Congratulations to the winners of the BG East Besties for 2017! It was a fabulous year in homoerotic wrestling, and all of the nominees demonstrated the deep bench that BG East can rightfully boast. Some of my picks earned the most votes overall. Some didn’t. They all (but one) get nothing but respect from me. It’s certainly not the first time I’ve seen evidence that my tastes intersect and diverge with other homoerotic wrestling fans. Happily, there’s plenty for all of us to enjoy, and awards or not, my sincere thanks go out to the beautiful men in front of and behind the camera that make BG East a leader in wrestling for a gay audience.
Sexiest Match: Sexiest Match – Ty Alexander vs. Bruno LaBestia (Ringwars 28)
Best Mat Battle: Austin Cooper vs. Christian Taylor (Undagear 28)
Best Ring Match: Cole Cassidy vs. Joshua Goodman (Ringwars 26)
Sure, abs and glutes get their due, but if we’re singling out muscles, I’ve got plenty more opinions. When it comes to chests, I particularly enjoy pectorals that are thick and geometric, with plenty of lower pec development squaring off the broad, powerful muscles. As with everything, the particulars are a matter of taste. You very well may have different standards about what type of pecs turn you on hardest, but as for me, these are the pecs that stood out from the rest in homoerotic wrestling last year:
In third place for me are the massive chest muscles on Cole Cassidy. Now, I’d donate a kidney to lick Cole everywhere, with particularly passionate attention paid to his hot nipples. But as for his pecs in total, there’s just about nobody else’s I’d like to see pec smother an opponent more. He seems to be appearing with less frequency at BG East, but I pray to the homoerotic wrestling gods that we see this highly competitive MMA fighter finally face an opponent who appreciates just what a sensationally sexy body all that fight training has produced.
My second favorite pecs this year belong to Thunder’s Arena beauty Clark. Holy fuck, this guy had to be a rower at some point. His entire body is, of course, a work of art, but that shape of those pecs is superhuman. I realize that it just can’t happen at Thunder’s, but if ever there was a chest made for pec frottage, it’s Clark’s meaty beauties.
My number one favorite pecs in homoerotic wrestling in 2017 belong to devastatingly handsome Payton Meadows. I keep second guessing whether I should have given my BGE Bestie vote to Payton for Best Body. I’m running out of superlatives in this post, but Payton’s pecs are simply perfection. Like Cole (and Clark, for that matter), I have yet to see an opponent as genuinely awed by Payton’s gorgeousness as they should be. As for his granite carved pecs, I want to officially apply for the job of Payton’s valet so that I can helpfully lap up the sweat from the sharp crevice between his pecs after his next match. I’ll learn French if that’ll help me land the job.
This is, of course, gay wrestling, so hot hunks paying ample attention to bench presses are more the norm than the exception. So I have to give very worthy honorable mentions to Joey Justice (MDW, aka Joey Nux from Wrestler4Hire), Mr. Joshua Goodman (BGE), Marco (Thunder’s and Wrestler4Hire), and Chase LaChance (BGE, Thunder’s, MDW, W4H). But the most honorable of honorable mentions goes to Mitch Colby and that particular scene in his recent release when Cage Thunder tongue fucks Mitch’s sternum as the hunk smothers him deep and long. If there were an award for sexiest pec action in a wrestling match, that would win hands down.
Busy-ness has been keeping me away from posting here, but not keeping me from enjoying a lot of new release wrestling. I saw a ton of fantastic matches in February, starring a deep, deep bench of outstanding wrestlers. So this is another month when picking a Homoerotic Wrestler of the Month poses a significant challenge for me. I’ve flipped back and forth a lot in mulling over my choice for which wrestler starring in a new release in February turned me on and entertained me most. But I keep coming back (in my thoughts and in my viewing) to one particular match, and one particular wrestler who holds my gaze riveted to his magnificent physique. So without further ado, I’m aroused to announce that my new homoerotic wrestler of the month is…
On the one hand, there’s a strong sense of righting a longstanding wrong in picking Mr. Joshua for this distinction. I’ve been naming HWsOTM for over 6 years now, and somehow, although I’ve spilled gallons of ink and cum musing over how much I enjoy his wrestling (and body), inexplicably, he has never held the title of HWOTM before now. He has secured the title of my overall favorite homoerotic wrestler in the past, but not for any one specific match, not qualifying him for the brutal month-to-month title. I don’t believe for a second that this is the first time he’s deserved it. No, I’m sure that this has been a ridiculous oversight on my part, entirely indicative of my own moral failings rather than a result of any deficiency or lack of merit on Mr. Joshua’s part.
So let me just start off by apologizing to Mr. Joshua. I have sorely neglected and unjustly passed you over in the past. Your beauty, grace, and prowess as a homoerotic wrestler are not only praiseworthy, but they elevate you into the stratosphere of industry luminaries. You are the epitome of a wrestling fantasy man, and your ascendency to the HWOTM throne is long overdue.
My adoring sidebar with Mr. Joshua aside, I will speculate that it’s entirely possible that Mr. Joshua is only now getting the laud he abundantly deserves because he has only now, in Ringwars 26, faced an opponent who bring out his full potential. I am also a HUGE Cole Cassidy fan. Give me Cole’s ripped muscles, dollar coin nipples, and a bottle of baby oil and I’ll be enraptured for hours. Even more at the heart of my fondest fantasies, Cole is a superb wrestler. More like a force of nature, he is a one man wrecking crew 99% of the time. Facing off against Mr. Joshua, Cole exposes nearly every succulent inch of him. He wrenches and pries him apart, muscle by muscle. It’s not as if Mr. Joshua’s legendarily gargantuan (and award-winning) package has not been targeted by opponents in the past, but Cole possesses an unselfconsciousness about his relish in manhandling Mr. J’s man-handle. Cole centers Mt. J in the frame in astonishing and innovate ways. He serves up Mr. Joshua’s meat on a platter, over and over again, in an obvious nod to pleasing their fans as well as a fighter’s instinct to exploit an opponent’s weaknesses. Mr. Joshua suffers at Cole’s hands in a way that I have very rarely seen before, and the depth of his agony, and the literal ball bashing brutality, milk out of Mr. Joshua an unmatched sincerity.
Another novel element in this Mr. Joshua match is his gear. I cannot convey just how heartily I approve of his leopard print, supersheer, only marginally capable banana hammock. I think the “jungle boy” gimmick has been done so often that it’s a risky venture to gear up a wrestler, particularly a well-known one, into a Tarzan-esque patch of animal print cloth. However, not only does Mr. Joshua pull this off. He makes it his own.
I’m sure I say this every time, but I swear to the homoerotic wrestling gods, Mr. Joshua has never looked better. He’s not just fit. He’s a fucking work of art. That poor, overtaxed bit animal print somehow manages to polish off what is one of the most aesthetically beautiful physiques I’ve seen climb into the BG East ring, and that’s saying A LOT. Mr. J’s skin is silky smooth and bronzed all over to a perfect mocha latte hue. On the one hand, Mr. J’s working class Boston accent and sporty-Guido do, along with that wisp of a manicured soul patch between his chin and lower lip, provide stark dissonance with the wild man-of-the-jungle aesthetic of the gear. On the other hand, the overt sensuality and near-porn peekabo glimpses of baseball sized ball sac squeezing out the sides are spot on. It isn’t that Mr. J somehow comes across as a feral muscle beast raised by apes. But he nails like a mother fucker the part of the male stripper climbing off the pole and directly into the wrestling ring, bringing sensational taunting, tantalizing erotic cred to what turns out to be a legitimate heel-on-heel pro brawl.
There are about 30 distinct moments in the match when I’m aching to climb right into the ring and investigate with my tongue the erotic sculpture that Cole and Mr. Joshua create out of one another. The holds are just that provocative and long-held, like only two stellar pros with strong empathy for their audience could accomplish. And none of it feels gratuitous. It’s 100% brutal corporal punishment. It’s vicious and humiliating and veers full speed into open-faced sadism. They beat the living shit out of each other and, less like a performance than a documentary, the camera is simply there to witness the carnage.
Of course, Cole is lush and extravagantly muscled as always. But he’s the business end of the stick. He’s the one in relatively high-waisted MMA square cuts. He is (as he almost always is) humorless and calculating. The wild card is go-go boy turned pro ring badass Mr. Joshua. An ounce less intensity from Mr. J, even a shaving less vicious aggression on his part, and this could have been one of a hundred lopsided pretty boy massacres. But this time around, pretty’s got teeth. He takes the withering eye rolls and discounting by his opponent, and then throws every ounce of his gorgeousness whole heartedly into pounding the mats to make this legitimately suspenseful.
Mr. Joshua grabbed the title of HWOTM as commandingly as Cole grabbed Mr. J’s testicles, over and over again, and tried to rip them off his dazzlingly hot body. I still long for more Mr. Joshua matches in which his opponents acknowledge what we’re all seeing, that Mr. J is breathtakingly gorgeous. Right at the beginning of the match, I get the impression Cole is understandably impressed with stunning heft of Mr. J’s most prominent attribute, but other than that, Cole largely has little but rage and contempt directed at his sultry opponent. The chemistry works exactly the way a heel on heel brawl ought to, but I will always long to see more narrative in which the inspiration of Mr. J’s muscles (every one of them) is what drives the battle, where opponents overtly crave to conquer and possess this mythical beast. Without going full monty, Mr. J injects some of the most potent, undiluted erotic energy into his matches. Now that he’s faced arguably his most brutal test, I’m hoping that we get to see him face more opponents who will pick up on their side of the erotic narrative. Mr. Joshua is as dangerous and deliriously gorgeous as we have ever seen him. One of these days, a truly appreciative opponent is going to give every taunting flex and crotch adjustment and impeccably groomed and coiffed inch of him the erotic run for his money that he’s got coming to him.
In the mean time, on your knees, mere mortals. The king is setting his hot ass down where, by divine right, it should have been a long, long time ago, atop the throne as reigning homoerotic wrestler of the month.
I’m going to keep singing loud praises for Ringwars 26, but I want to make sure and acknowledge that this is a seriously inconsistent collection. It ranges from the sublime to the passable, and in keeping with my policy over the past several years, I’m not going to harp on the weakest links in this chain. But I feel like it ought to be mentioned that there are weak links, in my estimation at least. On the other hand, there’s that climactic final match I gushed about a couple of days ago pitting two of the hottest, smoothest, most accomplished newbie wrestlers I’ve ever seen in one BG East match. Stacked up on that sublime side of the scale is also match #2 in the compilation, featuring the dream combination of Cole Cassidy and Joshua Goodman (that’s Mr. Joshua to you!).
I know that I say it far too often, that some favorite wrestler has just appeared “in the best shape of his life.” It’s not that I’m trying to overstate how supremely fit and sexy these gladiators look, but I just repeatedly fall head over heels in lustful adoration again and again when I see gorgeous hunks show up again in something new. But this time, I mean it. Seriously. Mr. Joshua and Cole are in the most perfect shape I’ve ever seen them. In particular, Mr. Joshua is just flawless. His skin is without a blemish and baked perfectly to a healthy, lightly bronzed hue. There isn’t an ounce of body fat apparent, and the leopard print ultra-brief (nearly a g-string) reveals more of his mouthwatering physique than I think anything else I’ve ever seen him in. His perennially magnificent aesthetics are simply amplified. His ripped abs are a fraction more ripped. His teardrop quads are just that much more defined. His peaked biceps and muscled ass and bulging, broad shoulders appear just a tad more peaked, muscled, and broad than a long-time infatuated fan like me can remember seeing before. The repeated musclemag coverboy poses he strikes are strongly reminiscent of vintage AMG softcore.
Cole isn’t as regular an object of my blogging obsession, but he is always homoerotic gold for me. We’ve seen Cole beefier, with a hotly muscled belly, and we’ve seen him even leaner than this, practically whittled to bone and muscle. But I think his fitness in Ringwars 26 is perfection. His muscles are incredibly thick and broad, and he’s sporting the impeccable proportions and gorgeously tapered-V of a fitness model. His mid-rise square cuts suit both his dangerous MMA style of fighting as well as his no-nonsense, absolutely functional, built-to-fuck-you-over body.
What makes this a match of my dreams isn’t just the lucky moment in time when both of these beauties are in perfect shape, however. This is also a fantasy match for me because I crush like hell on heel-on-heel action. Unlike the newbie-on-newbie match in this compilation, these are both known quantities, with 3-dimensional personas and long-established skills not just in wrestling, but in selling the melodrama. Even someone with passing familiarity knows that Cole is like a coiled viper, always deadly dangerous and incredibly stingy in giving away even a submission, much less a match loss. It’s not like Cole is passionless, but he’s sort of sociopathic in his cruelty. We seldom see spikes of rage or adrenaline-pumped victory celebrations. Rather, he’s like Michael Myers, taking his hits here and there, but bearing down with an air of destiny. He’s cruel, but more a force of nature than a classic sadist.
Mr. Joshua is a far more complex ring heel. He’s always been a raging narcissist, of course. I defy you to find an ounce of fault in that, because Mr. J’s body is just sexy as fuck. Of course he adores his own reflection. His reflection is dazzlingly, effortlessly erotic. And at times in Mr. Joshua’s career, he’s paid the price hard for just how distracting his Magic Mike-ready body is. He’s been harshly brutalized at times, particularly in those moments when he’s lost focus on the fight because his muscles demand his attention, or because his legendary mammoth bulge requires rearranging. But over the trajectory of his career, Mr. J has emerged as a surprisingly adept pro heel. Once he really started exploiting the devastating potential his magnificent muscles have in a wrestling match, Mr. Joshua’s narrative started veering decisively away from just being all about the pretty, and increasingly centered on the mean. He doesn’t mind so much being underestimated for his beauty, because it makes it that much more satisfying to take some new, smirking punk to school. His wrestling repertoire has expanded exponentially. He mentions in his match with Cole that he’s spent some time at the Snuka Wrestling Academy (whether that’s just bullshit to warn Cole against thinking Mr. Joshua’s leopard print banana hammock is a signal that he’s a pushover, or whether he’s actually been taking lessons, I don’t know). But Mr. Joshua is about 10 times more expressive than Cole. He’s agony is far deeper, and his pleasure exponentially greater. Rather than a force of nature, Mr. J is a profoundly complex, magnificently beautiful human being already mid-swing at Erickson’s final stage of human development: self-actualization. Like the Buddha himself, I half expect that we will simply see Mr. Joshua wink out of existence at some point near the end of a match, once he has fully, entirely, completely become the truest version of himself that he has been perfecting for years.
Fuck. I haven’t actually started even talking about the match, have I? Let me try (weakly) to keep this concise. It is exactly what I hoped for when I saddled up for a ride here. This is heel-on-heel punishment. Both warriors are entirely themselves, their most genuine expressions of the wrestling characters they have been wooing fans as for so long. Cole is fucking vicious as shit. He is impeccably suited for the task of amplifying and exploiting this particular opponent’s most glaring assets and weaknesses, such as when he pounds Mr. Joshua down into an astonishingly gorgeous over-the-knee backbreaker and starts wringing the fuck out of the monster barely stuffed down Mr. J’s pouch. I thank the homoerotic wrestling gods that Cole’s hands are big enough for the task, but even more, I sing them praises that Cole dug in deep right there where so many opponents before him have tended to shy away. Sure, a lot (A LOT) of Mr. Joshua’s opponents have delivered barrages of strikes at his pride-and-joy bulge, but when it comes to really getting handsy, to daring to test dexterity and finger strength against the most notorious anaconda in competition, Cole really kicks it up several notches.
Those unfamiliar with Mr. Joshua’s resume (shame on you!) may find it paradoxical that actually it’s Mr. Joshua who is first to deliver a low blow. You might imagine that a guy with as gargantuan as a target as he has would want to avoid opening up a ball bashing competition. However, those of us who have long savored his work learned long ago the genius behind his insistence on striking first. Even if they don’t intend to, sooner or later every opponent ends up striking a blow below Mr. Joshua’s belt. Honestly, they can’t avoid it even if they try. So Mr. Joshua’s signature offense is to, literally, beat them to the punch and start the testicle torture. Cole is no exception. It’s very early days in this match, and Cole is starting to ride roughshod over the jungle boy. Cole has landed a jaw-splitting knee strike to Mr. Joshua’s chin, dropping him to the mat. Like the horror film antihero he is, Cole rains down leaping stomps to Mr. Joshua’s back, making the coverboy spasm. He rides a beautiful standing surfboard like Frankie Avalon, before bearing down that much harder on Mr. J’s lower back in a camel clutch and, eventually, a bow and arrow. There’s that familiar sense that Cole could send his opponent to the hospital here pretty quickly. Until Mr. Joshua takes a roundhouse swing at Cole’s balls. Watching Cole collapse in an impotent heap is amazing, but it’s nothing compared to Mr. Joshua climbing to his feet, grabbing Cole by the ankles, spreading his tree trunk thighs wide, and literally standing on his balls. We just don’t hear Cole scream often. But Cole screams.
I love that this match stays true to the wrestling characters we’ve grown to know and crush on. Buckle up, because the reversals of fortune could easily give you whip lash. And the fact that both of these nasty heels, each in their own way, sells riding time so magnificently really speaks to every Cole and Mr. Joshua fan out there. Mr. Joshua slaps Cole’s granite-carved muscle ass repeatedly in such a contemptuous, domineering way that I can’t remember Cole ever suffering before. There are long, juicy spells of Mr. Joshua in total control over the writhing, squirming, humiliated MMA star. This could totally be a Mr. Joshua career-defining victory.
However, Cole doesn’t just dissect his beautiful opponent, he lays him out with an obvious nod to the BG East fans masterbating at that very moment to the aesthetic wonders of Mr. Joshua’s physique. Crotch ripping spladles spread Mr. Joshua wide, his mammoth bulge quivering in fear just inches overtop of his barely covered hole. In a stroke of genius, Cole maintains the spladle even as he climbs to his knees, giving us a vertical angle on every inch of Mr. Joshua’s bulging, beautiful all over tan and completely jeopardized ass.
On the other hand, Mr. Joshua feeds fan infatuation with his mouthwatering bulge by beating Cole into barely-consciousness and then schoolboy pinning him, grinding the beef-packed pouch into Cole’s face. He drags Cole up by his head and pounds his massive bulge into Cole’s dumbstruck mug as he kneels like a supplicant before his god. Back down to the mat they go, as Joshua holds Cole’s face in place, cock pinning him, smothering him in headscissors, jerking and pumping his hips like he could be just about to shoot a load across Cole’s face.
On the other hand, Cole battles back into contention, wearing Mr. Joshua out from the base of the testicles upward, and softening the rock hard fitness model up for a perfect Mexican ceiling hold. I mean, perfect. Both boys are fully extended, stretched out. Mr. J’s joints are hyperextended, quivering, muscles looking like they could snap. And right at the apex of his rainbow arch is Mr. J’s dream maker, bulging, straining his pouch, I swear almost whimpering of its own accord.
Honestly, I was still guessing who was going to win this match with about 2 minutes left. And not just because fortunes kept being reversed, but because I believed every second of the way that either of these dangerous, nasty, legendary heels could win.
Check out Alex’s review for another take, though it sounds like we were pretty much on the same page on this one. The term “star” is probably thrown around too often, but these are two genuine homoerotic wrestling stars, and as Alex says, “These guys show why they’re stars.” Entertaining. Thrilling. Titillating. Suspenseful. And deep down homoerotically satisfying.
Tis the season for year end retrospectives. I’m delighted to see Alex’s bold calls on his favorites of the year, drawing from across a wide swath of the homoerotic wrestling industry and reflecting some sensational wrestling. I’m keeping my fingers crossed that BG East will again do their Bestie Awards, so that I can obsess further about the highs and lows and gauge where I fall along the distribution of BG East fan tastes. Like the neglect of hot legs, I got to wondering what other categories of objects of my homoerotic wrestling lusts will likely also not be reflected in the mainstream polls and retrospectives. Since this blog is all about me (I keep repeating that because some people seem to keep forgetting it), I’m paying a little more attention to some of the niche categories that attract my attention, even if they don’t seem to be the subject of many/any other best of lists.
Even though this is all about me, I’m happy to have you chime in with your opinions (apart from nasty insults). So feel free to register your votes in these waning, dark days of 2016. I’ll report out the results of the polling, as well as let you know who I pick for top honors, in a few days. Today’s unsung hero category of homoerotic wrestling is Sexiest Nipples.
This category is tough to pin down the specifics, but I most definitely know what I like when I see it. The topic of attractive nipples pops up frequently in my posts, so it’s little wonder that I have opinions about who showed off the hottest nips in wrestling this year. If I have a criteria for judging sexy nipples, I’m sure size, symmetry, and placement are playing a part, but ultimately, it comes down to the nips that make my mouth water. I’ve picked my top 5 for you to vote on, but feel free to write-in a candidate in the comments below, as well as share your criteria for judging sexy nipples.
My slate of nominees for Sexiest Nipples in Homoerotic Wrestling for 2016 are as follows (in alphabetical order):
Taking a brief break from the heavy diet of reviews I’ve been dishing out, today I’m lingering a bit on that supremely homoerotic wrestling hold, face-to-crotch headscissors.
I’m sure I’ve mused about this hold before, but I’m too lazy to look it up. So I’ll probably repeat myself when I say that my heart pumps harder in my chest when a straight forward pro wrestling story suddenly introduces face-to-crotch scissors. If you buy that all of pro wrestling can easily be read as an extended homoerotic innuendo, face-to-crotch sort of slaps down the implied erotic subtext and steps at least one toe over the line into straight up homoerotic text.
How wrestlers carry it off, of course, can significantly add to eroticism. I suppose it’s possible to snap your thighs around another man’s head with that up close look at your balls in his face and it be solely about punishment and wrestling victory. But I love watching a wrestler snap shut that bear trap and then enjoy it, openly, luxuriantly, expansively. When someone on the delivery side of this hold pumps his glutes and shoves his hips forward with a little enthusiasm, when he milks the moment with pulsing flexed muscles beating out a morse code of agony from the gasping grunts of his opponent, when he stares down his own hot body and smiles at the sight of his opponent owned and getting primed for sucking cock, when he closes his eyes and leans his head way, way back and that look of an impending orgasm washes across his face, there’s nothing coded about this. This is hot, homoerotic wrestling gold.
The catcher can certainly connect the dots as well. Regardless of who ends up on top after all is said and done, I love it when a captured hunk’s eyes roam hungrily up and down his captors body above him. He doesn’t need to, but if he stretches his hands up and strokes those crushing thighs, the rippling abs, stretching so far as to palm the bulging pecs of his tormentor, it conveys what I’m silently thinking deep inside at that moment. A smothered grappler doesn’t have to, but if he’s man enough to nuzzle the balls bearing down on his face, fuck, maybe even open wide and give the trickster’s treats a hearty lick, it just puts the exclamation point on what this hold conveys from the start: wrestling persistently implies homoerotic intimacy.
When the camera angles and storytelling are just right, face-to-crotch headscissors shine a spotlight on one man’s bulging package, bringing his entire, tasty physique into the mix, making even that swelling muscle of passion a part of the corporal domination of another man. For me, it isn’t even so much about the oral sexual implications, as much as it signals that every magnificent inch of a wrestler’s hot body is engaged in dominating his opponent. Hell, when wrestling companies choose to transition from explicit wrestling to explicit sex, I typically push rewind. Because what’s getting me off is the homoeroticism of the wrestling, not the wrestling as foreplay for sex.
I suppose it isn’t such a far distance between why I’m such a fan of face-to-crotch headscissors as I am a fanatic for my favorite pro wrestling hold, the over-the-knee backbreaker. Both draw my eye to one wrestler’s bulging package. Both center the frame on the outline of a bulging cock and the ballast of balls. Both seem ripe with the erotic potential marrying gay sensibilities and a pro wrestling kink. Both make my pulse pound in anticipation of what happens next to, or with, or on behalf of one wrestler’s swollen pipe.
I sometimes find it ironic that this blog attracts so many visitors thanks to the still frames I include, because it’s the story in and around any one captured slice of time in a wrestling match that tantalizes and titillates me. It’s not any one frozen image that becomes the perfect muse to my erotic imagination, but the drama played out in motion, the slow contraction of muscles, the arching agony in a lower back, the quivering pouch, the writhing feet futilely kicking the mat. I’ve lately talked in terms of “the moneyshot,” meaning that moment in a match at which point I’m likely to climax, but that moment is about the 1,600 seconds before that led up to that moment, the deepening jeopardy of one man, the swelling confidence of another, the bodies growing wet with sweat over time, the veins swelling and pumping harder with blood from the effort and the adrenaline of competition. I get off plenty to face-to-crotch headscissors, but I’m never just getting off to face-to-crotch headscissors.
If there is one valuable analog of face-to-crotch headscissors, I think its the comfort a wrestling company has with the homoerotic eye of their gay audience. In scanning for face-to-crotch headscissors images across several platforms for this post, I found them concentrated in just a couple producers’ catalogs. And I think they play a part in direct proportion to how explicitly companies market to those of us in the audience tuning in and ponying up because we are sexually turned on by wrestling. Of course, face-to-crotch headscissors aren’t the only way of crossing the line from homoerotic subtext to homoerotic text. Hell, they probably aren’t even the best way. But from a strictly correlational perspective, I think they show up in proportion to how much I (at least) perceive of a producer as appreciative of and comfortable with me, as a gay man, watching their wrestling products as a means of sexual gratification.
So probably a close second as my favorite wrestling hold is face-to-crotch headscissors, because when they’re done wrong, they can reveal a whole host of troubled self-hatred bubbling beneath a veneer of nohomo bravado, but when they’re done right, I feel respected as a gay wrestling fan, drawn into the intimacy of homoerotic combat, and turned on hard.
Having recently moved, I’m getting accustomed to a lot of new things. The weatherman keeps reporting on “thund-uh-stoams.” There are apparently 100 ticks for every human being in the region. And it’s fucking hot.
That last part makes me rethink my decision to ignore places with swimming pools in my housing search when I moved here a month and a half ago. I’ve always thought of pools as a pain in the ass. And, honestly, this climate calls for outdoor pools no more than about 25% of the year, so it seemed like a waste. But damn. It’s fucking hot.
I’m sure I’ve posted here about my ambivalence about the swimming pool genre in homoerotic wrestling, but I’m too lazy right now to look it up for you (did I mention how hot it is?). So let me just reiterate. On the con side, pool wrestling too often submerges more than half of the available eye candy. Upper bodies are privileged as the only thing we can see most of the time (and neglecting attention to hot legs is another, more global complaint I make often). There’s probably about 80% of wrestling holds that just don’t translate to a pool. A Boston crab would likely lead to manslaughter charges.
But on the other end of the ambivalent spectrum, I love wet muscles. On that point, sweat, shower scenes, and oil wrestling tweak the same kink in me that pool wrestling does. There’s also something inherently playful about pool wrestling. Watching homoerotic wrestlers do it, it certainly appears to take many of them back to the same days of juvenile, carefree summers getting yelled at for horsing around in and around the pool, playfully bullying chums by seeing who can dunk the other, games of chicken, perched on top of each others’ shoulders and seeing who can topple whom.
While I couldn’t stand an exclusive diet of homoerotic wrestling in the pool, like fresh corn on the cob and the sweetest of watermelons, it’s a seasonal treat that can work for me. Though I have to say I prefer it to conclude with bronzed bodies baking in the sun, making out naked poolside.