We’re so close to award season and nostalgic retrospectives of the year in review that I can taste it. Remember 2016, back in more innocent times? After Obergefell, but before Emperor Palpatine was elected as Supreme Chancellor by the gullible representatives of the Galactic Republic? I think I’ll always look back on 2016 as good old days. But as we prepare our hearts and minds for the supremely sobering task of registering our votes for homoerotic wrestling favorites in this era when winners and losers all admit that democracy is a sham, I want to offer a send up to a category that we seem to never get to vote on. Best legs.
I sort of assume I’m one of about 4 gay wrestling fans who seriously get off on hot, powerful legs. This assumption is based on several pieces of evidence. For one, as I mentioned, there’s never a category in the year-end polls for legs. Asses, sure, but anything at lower altitude is always neglected. Further, scanning the “muscle” section of BG East’s Arena galleries, I find that there are literally 21 galleries devoted to abdominal muscles, more than 15 galleries highlighting arms (and most of the generic galleries are all about biceps), and at least 10 galleries specifically about pectoral muscles. Look closely for legs, and I can find 2 galleries, and most of the pics don’t even include full length looks at wrestlers’ legs. I have to deduce that there simply is not a raging market obsessed with wrestlers’ legs the way that I am, because otherwise, the industry would pay much more attention to hot, sexy legs.
I’ve bitched before about the way that cameras consistently dissect wrestlers at mid-thigh or higher, as if the only objects of erotic lust exist north of there. There are billions of close-up pics of pumped, peaked biceps filling the camera frame. Side chest poses and most muscular poses draw the gaze irresistibly to big, bulging, pumped torsos, but 9 times out of 10, those pin-up beefcake shots crop out 75% of a wrestler’s legs (there’s lots of math there, sorry). So I concede that I must be a rare breed who swoons like a Victorian at the sight of full, powerful, pumped quads and thick, broad calves. When we’re treated to hot shots of scissors and leg chokes, apparently the rest of you are fixated on some element other than those sexy as fuck legs pulsing with punishing power. Clearly, I must be the only one with a running fantasy (starring an ever revolving cast for the male lead) of having my erect cock squeezed to climax between the rock hard quads of a wrestler with killer lower body credentials.
Of course, as with everything, beauty is in the eye of the beholder. Personally, I like legs strong, which means that hot legs can come in different proportions and sizes and still check my box. This also means that the degree to which a pair of legs may turn me on is likely (and I’m sure often is) enhanced by the sell of their opponent. But as for sheer aesthetics, I can’t get enough of big, thick quads with massive, low hanging tear drops. I particularly key off on legs with monster quads and multi-headed, shapely calves stacking up a rock hard foundation.
For the 12 or so of us who would, if offered, lap up more focus on hot, sexy legs in this business, I thought I’d offer a send up to the homoerotic wrestling legs that grabbed my attention in 2016. Just for kicks, I’m including a poll on the BG East contenders highlighted below. Someone is going to bitch about the whole thing being rigged. Probably it’ll be the winner. What the fuck ever. Who did I miss?
So let’s take a look at the BG East boys whose legs made me do a double take and whip out my notepad. In alphabetical order. Vote below.
I went to college at a very, very small liberal arts school with a very, very unsuccessful Division III football team. They sucked. A lot. Literally, years went by without a single victory. Not that I was involved in the program, but it was no secret that recruiting for the football team was a major bitch. No scholarships. No pro career prospects. Very little hope of ever tasting victory before they graduated or, even more likely, they’d burn through eligibility while hanging on by the skin of their teeth to skimming by in their academics and finally just walking away to dig ditches. Our football team literally shrunk while I was enrolled in college, each year’s freshmen getting smaller, while bigger players went elsewhere. My junior year, the football team recruited a wide receiver who was, I kid you not, 5’2″ tall. Thing is, though, he was fucking fast, with big, powerful thighs, an exceptionally stellar muscled ass, and gorgeous, Tom Cruise-ish good looks. Despite their abysmal record, I suddenly took an interest in football that year.
This pint-sized wide receiver with big league glutes and a baby face starred in many a homoerotic wrestling fantasy in my imagination. Just writing about him now is making me hard. There was just so much fabulous potential wrapped up in his tight, taut, petite jock body. In the never ending erotic wrestling tournament in my head, the little wide receiver inevitably got muscle bullied around the ring by bigger guys. I always pictured him getting picked up and thrown from corner to corner. Tall, ripped, cocky hunks (typically from our extremely successful and wildly popular basketball team) would, in the no holds barred wrestling matches in my collegiate imagination, deliver a barrage of high impact, high altitude power moves on him, gorilla presses, scoop slams, one-handed choke slams, spine-tingling suplexes that catapulted his magnificent, muscled ass from corner to corner.
Rereading my interview with Charlie Evans and perusing several of the comments to that interview remind me of that hot, gorgeous little wide receiver firecraker with a supremely fuckable ass. As I’ve mentioned several times lately, the difference in size itself became erotically charged for me. But far beyond just visuals, I crushed hard on the little stud because of the drama of a vastly undersized hottie audaciously running out onto the field and climbing into the pro wrestling ring in my imagination (through the bottom two ropes, of course) and staring fearlessly up at the overwhelming odds towering above.
I was relatively agnostic about my all-time favorite wide receiver’s win-loss record in his homoerotic wrestling career in my mind. Like the very best babyfaces, he was always dangerous and perpetually vulnerable at the same time. I distinctly remember him getting his jock strap ripped to shreds and having his rock hard muscle cheeks plowed hard by a particular, hot, muscled black power forward. I also have clear memories of him turning the tide on a certain aloof, blond, aristocratic shooting guard who was schoolboy pinned and force fed the beer can cock of the smirking, flexing wide receiver. Win or lose, he was a favorite object of my homoerotic wrestling imagination not despite his stature, but because of it. And not just because of his stature, but because of the inherent drama of an ambitious, earnest, hard working little stud throwing himself headlong at the big boys.
As I told Charlie, I continue to nurture a crush for David vs. Goliath homoerotic wrestling matches. I like big vs. little matches where the differential is massive, the odds are long, and the action is brutal. I love seeing audacious little studs hoisted over head and pounded into the mat. I love seeing them take every ounce as brutal an assault as any heavyweight and then keep peeling their battered, petite, bite-sized bodies off the mats and defying the big boys demanding that they submit in body and soul.
While I don’t care for many matches in which one competitor is just furniture, getting moved and manipulated and owned effortlessly, a match in which a seriously undersized wrestler is defiantly sucking down a mountain of abuse is in a squash-class of its own for me. If the little guy walks in with his head up, clenches his jaw in the face of fate, and demands respect by just surviving a magnificent beating, I will so get off on that just like I did when I staged wide receiver getting his sensational ass tagged in the middle of the ring by that power forward.
However, I think my hardest David vs. Goliath fantasies flip that script with a vengeance. When the audacious little underdog battles back against the barrage of muscle and mass, now that is fucking hot. When he starts accumulating riding time on a thoroughbred 50 pounds bigger, my adrenaline pumps into overdrive. And when I pictured my pretty little wide receiver slapping down a big, cocky all-American who’s never tasted defeat before, when he wears the big boy the fuck out, slapping that beer can in Goliath’s shocked, humiliated face, then little David is fucking king of my world.
I hold heartedly agree with the implication of Charlie’s argument that every homoerotic wrestling roster needs the little guys. Ever roster needs the underwear models and the bodybuilders. Ever roster should have raw edged street punks and square jawed All-American heroes. They should all have daddy’s little rich boys and ripped, raging, beautifully endowed sex brawlers. The industry should invest in recruiting hard edged pros and hot, inexperienced nerds. It should put up flat footed pornboys and fierce, lanky, long-distance runners. Personally I’m longing for a snarling radical fairy doing battle with a white collar stock broker on the homoerotic wresting down low.
The homoerotic pro wrestling industry is as susceptible to the tyranny of the capitalist market place as anything else, of course, so I certainly understand when, occasionally, it seems like everyone climbing through those ropes looks and moves and suffers alike. But as someone who has watched a TON of homoerotic wrestling (not even counting that running channel in my imagination of round the clock homopro), I’m always longing for producers to fill those niches Charlie and I talked about. Tickle those erotic fantasies we didn’t even know we loved. Populate our screens and imaginations with the great diversity of dramas, bodies, races, ages, etc., that makes oppressively straight real life bearable.
And most definitely, gives us pint-sized baby face heroes audacious enough to climb into the ring with beasts a foot taller and 80 pounds heavier, and to tell us a compelling, seat of our pants, crotch-tugging homoerotic wrestling drama that reflects real life writ larger, more erotic, and completely improbable, but yet, speaking to our real lives.
And now, excuse me. I need to go dig out an old college yearbook.
I like not only a wide variety of bodies and builds and characters and gear and ages and races and ethnicities and scenarios in homoerotic wrestling, but I also like the combination of contrasts. Let me be clear, I have nothing against hunks squaring off against similarly fashioned hunks. But I’ve long experienced some special kink bonus about mismatches, or, more generically, unmatched pairs. For example, there’s something that turns me on exponentially about wrestlers in entirely different types of gear. One in street clothes, the other in pro trunks, for example, or one in an earnest amateur singlet and the other in a stripper thong. I’m not entirely sure why, but fuck, yes, that contrast cranks my cock with just that much more enthusiasm. It’s also relatively rare, I find. So much more often, opponents are not only dressed similarly, but even dressed in identical gear choices, just in different colors.
A more common unmatched pairing, which often lends itself to a mismatched pair as well, is the big vs. little throwdown. There are, of course, many ways to measure size, but on my mind today is the tall/short dichotomy. Watching a pair of hotties face off, when one opponent’s nose basically comes up to his opponent’s sternum, turn me on like nobody’s business.
And I’m not just talking about squashes, where big guys manhandle and abuse guys 3 weight classes below them from start to finish. I only occassionally tuck in to a big bully squash like that, but a particularly fine vintage for me is the big vs. little pairing that turns out delightfully competitive, or perhaps even tilted toward a particularly skilled little guy cutting a big man down to size.
Perhaps it has to do with blurring the lines, this extra excitement I have for the unmatched pairs. In straight-up competitive sports, there are weight classes that control the narrative, that offer the illusion that the ultimate outcome is indicative of the better man, the skilled or more determined (or luckier) combatant. An unmatched pair of contrasting sizes may acknowledge that the tale of the tape in homoerotic pro wrestling is almost never about fair play and the raw measure of strength and skill.
There’s attitude and lust, sadistic impulse and desire to dominate. I may still expect the smaller man to get outmuscled and manhandled, but pro wrestling has always relied on a suspension of disbelief, and when, through cunning or skill or an equalizing shot to the balls, the little guy puts a convincing hurt on his goliath, I don’t just go with it, I scream full steam ahead!
Particularly when it’s competitive, I definitely don’t mind it when a hot bundle of compact muscle gets a beating from his taller opponent, either. I’ve mentioned in the past how, every so often, a squash turns sour for me if it comes across as just bullying. But if the scenario sells legitimate suspense about the ultimate outcome of the match, I’ve certainly found myself getting off to a big man putting a hurt on a pint size muscleman probably as frequently as vice versa.
I’m not sure if I’ve come to any more clarity about my delight in a mismatched tall vs. short homoerotic wrestling match. But I know what I like, and things pump harder and hotter for me when a big guy and a little guy lock up, thrown down, and, especially, when they the winner (whichever part he played) sexually lords it over his vanquished foe.
It took me a while to catch up, but I finally migrated my Can-Am Max membership to their new portal. I have to admit to feeling a little miffed at the way they went about the new launch. Forcing me to resubscribe while leaving my existing account attached to archives never to be updated seemed unnecessarily convoluted and a pain in the ass. But I finally got around to it, and I have to admit, the new Max is significantly superior in function and form. The first thing that caught my eye was the media attached to the new release of DeCrotchery 11.
I wish there were a more user friendly search option on the Video page, but once you find a particular product you’re interested in, all of the available media, is available and attractively displayed. No more hunting and pecking back and forth between photos and video clips, doing shot in the dark searches for models or keywords in titles. The video access is much more integrated, and the photos are incredibly high quality and high definition. Ironically, the membership portal is significantly superior to the storefront public access, where searching for a particular wrestler or product remains a maze. But landing on the DeCrotchery 11 page, there’s exactly one stunning fact that bowls me over: Jobe Zander is fucking ripped!!!
I don’t think I’ve ever seen Jobe as taut and toned, and fuck it all if it doesn’t look sensational on him. Now, it’s the same Jobe, mind you. If you find his wrestling banter annoying, and I know some of you do, you will continue to find it annoying. But the packaging is, for my tastes, astonishingly high quality.
“Suffer, boy!” Jobe snarls as he place kicks hot, bearded hunk Cody Cummings in the ribs while the meaty rookie tries to climb up to his hands and knees. The story revolves around muscle stud Cody coming with some wrestling background and those huge muscles to defy the juggernaut that is Jobe’s ball bashing resume. Jobe makes the most of his best asset by locking the beefy rookie up in a reverse bearhug and repeatedly, violently thrusting his gargantuan package pounding between Cody’s ass cheeks. I want the FastPass for that ride, please!
But honestly, I may need reconsider my longstanding rhetoric about, and the legend that is, Jobe’s huge package. Of course, it’s still huge in DeCrotchery 11. His body fat has significantly shrunk, but that mammoth mountain of meat between his thighs appears as pendulous as ever. But damn it all if Jobe’s muscle carved ass doesn’t keep distracting me from marveling at his “centerpiece.”
There are 4 clips currently available in the new Max site from DeCrotchery 11, and Jobe is mostly manhandling Cody beautifully thus far in the match. Considering my weakness for a long suffering OTK backbreaker, his repeated success in stretching the muscle boy out across his knee and clawing the fuck out of his crotch is sensational.
Cody works up a sincere sheen of sweat early going, and Jobe’s dark, SoCal tan isn’t far behind. He repeatedly demands that the rookie give a reading of the likert scale, 1-10, for how brutal he’s making Cody suffer. “One!” the rookie snarls through gritted teeth, clutching his tortured testicles. Jobe is thus challenged to turn the dial way, way up to merit a reluctant, screaming, brutalized reappraisal from the hard-to-impress muscle hunk.
I’ll keep watching the serial release of DeCrotchery 11 in the new Max, and I’ll enjoy continuing to explore the backroads as well as the new territory the portal takes me to. They promise multiple daily updates, which was a major complaint of the old Max: stagnant content updated unpredictably. Technology often baffles me, so I should probably be the last one to critique producers’ timeliness in developing new ways to exploit it for our enjoyment. But like most of you, I’m a consumer, with opinions, and I’m happy to see Max slicker, more navigable, and so far, updated often enough to slake my unending thirst for fresh content. Now, about that storefront public portal of yours, Can-Am…