I’m two months behind in anointing a HWOTM, so today let me turn the time machine back to May of this year. There were some sensationally hot releases in May, many of which grabbed my attention, turned me on, and got me off repeatedly. As is so often the case, there were several past HWOTM winners, and I heaped adoration on several releases in fawning reviews. It’s a close call this time around, but my cock tells me there’s just one hunk who finally earned the title….
Denny’s performance in Jobberpaloozer 14 elevates him to the rarified status of a 3-time HOWTM winner. If anything, it actually catches me by surprise that this is only Denny’sthird title, because I key off on everything that Denny is in, anytime I get the opportunity. As I’ve mentioned before, there’s something magnetically real about Denny. There’s an authenticity about him that makes me believe every word out of his mouth, every cry of pain, every superhuman feat of strength and dexterity. Continuing a recent theme I touched upon concerning the limits of what a 6-pack will get you, I’m infatuated with Denny’s proportions. He’s got thick, powerful thighs capped off with a sensational bubble butt that I’d love to ride for days. His lush, meaty pecs and rock hard, wide shoulders make me believe every whimper he squeezes out of an opponent with a bearhug. His face is a tad too pretty to be believed; those eyes, that chin, and his babyface smile could easily charm me out of my pants, my bank account, and any shred of dignity. But fuck, I so love that sexy, understated, pillow-top gut of his. Of all the erotic fantasies Denny can inspire in me in still frame, my favorite ends with his sensational, lily white gut and juicy pecs covered in a liberal coat of our cum.
Being insanely pretty is almost never sufficient to get a hot hunk to the front of the line for the HWOTM honors, though. In Denny’s case, his work in Jobberpalozzer 14 epitomizes what makes him such a prominent fixture in the pantheon of my favorites. That “everyman” vibe he exudes with nothing more than his beautiful body stripped to trunks and boots is perfectly accentuated by his superlative babyface persona. He’s more than just eager and earnest. He comes across as a legitimate competitor before an opponent even steps foot into the ring. His prematch warm-ups show off the flexibility, strength, and speed of an honest-as-fuck competitive wrestler. That no-hands, neck stretching, super high arching backbend in the middle of the ring is a work of erotic art all on its own, and conveys a preparation for competitive wrestling that instantly far outclasses the likes of Naughty Nick Naughton as soon as the waves hit the jersey shore. Nick is all about the glitz and misdirection of the magical arts of pro wrestling. Denny comes across as real as fuck, someone who rips an average joe apart like barbecued chicken. Nick just smirks and struts and rolls his eyes to sell his role as the dirty, no good, cheating heel. Denny stretches and lunges and balances on the head of a pin in a way that sells me every last ounce of believing that he’s been competitively wrestling for years.
Context plays a little role in my choice of Denny as HWOTM, I have to admit. Jobberpaloozer matches don’t often hit my sweet spot, because squashes aren’t nearly as evocative for me as competitive matches. I’m still chewing on the final match in Jobberpaloozer 14, trying to decide how to review it without dripping too much contempt all over that Howdy-Doody chump ass waste of space hollow man pretty boy Luke Lonza that SP is so infatuated with (unsurprisingly). The jobbers in these collections typically put up jack shit, and the best we can say is that they suck down mountains of humiliating suffering admirably (except for Luke Lonza, who cries and whines and bitches and gives up at a rate of about 20 times per minute). However, Denny is absolutely no pushover. Even with his abysmal ring record, I’d go so far as to say he’s arguably nobody’s jobber. So when he opens up some whoop ass all over Nick Naughton in early days, it’s a delightful surprise. When he battles back from deficits again, and again, to actually school the jersey shore smart ass, it’s actually a little shocking. Sure, I know how Jobberpaloozer matches go, and STILL Denny has me half believing well over halfway through the match that he could very well heap so much class and skill all over the overly tanned manboy in front of him to actually beat Nick like his naughty ass so overabundantly deserves.
In this David vs. Goliath battle, of course, David gets finally upended and then beaten into a withered, impotent pool of sweat and tears. This match squeaks into the Jobberpaloozer end of the pool mostly thanks to the gut wrenching suffering that Denny sells better than I’ve ever seen him sell. Nick dashes his dreams and then stomps them into grape juice. Denny really does suck down gallons of anguish, defying the illusory promise of any quick submission to end his suffering (hey, Luke, fucking take notes!). Denny sells this so outstandingly that he makes it all about him, even as big Nick is flexing and strutting overtop of Denny’s limp, crumpled, soaked body broken before him. I feel an overwhelming compulsion to rush into the ring, scrape the pieces of Denny off the mat, nurse his wounds and soothe his trounced ego. Knowing my tastes, it’s a little surprising how sensationally turned on and compelled I am by Denny’s epic destruction. So, I know he’s this month’s champ, because he takes me places I was not expecting to go.
If Denny ever needs someone to massage out the soreness, to kiss it and make it feel better, and to worship every inch of his boy next door body, I pray to the homoerotic wrestling gods he looks me up. In the meantime, Kid Karisma and Eli Black need to scooch their magnificent asses over to make room on the 3-peat throne for my May 2017 homoerotic wrestler of the month, Denny Cartier.
I get the impression that I may be Denny Cartier’s most infatuated fan. Not that Denny doesn’t have plenty of fans. But I sense that my level of enthusiasm for him may be higher than most. I try not to speculate too long on what others don’t see that I see. But the raison d’être of this blog is to explore in excruciating depth what I see, what I appreciate, and what turns me on. And Denny Cartier turns me on.
Denny is back out of his natural habitat in his new release Jobberpaloozer 14. Even casual Denny fans know that he’s a beast on the mats, but more often than not gets his gorgeous ass handed to him once he steps foot in the ring. So there are dark clouds looming over his head with Denny climbing into the BG East ring as part of a Jobberpaloozer compilation. There’s also something ominous about the fact that this is another “from the vaults” new release. Denny is an even babier baby face than usual. This was taped long enough ago that Denny was not yet sporting any visible tattoos. He has more hair and less mature muscle mass than the shoot master on the mats we’ve seen of his more recent competition. And he’s wearing those white trunks with blue trim that he wore in several early career matches, and as I think of them, they’re sort of his jobber uniform. His chances for victory aside, I must say I first fell in lust with Denny in this youthful, unblemished, curly haired early career incarnation. There’s something more accessible about his lean, taught gut in contrast with the ripped, crystal cut eight-packs of so many other gym bunnies and body builders who climb into that same ring. I once went on at length about my attachment to him as a dizzyingly sexy hunk who could legitimately be a boy next door, a real guy who just happens to have a leading man dimpled chin and who strips to next to nothing to wrestle for the pleasure of gay fans. His sweet, thick thighs are unshaven. He’s probably manscaped his torso a bit, but there’s an unselfconsciousness about his look. In a world full of clones and genetic freaks and gym bunnies and go go boys, Denny strolls in like Pinocchio transformed, a real boy with functional muscle strength and dreamy eyes and a real life propensity for copious sweat and a complete lack of self awareness of what a sensationally sexy object of lust his beautiful ass is.
Oh, yeah, Denny has an opponent. Nick Naughton. I fucking hate this guy. Too tanned. Too primped. Overadorned. He’s a little like the anti-Denny. He knows he’s fucking hot, and if anything, he overestimates his appeal. He certainly overestimates his wrestling dominance. He could probably be forgiven for strutting in and assuming he’ll squash Denny like a bug, standing nearly half a foot taller and bringing with him a reported 50 pounds more weight (though I’m suspicious… he doesn’t seem THAT much bigger) than Denny. I’d cut him some slack for his lack of any glimmer of humility if he didn’t irritate me so fucking much. He has no respect for Denny, and what’s worse, he shows little respect for pro wrestling. He’s all blunt force trauma and muscle bullying. He openly scoffs at Denny’s pre-match stretching and shoot practice. He has nothing but contempt for Denny’s earnestness, and has no more detailed a plan than to beat the living fuck out of his opponent as quickly as possible so he can head back to the Jersey Shore and pick up a pair of tits. Of course, anyone who can inspire such loathing from me is a sensationally accomplished pro wrestling character. I respect him like hell for almost instantly making me hate him, for making Denny that much more my babyfaced hero, for setting the table so nicely for another brutal battle of good versus evil. Fuck, I hate that guy.
Like Joe, a squash goes only so far for my wrestling tastes. I’ll pick a competitive match with convincingly sold suspense over a lopsided squash 99 times out 100. Denny and Nick’s match on Jobberpaloozer 14 is the only one of the 3 on this DVD that treats us to suspense, really, which is probably why I’m drawn to review it first. I strongly advocate for a read of the pro wrestling cannon that distinguishes between a squash and classic jobber vs. heel match. Squashes are, by definition, one-sided maulings. They have their place. They can make sense with an appropriate narrative frame. Denny vs. Nick is not a squash. Those opening notes of doom, that dark cloud hanging just over Denny’s handsome head that I mentioned earlier is the piece that nudges this match just over the line into a jobber story for me. Without that, I’d say this was more legitimately a competitive babyface vs. heel battle. Because Denny fucking dominates more than a third of this match. If you didn’t know how the ring is Denny’s Achilles heel, if you couldn’t read the jobber uniform signals, if you didn’t know better, over halfway through this match you’d have to admit that this thing could absolutely go either way. Which makes it a stretch for a jobber match for me. But while I quibble with the canon, I fucking love to death the drama here.
Nick is a lumbering oaf. Denny is just too sensationally fast and decisive. Nick lunges forward for a lock up, and Denny ducks underneath his outstretched arms effortlessly. Denny throws his back into the ropes and bounces off, launching super high off the mat for a running drop kick. Nick takes it in the chest and stumbles backward, and in that time, Denny has spun to his feet, thrown himself into the ropes, and his soaring like a cruise missile for a second drop kick to the upper chest. Nick is rocked backward farther, clutching his chest, literally mouth gaping open in shock. And yet again, Denny has already scrambled to his feet and is soaring off the ropes a third time to put the big, overlay tanned lug nut on his ass. David is beating the living fuck out of Goliath, and I’m hard as El Capitan.
Tables turn on a dime. This is professional wrestling after all. So when they’re back on their feet and Denny launches for a cross body off the ropes, it’s gaspworthy to see big Nick catch him, take a couple of stutter steps backward, and then right himself before slamming the shit out Denny’s back to the mat. Nick starts stomping all over Denny’s hot body, making my babyface hero flinch and flail, bouncing off the mat, clutching each most recently assaulted appendage in turn. “You know, you got me going for a minute,” Nick admits, smiling as he watches Denny squirm like a fish underfoot. “I thought I was going to have a little bit of a work out, but I guess I’ll just be whipping your ass.” In my mind, I’m thinking that this is the cliff that Denny gets tossed over again and again. Signal the jobber violins, because the inevitable is right now turning into reality.
Nick scoops him back up, cradled across his chest for another slam. Or OTK. Whatever he had in mind, Denny shifts his center of gravity, rolling Nick to his shoulders and, no shit, pinning his leather-skinned ass to the mat for a totally legitimate, no rush 3 count pinfall. Denny bounces to his feet, already sweaty, pumping his fists in the air in victory and congratulating himself. “That’s freakin’ bull shit!” Nick snarls, climbing to his feet and bitching, bitching, bitching. Again, if it weren’t for the title on the packaging, I’d say this was the opening salvo in a hotly contested babyface vs. heel match.
Nick repeatedly wings Denny with blunt force trauma. Denny’s laying down blurring speed and high flying acrobatics and perfectly balanced holds designed lovingly to work an opponent into jeopardy, and Nick is grabbing him by the throat and throwing him into a corner. On the receiving end, Denny suffers beautifully. I don’t remember my crotch responding so instantly to Denny’s panicked cries and whimpers in previous matches. Nick neutralizes his technical skill and hours of practice with heel stomps to the gut. He counters Denny’s finesse and precision by using the jump rope Denny was using to warm up in order to strangle him in a hangman, my babyface hero turning purple and submitting in a panic across Nick’s long back. Again, I think the essential element of inevitability in a jobber match is finally settling in. Maybe Denny will make a run or two, but surely he’s getting steam rolled now.
But no, it just isn’t that match. Denny doesn’t just make a couple of runs, he schools Goliath. Denny showcases his ground game, persistently outmaneuvering the big oaf until he snaps down sweaty, hairy head scissors. Fuck, watching Denny’s big thighs flex and glisten makes me ache to get my hands on that boy next door muscle. Nick pummels his gut, tries some elbow stabs to break the hold, but Denny is having none of that cheap ass shit. He takes the jabs and keeps bearing down, actually growling like an animal with its prey in its teeth. Nick shifts his legs underneath him and uses that raw power to pull Denny off the mat, still attached to his head. You can hear Nick’s thoughts working out how high he has to muscle Denny off the mat in order to pound him back down and earn his escape. A fraction of a second before he does, Denny launches himself over Nick’s shoulder, rolling the big man to his shoulders and ripping his legs apart in a totally humiliating, crotch ripping spladle. Point and counterpoint, Denny is two moves ahead. He’s faster. He’s smarter. He’s got the only legitimate wrestling strategy in the ring. And no shit, he demands and quickly secures another screeching submission from naughty Nick.
This is a competitive match. This is genuine suspense, and Denny is persistent and talented and totally in contention to upend the lumbering big baby crying and complaining as if Denny has used anything but superior skill to school his bronzed ass. It’s a [babyface] jobber versus heel match because that cloud of inevitability is still hanging over Denny’s head. He’s the designated whipping boy. He’s going to go down, because this is a Jobberpaloozer match. But this is no squash. Fuck, I love this.
Blunt force tramua eventually beats the speed right out of Denny. Suplexes and stomps and revenge headscissors wring the fight out of my fantasy next door neighbor. There’s a relatively long and steep slope that Nick rolls him down to the bitter end, and Denny sucks it up like the earnest young hunk I adore so much. He gets the shit kicked out of him, returning again entirely within the lines of the ring jobber that he’s been for so long. And he just keeps selling the back arching agony, the silently gaping screams of pain, the shattered dreams and shocked humiliation with a passion equal to his fierce babyface earnestness that he started with.
Nick stomps out of the ring at the end boasting about needing to go to the gym for a “real workout,” but he doesn’t fool me. He wins, sure. He beats his smaller opponent into the mat, turning his skills and strength into an impotent puddle of sweat. But Nick and I both know that if it weren’t for Denny breaking holds when Nick grabbed the ropes (because Denny is a babyface), if it weren’t for Nick’s overwhelming fire power and much more compromised morals, he’d have been fucked like Goliath on this day. Nick’s words are all about his contempt for Denny, but the tone of voice and the rather unceremonious way he retreats from the ring tell a different story. He’s lucky not to have been the humiliated object of an epic upset, and he’ll know better than underestimate Denny Cartier ever again.
I love watching Denny wrestle. I love watching him pumped in victory. I love watching him gloat. And, frankly, I’m incredibly aroused witnessing him writhe in his own sweat, heavy lidded eyes, slack jaw sucking down air, muscles aching after taking a nasty beating from a much, much bigger opponent. All that beautiful, battered hotness makes me want to climb in the ring, strip him naked, and give him a deep tissue massage to help his imminently fuckable body recover. And it occurs to me, yet again, how enticing I find Denny’s accessibility. There’s that solid, real, unadorned quality about him that translates me into the ring with him. Win or lose, he owns my loyalty because he’s both beautiful and real, a boy next door fantasyman.
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.
It’s taken a few weeks, but I’m thrilled to report that I’ve relocated chez Bard to greener pastures. My life is still mostly in boxes, but internet is up an running, so all is right with the world again. I’ve had the opportunity to watch just a little homoerotic wrestling during the transition, and I’ve got some exciting features and interviews in the pipeline. For today, though, I’ll just call out the eye catching new release teasers that have been making me salivate. As I’ve mused about before, there’s something a little magical about that liminal time between the first glimpse of marketing of new homoerotic wrestling matches and the moment of putting eyes on the product itself. I’m still consuming about 75% of my wrestling in DVD format, so that enticing moment of promise and anticipation can stretch at least a few days as the US Postal Service makes its way to my door (happily, that distance is considerably shorter for most of my favorite wrestling producers after this last move). Sometimes the marketing inspires my imagination in ways that the actual product never quite matches, but sometimes I’m particularly pleased to be caught by surprise, thrown a twist, or simply served up exactly the titillating, provocative wrestling fare that my heart desired. In the last couple of weeks, the following new releases have been tweaking my fantasies, and being between addresses has meant the opportunity to suck down that gratification has been even more delayed. What follows are the tried and true favorites of mine, and every match mentioned below features a hunk I’ve named homoerotic wrestler of the month in the past. I’m sure you’ll see reviews of at least some of these in the coming weeks as I settle into my new home and new routine, but for now, just the first glimpses catching my eye.
First of all, this tag team in the opening match of Tag Team Torture 19 is spinning me right round. I haven’t felt a good scratching of my ongoing itch for hot, erotic tag team wrestling in a long time, and the pairing of sensationally handsome and ripped veteran Christian Taylor (former homoerotic wrestler of the month around here) with lovely, lithe newbie and fan of neverland, Charlie Evans, could be just what the doctor ordered.
Increasing my anticipation of this Tag Team Torture 19 match are Christian and Charlie’s opponents. Of course, I sit up and take notice when one of my boybanders, Ty Alexander, climbs into the ring, looking fitter and finer than ever. But his fan-turned-tag partner Chase Addams could very well need to join the band. Newbie heels are are a hard sell for me, though, so the jury is out as to whether the new kid’s marketed phenomenal attitude and ring skills will make me want to throw my underwear at him.
Sticking with TTT19 for just a tad longer, don’t think it escaped my notice that daddy-of-my-dreams and former HWOTM Matt Thrasher has made his BG East debut! I’ve fallen deep for daddy Matt since the first glimpse I got of him at MDW. I’m rigid with anticipation of what BGE might make of this salt and pepper muscleman.
Two boybanders in one match!? Ah, hell yes! You’d think Ring Releases 4 was a custom match I ordered, featuring my long time infatuation Drake Marcos and heel pup Kayden Keller. Drake keeps begging for another shot at taking me on in the ring, so I’m always keenly interested in watching the endless ways that his opponents break him apart piece by piece. I have high expectations that Kayden’s work here will be inspiring and devastating.
I’m also a Denny Cartier fanatic. I’ve named him homoerotic wrestler of the month at least twice that I can remember off the top of my head. There’s something raw and real about Denny, with a look that makes me weak in the knees and mat wrestling skills that bring me at full attention every fucking time. I don’t know if Chace LaChance is too much muscle and ego to handle, but damn, I’m eager to see Denny give it a go.
Also from Chace’s Spotlight, Jake Jenkins. Need I say more? I’ve been on team Jake from the start, and I’ve never failed to be fully satisfied and completely exhausted with every match I’ve seen of his. He has a dismal record in the BG East ring, making me worry about his prospects against Chace is this match, but his size and acrobatics combined with Chace’s muscle mass, leaves me anticipating a lot of gasping, awe and orgasms.
I’ve been off the Thunder’s Arena rotation for a while now, but the tempting teaser of another look at drop-dead gorgeous Eagle stomping the living shit out of Z-Man is one of a couple of strong motivators for climbing back into the arena again. Eagle was one of the rare newbies to convince me to make him homoerotic wrestler of the month, and I’m wanting to see what the sophomore year has in store for the beefcake.
The other motivator is the prospect of sampling Thunder’s new babyface bodybuilder Steel up against fitter than ever (how is that even possible!?) Marco, yet another HWOTM. Guys built as magnificently as Steel have a dismal track record when it comes to homoerotic wrestling, in my book at least. I still hold out hope for a second coming of Steve Sterling, a juicy, impeccably crafted bodybuilder who really takes to the genre with enthusiasm and promise. Even if he’s just eye candy, he’s in phenomenal hands in this match.
Can’t wait to dig in, and of course I’ll let you know what I think (as if you could stop me). It’ll probably still be a little while of unpacking and settling in before I hit my stride here again, but I’m looking forward to comparing notes with you soon.
Is there anyone else who gets off on that moment when a wrestler just totally fucks around with his beaten opponent just because he can? Of course there is.
Personally, I prefer that little bit of juicy drama to cap off a suspenseful back and forth battle of brawn and brains. I like to be kept guessing, tempted back and forth to jump to the conclusion of which hot hunk is going to reign victorious, only to have my assumptions and predictions called into doubt over and over. Then, once one roaring stud is driving that bus all over his opponent’s bested body, it’s incredibly provocative for me to watch him just mess with the defanged loser. You know, flex in his face. Rip off his trunks. Or, and here’s the topic I’m working a head of steam up about today, toss his broken, once dangerous body across your shoulders and take a victory lap around the ring.
I’m certain that the most satisfying victory lap I’ve ever witnessed is from the opening match of Wrestlefest 2. Moments before being awarded rookie of the year, Brad Rochelle is in a surprisingly tough tussle with then notorious jobber, sexy Patrick Donovan. The stakes are higher than normal because there’s a packed audience of fellow wrestlers watching, critiquing, urging on the boys from ringside. Brad is the it-boy. He’s tanned and phenomenally toned. Fans have been popping their corks uncontrollably for the past year since Brad debuted at BG East. Patrick has been racking up loss after loss, each one seeming to inspire yet a longer line of prospective opponents who want to dig their fingertips into his luscious pecs and make the pretty boy scream. There’s some sweet back and forth to start the match. Patrick is no pushover. But Brad folds baby cakes up like a peanut butter sandwich, pinning Patrick’s shoulders with his noggin nestled nice and tight between Brad’s muscled thighs. Someone eagerly urges Brad to make him squeal. Brad takes the first fall to the applause of his peers, giving the jobber a light slap in the face somewhere between playful and insulting. The fan favorite babyface rising looks like he’s got the jobber’s sweet ass tied up in a bow.
And then suddenly Patrick pounces. The lean, handsome stud with mouthwatering pecs flips over his opponent, folding Brad up in the very same, humiliating hold he was just submitted to. Patrick is raging, punching Brad’s ass, calling the jock stud a pussy. There’s laughter from the audience, as it starts to sink in that it-boy Brad Rochelle is currently getting his fantastic ass beat bad. Patrick refuses to relent until Brad is tapping, yelling out his humiliated submission. The boys ringside can hardly believe it, as Patrick pumps his fist in the air and then strolls over to take a seat on the top turnbuckle, soaking in the sight of Brad flat on is back in a pool of sweat, nursing his abused shoulder.
What happens next? Fuck, I love that suspense. As it turns out, Brad opens up a can of testosterone fueled, face-saving whoop ass to what climaxes to a standing ovation from the hooting audience. He’s working out a little rage at being publicly humiliated. He’s gratuitously brutal, egged on by his bruised ego and the cheers of the audience. Patrick is laid waste, and Brad hoists pec boy across he shoulders and jogs around the ring as the boys at ringside go wild. Brad’s face beams, feeling the victory deep down. He laughs at his total mastery, his complete ownership of the hot punk who a few minutes ago was calling him a pussy and punching him in the ass. Shimmering in sweat, flexed, magnificently victorious, he takes another lap just because the moment is so fucking sweet he needs to savor it.
I don’t think I’ve ever seen a more titillating victory lap. But I typically love one when I see it. It’s less compelling for me in a squash. When a boy’s been owned from start to finish, there’s less plot, less resolution of homoerotic wrestling tension wrapped up in a victory lap. But yeah, when all is said and done, it’s definitely value added for me to see a winner just fuck with his battered prey. Just because he can. Just because it feels good to demonstrate that he can do whatever the fuck he wants with all that potential, all that bluster and posing and prospective danger wrapped up in the muscled beauty beaten and now at his mercy.
There’s been some confusion about the BG East Best of 2014 poll. For the record, it is still open, and will remain so until midnight tomorrow night, February 8. You can find the poll through the homepage by clicking on the “All 2014 Releases” button and then clicking the poll banner at the top of the page, or simply click here to go to the poll directly.
Let’s take a look at a few more categories. What defines a babyface is fiercely debated among some wrestling fans. When I’m thinking of babyfaces (which is often), I’m picturing a wrestler who is eye-catchingly beautiful, earnest, optimistic, trusting in the rules of wrestling and human decency to make the wrestling ring an honest to god contest of strength and technical skill. A babyface is stoked to be cheered and admired. He expresses contempt for vile evil doers who take short cuts and disregard rules and good sportsmanship. As I look at the field of BG East Bestie nominees for Top Babyface of 2014, that’s the standard I’m holding up to each of this sizzling hot leading men. Let’s take a look at who’s in the running.
For me, this category comes down to the tried and true, solidly developed babyface characters of Jake Jenkins and Denny Cartier. I think JJ’s momentum and unblinkingly fanatic fan base makes him the top contender for the popular vote, but my personal vote is finally leaning Denny’s way. JJ has an edge to him in some matches, a cocky, smirking, I’ll-go-as-low-down-as-you-dare-me-to attitude, whereas Denny just clenches that Clark Kent jaw and dishes out due respect almost every time. And in 2014 he had the distinction of taking that upright intensity to introduce Lon Dumont to mat wrestling, including finally getting bulldozed by the notorious pro heel. The dark horse who could defy the odds this year I think may be Kip Sorrel. I’m always a little surprised not to hear more buzz about the living Ken doll, so I’m wondering if there’s a silent majority out there just waiting to make Kip upend JJ.
Now let’s turn our attention to the category of Best Squash. This is a category that instantly turns off some fans who just don’t enjoy one-sided crushings. I, however, am not that type of fan. I fucking love gasping, dangerous maulings when both the pitcher and catcher sell it with enthusiasm. I think we have some notable contenders and, perhaps, some surprising absences in this year’s slate.
Two matches from Demo 17, two from Demo 18, and JJ and Guido showing up in multiple contenders? Very complex field to try to handicap. Personally, I’m going with the one and only non-Demo entry, because Dr. Cooper and Leo Tomasi owned me hardest and truly surprised me when I noticed how hot I found it to see Leo bleed. Dr. Cooper is an incredible heel, perhaps made more so by the distance he’s traveled since his heel turn. Honestly, I’m not sure at all how to predict where the majority may lean in this one with all of the overlaps, so I’m going out on a limb and saying I think the majority (and the hardcore Coop fans) will swing the vote the same way I’m going, with Jobberpaloozer 13. I’m also demonstrating the size of my balls by saying I think Jonny v Nicholas is a serious underdog this year. I have to also note that all of these Best Squash contenders are ring matches from just 3 products. What happened to Passion & Punishment 1, with Mason Brooks spanking Drake Marcos like the naughty boy his is, which may have been the most satisfying squash of the year in my book?
Now for the newest category in the BG East Besties, the vote for “Best Submissions in One Match.” I struggled with the variable construct of this category. It’s not “most submissions,” though I suppose some could vote with that interpretation. It’s not the best “submission” in a match, because the nominees aren’t specific submissions, but the matches themselves. It’s also hard to miss the fact that the nominees for Best Squash line up very closely with nominees for “Best Submissions in One Match,” making me think the nominating committee also lacked a little clarity in the scope and range of this debut category.
So I’m choosing to dole out my vote for this category based on particular submissions (to be specific, the one’s I’ve highlighted above). If it were “most innovative submissions,” I’d easily vote for Jonny & Nicholas. If it were most terrifying submissions, I’d probably take Guido and Kirk. I’m picking the best submission as in the one that I found sexiest, the one that recurred in my early morning wet dreams, the one that I replayed in real life and in my fantasies most, which was, for me, Trey Dixon’s poolside face-to-crotch orgasmic headscissors. Since the category itself seems spongy to me, predicting a winner is tough, but I’m thinking Cameron Matthews and LJL’s fans will swing this their way. I think the longest shot is Guido and Kirk, both because Guido fans will be split and because Kirk is such a new commodity.
So the Bard-approved ballot as it stands now looks like this:
I don’t have to tell you that I have my favorites. My fancy does flit from time to time, but there are some regular objects of my adoration that stay firmly rooted in my homoerotic wrestling fantasies. I cannot stress enough how thrilled I am to report that two of those perennial fantasy men face one another in BG East’s recently new release Gazebo Grapplers 16. Lon Dumont, long-time holder of the title of my favorite homoerotic wrestler and past winner of wrestler of the month, climbs out of the ring and into the Gazebo to face Denny Cartier, two-time homoerotic wrestler of the month and fanastically intense mat specialist.
Seeing Lon barefoot for the first time just about does me in within seconds of this confrontation starting. My #1 pro wrestler turned bodybuilder turned homoerotic wrestler (not that I have a title for that, but really, who else is there to compete!?) is in his shaved head and insanely lean, competition ready form. And I kid you not, the fearless lightweight bruiser looks downright nervous stepping onto the mat! The undercurrent of vulnerability lying just beneath the surface of Lon’s irrepressible invincibility, paired his bare feet, are incredibly hot.
Denny is a work of art in a totally different way. Where Lon is aesthetically gorgeous, with a body crafted by a fine artist, Denny is functionally sexy as hell, with a body forged by a hardcore artisan. Denny is powerful, with muscles pounded into their bulging, beautiful form by years of amateur wrestling and MMA. There’s a luxurious thickness to Denny’s physique that stands in stark contrast to the whittled, diamond cut leanness of Lon. I’m enthralled by this contrast, and if I had to choose just one of these studs to worship, I think my head would explode trying to decide which.
I’m also blown away by Lon’s offense. He translates the mastery of a pro wrestling heel to the Gazebo mats with amazing skill. Confident, smirking Denny is leveled by sucker punches and knees to the gut. All of Denny’s flexibility and speed sort of whimper and writhe impotently early going as Lon grabs the momentum with both hands and throttles it with the tenacity of a badger.
When Denny’s mat expertise finally comes clawing it’s way on top, again I’m stunned by the way he displays the award winning physique of his screaming opponent. He repeatedly comes close to ripping Lon’s legs off at the hip, giving a stunning look at the bodybuilder’s quivering groin. And just to prove that he’s not in the least intimidated by the wall of deeply ridged abdominal muscles staring at him, Denny digs his elbow deep into Lon’s core, determined to shred the hunk’s strong suit.
But regular readers will not be surprised by my deep satisfaction and arousal at watching Lon finally pull his gorgeously hot ass out of the fire and go ape shit all over the overwhelmed mat specialist. His fingers dig so deep into Denny’s luscious pecs that I’m left wondering is he’s going to claw the tattooed hunk’s heart out! Lon doesn’t just wring the most submissions out of his withering opponent, he sucks the life out of him, leaving stunningly hot and dangerous Denny melted into a pool of agony. I honestly didn’t know what to expect from this pro wrestler vs mat specialist on the mat match, but I didn’t expect the way Lon owns the Gazebo and stunningly weaves every natural strength he has into this novel setting. The attitudes are intense. After stunningly hot silence early on, the trash talk finally starts to pick up, including Denny getting stokes into some cocky crowing. Schoolboy pins with lovely packages delivered right to the doorstep of both stud’s chins transport me. I absolutely love this concept (pitting different combat styles against one another), and Denny and Lon sell it like I’d expect these perennial favorites to do it: all in, sexy as hell, and leaving me breathless!