I love fresh, rare meat. Since I’m a vegetarian, I suppose I should clarify that I love fresh raw meat like BG East rookie Gus Rowe in Bearhug Beatings 1. Handsome. Lean. Superbly fit. Entirely game. Yum, let’s tuck in right now and savor the choicest slice of beef on this pretty, pretty boy.
Dat. Ass. I often feel guilty when one particularly eye-catching feature captures me so completely. It’s not like gorgeous Gus is lacking in more than a dozen aesthetically notable features. Hand me a body of baby oil, and I’ll be happy to meet him in the ring and give you a guided tour. And he’s shown up in Bearhug Beatings 1 with a delightful earnestness, a naive confidence, and a bubbling cauldron of terror just beneath the surface. Gus deserves a first review from a blogger to be about more than his sensational ass.
But, fuck! I have a hard time tearing my eyes away from anything else with this cued up. The rookie doesn’t possess the outrageously built muscle glutes of, say, Best Butt winner many times over, Kid Karisma. The kid is lean, but his soft edges merely accentuate the palpable youthfulness, all that untested raw material. I have no idea whether Gus’ ass is literally virginal, but the quiver and give of those glutes are perfectly paired with his lamb to slaughter character as jobber-no-more Braden Charron beats the living shit out of him.
Braden bearing down on a rookie like this is pretty compelling, I have to admit. I say that I have to admit it because I’m hit and miss with Braden lately. Often he puts me way over the top, but sometimes the story he tells feels too safe, too contained and well-worn. I’d hardly say he’s a raging heel in Bearhug Beatings. He’s vicious and merciless. He introduces gasping Gus to the shocks and awes of homoerotically inclined professional wrestling just fine. But his part feels much more to me that of the better endowed, more experienced, fan favorite hunk who gets to let loose on his achingly sweet rookie opponent.
The years that Gus spends suffering in Braden’s bearhugs in this match show off his moneymaker to perfection. That gorgeous ass is center frame for ages, writhing and flexing, bobbing and shaking. Gus is stubborn early going, refusing to acknowledge the plain truth that he’s in way, way over his head. He gives Braden not an ounce of satisfaction. He somehow manages to submit without conceding anything. Until, that is, Braden seriously starts to fuck with his head. Up in one of those quivering bearhugs, Braden stretches his fingers down the kid’s right glute and yanks upward, hard, on Gus’ teal trunks. Those beautiful cheeks pop free. That word “virginal” screams like a siren in my head. The intimate vulnerability and the attention on baring that beautiful ass pulse with heat. And when the kid finally gives, again, and is thrown to the mat, he feels his bared cheeks, weeping in agony, and with disbelieving shock in his voice, cries, “You gave a wedgie!?”
That’s my favorite moment of this match, the paradigmatic moment when Gus reveals that he was not expecting this. He realizes that he was not prepared for any of this. He has at least 10 more minutes of humiliating brutality left to suck on, and it’s just now dawned on him that he isn’t just going to lose, he’s going to be laid out and garnished like the prime cut of young beef he is. In my heart of hearts, I’m a little worried that having his eyes opened to the depths of torture and humiliation that he’s going to face in the BG East ring, lovely Gus may never darken the BG East doorstep again. But if there’s anything good in this world, then gorgeous Gus got up, licked his wounds (seriously, let me know if you need any help with that, Gus), and said to himself, “Fuck that was intense. I need more!”
It’s been a while since I’ve settled in with a Thunder’s Arena match, but several promos and teasers from their new releases have been grabbing my attention hard. My first toe dipped back in the Thunder’s pool was sampling seriously big, beautiful, hairy Wolf.
“So this is the big bad wolf, right here,” Braden Charron checks out the rookie. “That’s right,” Wolf replies, just a little awkwardly, with just a slight tinge of stage fright in his voice. “You’ve got size. Some good definition,” Braden concedes. But the veteran muscle hunk is leaving so much more unsaid. Wolf is visually striking. Thunder’s promotes him as 5’11, 225 pounds. And those numbers, too, don’t come close to describing this handsome stud. The full beard, receding hairline, tastefully but not aggressively groomed body hair all over his torso, even a light coat across this bulging traps and upper back, place this rookie in the hyper-masculine end of the homoerotic wrestling pool.
His massive muscles do as well. His pecs are incredibly thick, meaty, and astonishingly separated. His armored core screams out for a load of laundry, and from behind, his back tapers gorgeously into a tiny waist placed aesthetically atop incredibly, massively, beautifully built glutes. Honestly, a hiker could get lost for days in those mountains! His thighs are proportionally thick and powerful, and then there’s the most prominent bulge of all, his cock and balls cinched up tight and pulled slightly away from this body by that particular style of pouch-accentuating square cut trunks. Delightfully, the rookie can’t seem to keep his hands off his protruding crotch. He seems somehow both slightly distracted by the push-up pouch and, at the same time, thrilled by it. He persistently gives it gentle tugs. He delicately cups his balls absent-mindedly in the middle of posing, wrestling, and even as he’s being sleepered out cold near the end of the match. Top to bottom, Wolf checks off all the boxes in a made-to-order fantasy man gladiator.
Braden has been a fixture in most corners of the homoerotic wrestling scene for what seems like a long time now. From his early days as a Randy Blue cam boy, Braden has come (and cum) a long way. These days, I’ve seen him most often cast as a seasoned, albeit narcissistic muscle pro who has picked up enough experience to be a serious competitor. Personally, I think I like him better as a dumbstruck physique star who can’t quite believe how easily his enthusiastic opponents take delighted possession of every inch of his mouthwatering body. In his Thunder TV confrontation with Wolf, Braden isn’t a heel, by any means. Through some rough scene cuts, he slowly ends up in the driver’s seat, though, muscle bullying the hypermasculine rookie with authority. He comes across to me a stern tutor, taking the inexperienced newbie to task relentlessly, doing his best to tip the scales of justice toward experience and beauty. An unwritten rule written in the pro wrestling stars is that pretty rookies must pay their dues. Hot, hairy, hunky Wolf is just pretty enough under all that hair to have to suck down some humbling from the veteran here.
The star of the show for me, however, (other than Wolf’s phenomenally meaty ass) is the hairy rookie’s newborn homoerotic wrestling character. That initial awkwardness I sensed when Braden strolled onto the mat is quickly replaced by an aggressive, hungry, baby heel attitude that thrills me. As Braden condescendingly gives him muscle posing pointers, Wolf slides in from behind and locks on a luscious full nelson to interrupt the veteran’s lat spread. “You’re too slow!” the chuckling muscle rookie crows. “You’ve been around too long! It’s time for me to take care of the competition.”
Just to drive home the point that Wolf is a baby heel at birth, he delivers a completely unnecessary rake to his opponent’s eyes. He smirks and struts, happy as fuck to hear his bodybuilder opponent grunt and strain against the rookie’s bigger body. Wolf likes the hurt. He enjoys the control. He somehow swells bigger and badder as he swarms all over the smooth, beautiful veteran’s muscles. Thunder’s says there’s only 3 inches difference in height, but fuck it if the big, bad wolf doesn’t completely dwarf the gorgeous, muscled Ken doll under his spell.
A minute in, and I’m hooked on Wolf. Cockily, he lets his prey go and flexes his gargantuan guns, consciously turning his back on his dangerous opponent, confidently challenging the popular muscle boy to try to reach up (up, up) and just see if he has the height to cinch on a full nelson, the legitimate muscle to maintain the hold, the fucking balls to enter the fray again with this sensational newbie.
Like I said, Braden’s learned a few things in his years of getting his bubble butt beat. He slaps on a side headlock and cranks hard, dragging the rookie to his knees. He absolutely milks it, like he’s trying to squeeze a glass of orange juice out of Wolf’s skull. The veteran chides the newbie for celebrating too soon, for strutting too boldly, for sticking his dick out too far. And telegraphing absolutely nothing at all, Wolf jabs his fist hard into Braden’s low hanging balls!
Oh, fuck, yes. The rookie doesn’t just trash talk, either. He narrates. “You gotta be careful,” he offers the veteran some unsolicited advice. “You got too comfortable,” he smirks.
I assume this match will be released in its entirety at some point, but what’s on Thunder’s TV cuts awkwardly to a bearhug challenge. More precisely, to Braden locking on a deep, hard bearhug on the hirsute hottie. Whatever the lack of choreography, I can see why this had to happen, and why the TV version quickly cuts to this hold: because Wolf’s ass is mind blowing! Captured, suspended, his lower back slightly arched in agony, those sensational, massive mountains of gluteus muscle take my breath away. As strong as Braden is, he clearly reaches exhaustion and flings the rookie to the mat. A few seconds to catch his breath, though, and he scoops Wolf back up in his arms, the rook’s prominent pouch sandwiched tightly against Braden’s lower abs.
The remainder of the cut and paste clips are of Braden completely in control, Wolf with nothing left to offer even the most minimal defense. The rookie’s bulging muscles sweat and glint beneath his fur. I get the impression he’s meant to be a vision of cocky muscle made impotent, but even in utter defeat, I’m not quite buying it. Braden struggles to hoist the huge beast across his shoulders, and even as wide as Braden’s boulder shoulders are, Wolf just looks like too much man, too much muscle, just fucking too, too much for me to believe that he’s completely tagged and bagged.
Braden lifts the wasted newbie upside down, squeezing Wolf’s skull between his knees, holding him there a couple of sweet seconds before delivering a piledriver. The top of the rookie’s head hits the mats. All of that magnificent, hairy muscle flops down, twitches a little, and then lies still. Braden flexes in victory overtop of the felled Wolf, but my eyes are riveted on the hairy beast flat on his back.
I’m lighting a candle, burning some sage, and pouring out a shot of whiskey in offering to the homoerotic wrestling gods in prayerful hope of several things for young, handsome, hairy Wolf. First, I’m hoping that as soon as I can get my hands on his tussle with Rough & Ready 59, I will discover that last month’s homoerotic wrestler of the month, Marco, brings the sexy right out of the tantalizing rookie. Second, I’m praying that Wolf will grow into a full fledged muscle heel someday with a lust for explicit, sexual domination. And third, and closely related, I’m pleading to get to see Wolf’s ass unleashed, to see that epic physique in all it’s glory wrestling naked, to see every last inch of this hypermasculine gladiator bearing down like a force of nature on some lucky son of a bitch who will pay for the mistake of facing down this beast by enthusiastically and unapologetically worshiping every hairy bulge.
I typically take the time around the 4th of July to point out my lack of patriotism. But this year feels different. I know that I’m not the only one who feels a little more like a proud American this 4th of July. Such a major, seismic shift on marriage equality certainly doesn’t protect everyone’s rights to life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness, of course. LGBT Americans can legally be fired, denied housing, harrassed by both public and private authorities in a whole lot of places in this country still. But access to marriage is pretty cool.
I’ve been fascinated to watch the strong and conflicting opinions the SCOTUS decision has sparked among my friends and colleagues, who, generally speaking, tend to pitch their tents in the same political camp. Straight people shamed for flying the rainbow flag. White gays shamed for celebrating marriage while people of color and trans folks are continuing to get fucked up and gunned down. Marriage advocates shamed for distracting us all from other problems like poverty and racism and gun violence and sexism.
I’ve got my own opinions, of course, but I have to say that I can’t help but be pleased that we’re talking a little more openly about a lot of things that ought to be complicated and unsettled. I confess a little thrill that bigots are feeling compelled to have to state their bigotry and try to rationalize it as something else, rather than just silently assuming that they’re the moral majority. And I really like that a lot of people I know who have long assumed that we all think alike are realizing that one particular decision or policy or issue that we all may endorse to some extent doesn’t erase the rich diversity of who we are, what we value, where our priorities lie, and how we think.
It’s not uncommon in homoerotic wrestling to see American flag wrestling trunks. This gear typically signals that the wearer is a babyface hero, handsome, virile, and virtuous. And in the homoerotic wrestling matches I watch, those guys get their stars and stripes clad asses handed to them 9 times out of 10. Not always, I know, but most of the time.
The hunks in American flag trunks most often embody a naivete, a simple minded faith in things like hard work, strength, and sincerity to tip the scales of wrestling competition and justice their way. Their virginal earnestness is saccharine sweet, a glossy glaze over the realities of the homoerotic wrestling ring where things aren’t always (or even often) fair. Their wide-eyed, muscle bulging innocence seems to make them blind to a world where cheating, unsportsmanlike behavior, and ferocious mercilessness more often than not spank the ass of righteous, rule-abiding reverence for an honest battle of strength and skill.
I don’t know if this trope still plays the same way in mainstream pro wrestling (because I haven’t watched mainstream pro wrestling in forever), but I think it’s a particularly engaging narrative for homoerotic wrestling audiences. We know that survival often goes not to the fittest, but the most cunning. We know that when the rules are stacked against you, sometimes the most appropriate response is to fuck the rules. We know that often our most important assets in the battle against those who revile and oppress us behind a veneer or virtue and righteous indignation is to turn the repulsion right back around on them, to throw what they despise most in their faces, to metaphorically grab them by the balls until their self-righteous, “hard earned” privilege and power melts into weeping, impotent, contemptible helplessness.
Because more often than not, it isn’t their righteousness that has propelled them forward in good fortune. It isn’t their hard work. They haven’t just wanted success more, as if their will power is superior to those who haven’t prospered and been rewarded as much. It’s just those fucking rules that have made the difference, that have been slowly (sometimes quickly) tipping the scales their way from the moment they were born, that have advantaged them not because they earned it or deserved it, but just because they were born into families with a particular hue and history, because they effortlessly found their affections drawn in the socially acceptable direction, because they had that silver spoon in their mouths all along. So, many of us with an eye for homoerotic wrestling have learned that it’s those fucking rules that are the problem, and watching a homoerotic wrestling heel fuck the rules and humiliate a stars and stripes clad goldenboy is deep down satisfying.
I’m sure there’s much more to the American flag jobber narrative than that, but what I’m left wondering this year is whether my new found investment in my citizenship, riding this wave of judicial victory and the turning tide of public opinion, may make me, and perhaps you, a little less cynical about the American flag. I’m sure it won’t happen anytime soon, but is there a place in homoerotic wrestling iconography somewhere down the road for a sneering, contemptuous, irrepressible heel decked out in stars and stripes? Might finding myself embracing a little patriotric pride for being welcomed a little more into the fold of mainstream America shift my tastes for enjoying the sight of the American flag, strapped to the ass of an classically hot pretty boy, trampled and trashed for the poor excuse for institutional oppression it has so long seemed to me to represent? May I want to see an American patriot savvy and sly, queer and cunning, as vicious and vile as necessary to pound… who?… into tantalizingly sexy mincemeat?
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!
Our man inside BG East, or as one insightful observer recently referred to him, “OMI,” sent me a batch of catalog 103-related behind-the-scenes snapshots. These were actually sent before the release of catalog 103, but they got buried in my email while I was knocked down with an early spring illness. Happily, I’m getting back on top of things after my recovery, including digging out these hot pieces of awesome contraband smuggled out from the BG East camp. I have still heard no word of OMI’s unmasking, although my offer of a free dinner should we ever meet in person still stands. That is, he gets a free dinner from me if he isn’t drawn and quartered by the powers that be at BG East first…
If only this was self-snapped by bespectacled Kid Vicious, I’d argue this could be the homoerotic wrestling equivalent of Ellen’s Oscar’s selfie. As it is, this shot of Jonny Firestorm and KV manning the cameras with golden boy Austin Cooper in nothing but his underwear looking over the shoulders is still an incredibly hot, somewhat novel collection of devastatingly sexy man meat! The three of them look chummy, which may explain Austin’s fantastic heel turn a while back which he OWNS like a champ in his newest release, absolutely carving up newbie Leo Tomassi like a turkey dinner in Jobberpalooza 13. It seems like Austin is teetering on the edge of giving his hot pecs over totally to the dark side, and personally, I hope he keeps this company pictured here. More bad influence from two of the top heels in BG East can only promise more fantastically cruel performances from golden boy body beautiful heel Austin.
Along the lines of “the company you keep,” here’s Austin’s Jobberpalooza victim, Leo Tomasi, showing off his rippled abs with adorkable rookie Ty Alexander ready for stills. If Austin is getting his marching orders from Jonny and KV and Leo is getting introduced to the scene from crushable jobber-rising Ty, the handwriting was on the wall way before Leo got bullied and literally bloodied by relentlessly cruel Austin.
Here’s a pre-match photo of another golden boy muscle stud who appears to be making a play for turning his career around by dipping deep into the dark side of the Force. Did you see Braden Charron’s work with pretty Pete Sharp in Jobberpalooza 13?! Holy shit, I was completely blown away and shocked. I did NOT see that coming. Until now, Braden has been a tad too pretty, too sexy for his own good. All that mouthwatering meat and beauty have done nothing but draw out some of the most vicious and sadistic performances in even BG East’s babyface ranks. I saw a whole mountain of gorgeous hurt heading his way when I noticed he was to be Pete’s first ring opponent, because Pete may be pretty as a peach, but he’s also been incredibly dangerous in his first two outings on the mat. But wow. Just, wow! Braden pulls off what I have to think of as an upset, despite his extensive experience advantage, and watching him make every luscious inch of pretty, pretty Pete suffer is phenomenal! Pete’s got serious repair work to do on his rep, while Braden has convinced me he’s a lot more than a pretty face and a mouthwatering cock!
And again from Jobberpalooza 13,Guido Genatto came damn near close to literally breaking poor, insanely pretty Kip Sorrell. Seeing Guido stretched out on the couch, bespectacled, checking his email, with Ultimate Warrior (RIP) nestled between the tree trunks he calls his thighs, you’d never suspect the boiling rage he’s about to tap into the second he sees the very definition of a pretty boy, Kip, lacing up his boots. This is one of those matches where I get sucked in so deep that I grow genuinely concerned for Kip’s life and limb. Guido turning outmatched Kip into a little more than a life sized Ken doll, to be manhandled, manipulated, and humiliated like a despised plaything, is insanely sexy. Between Kip’s devastated gym body and Guido’s gargantuan, power packed physique, I can’t decide which I want to lick more, the mammoth crevice between Kip’s pecs or the lightly hairy expanse of Guido’s beautiful belly. Fuck that, let me trade places with that Ultimate Warrior pillow. NOW!
OMI has got testicles the size of beach balls! He’s slipped us a behind the scenes photo of the franchise himself, Kid Leopard, ready for taking stills and Jonny Firestorm, well… um… flat on his back, hands behind his head, apparently “on break.” For Jonny’s sake, I hope that’s a sanctioned nap-time.
Finally, OMI slipped out these two photos of rookie Kayden Keller looking handsome as hell and ready to unwrap like a Christmas present. The second shot, I notice, is a selfie, meaning that either OMI is Kayden or OMI has access to download photos from Kayden’s phone. If we hear that hot rookie heel Kayden is cleaning BG East toilets with his tongue in the near future, perhaps we’ll have finally learned OMI’s true identity. I hope not, though, because I imagine that might also be the last contraband we get from him. One way or another, I think OMI either IS Kayden, or OMI really, really like’s Kayden’s hot rookie body! Or both. I’d understand, either way.
I’m sure I was probably too harsh a couple of days ago when I took poor twink Hunter James to task for not enjoying his muscle worship session with Braden Charron nearly enough in Muscle Domination Wrestling’s Oil Hunks 2. Muscle Master Kevin himself had to comment that I probably got the wrong end of the stick, mistaking Hunter’s deer-in-the-headlights-nervousness with a lack of enthusiasm. Fair enough. It got me thinking about point-of-view. POV in a well-told story typically takes the reader into the scenario in some relatable way. The character from who’s POV the story unfolds is identifiable and comprehensible to the reader. We may not exactly embrace them, but sometimes the truly masterful story is the one that sucks us into the POV of someone we might otherwise think is incomprehensibly other to us (hello, Dexter). Like Hunter James in OH2, there’s a play on POV in many homoerotic wrestling products that pit a man of pure fantasy, ripped from the cover of a physique mag, unattainable like a star in the heavens, and pits him against an opponent who is relatable to the average Joe wrestling fan. The drama unfolds with the majority of viewers squarely in the back pocket of the average Joe, the Everyman. He may win or lose, compete or cave, but the story unfolds with us securely experiencing the scene from the POV of the boy who’s got to be thanking his lucky stars to get thrown into the deep end of the pool to swim with the gods for a brief moment in time.
Hunter James being dominated and “forced” to oil up and admire a naked Braden Charron is a case in point. Hunter is not a physique star. I’m not saying he’s not a handsome little piece of meat, but the contrast between his lean, undefined, attainable body and the bulging, tanned, impeccably groomed beauty of Braden is a contrast that seems to almost inevitably shove most of us into the POV of Hunter. That’s probably why I’m so harsh on him. I think of myself, briefly, vicariously, as him. I’d dig my fingers deep into those glutes when Braden demands that I spread baby oil across his ass, so when Hunter demurely paints on a paper thin coat by barely making contact with that ass, I want to slap the twink around. That’s NOT my POV, damn it. Enjoy it! Play with it. Thank your lucky stars and then dive in with both feet and celebrate the phenomenal physique standing there naked in front of you demanding your adoration.
I’m overemphasizing the attainability aspect of the Everyman, I’m sure. I’m not saying that a wrestler can’t look hot and still carry off the role of selling the average Joe thanking his lucky stars. Take Randy Dowell, for example, who in Wrestle Worship 2 had the stunning good luck to not only worship both Mark Merino and Stan Greer, but to watch, in awe, as Mark and Stan battled with one another over who’s hunky body Randy should worship last. The plain, cold truth is that Randy Dowell is a hot, handsome hunk in his own right. He’s not nearly as massive as Mark or Stan, but he’s fit, hard, and handsome as hell. But its context and sell that make him work as our eyes and ears (and mouth and nose and especially hands) in the ring, with the DVD promo letting us know that Randy is a fanboy who pelted BG East with a flood of pleas to get to meet gorgeous Mark in person. And Randy is thanking his lucky stars over and over, enthralled, enraptured, turned on like a light switch and hitting every mark that a muscle fan would insist on hitting when faced with the smorgasbord of beef set in front him.
Another Randy, Randy Stanton, similarly is in possession of a hot, fit, lean bod all his own, but the handsome hunk is absolutely salivating when he strolls into the BG East mat room behind none other than Joshua Goodman (that’s Mr. Joshua to you!). Again, context builds this narrative every bit as effectively as Randy’s awestruck and truly awesome sell. The match description explains that Mr. J is playing with fire, letting himself get picked up by star-struck Randy and offering up full possession of Mr. J’s phenomenal physique should Randy have what it takes to own it. Holy hell, what a concept! What a cocky sell both of Mr. J’s gargantuan, mammoth, oversized, mouthwatering massive ego (you thought I was going to say something else), as well as transforming hottie Randy S. into, well, you and me, another guy dizzied by Mr. J’s gorgeousness and slack jawed at the wide open opportunity to get his adoring hands all over that body, heart pumping with the possibility of tagging Mr. J’s ass and, more importantly, unleashing the beast that Mr. J infamously smuggles down the front of his drawers.
Can-Am pulled off a similar motif in their recent release of Pro Sex Fight 10. In this case, it’s much less about the context and the narrative off camera, and built almost entirely on the stunning, striking contrast between the two sex fighters, Drake Wild and Tyler St. James. Tyler is a fantasyman like few others. Tanned, impeccably toned, beautifully blue-eyed Tyler is posted at 6’2″ and around 247 pounds, while lithe, lean, pale Drake is reported to be somewhere in the vicinity of 5’4″ and a buck and a quarter or so. That alone sucks me into that ring irresistibly entranced by the David v Goliath implications, but even more so by the fantasyman v lean, brooding mini-twink. Visually, I’ve seen Drake’s sort out at the bars on plenty of occasions, including the attitude and the Napolean-complex-will-fuck-you-up-for-real stance. I can’t say I’ve ever seen a heavenly vision quite like Tyler in real life, much less had the opportunity to climb into the ring, call him on his shit, and both figuratively and quite literally fuck him up.
My final example of a thank-your-lucky-stars boy who pulls this motif off persuasively is Mark Nelson’s fanboy meets his worst nightmare/fondest fantasy Brooklyn Bodywrecker in Demolition 3. Another fanboy granted his fondest fantasy, Mark is sucking down the humiliation and punishment of BBW like a parched bedouin in the desert. The tension of physical domination, of terror, of the battle of bodies and wills is no less present, and Mark is another hunky hottie, but the sell is all about the point of view of the average Joe who comes face to face with a real, life, towering homoerotic wrestling god.
Who’s your favorite Everyman wrestler and in what match?