I doubt that he’s intending to dig his pinky underneath Jaxx’s trunks, directly overtop of his cock, but nevertheless, that’s exactly what ends up happening. Regardless what Jaxx and Cameron’s intentions are, they illustrate that a body slam just can’t help be both brutal and intimate.
When bodybuilder Ted Shipp scooped up sadist Beau Hopkins in Canadian Musclehunk Wrestling 6, he had one thing in mind. Look at his eyes, and you can just tell. Ted has just a little bit of a crazed ecstasy in his eyes as he swings Beau’s hips high over his shoulder in preparation for driving him to the canvas. Ted is clearly feeling the kink that I’m all about today. Turn that cocky muscleboy into your plaything, Ted! Dangle him helplessly in the air with your rocking body tensed and gorgeous. Sure, let him plant his left hand across your rock hard quad. Indulge him for that split second. Because once you’ve pounded his ass to ground, you’ll have a few moments of peace and quiet from that bastard’s constant, cocky banter. Shut him up hard and commandingly!
Clearly I’m working out some of my own frustrations with my lustful read of the wrestling body slam. There are some overconfident ass holes I know who are crying out for a silencing pounding. But of course in between the lines of every lustful desire for a delivery of pain is the profound intimacy of that moment. The exchange of power and powerlessness, anticipation and consummation, and fear and agony is 100% sexual domination, as least as I read the text. Denny Cartier’s line of sight and right hand here are writing the story. Being owned by the giant-boy Joe Robbins has got to be a helpless, frightening, agonizing experience. Giving up over a half a foot and 80 pounds (!!!), Denny is caught in that instant of dreading the shock of being driven to his back from 6 feet off the ground. He’s captured and helpless, and Denny (a swiftly rising stock in my estimation) can’t help himself but be fixated, biting his lower lip in concentration, and instinctively reaching toward Joe’s package.

Brutality and intimacy. Brutality as intimacy. Fear and agony as the flip side of the lustful ecstasy coin. That’s the currency I’m looking for today. Ready to pay up?

False Modesty

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Purportedly, the ancient Greeks wrestled naked. Somewhere between then and now, modesty set in and wrestlers found the need for gear. So the point of gear is modesty, covering up the “private parts,” keeping the swinging ball and chain in check. So when a wrestler finds his gear yanked, there’s something delightfully transgressive about it.
It’s generally the hard hunks like Marcus Bagwell getting some serious exposure with a trunk pull. Anyone might find a handful of nylon helpful in the ring, but somehow it’s the gorgeous muscle studs with fantastic bubble butts who seem to find themselves on the receiving end of trunk pull overexposure. I’m not complaining.

Wrestling Arsenal points out that some pros particularly proud of their posteriors clearly work in getting bare assed as part of the routine. Eddie Atlas here is captured in a moment of overacting, but it’s not like we’re critiquing him for an Oscar, now is it? We’re focused with a tunnel vision thrill on Eddie’s naked, very round ass. Dude on his back could almost certainly have found a more effective way to power-bottom, but again, I’m not complaining.

There’s undoubtedly utility in a trunk grab in many cases. In what is theoretically a pure man-vs-man competition where your only weapons are your bodies and your brains, gear can be an effective illicit addition to the arsenal. But even more satisfying in my book is the trunk pull for no purpose other than humiliation. Stoney Hooker draped across his opponent’s knee finds his trunks wedged up to his kidneys, all the better to slap his sweet white ass like the man-child his is. This hardly moves the match any closer to a pinfall… not complaining…

Sprinkle some homoeroticism into your wrestling kink, and the gear grab moves from the implicit sexuality of wrestling to explicit sexuality. Kid Leopard models complete ownership of his opponent with one hand yanking him up by his hair and the other hand lifting him by his jobber-white trunks. By the look on his face, this jobber is ready to cry out his submission. Knowing KL, the jobber’s humiliating defeat will not come one second sooner than it absolutely needs to.

In the over the top homoerotic scenario, playing with the modesty of the wrestling gear is like foreplay. It’s the glimpse of what’s hidden, the hint of things to come. BG East classic brawler, Jose, packed a cock that defied belief. When he (frequently) battled naked, his flailing python was jaw dropping (which is the appropriate position). In TagTeam Torture 1, with one my favorite finishers of all time, Jose and Cruze are thrilled sadists relishing every second of their humiliation of earnest babyface skinny boys, Patrick and Sean. When Jose backs Sean into the ropes and yanks his trunks to get better leverage on some ab pounding, Sean’s modesty is momentarily defied. It’s all foreplay, though. Just wait a few minutes, and the teasing trunk pull will be revealed as downright demure compared to what await Patrick and Sean. Again I say, one of my favorite finishers…

I really resent the muscleboy cockteasers. I’ve mentioned before how my unrequited lust for Joshua Goodman’s opened package irritates me. At least the powers that be give us glimpses of all that we’re missing with the talent that clearly doesn’t want to share (selfish bastards). Despite some nice, hard nudes of Justin Pierce available on the net, he never shares his full glory with us in the ring. Bulldog Barzini thoughtfully treats us to a glimpse of the goods, though, yanking so hard on Justin’s trunks they look like they’re about to snap (if only). It’s hardly as if Bulldog needs to resort to dirty tricks. He’s on his way to decimating the prettyboy hardbody without really needing to break a sweat. But Bulldog is a true, thoughtful gentleman who keeps us in mind as he not only beats the crap out of Justin, but humiliates him and ridicules the false modesty of his wrestling trunks.
One of the worst muscleboy cockteasers has got to be Brad Rochelle. Again, there are nudes of Brad to be had, but in the ring he guards his bits and baubles fiercely. That doesn’t stop his brutalizers from reminding us all that despite remaining covered up, there are wonders just under the covers. Sid takes a play out of KL’s book, dragging suffering Brad up by a handful of hair and a fistful of trunks, giving us the unsatisfying hint of Brad’s beautiful bare butt. So now I’m complaining… but I’ll take what I can get (particularly if it’s more Brad, please).

Gear is about modesty. It’s a concession to the repressed, body-hating culture that’s constantly trying to convince us that very specific geography of exposed skin is distasteful. Certain square footage of the human anatomy must be disguised and covered in order to make the rest of the human anatomy socially acceptable, we’re taught. So the tug at the trunks, the yank of the tights, the fistful of gear that exposes the naughty bits is a sweet moment of transgression, when particularly those of us who love the male body can flip the bird at every attempt to take the erotic out of the gorgeous male form.

Hold Still!

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I’m not the only one seeing this, right? Wrestling as a bondage fantasy is all over the place. Tying up a stunned hunk between the ropes and working them over with both hands (and knees, and boots, and your partner, if applicable…) is directly out a BDSM playbook.
Okay, so obviously I’m not the only one seeing this. Wrestling Arsenal has several galleries devoted to the wonders of a wrestler tied in the ropes. Using the ropes as tools of torture is true artistry. Turning the set into the subject of a battle is the sign of a creative mind. But the creativity is just starting there. Finding new, ingenious ways of capturing and torturing your helpless opponent in the ropes is a many splendored thing. Like the doomed hunk in pink tights suspended helplessly from the ropes and his inverted opponent’s clutches, there are always new ways being invented to suffer with the aid of the ring ropes.
BG East’s Nick Archer takes the direct approach on poor Jason Zamora. Just position your man prone and step on the bottom rope, choking the sucker. Nick uses the top rope for balance. Personally, I’d like to see the top rope taut in the opposite direction, with Nick using it for extra leverage to apply more force across the poor chump’s throat. But that’s just me.


Lot’s of guys can lace a man’s arms between the top two ropes and hang him helpless inside the ring, but Sting here flipped the scenario outside the ring, leaving the gorgeous body of Rick Rude on stunning display, literally suspended off the ground. That bastard official looks like he’s going to ruin this scenario well before some serious discipline could be applied to Rick’s helplessly hunky body.

Early in Brad Rochelle’s BG East career, he won “Rookie of the Year” at the end of his systematic, sadistic dismantling of a young Patrick Donovan. Brad finished Patrick off with this truly inspired use of the ropes, immobilizing Patrick’s shoulders in the bottom two ropes and then lifting his body off the mat in a nicely suspended Boston crab variation. The cherry on top in this scenario was the standing ovation of the wrestlers watching outside the ring, who sealed Patrick’s humiliation by taking turns slapping him in the face as he remained trapped just this way in the ropes.
Karma is a bitch, though. Years later, after Brad’s suffering has propelled him to the heights of jobberhood, the Enforcer had him suffering miserably, his neck being pried painfully over the very same ropes with which he’s once humiliated young Patrick. The hunter quickly became the hunted, and our hopeless hero in white (specifically his trunks, though he’s awfully pale as well), is now the mounted trophy for Enforcer to examine and feel every inch of Brad’s tortured physique.
And speaking of tortured physique, did you catch the mega talent packed into a slender, tight package (aka Reese Wells) trapped in the ropes and having his balls crushed by Johnny Firestorm!? Johnny clearly is right there with me in recognizing the rope work as BDSM in the ring. Johnny actually uses the ropes from various angles to assault Reese’s balls and cock every which way. Our brave little scrapper with the literal target across his crotch screams and suffers valiantly, completing the cast of characters of the sadist and his hard working masochist.
The hunk who is twisted and tied, pummeled and pried in the ring ropes is nothing if not the object of homoerotic lust. His massive muscles immobilized outline the one-to-one connection between his suffering and our sexual fantasies. To be bound and disciplined on your way to humiliating defeat is absolutely the kink I’m talking about.

Words and Silences

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

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

More Sublime Suffering

wrestlebard4 Comments


An enthusiastic reader recently, generously offered to stretch me out across his knee in a backbreaker and work over my gut and pecs. That sweet talker. The offer got me thinking once again about one of my favorite wrestling holds: the over the knee backbreaker.

The promise to work over my gut and pecs sent my mind cataloging a few of the delicious possibilities of what can be done with a relatively flexible hardbody folded backward across your knee. Cliff Conlin (the consummate seller) illustrates nicely how grabbing the ankle of your prey gives you some extra leverage in prying your man backward at a breathtaking angle.

There’s an aesthetic to the OTK backbreaker that can make this moment in the ring an awesome work of art. Dirk Shannon from several Can-Am classics relished the OTK, and he clearly appreciated the beautiful form it could take. In Canadian Musclehunk 8, Dirk finishes off Peter Genilli like Michelangelo carving a block of marble. He presses down on Genilli’s thigh and chin with only the balls of his hands, his fingers extended purposively perpendicular to the mat. Dirk’s taut upper body and the fierce flex of his jaw are gorgeous all by themselves, but his presentation of Genilli’s suffering form belongs in the Louvre (or Le Cordon Bleu, perhaps).

BG East’s Kid Brock (who disappeared far too quickly), opts for the left hand clamped tightly across the throat of Eric Moreira. Kid has his opponent bent so far backward that Eric’s head is being smashed to the mat. The fulcrum here, Kid’s massive thigh, is driving directly into the small of Eric’s back. Note the line of sight in Kid’s gaze, though. The OTK, by definition, shine’s a spotlight on the suffering man’s package. The tormentor and the audience share the vision of the broken man’s most intimately vulnerable moment, with his spine being twisted in a way never intended by the human anatomy, and his cock and balls propped tantalizingly at the apex of his arched agony. The drop of sweat hanging from Kid’s nose here is what makes me feel a little faint, though, I must admit.
Confession time: I’ve caught myself more than once snarling at the screen, thrilled by the sight of an OTK, but frustrated that the sadist with his man broken backward across his thigh is seemingly ignoring the prominent pouch of his punk. To have that vulnerability so exposed and presented, but to do nothing with it, should be a crime punishable by (me) cracking the negligent battler’s head into the nearest turnbuckle. Fortunately, BG East’s Kid Vicious never needs my coaching. The world champion sadist never seems to fail to take stock of all of his opponent’s assets as his disposal in an OTK. With rookie Frank Daly cracked across his knee, KV is like a hungry man with a sampler plate. Daly’s cock is uncovered and suffers a blood-pumping, double fisted squeeze. Eventually his nipple’s and cock find their way into KV’s mouth, all the while maintaining the rookie’s vulnerable position across his knee. The work of a master is a beautiful thing to behold.
No one, but no one bends and suffers like Brad Rochelle. I’ve spilt plenty of ink marveling at Brad’s capture across the knee of Jeff Phoenix in the past, but I simply have to include another OTK capture of Brad, displaying another great option for the hold. I can’t sleuth out what match this pic is from, but I think this heel is Sid O’Reilly. He’s illustrating another great use of an OTK, which is to claw the crap out of a muscleboy’s exposed six pack. The heel’s fingertips look seriously dug in there, and Brad is letting us know what it feels like to have someone’s claws rearrange your internal organs from the outside.
Even the pros clearly take carnal delight in the OTK. Whether you’d like to imagine yourself getting broken by Chris Benoit or breaking bodybuilder face, Tommy Zenk, the combination of the two is fantastic. Chris’ ownership of Tommy is savage and complete.
This old pic captures a grimacing blond in the act of bringing Kerry Von Erich’s stunningly muscled back down across his knee. As Wrestling Arsenal points out, for our purposes, the most notable feature here is the blond’s hand indulgently squeezing the very ample handhold of Kerry’s muscled bubblebutt. His wrist and hand are jammed up so tight, Kerry’s cheeks are spread wide and completely vulnerable. Kerry’s mouth is saying no, no, no, but I suspect his prostate was saying yes, yes, yes!
The possibilities are seemingly infinite. The OTK offers a provocative canvas for the work of the true masters. Whether you’d like to crack me across your knee and pound out my pecs and gut, or whether you’d like to be captured and brutalized in this fantastic means of torture, I’m always and forever a fan of the improbable, unmistakably homoerotic over the knee backbreaker.