Much has already been written about BG East’s recent Demolition 10 match featuring Ty Alexander and Guido Genatto. I’m not sure that I have a lot more to add to the conversation, but it’s an important conversation to have, so let me add not more than about two cents worth. Also, Ty is one of what Joe has referred to as my personal homoerotic wrestling boyband, and I always want to promote my favorites.
Alex Miller at The Cave wrote the definitive review of the initially released match, including raves for the sensationally sexy execution of a totally over the top domination match. Alex also had more pointed critical comments of Big Daddy Guido’s choice of mid-match taunts, which apparently veered persistently toward the homophobic end of the pool.
I say “apparently” not only because there’s a running bit about the word in the match, but also because I’ve only seen the post-production edited version, after which BG East staff, including Kid Leopard himself, took a closer look at the text and agreed that the slurs took a decidedly politically unaffirming turn. Staying true to their pro-gay raison d’etre, the final release of this match has a few moments of carefully muted audio that a sharp ear can note. However, if I hadn’t read Alex’s review, I wouldn’t have known that specific reason for it.
So my comments are mostly about the post-edit, though I will say that I think Alex, other fans who reflected on the topic on his blog, and Kid Leopard all deserve a ton of respect for having what could be a difficult conversation about the wrestling that turns us on. I stopped watching some gay-targeted wrestling companies years ago for repeatedly charging headlong into a “smear the queer” type of storytelling. I also freely admit that I have quite a bit of ambivalence about companies like MDW that similarly dip their toes in those waters, but after a similarly ethics-forward conversation I had with Muscle Master Kevin at MDW, I’m pleased that they have begun more carefully targeted and labeling their products for the gay fans who get off on gay bashing (which I will never understand), and gay fans who get off on wrestling.
Guido’s dialogue even in the post-edit is angry, aggressive and intentionally provocative. “Have you even gone through fucking puberty yet?!,” he taunts Ty the moment he sees him. In one of a few long, deep, intimate face-to-crotch headscissors, Guido acknowledges what you and I (and Ty) are seeing in sharpest focus. “Take a good look at that,” Guido orders the babyfaced beauty with his nose jammed into the massive heel’s balls. “You like those red trunks, huh? My fucking hot sausage looks good in those trunks, huh?” The fact that Guido names the obvious homoeroticism of this fabulous hold stirs something deep down in me. “Smells like fucking testosterone!,” he barks, “like a real fucking man, not a little fucking twink!”
My hunch is that the editor’s finger on the mute button had to get lively not long after this. Personally, some of my favorite homoerotic wrestlers are twinks. I think Ty may be the twinkiest babyface in competition these days. And the roaring narrative of a big, hairy bear crushing a lightweight twink and demanding to be called “Daddy” is golden. Twink isn’t a problem for me as a term, at all. But Guido certainly seems like he could be escalating the taunts rapidly at this point in the match.
The sexual innuendo is thick in Guido’s endless, taunting monologue. “That’s right,” he growls as Ty struggles to pry his smooth, tenderized body off the mat. “Get on your hands and knees, bitch! That’s just where I fucking want you!” Guido alternately sounds like a gay hardcore porn star and a seductively empathic lover, switching back and forth in an awesome mindfuck for a dazed plaything like Ty. “How does that feel,” Guido suddenly asks, like he’s interested, as if he’s pounding for his own pleasure but suddenly wants to make sure he’s tickling Ty’s prostate just right. Then, back again to the hardcore porn side, Guido snarls, “I’m going to fucking stretch you out like a little hole!” Grabbing his own crotch and giving it a hearty tug, Guido muses, “More fucking meat than you can handle.” Then there’s a half second mute that you have to be sharp to catch.
I’m happy that BG East is on it and committed to lifting up gay men, and perhaps I should feel more ambivalent knowing some of the backstory of this match, but I’m don’t. Ty looks sweet enough to eat with a spoon. Sure, he’s in my boyband for a reason, but he’s lean and lush and if he sold his wailing, writhing, terrorized suffering an ounce less, Guido wouldn’t be half as terrifying as he is. Screaming with his face stomped underneath the heel’s big boot, whimpering helplessly in a tree of woe, and most of all, hung out to dry gorgeously in Guido’s torture rack, Ty is an incredibly tasty morsel.
And Guido is a bear daddy fantasy man. He works up a lather of sweat that makes his fantastically bulging muscles glisten hypnotically beneath his thick coat of fur. He’s a raging beast, filling the role of unstoppable dominator like the pro he is. When he straddles Ty’s chest with the Toy Boy hanging in that tree of woe, and then slides his hips backward to cock pin Ty’s smothered face, despite what my gaydar tells me, I’m momentarily convinced that the taunts and insults are just the particular brand of foreplay that works that aforementioned meat into action.
The whole brutalizing catch weight bully match is a time honored genre of course, but I have to muse about more novel homoerotic wrestling narratives where my mind wanders. For whatever boundary crossing he engaged in pre-edit, could there be any finer retribution than to have Guido slated to face my entire boyband of babyface beauties who have proven beyond a shadow of a doubt that hot, sweaty, naked wrestling action turns them on? That’s right, Guido in the middle of the ring, still all strut and swagger, but with an unmistakable note of apprehension with the four corners populated by Ty, Drake, Kayden, and Mason. I have no idea of Big Daddy Guido is secure enough in his sexuality to be quadruple teamed by the unapologetically gay-positive wrestlers who never fail to delight me without qualification. But that, I would like to see.
“Now,” Daemon growls from whatever pit of hell he’s possessing Drake’s body. “Take… off… your… trunks.” Gabriel groans incoherently for a while, rolling to his side. I’m not sure if he’s even registering what’s been said. But he must, because he reaches down with both hands, hooking his thumbs inside the top of his trunks and slowly dragging them down his massive thighs. He’s got a heather jock strap on underneath.
Drake drags him up by the hair to a seated position, quickly kneeling behind him. He wraps his right bicep across the muscle cherub’s throat. With a sudden jerk, he locks down hard, making Gabriel’s tear-filled eyes snap open wide.
What the fuck ever! Gabriel’s starting to pound out his gargantuan member with both hands, and it’s truly epic! With Drake choking him out, it doesn’t take long at all for the cherub to explode. I don’t realize that my mouth is hanging open in awe until I notice that Drake is staring right at me, still bearing down on his fading opponent, but looking, fixed, right into my eyes.
“No,” Gabriel chuckles, staring down at the dazed stud on his knees in front of him, “now I distinctly remember you being right here once before.” He grabs the back of Drake’s head with both hands and shoves his face into his body. Even on his knees, Drake’s mouth comes mid-chest to the bulging muscle cherub standing in front of him. Gabriel smothers him there, deep in the crevice between his massive pecs. I can hear Drake grunting, struggling for air. He presses his hands against Gabriel’s hips, attempting to pry his face away, but the Brit holds him in place with a vice-like grip. About 30 seconds of pec smothering in, and Drake’s arms start to go slack. Oh, fuck.
Slowly, Gabriel drags Drake’s slackening face down his torso. Drake’s lips stretch and twist across the pronounced ridges of Gabriel’s abs. Down, down Gabriel presses his opponent’s face until Drake his hunched forward, his mouth pressed hard against the muscle cherub’s big bulge. Holy shit. HUGE bulge! Gabriel’s legendary cock is visibly growing right before my eyes. Well, most immediately, it’s growing right before Drake’s lips. Gabriel’s head rolls backward, his eyes closed, obviously getting stoked to the edge. Fuck, they look like both of them may very well ditch the wrestling and just start fucking. Not that I’d mind watching that. But…come on, wrestling!
Clearly, I had a better time than Drake did, because the stud went ape shit all over me 4 months ago after I had the distinct pleasure of refereeing a fabulously sexy match between him and the goldenboy Trey Dixon. Okay, sure, suffering the humiliation of not only getting strung up helplessly in the ropes, but having the ref accept an invitation to join in the fun was probably overstepping things. A bit. But holy shit, the Pearl Harbor job he did on me afterward was over the top. Seriously, I always thought big D was secretly enjoying my good natured ribbing as much as I. Obviously, I was mistaken, because the kid nearly ripped me to pieces.
It was Kid Leopard who suggested I give him some gratuitous glam shots after it was all said and done, so I acquiesced (have YOU ever tried telling him no?!) and let him tape me as I hoisted the limp sack of potatoes up and tied him hanging from the ropes. Again. Mmmmm, fuck. Totally at my mercy. Naked. Cold sweat glistening on his gorgeous body. He deserved to get messed with more, for taking himself way too fucking seriously and taking it out on this novice wrestler’s body. But I just slapped him around a little for the Boss and taunted him for the camera and whatever private customer had wanted to see the two of us in the ring at the same time (hello, I’d love to know who was the fan who custom ordered that little bit of heaven!).
A little while later I woke up, groaning, bound once again in the ropes, my mouth stuffed with the soiled and sweaty trunks of both myself and Bard. Tears of shame filled my face as I writhed in the darkened arena, trying to spit out the gear only to realize the ring tape wrapped around my head, keeping them in.
I stripped down and pulled my gear selection from the locker, the singlet 
damn good. The bright yellow of his selected singlet complemented his Socal goldenboy tan quite well. But still…I don’t see what they see in him. I patted my throbbing cock as Trey pulled his singlet straps up and threw me a wink as he bounded out the door as we heard the Boss emceeing our announcements despite not knowing (or more likely, caring) if we were even close to being ready.
If you’re a follower of all things BGEast you’ll undoubtedly have seen the posts about pictures leaking from within its hallowed walls from, who Bard has coined Omi: 
Kid Leopard, as you could imagine, was not happy.
Sidelineland 