Trey Dixon’s eyes pried open to witness the spectral visage of Thrash ripping him apart in Masked Destroyers

I hope everyone had a shocking Halloween. I’m also hoping to get another photo report from our favorite homoerotic wrestlers who delight in dressing up and showing us their costumes. In the mean time, I was mulling over a topic I’ve touched upon tangentially in the past, that seems particularly relevant this time of year: terror.

Kirk Donahue may not get out of Demolition 18 alive

I should confess I’m a terror movie junkie. I tend toward the mind-fuck variety of horror flicks, particularly the sacrilegious, but the raw, mass body count movies are also on my list. I like the extra heavy heart pump they inspire. Even when I know the outcome, I can feel the blood pulse harder through my veins when I’m watching good, terror inducing entertainment

Kip Sorell pleads with the audience to call the police, because he’s getting mugged in Demolition 20

So it’s a short hop to thinking about the element of terror in homoerotic wrestling entertainment. Just like in a good horror flick, terror is a delicate ingredient. You can’t throw in too much, too soon, or the escalating adrenaline drops from habituation. On the other hand, too infrequent, too improbable (hello, Paranormal franchise, I’m looking at you) and the heat doesn’t have time to reach a boil. And under or over sold, and the whole suspension of disbelief comes crashing down in a heap.

Muscle Match goes dark with open, vicious, bare handed strangulation

But in homoerotic wrestling, when done right, it’s incredible value added for my tastes. When a brave, cocky, impenetrable stud throws himself into the fray, gets outmatched, gets convinced that he could very well get broken, broken into, or crippled for life, the unfolding drama is sensationally arousing to me. He’s got to believe he’s going to make a respectable showing to start with. And then, incrementally, he’s got to be dragged to the despairing, horrifying truth that he’s getting owned, and his opponent is just nasty enough to seriously jeopardize life and limb. And then, that juicy, potent psychodrama has to play out on his face, in his eyes, in the rising octaves of his screams and choking sobs.

Austin Cooper is terrified by what’s Bobby Horton is about to do to him from behind in his Wrestler Spotlight 3

When done right, I get that same adrenaline pump I do when I’m watching fine horror. That, paired with hot, hard bodies and the inherent eroticism of grinding, crushing, dominating wrestling, and I’ll swing for the fences every time.

Riddle Man (aka, Charlie Evans) monologues like a supervillain about what he wants to do with SuperStud (aka, Damien Rush) and his marvelous ass in Super Men 4.4.

Interestingly (for me, at least), I occasionally stumble across this ethical dilemma in seeking out terror-rich homoerotic wrestling fare, when I come across the implicit threat of rape. On the one hand, rape is not sexy. In real life, it’s vile and destroys lives. I don’t enjoy it, and don’t get aroused by it in gay porn. Frankly, it creeps me out. On the other hand, in addition to being terrorized by threats to life and limb, homoerotic wrestling terror at least occasionally drifts into the psychodrama of sexual violence. Threats that revolve around “what I’m going to do to you when I’ve beaten you to a pulp,” start down that path. Hell, every so often there’s the pretty explicit dialogue about how a victor will fuck his cowed conquest like the spoils of war. And, all that I just said on the first hand notwithstanding, I fucking get off on that.

Trent Diesel sizes up the ass he just bought and paid for in his Naked Kombat bout with Gavin Waters

Of course Naked Kombat pretty much is all about sexual domination as the spoils of erotic wrestling. But there’s an implicit contract in the fighter’s opening introductions. They’re signing up for this. They know the stakes are win or be fucked, so it’s more like high stakes gambling than actual rape. The loser my not enjoy it, but the bitterness and brutality are mostly about the humiliation of the loss, not about being involuntarily fucked. And the more recent post-match testimonials almost always make explicit that the everyone involved had a grand old time.

Rusty Stevens and David Taylor made me forget they were being held at gunpoint in Wrestle Bait.

Can-Am has come pretty close to explicitly centering a narrative on wrestling as pretense for sexual assault. Their Wrestle Bait release made me check my political correctness credentials a few times, for example. The plot, as I remember, is that a sadistic jail guard (Jobe Zander) gets his psychojollies off on forcing inmates to wrestle for fuckstakes and freedom. Jobe literally holds a gun to their heads and coerces them to strip, beat the shit out of each other, and then have the winner force fuck the loser. If they don’t fight hard enough, he threatens to shoot them. So, guns turn me off. The threat of watching someone get shot turns me way off. The implication that the losers in each Wrestle Bait match are getting fucked against their will tugs at my conscience. But despite myself, even as I question my moral compass, I’ve pounded out dozens of times to that shit. In my defense, it was the first time I ever saw Rusty Stevens or David Taylor.

Logan Vaughn’s terror is evident once Lane Hartley plants him spread eagled in the ropes and gets into position to place kick his balls for a field goal in Hunkbash 15

But I don’t have to have boundaries crossed for the terror ingredient to spice up my favorite homoerotic wrestling fare. It’s the terror itself, rather than any questionable-consensual sex act, that’s the common thread. So when it dawns on one gasping hunk that he’s got no shot of winning, and in fact has a very good shot at spending a few nights in the hospital, and that recognition visibly washes across his face… fuck.  When a sniveling pretty boy literally tries to flee the scene, crawling on his hands and knees in a primal effort to distance himself from his natural predator, I’m so sold. When he chokes and quivers on the fear, when he weeps and begs, abandoning all pretense to dignity, when he out and out screams because he’s certain he’s about to break for real, that will top me off every time.

Carter Alexander sells terror like a motherfucker in Great Outdoors 2, though I think he’s mostly just terrified Kid Karisma will stop pulling his hair (he likes that).

So today, I salute the homoerotic wrestling scream queens who toy with my moral compass and somehow shove their hands right down my pants by selling out and out terror as a device for propelling a wrestling match to a screaming, pleading, magnificent conclusion.

Reigning scream queen, bar none, Drake “don’t call me jobber” Marcos realizes the Trophy Boy may very well castrate him in Three-Way Thrash 4.

Keep me cumming, boys.

What Goes Around

Can-Am’s Pro Sex Fight 4 
Reigning homoerotic wrestler of the month, Rusty Stevens, is no stranger to the pages of this blog. He’s the third most cited wrestler here at neverland, and now that he’s back in the business, I wouldn’t be surprised to see him growl, flex, and dominate his way past my second most frequently cited wrestler, Brad Rochelle. Then again, with the news that Brad isn’t done with his contributions to homoerotic wrestling, it could be a dog fight. Let’s just sit with that image for a moment… Brad, Rusty, in the ring, brutalizing one another for their places in the pantheon of homoerotic wrestling iconography. Holy hell, now that would be a fantasy match that would make my head explode…
Can-Am’s Pro Sex Fight 4
Rusty is nothing if not provocative. At least, he never fails to provoke me. Perhaps the move the provoked me most was Rusty’s announcement that he was retiring from porn. I was instantly somewhere around both the 1st and 3rd stages of grief, desperately denying that Rusty’s retirement could include his work in homoerotic wrestling, and bargaining, pleading for his wrestling prowess to be exempted from his move away from the industry. Rusty went silent for nearly a year. I documented the existential crisis that this provoked within me, as I had to decide what to do when my very long-running favorite homoerotic wrestling pornboy walks away with the title still belted around his waist. I felt toyed with, betrayed, angry, sad. So it should come as no wonder that I was profoundly moved yet again when Rusty showed up this summer in Can-Am’s Pro Sex Fight Series. He isn’t in quite the muscle-brute shape he once was, but he has precisely that same snarling, slicing, crushing mouth on him that has made one adonis after another wither. Regular readers here should have experienced no surprise at all to see Rusty crowned homoerotic wrestler of the month a few weeks ago.

Can-Am’s Wrestle Bait

What Rusty does best, and what really provokes me most, hasn’t changed at all over the course of his homoerotic wrestling career. He delivers a cocky, contemptuous, ferocious character with smarts to match his beautiful body. I believe the first sight I had of Rusty was his Can-Am appearance against gorgeous tattooed porn god, David Taylor in Wrestle Bait. Rusty was lean and mean, and though the “prisoners forced to wrestle and fuck at gunpoint” gimmick was a little distracting for me, I already detected that Rusty was a hunk who hated to be dominated nearly as much as he loved dishing out humiliation. If David ever showed up on Naked Kombat (which seems entirely possible) to face Rusty, I’d put a whole lot of money on Rusty crushing David like a grape. In Wrestle Bait, the action was more scripted, and both boys took their turns on top.

Naked Kombat – Rusty Stevens v Tommy Defendi

I think the next notice I took of Rusty was discovering his back-catalog for Naked Kombat. Holy fuck! Rusty was made for Naked Kombat, and vice versa. In fact, every Naked Kombat match I watch now I automatically compare with Rusty’s performances. Arguably the most stunning physical and sexual domination I’ve seen from Rusty was his oil match against doe-eyed Tommy Defendi. This match is not close by any stretch of the imagination (7-58). However, unlike many squashes, Rusty has no problem maintaining intensity, pushing the pace, innovating and ad libbing, and making every single second pure joy for any homoerotic wrestling fan. I still think that his leg scissors choke on Tommy after everything else is said and done, barking at the loser, making Tommy stroke himself almost to climax and then denying the loser the right to cum, over and over, until Tommy is nearly ready to explode from the sound of Rusty’s voice alone… that’s got to be one of the most pristine, purest, unadulterated moments of thrilling wrestling kink I’ve ever seen.

Can-Am’s Arena Part 1

Rusty’s meteoric rise in the rankings of my favorite homoerotic wrestling pornboys, however, really dates to his return to Can-Am, sporting his Naked Kombat physical conditioning, in the Arena series. Again there’s this incredible moment that frequently replays in my mind of Rusty having obliterated Brian Bodine in Arena Part 1, leaving the gorgeous hunk ass-up and unconscious in the middle of the mat. Aryx Quinn strolls in and insults Rusty’s handiwork, questioning his manhood, laying down a challenge of wit and skill. What the fuck was Aryx Quinn thinking? With his huge, beautiful cock erect and bobbing up and down as he strolled around Bodine’s unconscious body, Rusty unleashes a trash-talking assault on Aryx that twines together humor, domination, and humiliation in a way that I’ve never seen the likes of since. Aryx tries to keep up, tries to parry and counter. He’s no match, no how, for Rusty’s smart-ass mouth. The two never lay a hand on each other (until Arena 2), and yet that exchange ranks awfully high on my list of most erotic moments in wrestling.

Can-Am’s Arena Part 2
When Rusty and Aryx finally consummate this marriage of trashtalking and wrestling, yet again I give the verbal domination win, unquestionably, to Rusty. Aryx seems to think that’s keeping up, but he’s just not. Honestly, I get the impression that Aryx may be smarter than the average porn star, but trying to trade barbs with Rusty makes him look like a slobbering fool. The wrestling in Arena 2 is highly enjoyable. As is Can-Am’s way, both boys trade riding time. Rusty looks utterly defeated and humiliated with Aryx fucking him hard. But emblematic of Rusty’s homoerotic wrestling skill set in total, Rusty sneaks up from behind and snatches a crushing victory over Aryx from the jaws of defeat, with Rusty’s furious verbal assault always twice as erotically stimulating as his very hot sexual domination. My #1 criticism of the Arena series is the indulgent need for the whole scenario to be framed as a “Can-Am conquers BG East” backstory. It’s as if Can-Am was taking the opportunity of hiring the likes of Aryx (and Rio and Jobe and Cameron and…), all around that same time, to co-opt BG East fans. For me, that’s never going to fly. The two companies offer entirely different twists to my homoerotic wrestling kink, and every BG East boy that Can-Am touches seems to me to deliver a decidedly Can-Am performance for the west coasters. That’s fine, as far as I’m concerned. But I’ve never found anyone else turning my wrestling kink crank in the manner that BG East does, regardless of the performers involved.

BG East’s The Breaking Point: Sexiest

Ironically, after I went on my original rant calling foul on Can-Am’s attempt to co-opt BG East fans along with BG East wrestlers, BG East turned around and delivered my fondest fantasy. Never would I have imagined it as even a possibility, but just at the moment when Rusty was my #1 favorite homoerotic wrestling pornboy and Mitch Colby (the prior #1) was running a close #2, BG East released the two of them in a sweat-soaked mat match in Florida. I hardly need to point out that Mitch (who is by far the most cited wrestler in the pages of this blog), will perpetually own favorite-emeritus status, and I was ready to witness Mitch deliver a wrestling performance that would decisively snatch the title away from Rusty. And it’s damn, damn close! The gallons of sweat make that match hard for me to watch more than about 2 minutes of at a time. Rusty is in the most attractive physical conditioning of his career (for my tastes… I know that others will disagree on that point). But it’s that mouth of his, as always, that made me confirm that Rusty remained at the top of the heap. Mitch took the match victory by jacking off Rusty in the end, but it was Rusty’s mouth that owned my homoerotic wrestling lust. “I’m thinking you may want to say you give… but then again my ass in your face.”

The Once and Future King?

So Rusty’s back. He sounds like he’s been smoking a lot, as he coughs and sputters in his suffering in the Pro Sex Fights (5 features Rusty against Michael Vineland, already available in Can-Am Max). He’s not as hard or big as he’s been in the past. And the stories seem to be built around the concept that the “returning veteran” needs to get schooled by the young new breed of homoerotic wrestling pornboys at Can-Am. He tops and bottoms (as is Can-Am’s way), and he strokes and gets stroked in the midst of entertaining pro-ring wrestling (which is a formula that I wholeheartedly endorse). But there’s no mistaking it. This is Rusty: beautiful, nasty, cocky, selling every second, and trash talking in a league all his own. Keep it coming, Rusty! Mitch may be ripe to get knocked out of the contender spot for my current favorite homoerotic wrestling pornboy!

Tats Named

No one won the grand prize for perfect marks on yesterday’s quiz. One regular reader came pretty damn close, but he’s only getting a gold star. Here are the answers that would have won someone a pic of one of my tats:
Tat #1 belongs to…
This pic was from his delightful clash of the titans with Mitch Colby, wrestling for BG East’s Breaking Point release last summer. Fan-freaking-tastic match, which was one of my all time favorite moments of the year.
Rusty also has those provocative lipstick-tats around his crotch and ass. Damn, I’m still bitter that he’s forsworn porn.
Tat #2 belongs to…
There’s a bit of mystery about precisely when this posed pic may have been snapped, but I do believe it was in conjunction with his Jobberpalooza 9 beatdown of Kevin Lee.
All that astonishingly gorgeous ink, that wide, muscled back, that incredible ass, and the delightful pain-play… Derek is a homoerotic wrestling god as far as I’m concerned. And he has entertaining tweets.
Tat #3 belongs to…
Specifically, this is Angel’s 2-on-1 scrap with rookies Jackson and Scooter in Mat Wars 22 for Thunder’s Arena.
In case you missed it, 5’5″, 135 pound Angel is the 1 in this 2-on-1, but that awesome sleeve and the ribcage ink even the score, as far as I’m concerned.
Tat #4 belongs to…
In particular, this is David getting a riding rear choke from the owner of Tat #1 above, Rusty Stevens, for Can-Am’s Wrestle Bait.
I think David’s ink is possibly the most attractive in homoerotic wrestling history (me being the judge, of course). His long-held bearhug, suspending Rusty off his feet, with Rusty sitting across David’s fantastic erection like a fencepost, is also possibly the most arousing homoerotic wrestling image I’ve ever had seared into my memory.
No one ventured a guess at Tat #5, which in fact belongs to…
…Can-Am’s mysteriously named “Derek.”
Linger a while on the slabs of beef that are this man’s pecs, then continue when you’re ready to learn more.
So Derek, or Derek(2) as he’s listed in the by-model search at the Can-Am website, was quite the eye-catching muscle stud when I first caught sight of him in promotions for Ropin’ Ruckus. His pubescent, is-this-guy-legal opponent here is Oliver Swift. Derek was one handsome hunk of beef, who appropriately enough gets roped and ridden by young Master Swift. Derek(2) also appears in Can-Am’s Hotel Hell: Toronto and SuperMatch 25/26 tape for those of you as taken with the sight of him as I’ve always been.
So nicely played, those of you who checked your scores with me privately. Keep studying, and one day, perhaps, you’ll be teacher’s pet.

Let’s Talk About Sex

I had my toes sucked for the very first time recently. It wasn’t too bad. I don’t really think about my own feet as erogenous zones, but it kept my engine revving. I don’t mind giving a little foot worship, by any means. It’s not exactly my fetish, but for a guy who’s into it, and who I want to please, sure, I’ll suck toe for a while. But despite not being too bad, having my own toes sucked was still not at the top of my list of the hottest things I enjoy. Now, if my reigning favorite homoerotic wrestling pornboy, Rusty Stevens, had a thing for my toes (as he seems to in his match with Mitch), he could have at mine anytime. And I suppose that’s part of it: what’s hot can depend on who I’m with, what about them turns me one, what about me turns them on, and what spontaneously makes the blood pump faster in the heat of the moment.

This raises for me a point I’ve been thinking about broaching here for a while, but haven’t yet: sex. Okay, so it’s not as if I’ve never mused about sex here before. But quite literally, specifically speaking, I’m not sure I really have. I receive messages pretty frequently from readers who completely identify with one thing or another that I describe that turns me on, but who, very tactfully and demurely, let me know that there are some things that the pro-boys do that they just aren’t into. Now, I’m no sexpert by any means. I haven’t done the research. I’m just speaking anecdotally here. But it seems to me that not all of us are exactly into the same thing when we talk about gay sex, even within the relatively specific context of wrestling kink. Let me continue to use my reigning champ, Rusty, to illustrate my point. In the pic above, he’s going to town with the cock of tattooed muscle god, David Taylor, tickling his tonsils. I know plenty of gay guys who consider it absolutely universal that sucking cock is fundamentally an essential component of gay sex. Yet, I’ve heard from quite a number of you who’ve let me know that basting a cock in your mouth just isn’t arousing for you.  I have to say I’m more a fan of giving than receiving in this particular formula, but I have to report that there are plenty among us for whom neither end of the stick is a particular turn on. Clearly, among those of us who enjoy some homoerotic wrestling kink, giving/getting head is not common to us all.

Here Rusty illustrates another case in point. Taking an ass to the face seems to be even less on the menu for many of us. I’ve lost count (not that I really started) of the number of times that someone has qualified their agreement with some wrestling kink opinion of mine by noting that they really don’t find rimming something that they enjoy or want to try. I’m of the opinion that if it was Rusty’s magical muscled ass planted across your face, he could tantalize just about anyone to give it a go. Personally, when the ass is right (his or mine), I’m all for it. But again, clearly, among our very insider crowd, face sitting, sucking ass, a rim job, or so called “analingus” is not our common denominator.

At one point in my life I would have sworn that we could all agree that anal intercourse is simply an essential component of gay sex. As ably illustrated after losing his “prison” wrestling match to aforementioned tattooed muscle god, David Taylor, Rusty here takes it up the ass. But on closer inspection, I know plenty of guys who only want to catch, and I know more than a handful who exclusively want to pitch. And then a number of you have dropped into an email conversation that neither fucking nor getting fucked is really your thing at all. I’ve mentioned before that I think sexual tastes evolve over time, and perhaps this is just a matter of evolving tastes. I have a buddy who’s quite convinced that every guy, sooner or later, really wants to get fucked. But I’m not so convinced. I don’t think that you are somehow lacking in self-actualization if you just don’t want any ass play. I think that it’s simply not the one thing that draws a line around us, such that all of us who are gay are inside the circle and everyone else is outside.

It’s not toe sucking. It’s not cock sucking. It’s definitely not rimming. Hell, it isn’t even fucking that unites us all when it comes to the sexual behavior of all of us wrestling kinked gay men (or, I would propose, of any sort of gay man). It’s here that I think the anti-gay distinction of “behavior” versus “orientation” falls flat. Because just like the human condition itself, sexual tastes and behaviors among gay men vary. We recognize one another as like-minded, not because of any one behavior. I think there’s something much deeper, something much more akin the word “orientation” that draws us inside one circle. It’s much more about where our attention is drawn, where our thoughts and imaginations linger, than about a monolithic understanding of “gay sex.” It’s about proximity, intimacy, taste, touch, smell, sight and sound much more than it is about “a behavior.” Whatever it is that turns you on, or more precisely, what you do once you’ve been turned on, a whole lot of us share something in common that makes life exciting, arousing, and erotically delightful.

Value Added

Several recent comments here have sent me thinking more deeply about what it is that a wrestling kinkster gets in explicitly homoerotic wrestling that he doesn’t in basic cable pro. “The gay” has had a longstanding presence in straight-up pro wrestling for… well, forever, hasn’t it? The classic flaming pro-wrestler with his feather boa, dancing on the balls of his feet, have been a not-so latent element in the scene for at least as long as pro wrestling has been televised, it seems to me. I made a break with regularly following straight-up pro scenes about a decade ago, but when I’m flipping through the channels, I get the impression that “the gay” continues to creep more and more into that scene. Hasn’t there been and openly gay wrestler or two? Isn’t the erotic sub-text getting more and more main-text, as the modern audience is catching on to what so many of us have understood for a long time… that two hardbodied, barely clothed hunks grinding and squeezing their bodies together can’t help but be about sexual prowess, if not outright sex.

But I’m so far out of the straight-up pro loop, I’ll have to rely on those many of you who keep up with it to correct me. Feel free, in fact. I’m blindly wandering into a subject that I know, at most, only 50% about: what is it that we gay wrestling kinksters get in our homoerotic wrestling that we don’t get in straight-up basic cable pro? (Indie fanatics can tell me if this applies to that scene as well)…. In no particular order:
Tear-away crotch gear. And for that matter, full-on centering of the gorgeous male erection. If these elements were popping up in straight-up pro, it would seriously make me consider diving back into that scene. As it is, I’m thinking that, despite a diversity of gear and gear-related stories in straight-up pro, the tear-away crotch and the aroused cock are entirely in the domain of the homoerotic side of wrestling. Please, tell me I’m wrong.
Hand-to-bare-crotch ball abuse. Before I washed my hands of straight-up pro entirely, crotch abuse was on the rise. But as far as I know (and you will correct me), wrestlers actually stuffing their hands down each other’s trunks and clawing each other’s balls for all it’s worth (or even better, entirely naked, prolonged cock and ball bashing), marks a dividing line between wrestling packaged for us as opposed to wrestling packaged for them.
Passionate, full on, tongues-down-throats kissing. I can remember at least a couple of instances where a straight-up pro story used a man-on-man kiss as the excuse for violence (not hard to read the homosexual panic storyline here), but never as the mutual climax of the physical competition. Hard fought, sweaty, pounding, tooth-and-nail wrestling should lead to some intense respect and mutual gratification, I think. If the buff bigboys on basic cable occasionally lost themselves in passion at the end of a particularly close fought match, again, I’d absolutely have to tune back in.
Naked bearhugs. Well, naked everything, really. So we’ve been led to believe that the ancient Greeks battled it out this way, but as far as I know, other than the occasional bare-ass moment (treated as a moment of ego-crushing humiliation), the straight-up pros keep their gear on their bodies. A bearhug or a boston crab or a head scissors may be technically identical between the two genres, but the innovation of losing the gear first completely retranslates everything into a language I’m much more fluent in, and whose tones I find much more pleasing.
Oil wrestling. Especially naked oil wrestling, but seriously, any kind of oil wrestling seems like it’s this side of the neutral zone between straight-up pro and full-on homoerotic wrestling. Lubricating bodies can’t help but make everything more arousing, both in the action and on this side of my television screen. I suspect I could be on thin ice on this one, and I’ll be very pleased to be corrected to learn that the straight-up pros are breaking out the babyoil for one another… but I’m doubtful.
Toe-sucking. Okay, I can’t remember seeing this in a wrestling match before my current favorite homoerotic wrestling pornboy, Rusty Stevens, pulled it out as a defensive move against Mitch Colby this summer. So it isn’t exactly a staple of homoerotic wrestling. But somehow, I can’t see this innovation showing up in prime-time. Both genres have overlapping standard toolkits for distraction and diversion in a match, but I, for one, am really pleased when I see some erotic worship as a strategic move.
The naked pony ride. Or, really, the loser-gets-used scenario in general, involving any element of nakedness. The pony ride itself seems to be a signature primarily at Naked Kombat, though I’d love to see this gimmick show-up elsewhere. Somehow, I could imagine seeing it cross-pollinate through other homoerotic wrestling companies about a century before it would show up in straight-up pro… though Joe at Ringside at Skull Island continues to feature some fantastic indie boys I’d pay good money to see ride or get ridden… naked, of course.
The jack-off. Either post-match or, as Aryx Quinn illustrates here with Braden Charron (and KL on Chris from yesterday’s post), locked in a classic wrestling move, a forced to cum show of domination/voyeurism/humiliation. This falls under the same theme as the any-straight-up-pro hold that turns naked idea, but add to that some masturbation, and, well, this just isn’t going to show up on basic cable anytime soon… or a pay-per-view extravaganza… or, well, anywhere other than the homoerotic specialists.
Oral. The spoils of victory never tasted so sweet on any, any, any straight-up pro match as it does when a homoerotic wrestler lays his loser out and sucks his cock like there’s no tomorrow. Depending on the angle, the loser-gets-forced-to-suck story (see every Naked Kombat match, for example), also works only on this side of the line. Just as an aside, I’m more a fan of the taste of victory than I am of the loser-gets-face-fucked plot. Ironically, there’s something almost “straight” feeling about the latter to me…
Anal. Most of the same comments apply here. This just isn’t going to show up for the straight-up pro boys, though how sweet would that be to see some of those fine, muscle-asses on the line and plowed in the center of the ring when they lose? But that’s precisely what leads me (and many of us, I’m sure) to homoerotic wrestling products. Straight-up pro only takes us so far. Our imaginations can complete the scene, but there’s something awfully satisfying and, in some ways, validating about seeing the scenario play out exactly the way you and I would imagine. I don’t think that a match needs to end in a forced-fuck to be homoerotic, by any means. In fact, I get a little tired when it seems to be obligatory, and I get the impression that the creativity and competition of a wrestling match sometimes turn into clock-punching routine as the boys go through the familiar motions. But a victory fuck closes the circuit in my mind. From the anticipation, promise, and implications of straight-up pro, homoerotic wrestling fills in the silences and opens up the possibilities that turn me on like no baggy-shorts prime-timer has ever done.

I know I’ve missed a lot. I’m sure I’ve overstated my case… because that’s just what happens when I have a whole blog to myself to rant and ramble. But seriously… sincerely… I’ll be pleased no end to hear what I’ve managed to get completely wrong here.

Cockheads Revisited

Last week I lingered for a while considering the place of the erection in homoerotic wrestling. I propose that different companies tell fundamentally different stories in the way they script the wrestling hard-on. Where BG East frequently tells the story of the erection as a signal in the midst of combat, communicating that the battle itself is a turn on, Can-Am, it seems to me, tells a distinctly different tale.

Actually, I think Can-Am typically has one of two stories to tell. One story is sexual lust deferred long enough to grapple a little before devolving into head on sex. Gear Play is a good example. Alex and Michel are hot, hot, hot for each other in the locker room. Rolling around a capturing one another in various gear is explicitly the story of foreplay (“gearplay”). From the title to the climax, this match up is heading one direction. This is a major plus for body worship (particularly of Alex… mmmm…). This isn’t really about the heat of the combat though. The erections are in the foreground, and the battle is really just background.
The other primary story Can-Am likes to tell is the victorious erection. Frequently, there’s a clear line drawn between the tussle and the hustle. Even naked combat is often limp, but as one hunk beats down his opponent and begins his total control, the scene changes to erotic ownership. Like in Can-Am’s most recent release, Arena 1, cocks are unleashed and engorged after victory is won. The erection is suddenly foregrounded starkly, and whatever domination is left to be had, it’s more about property than plot development. This is a stuff-it story: as soon as the hard-on arrives, it’s shoved into an orifice and the 70’s disco music starts playing (just in my mind).
That said, Can-Am occasionally throws some battlers on the mat who clearly get off on the battle itself. In Mat Muscle Mayhem 2 (someone enjoys alliteration almost as much as I do!), omnipresent Dino Phillips squeezes “German tourist” Rolf Heinrick’s head between his knees. Rolf may say “Nein!”, but the tent pole holding up his g-string is screaming, “Ja, ja, ja!”
Tattooed god, David Taylor, is a standout Can-Am performer for his marathon erection. From start to finish in his work in Wrestle Bait, David’s manhood is pressing at the seams (well, buttons, really), of his tear away trunks. The guy getting off on watching, Jobe, simply has to remark on David’s excitement from before the opening bell. An extremely trim Rusty Stevens seems undaunted by David’s throbbing cock. About halfway through the fight, Rusty starts slapping at David’s persistent pointer, and David seems genuinely winded by a couple of the startling blows. In the end, though, this is a stuff-it match. Erections are primarily to be shoved down throats and up rectums.
As I remember, Brody’s grab of bodybuilder Dolph’s member in Supermatch 13 may not actually have occurred prior to Dolph’s excitement. I’ll give them the benefit of the doubt, though, because I so enjoy this image of Dolph in shocked pain. He deserves it for that facial hair. I know opinions vary, but I for one enjoy a serious miss-match from time to time, such as massive slab of beef, Dolph, against sadistic twink Brody. These boys have to work to make it believable that Dolph wouldn’t simply crack Brody open and suck out the marrow for a mid-afternoon snack. A nicely oiled up cock-grab helps this this plot along.
I hate to conclude on a sour note, but I’d like to separate out my final comment/critique from the rest of the focus on Can-Am. A major turn off for me is when two hunks toss and grunt and squirm and squeeze, and then after a scene break, we find them across the room from one another jerking off. I assume it’s a function of hiring straight boys and marginally inhibited hunks, but watching two guys masturbate with their eyes closed, giving every appearance of struggling to ignore one another (while images of women-parts fill their heads), is a yawner for me. By no means is Can-Am the only company that plays this scene. But whenever I run across it, I consider part of my purchasing price a little wasted.


On a day set aside for giving thanks, I’m counting my blessings. I’m thankful for this bizarre discipline I accepted for myself to write this blog and publish some of
my fiction online. It’s a vulnerable, annoying, enriching and rewarding endeavor.

I’m thankful for ring rookies David Taylor, Tyrell Tomsen, Kid Karisma and Rio Garza who’ve climbed into the ring in the past several months and laid claim to my imagination. For their poundable pecs and astounding asses, for their breathtaking biceps and crushing quads (and BG East’s generous permission to post their photos), I’m truly grateful. And for David and Tyrell’s phenomenal phalluses, I can’t say how happy they make me.
I’m thankful this year that Mitch Colby likes, and likes to pound, men. For all his sweat-soaked suffering and his growing accomplishment at putting younger punks in their place, I’m filled with gratitude.
I’m thankful that Derek Da Silva read and got a kick out of my treatment of his wrestling performances. For his shout out, for the mindblowing tolerances of his fantastic body, and for the amazingly beautiful artistry of all those tatoos, I’m thankful.
I’m thankful that Chris Cuomo went fishing this summer and shared with his twitter fans the beauty of his shirtless body.
For Mehcad Brooks, a resident of Bon Temps for such a short time, baring his irresistible ass and being so generous with displaying his round, luscious pecs, I’m thankful. And for Alexander Skarsgård’s six foot, four inch Swedish gorgeousness, I’m grateful that his eternal character will be with us for more seasons to come.
Finally, for all the kind friends and gentle critics I’ve met online through this blog and my wrestling fiction, I’m thankful. I hope you all are surrounded by friendship and love today.

The Crushing Embrace

In honor of this blog being listed on Bearhugger.net, I thought I’d pick out some of my favorite belly-to-bellies and reflect a little on the crushing embrace.

The hug as a device of torture is a sweet paradox. One man wrapping his arms around another man’s waist, in a different context, is about tenderness and affection. When those arms are cinched tight, with the recipient squeezed hard, the intimacy of the embrace turns from tender to tortuous.
The mainstream pros do it at least as often as the homoerotic pros. When the musclegod Lex Luger clamped tight a bearhug, employing that stunning musculature in concentrated focus on the small of his opponent’s back, it’s no wonder that we could see not only pain, but fear on the faces of his victims. To be lifted off your feet and crushed against the sweaty, muscled torso of Luger must have been a nightmare for many, and surely a dream come true for at least a few.
The homoerotic pros, though, make explicit what’s undeniably implicit in every wrestling bearhug: the bearhug is all about the interplay of sexual intimacy and sadistic domination. Classic Can-Amer Cliff Conlin was a master salesman. Watching the hairy-chested heel beating up on his opponents was always golden, but when some studly challenger like Dean Christian captured Cliff, lifted him off his feet, and squeezed him until he screamed, that was priceless.
When Brad Rochelle picked to pieces Jeff Phoenix in BG East’s Fantasymen 18, the final and decisive fall was a long series of one impressive bearhug after another. Brad hoisted his man off his feet, pinned him against his pelvis, and squeezed the breath out of him until he passed out. Total control. Total domination.
David Taylor’s repeated bearhugs on Rusty Stevens in Wrestle Bait are amazing, not only due to the ease with which David holds Rusty off his feet, but even more impressively the way that David remains hard as a board throughout. Rusty looks like he’s sitting on that gorgeous cock of David’s as it sticks out from between Rusty’s ass cheeks perched in David’s powerful embrace. Passionate suffering becomes passionate ecstasy, and the bearhug is the seamless border between the two.
And finally, I have to mention again the inspired pairing of Mitch Colby and Cole Cassidy in BG East’s Ringwars 15. Mitch’s beautiful body is flexed everywhichway as he drags Cole off his feet and lifts him high in his arms. The fantastic juxtaposition of Cole’s delicious suffering and Mitch’s cocky self-congratulations for his stunning domination makes my head spin. And what makes my head spin even more is reading Kid Leopard’s teaser that the next BG East catalog will include a Wrestler Spotlight tape featuring three matches with Mitch! Sweet mother of God, someone has heard my prayers!

It’s Clobberin’ Time!

It should come as no surprise that gay boys frequently gravitate to superhero comics. The hypermasculinity, the unnotable nerds with
fabulous alter egos, the skin-tight costumes clearly drawn with a loving hand… I’m sure you don’t have to be gay to like supes, but it certainly can’t hurt.

I only dabble in the superhero/homoerotic wrestling crossover. I’m sure someone with real acting chops could both pull off the awesome melodrama and commit to a convincing wrestling performance. But let’s be honest, extensively trained actor/athletes are not the staple of homoerotic wrestling productions.

Still, sincerity can forgive a multitude of sins. The only full-time live-action super-homo-hero outfit that I know of is Eye of the Cyclone. They’re generous with their teasers on YouTube, and they very generously gave me permission to post some of their delicious pics. At times they may be a little too into their own gear, but they’ve got sincerity coming out of their mask-covered ears. They also put up a nice variety of bodies, including a handful with lovely ink. Their product warning says it all: “Warning! Contains scenes with bad acting, camp overtones, and ultra tight spandex… everything you would expect!!!DynoLad here looks like he’s about to break his villain, Cobra, in half (for the moment).
And this masked-beast is headed for some superstrength ball torture!
I’ve extolled the artistry of John Savage’s Rants, Roids N Rasslin before, but he has to be mentioned in this conversation. His art is a send up to pro-wrestling, homoerotic wrestling, and the stylistic graphics of the comic books we grew up with. He seems to love the evil heels, and in the end, everyone’s a sadistic, hardbody, incredibly hung hunk (that’s a world I’d like to visit!).

Like me, others seem to also enjoy dabbling. BG East (who also rocks for giving me permission to post some of their pics!) has put out a handful of products in the subgenre. Superhero Heels 3: Blue Lightning Strikes displays the totally poundable “Golden Boy” Troy Baker maskless (but how/why would you ever want to disguise that boy?) suffering nicely in the clutches of our superheel in blue spandex. Personally, I’d like to see EOTC’s Cobra and BGE’s Blue Lightening sync up for some humiliating blue-spandexed tag team torture on blondboys DynoLad and Golden Boy at the same time!
Can-Am has done a ton of superhero bits. Sometimes, the gimmick is a little gratuitous, especially when they release a straight-up homoerotic wrestling vid and a superhero wrestling vid at basically the same time… with the exact same cast. If I were more invested in this particular subgenre, I think I’d feel a little used. Then again, any excuse to put David Taylor’s stunning ink and lovely poker on display can’t be so bad.
Personally, I don’t live in Gotham, but if the supes get into a little randy wrestling now and then, I’m happy to visit!

So You Married a Porn Star

I haven’t mentioned my fanaticism for Mitch Colby lately, but that doesn’t mean he hasn’t been on my mind. He has some recent shots up on his
MySpace page with his “hubby.” The idea of the porn star coming home from a hard day at work to curl up with the partner seems on the surface to be a mood-killer. But the more I sit with that image, the more I like it. Of course, Mitch could crochet doilies and I’d pay cash to watch, but seriously, I hope that the objects of my objectifying gaze have a warm, loving home to be happy in. I sympathize with the critiques of porn as de-humanizing, so it’s a nice corrective to know that the boys of porn have homes, go on vacations, and enjoy time with loved ones. Imagining arguments over who forgot to take out the trash… now that’s a mood-killer. But the happy faces of a porn star and his hubby… that’s hot.

Similarly, I was happy to find a MySpace page for David Taylor, who I’ve mentioned before for his fantastically stunning ink. His eyes are hypnotic, though I confess that it isn’t his eyes that hold my fascination in his match in Can-Am’s Wrestle Bait… it’s his tats (that’s my story… I’m sticking to it). In any case, bi-boy David’s MySpace page features prominently his adoration for his girlfriend. I can’t bring myself to picture David coming home to his girlfriend at the end of a long day of screwing and getting screwed at work, but I’m happy that David has someone, nonetheless.
Ultimately, don’t we all end up wanting someone that we can depend on to love us when we walk in the door each evening? I like knowing that even the porn boys, with their rock hard bods starring in my favorite erotic wrestling fantasies, look forward to coming home to the warm embrace of a loved one.