Drake Marcos – Page 4

Boxes

June 20, 2016 wrestlebardLeave a comment

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.

Christian Taylor and Charlie Evans tag up in Tag Team Torture 19

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.

Team Vanity: Ty Alexander & Charlie Evans

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.

Matt Thrasher debuts as tag team partner for Brute Baynard

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.

Apparently

May 24, 2016 wrestlebard7 Comments

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 always endorse taking a look at things from multiple angles.

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.

“More fucking meat than you can handle.”

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.

Drake Reborn: Part 3

May 22, 2016 wrestlebard1 Comment

In Drake Reborn: Part 2, things were looking bad for everyone’s favorite jobber Drake Marcos. Knowing Drake, getting pec smothered by the beefcake archangel Gabriel would surely test his will to keep fighting. But then again, the star of this piece of homoerotic wrestling fiction is not the Drake we’ve come to know and love. And now the climactic finale…

……………

Drake Reborn – by Bard

Part 3

There’s a sudden burst of energy and struggle. It’s hard to see exactly what’s going on because fucking Billy keeps stepping in front of me, but when I lean over far enough to the right, I see Drake hoisting Gabriel up way, way off his feet in a bearhug. Fuck, yes! I barely resist the urge to applaud.

Drake comes stutter-stepping out of the corner with his opponent writhing like a trapped animal. He arches his back, hoisting Gabriel still higher off his feet. Gabriel’s thick legs splay wide apart. Abruptly, Drake lunges forward, pounding Gabriel’s tailbone squarely across his right knee in an exquisite atomic drop. Gabriel actually screams. No acting in that high pitched wail!

Drake’s earlier “breather” had to have been a ruse, because he’s bouncing on the balls of his feet and looking fresh as a sweaty daisy right now. He drives a drilling knee squarely into the center of Gabriel’s thickly muscled back, and again, the Brit wails. There’s no hesitancy. No interruption in Drake’s momentum at all as he hops into the air and drops the back of his right thigh squarely into the back of Gabriel’s head. I wince involuntarily. I’m not sure if Gabriel’s pretty face is going to look nearly so pretty in a moment.

Drake is on fire now, steam rolling all over the bulging Brit. There’s no self-congratulations. No distraction. He moves with smooth confidence, dragging Gabriel up to his knees just so he can land a swinging knee to the pretty boy’s face, flinging him back to the mat in a heap. All of those pretty, pretty fresh muscles on Drake scoop Gabriel up off the mat like a child, swinging him high and slamming him with total authority to his back. Gabriel’s lower back arches in agony instinctively, and fuck it all if Drake doesn’t drive his heel viciously down into the cherub’s lower abs, pounding him back to the mat again.

With uncharacteristic (newly characteristic?) deliberateness, Drake grabs Gabriel’s ankles and rolls him to his stomach. Straddling all of that hot, hot muscle, Drake squats low in a Boston crab, leaning way back and making the Brit literally scream in pain. Drake’s face is fucking glowing, and it’s not just the sweat. He makes eye contact with me, briefly, and that over-the-top, handsome as fuck grin stretches across his face. It’s a good thing the Boss didn’t forbid me from grabbing my crotch, because there’s no stopping me at the moment. Gabriel slaps the mat furiously, screaming, “I give! I give! I give!” Drake ignores him a good long while, just making the pretty boy suffer like his bitch.

I can tell the production crew are going crazy for the action, because Billy and Jonny are crossing in front of me repeatedly, getting every angle of the action they can. So I’m not exactly sure how Gabriel ended up racked across Drake’s shoulders, but I’m thrilled to the core to watch our former jobber claw the fuck out of the Brit’s balls, yanking on his chin with the other hand, bending the petite powerhouse like a twist tie around his neck. Angel boy is screaming again. I’m not sure if it’s a submission, but I don’t think Drake is caring either way. He bounces on the balls of his feet, and Gabriel’s screams are comically punctuated with involuntary gasps. I’m sure it’s a submission. I’m equally sure, it’s not going to matter.

Drake unceremoniously dumps his quivering opponent backward off his shoulders. Gabriel’s muscled body slams to the mat like dead weight. Drake’s lightly hairy chest heaves, but he’s far from exhausted, I can tell. A half second later, Drake is grinding the ball of his right foot into the Brit’s temple, pinning the side of his face to the mat. “Take off your trunks!” Drake barks. I swear to god, I’ve never heard that voice before. Where the fuck did that voice just come from? It’s about half an octave deeper, with a lifetime of viciousness behind it. It’s like nothing I’ve ever heard come out of Drake’s mouth before.

“Fuck… You!” Gabriel sputters, trying to shove Drake’s foot away. Jonny has one knee up on the ring apron now, clearly zooming his camera in to capture the humiliation. He’s also obstructing my view again, god damn it.

I can’t see exactly what’s happening when Drake bends forward, but soon enough, he has Gabriel’s hot, muscled body stretched out deliciously in a full nelson. The Brit starts to fight it, muscling his arms downward to break the hold. Drake nips that in the bud by suddenly slamming Gabriel face-first into the nearest turnbuckle, still locked down on that sensational full nelson. The muscle cherub’s eyes roll into the back of his head as Drake pulls him out of the corner. Fuck, I think he may have just passed out there for a second.

Drake parades the muscleboy around the ring, grinding his crotch violently against the Brit’s ass. He pauses at the next turnbuckle to pound that pretty, pretty face once again. Gabriel’s knees buckle, but Drake hoists him back up and around the ring again. All four corners get the pleasure of tenderizing that legendary baby face. I’m pretty sure his nose isn’t broken, but there are dark bruises starting to form around the Brit’s eyes and cheeks.

Finally, Drake flings his prey into the center of the ring again. Gabriel kneels there on his hands and knees, teetering forward and backward like he’s about to collapse or vomit. “Take… off… your… trunks!” Daemon commands in that same voice that grabs me by the base of the balls.

Gabriel is sucking on air now, so it takes a few second for him to finally swallow the pain and humiliation just enough to quietly whisper, “fuck…. you.”

Drake place kicks the kid in the ribs so hard that Gabriel is lifted off his hands and knees and sent sprawling to his back at the edge of the ring. Drake follows without pause, hooking his right foot under Gabriel’s shoulder and kicking him underneath the ropes and tumbling off the ring apron to the floor below, just a few feet in front of me.

Billy backs up so quickly to keep Gabriel in frame that I think he’s going to sit in my lap. Not that I mind. The kid’s got a sweet ass. But fuck, I want to see what’s happening! Between Billy and Jonny, I just catch glimpses of Drake tying Gabriel’s arms in the ropes, his hot muscles hanging like meat in a butcher’s window. Drake strokes the muscle cherub’s pecs. He pinches Gabriel’s nipples, and the Brit gasps quietly, a gentle smile on his face. Clearly, Drake abruptly applies considerably more pressure, because suddenly Gabriel cries out in pain.

Without warning, Gabriel lifts his legs and snaps them around Drake’s torso. Drake cocks his right fist to cut this shit out pronto, but he freezes in mid-swing as Gabriel squeezes hard. Drake gasps, his eyes flutter shut. Oh, fuck, that’s hurting. Gabriel’s thighs are incredible to watch, flexing, grinding. His arms are still trapped in the ropes, but if he keeps this up long enough, he may just suck the momentum right out of my fight boy.

No worries. Drake claws the Brit’s balls so helpfully perched right in front of him. Gabriel’s scissors fall apart in a wail of screams. He bucks and bounces in the ropes, twisting his hips in a completely vain attempt to escape the ball trap latched onto him. Drake leans in close, his face inches away from Gabriel’s, twisted in agony. Tears, seriously, tears are squeezing out of the Brit’s swollen, bruised face.

Drake pries the ropes apart and Gabriel sags to a motionless heap on the ring apron. Thankfully, Billy and Jonny head around the corner to get better angles on the action as Drake drags the muscle cherub by the hair back into the ring. Smooth as silk, Drake scoops the baby face Brit up like a rag doll, holding him there across his chest for what seems like hours. Drake’s hot, hairy thighs glisten with sweat, bulging and flexing gorgeously. Then he slams the boy to his lower back again. Gabriel whimpers, his back arched high, the back of both hands clutching at his throbbing lower spine.

“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.

Holy shit, the jock strap doesn’t last long. Drake rips it off violently. There are strings of elastic and shredded cotton everywhere, but nothing is actually attached to Gabriel’s body any longer. He’s perfectly, gorgeously naked, flat on his back, staring up at Drake.

“You’ve never met anything like me before,” Daemon hisses. I swear, it sounds like steam pipes, there’s so much pressure, such vicious intensity behind every word. “My name is Daemon. And I’m here to drag your beautiful ass back to hell with me.”

Gabriel is weeping! Jesus, Drake’s doing a mind fuck on this kid. He’s seriously terrified.

“Say my name,” Daemon snarls.

“Daemon,” Gabriel gasps, almost a whisper.

“Say my name!” Daemon barks louder, planting his right foot on Gabriel’s chest and staring down into his face. The grin stretched across his face looks maniacal now!

“Daemon!” Gabriel shouts through sobs. He reaches up, pleadingly stroking Drake’s calf. Gabriel’s legendary anaconda is fully engorged and also weeping.

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.

I can’t hear what Daemon is saying. It’s a low murmur, cooing, demanding directly into Gabriel’s ear as he locks down the blood flow to the Brit’s brain. Billy obviously wants to get the words on the record as well, because he’s climbing up to the ring apron and zooming in, as close as he can. Is Gabriel being commanded to start stroking his mammoth cock, or is he just being driven over the edge by the mesmerizing words of his opponent?

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.

A half a minute later, and Gabriel’s arms fall limply to the mat. His abs and pecs are coated in his own cum. Drake drops him to his back roughly and crawls on top of him, saddling into a schoolboy pin. He leans forward, his crotch grinding into the unconscious kid’s face, and slaps the mat. “One!” He takes a good, long time, face fucking the fallen angel enthusiastically, before slapping the mat again. “Two!”

Holy fuck! Holy fuck!

“Three!” Drake slaps the mat one last time before leaning back and flexing his beautiful, fresh biceps for Billy and the camera.

Holy fuck. Drake just turned heel.

——–Just the Beginning———-

Drake Reborn: Part 2

May 20, 2016May 22, 2016 wrestlebard1 Comment

In Drake Reborn: Part 1 you read about my picking up the pieces of a shattered Drake and trying to glue him back together. The plot turns to a grudge match of demons and angels and the making (or unmaking?) of a BG East wrestler.

——–

Drake Reborn – by Bard

Part 2

I flew home the next day, but we stayed in touch. Emails, texts, chats. He’d ask me what that reinvented, heel Drake would do. And I’d tell him. And then, unbelievably, he’d fucking do it! He was in the gym 5 days a week. He tossed out his boxer briefs and twink-tastic Banana Republic button downs. He started blogging again, fully giving voice to the iconoclastic, loud mouthed, fierce, trash talking troublemaker that I’d only hinted at. He sent me video clips of himself, practicing calling out BG East’s finest, insulting Kid Vicious, taunting Jonny Firestorm, telling Kid Leopard to kiss his ass. Yep. I totally got off to those videos.

And week in and week out, I couldn’t help but notice that Drake was looking sensational. He’d put on some sweet muscle before that train wreck with Trey, but damn. A little blogger-inspired reinvention looked fucking great on the kid. After a couple of months of Bard boot camp, I honestly wouldn’t have recognized him. Which is what inspired me to pitch The Boss.

Gabriel Ross was Drakes very first first opponent, back when he was an overly tanned, quiveringly anxious newbie a few years ago. Drake put some sensational hurt on the pint-sized muscle cherub, but in the end, Drake was on his knees and completely at the Brit babyface’s mercy. Who better for Daemon to face, to demonstrate that this is a whole new wrestler, than Drake’s original tormentor?

———–

So here we are, me and Drake in a bathroom at BG East’s Boston-area facilities. BG East doesn’t “do” managers, so it took still more fast talking, negotiations, and, yes, flattery for me to be permitted to come along for the ride. Drake insisted on it, though. I think his internal image of his new wrestling persona may be a little more fragile than I thought. He’s still relying on me to reflect back to him this vision of a confident, cocky, balls out bad boy that he’s been trying on for the past 4 months.

The bathroom door flies open. “Let’s get a look at this Daemon,” Kid Leopard smirks, strolling in without knocking, of course. There’s just a momentary twitch across the Boss’ face, and I’m convinced that he’s surprised and impressed with what he sees. Drake looks sensational, and the solid black square cut trunks he’s pulling on are sexy as fuck. “Well, you’d better wrestle better than you look,” Kid Leopard snarls with contempt. His lingering look at Drake’s ripped abs tell an entirely different story.

On command, I’m following The Boss out of the bathroom, down the hall, and into the BG East ring room. Jonny Firestorm is already there, setting up equipment with some hot twink I’ve never seen before. Kid Leopard barks at them to hurry the fuck up. Time is money. We’re wasting daylight. On and on, he rides them, and I’m pretty certain they’d be done a lot sooner if he didn’t keep distracting them.

I’m instructed to sit on a couch and remain abso-fucking-lutely silent. “The moment I hear a peep out of you,” Kid Leopard wags a finger in my face threateningly. “We’re making an unprecedented exception to let you watch. But if you fuck up the taping with so much as a sneeze, I’ll drag you by the balls out of here!” I acquiesce. It’s not as if I’m going to cross the Boss in his own ring.

A few minutes later, Kid Leopard is sitting on the couch next to me. Jonny and the hot twink (I’m told his name is Billy), work the equipment. Billy has a shoulder mount video recorder running, and Jonny has a wicked looking digital camera up to his eye when Kid Leopard suddenly shouts, “And… GO!”

A few seconds later, Gabriel Ross walks through the door. Holy shit, this kid is insane to look at! He’s shorter than I am, which is saying something, but good fucking God! He’s huge! I mean, I’ve seen his massively muscled-up body on camera before, but honestly, he’s breathtaking. His massive pecs shake a little as a walks to the ring and steps up to the ring apron. As he climbs through the ropes, I stifle a gasp at the full-on view of his magnificently muscled ass straining the seams of his tantalizingly tight trunks. They’re the same yellow swim trunks he wore in his first match with Drake. His glorious glutes bulge out over the top of them as he slowly walks barefoot across the ring, stretching his arms behind his back, hopping on the balls of his feet, warming up all of that gorgeous muscle mass.

Holy fuck, what have I got Drake into? I think to myself.

Jonny’s clicking that digital camera like a machine gun. Billy keeps crossing back and forth in front of me, clearly studying every juicy inch of the muscle cherub in the ring. It’s annoying, but I know that my unobstructed view is the last priority on anyone’s mind.

A minute later, Drake strolls through the door. He pauses on the short steps leading down to the ring room floor. Fuck, he’s pulsing with cocky confidence. He purses his lips and tilts his head to the side, staring at his opponent. “Time to settle up, Gabriel,” he growls. Walking to the ring and stepping up onto the ring apron.

“You again?” Gabriel asks, as if shocked. He’s not, of course. He knew who his opponent was going to be. But the feigned shock is just part of the story. “Didn’t I already beat your ass?” There’s something about a British accent that makes trash talk sound like poetry.

Drake climbs through the ropes and strolls in a circle around the ring. Gabriel backs away, keeping out of reach for the time being.

“That guy’s gone,” Drake coos almost seductively. “You’ve never met me. You’ve never met anyone quite like me,” Drake promises. My cock’s hard a granite.

They suddenly lunge toward one another, locking up by collar and elbow. Drake is half a foot taller than the muscle cherub. Gabriel struggles with those relatively long arms, until suddenly Drake reverses momentum, stepping backward and pulling Gabriel toward him. Off balance, the British babyface stumbles forward. Drake shoves him in the back of the head toward the ropes. Gabriel slams into the top rope awkwardly, bouncing backward and falling to his ass.

This is Gabriel’s first ring match, as far as I know, and it shows. Drake is on him, dragging him to his feet and shoving those gargantuan pecs of Gabriel’s, sending the muscle boy slamming backward into the turnbuckle. He looks like he’s expecting to get the same bounce out of the corner that he got from the ropes a moment earlier. The agony twisted across his beautiful face suggests that he’s just learned the hard way that a turnbuckle doesn’t “give” the same way the ropes do.

When Gabriel steps out of the corner, arching his back in pain, Drake steps in front of him, turns, and reaches over his shoulder to grab the Brit by the back of the neck. The snap mare is smooth and sweet like honey. Fuck, I can’t help myself. I gasp audibly, just a little, when Gabriel finally lands flat on his back in the middle of the ring. Fortunately, the muscle cherub’s loud cry of pain drowns out my shocked pleasure.

Drake really does look like a new man as he’s instantly on one knee, the other knee digging into Gabriel’s spine as Drake wrenches his head backward in a sick chin lock. A deep, guttural groan comes from Drake. It’s eager and intense, like a grunt of pleasure mid coitus. My cock is throbbing in response.

He keeps bending his opponent backward until Gabriel is arched high across his knee. Suddenly, Drake pounds a vicious forearm across the muscle cherub’s big, bulging pecs, driving the Brit’s back down hard across his knee one more time. Gabriel cries out in honest to god agony before Drake lets him roll like a sack of potatoes to the mat.

Drake is breathing a little harder than I would have expected so soon. He has his hands on his hips as he takes a slow lap around his opponent’s crumpled body. There’s a missed opportunity here for him to press his advantage. When he finally leans over and grabs a handful of Gabriel’s hair, dragging him up to his knees, I can see it in the Brit’s eyes. That breather Drake took was just as beneficial to Gabriel. Suddenly, Gabriel drives up to his feet while he wraps his huge, muscled arms around Drake’s torso. With an animal grunt, the cherub leans backward, pulling his taller opponent off his feet briefly in a powerful bearhug.

There’s a cry of pain that gets stuck somewhere in the back of Drake’s throat as his mouth gapes open. Gabriel can’t manage to hold him off his feet for long. The height difference is just too much for him. When Drake’s feet touch the canvas again, he sucks down a sudden gasp of air. He starts to try to squeeze his hands between his torso and Gabriel’s crushing biceps. I’m relieved he’s still working through the pain, move and counter.

Neither I nor, clearly, Drake are expecting it when Gabriel suddenly sprints forward. Drake is again swept off his feet in that sensationally powerful bearhug. The Brit has built up some momentum by the time he’s pounding Drake’s back into the turnbuckle. The explosion of air out of Drake’s lungs is almost comical. “Ooooof!” If Drake didn’t suddenly choke on a sob of pain and collapse to his knees, it might have been at least momentarily funny.

“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!

——–to be continued——–

Drake Reborn: Part 1

May 19, 2016May 20, 2016 wrestlebardLeave a comment

I must admit, it was satisfying when Drake Marcos authored a piece of homoerotic wrestling fiction to concede the bitter truth he’d been denying for over a year: a certain blogger had, indeed, owned him in the ring. In some twisted art imitating life imitating art (ad nauseam), Drake’s last chapter in our tag team writing effort left him precisely where I’d had him IRL a year and a half ago, hanging like a Christmas goose from the ring ropes. So charmed was I by his implied confession, that I was inspired to take the tag and author still another chapter in “Drake Marcos: Larger than Life” homoerotic wrestling saga. And in yet another art imitating life imitating art imitating life imitating art iteration, let me just be clear, the following really is how I’ve seen the the grinning grappler all along.

_________________

Drake Reborn – by Bard

Part 1

“We don’t do rematches,” he interrupted me.

“Look, Boss, this is different.” I switched the phone to my other hand. “This isn’t a rematch, because I’m talking about a whole new Drake. He’s…”

“I don’t want to hear that name again, blogger boy,” he interrupted me again. “I refuse to waste another minute on that waste of space.”

I felt my throat tightening with frustration, but I intentionally kept my voice even. It never pays to raise your voice with Kid Leopard. “What if I told you that I had a fantastic new recruit? He’s young, fit, and hungry for competition. And best of all, he’s got the finest pedigree you’ve ever seen. Ring experience, mat experience, erotic experience, and extensive one-on-one training with the best wrestler in the business.” I didn’t know if the Boss would see through the flattery. He’d taken a personal interest and put Drake through the ringer on countless occasions when Drake first arrived at BG East. That was also what seemed to piss him off most, all that time and effort “wasted on a simpering jobber,” as he’d put it earlier in the conversation.

For the first time in the phone call, the Boss didn’t interrupt me, so I continued. “This new kid is 5’10, 155 pounds. He has long, punishing legs and disarmingly handsome face. Let’s call him… Daemon.”

“Demon?” He snorted, unimpressed.

“Daemon,” I repeated, spelling it out. “It’s Latin for ‘divine fate.'”

“Daemon what?” Kid Leopard snapped. I had him on the hook.

“Just Daemon. No last name.”

“Sounds boring,” the Boss muttered, but I could hear it in his voice. He was almost ready. “What’s in this for me?”

“Other than a sensational new wrestler to sell the shit out of?” I asked.

He snorted with contempt. “Dime a dozen, blogger boy,” he snarled.

“If Daemon fails to impress you, he’ll scrub your toilets for a week,” I started.

“A month.” Kid Leopard interrupted. “What else?”

“And… I’ll write all of your product copy for the next BG East catalog,” I offered. I’ve been writing match descriptions for the BG East website for years. The Boss always asks me to write more than I have time for, so I know this tempts him.

“The next 4 catalogs,” he demanded. I had him.

“Deal.”

It had been just over 4 months since things took an unexpected turn between me and

drakeoutsouth — The aftermath of our first blogger vs. wrestler face off.

Drake Marcos. For my part, things hadn’t changed all that much. Fuck, I’m a major Drake booster from way back. I am now every bit as much a fan of the Cheshire Cat as I ever was, despite the little drama that went down at BG East South 4 months ago. He’s a handsome stud with equal parts personality, body and passion for wrestling that I respect so much. I continue to count it as one of my very favorite moments getting to climb into a ring for the first time and have Drake initiate me into harsh realities of pro wrestling. Somehow, it hadn’t occurred to me how deeply wounded I’d left the Cheshire Cat that first time, when I played the game a little better than he expected, and my initiation ended up with him out cold, at my mercy, and extensively documented with photographic evidence.

drakevtrey 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.

I just didn’t know he had such a delicate ego. I know it now. When Kid Leopard climbed back in the ring to tape the blogger-versus-wrestler grudge re-match, Drake put me through the fucking ringer. Not that I didn’t score some satisfying riding time of my own. For my first match ever recorded, I was pretty proud of myself. The seasoned pro pushed me to edge repeatedly, but I refused to give. It’s true, I was completely at his mercy there at the end, but then that whole bruised ego factor came back into the picture. So sure, I apologized on command, with my spine nearly snapping in the Cheshire Cat’s rack. But with his ego assuaged, Drake forgot all about the fact that I DIDN’T FUCKING SUBMIT! As he monologued for the camera like a Saturday morning supervillain, it was nothing but a thing to pull my shit together and choke the grandstander out cold.

drakeropessouth 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!).

I asked Kid Leopard if we should rouse the kid, but he snorted with contempt. “I’m done with that piece of shit,” he muttered. “Lock the place up once you’ve showered off,” he instructed me, tossing me the keys to the kingdom and strolling out of the building without a second glance. After a long, hot shower, I couldn’t help myself. There Drake was, literally snoring as he hung from the ropes, still locked up tight. He was so fucking pitiful. And sexy. I untied him and roused him from the sweet escape that was sleep.

He was a broken man. Not literally, mind you. Trey Dixon had just about ripped his balls off, and I had choked the kid out cold, but physically, he was still entirely intact. The nasty bruises across his back and legs were already turning from dark red to a greenish black, but everything was still attached and functioning. But he was a ghost of a man. I led him to the showers, and he just stood there, staring blankly at the wall. I finally stripped back down and climbed in with him just to clean him off. It would’ve been super sexy, except that he was just plain hollow inside. He’d snapped, and no praise, no prodding, no playful taunts or challenges got even the smallest rise out of him. I got him dressed and dropped him off at his place, but he was sleep walking through the front door without a word.

I’ve always been a sucker for lost lambs. I was supposed to be on a plane home the next day, but I postponed my return trip to check in on the boy again. He answered the door, looking marginally more aware than when I’d left him the night before. But he was still mostly MIA, in spirit if not in body. I finally got him talking. He was aimless. Humiliated to be turned out by his mentor. Ashamed to show his face in the wrestling ring ever again. Woe is me, woe is me…

Fuck, what a Debbie-Downer. I told him to pull his shit together and stop whining. It somehow seemed like that just made him shrink even more. I assured him his best days were ahead. Get back up on the horse again. Lost the battle, not the war. Seriously, I was completely out of cliches, and they bounced off like he was bullet proof glass.

He only made eye contact when I started describing how I saw him. Not “the Cheshire Cat of Homoerotic Wrestling.” True, I’d given him that moniker early on in his BG East career, but that’s not what I saw in my mind’s eye the first time I saw a photo of Drake. Before I’d ever exchanged an email with the kid. Before I’d seen him step foot on a wrestling mat, and long before I ever had the pleasure of seeing him climb into a wrestling ring. Before I got to know the frustrated jobber he became, I pictured him as a smart, savvy, sexy-assed heel.
drake

He perked up when I told him that I used to picture him as a lean, mean, balls to the walls erotic sadist. Clearly, Drake never pictured himself that way before, but he was a blank slate now. He was in the throes of a soul wrenching existential crisis, and seeing himself through my eyes, reinvented in the depths of my twisted imagination, something took root. There was a glint in his eye and a determined clench to his jaw, and I could tell that the picture of himself as a fully formed, gay wrestling fan’s vision of a devastating psychological and physical wrestling dominator was taking on a life of its own where his delicate ego strength use to live.

———to be continued————-

Battle of the Bulges

May 3, 2016May 3, 2016 wrestlebard1 Comment

As is so often the case, I have to agree with Joe. The climactic 3rd match in BG East’s Undagear 25 new release is sensationally hot. Featuring hot little chili pepper Drake Marcos turning up the heat with bad boy Ethan Andrews, this classic mat match is a fabulous take on the classic question, “Whose is bigger?”

I’m sure that Drake will take offense at something, despite my best effort to heap praise on his pounding mat confrontation with Ethan Andrews. If I say he’s a top notch jobber, he’s offended. If I say he can suck on agony with the very best of them, his ego is bruised. If I say he’s got a hot, taut, fuckable body he… well, no, he doesn’t seem to really complain about that. But while points 2 and 3 hold true for Undagear 25, Drake is no jobber against Ethan. He suffers under a bulging mountain of pain and suffering, and his sensationally sexy legs continue to make me gasp with pleasure as he milks the whimpers out of his opponent, but the narrative here is not one of Drake’s destiny with failure. In fact, three quarters of the way through this match, I am once again wiping a bead of sweat away from my brow in anticipation of finding out if this is, finally, Drake’s breakout, undisputed, planned and followed through, first ever clear cut check mark in the victory column.

You have to admit Drake looks sensation in charge.

Speaking of bulging mountains, the real stars of this show are the big, flexing pythons straining the confines of Drake and Ethan’s jock straps. That battle really only unfolds once the built-for-fashion singlets come off, which is not a minute too soon for my taste. Ethan’s is sexy enough, but Drake missed the memo that no one honestly looks good in camo. I feel like Ethan is reading my mind when he says as much, right as he’s ripping Drake’s singlet off.

Drake gets a whiff of that all-too familiar smell of humiliating defeat.

Ethan’s bulging doesn’t stop at his crotch, either. I don’t remember seeing the smirking bad boy looking this fit and muscular ever before. Once Drake finally returns the favor of ripping off E’s singlet, the best supporting actor in a homoerotic wrestling drama really comes to the forefront: Ethan’s magnificent, meaty, muscled glutes. As I said, the stars of the show are the packages, but I think the real writing on the wall in Drake’s undoing here is when he seriously melts in Ethan’s figure-4 headscissors. Personally, I think Ethan did his homework, and it shows right here. I don’t know if there was ever a sexier undoing of Drake (and I have studied the subject extensively), than when the Cheshire Cat had the smile wiped right off his handsome face in that exact position, smothered to perfection by Ray Naylor in Mat Scraps 2.

Ray Naylor wore Drake (out) to perfection in this very same hold.

I’ve got my opinions about which Drake-slayer wore him (out) best with this hold, but I’ll let you vote below without me swaying your opinions. In the mean time, let me just conclude with a few highlights that are already recurring images in my waking homoerotic wrestling daydreams.

Pony rides. Fuck, I love a sexy pony ride. The supersize serving of humiliation and domination in a pony ride are like the sugary center to the earthy saltiness of a salted caramel. Fascinatingly, both Drake and Ethan score some literal riding time, and it’s Drake’s lap around the mat on Ethan that makes me believe the babyface also-ran might be just about to ride that stallion across the finish line for the first time. Never one to let a slight go unanswered, it’s Ethan’s tit-for-tat pony ride using Drake’s jock strap as reins that brings this pounding race to it’s climactic finish. Sadly, neither pony ride is tucked, confirming yet again that perhaps no one will ever do a post-match pony ride humiliation as provocatively as Rusty Stevens. However, kudos to both Drake and Ethan for saddling up nicely.

The real climax of this match for me (literally) was the brutal cock beatdown that Ethan delivers while pinning a withering, weeping, wasted Drake to the wall. Ethan is fucking gargantuan. It’s just a fact. And he swings that massive, erect member like a battering ram over and over again into Drake’s already tenderized balls. “Whose is bigger?!,” he demands repeatedly, his hotly muscled ass undulating, flexing and relaxing in rhythm as his cock pounds his now defenseless opponent mercilessly. While they don’t pull out the measuring tape or the scales, just eyeballing it (and I did repeatedly), I have to conclude that Ethan’s battering ram is, indeed, quantitatively superior. Drake admits it, too, finally, bitterly, reluctantly.

Drake is hell bent on ripping a trophy off from this match and taking it home with him.

But I’ve got a few words of wisdom as someone who is, my guess, around a decade and a half older than either of these testosterone filled young bucks. Size gets you only so far in life. It is not indicative of capacity for sexual pleasure. And some of the most massively endowed men I’ve had the pleasure of meeting were die-hard, gagging for it, exclusive bottoms (and were sensational at it, by the way). I think 20 years ago, I was much more invested in the question, “Whose is bigger,” but these days, I’ve come to realize that the answer is one of the most unilluminating pieces of information when it comes to sexual performance (homoerotic wrestling or otherwise).

All that said, let me just again reiterate that this match has great pairings of bitterness and sweetness, power and cunning, speed and skill. I’m still left waiting hopefully to see Ethan out-bullied by some doe-eyed babyface beauty that he completely underestimates. And hope burns eternal for darling Drake to pull his shit together and fully execute a balls-to-the-walls take down that I’m certain he has in him. In the mean time, enjoy Undagear 25.

And honestly, what could I have possibly said that petulant puppy Drake could have taken offense to today!? Now, don’t forget to vote for which sphincter-smothering figure for headlock wore Drake best: Ethan or Ray.

Blogger Reckoning: Part 6 – by Drake

April 7, 2016 wrestlebard1 Comment

I’m shocked and bewildered by this final chapter in Drake’s narrative response to my New Year’s homoerotic wrestling fiction. And if I’ve said it once, I’ve said it a thousand times: surprising me turns me on! This climactic finish very well may call for making this narrative a trilogy, because this is compelling my imagination down all sorts of provocative paths. Nicely played, Cheshire Cat. Nicely played.

————-

Blogger Reckoning – by Drake

Part 6 (Finale)

drake8

Nothing feels better than finally realizing a goal…something you’ve dreamed and worked hard for and then it’s suddenly in your hands. You want to enjoy it…savor it.

That was a mistake.

He dug his fingers into my crotch and I howled, grabbing at his bulging forearm and writhing, releasing the bodyscissor reflexively and arching up. My teeth gritted against the cries of pain bubbling in my throat.

I bunched my abs as I struggled to a sitting position, wailing away at his pecs only to receive a bitchslap and a shove.

“Stay down!” He snarled as I groaned and writhed in pain, my balls on fire.
“You dirty, fucking bitch!” I spat and pulled at my hair, struggling under him. I managed to pull my leg back to my chest and thrust my foot into his pecs, throwing him off of me. Feeling his nails drag along my manhood, I let out a startled cry and rolled to the ropes. Dragging myself up, tears in my eyes, bent slightly double, I soothed and rubbed my aching manhood.

Bard moved in, firing a kick to my hamstring, knocking me to one knee as he fired another kick, I caught his foot and threw him backwards onto his ass. I got back to my feet, the pain in my hamstring shifting focus away from my busted nuts. I moved cautiously staying out of arm’s reach for a moment, and then dove in, swinging an arm to his pecs, which he caught and propelled me across the ring.

I hit the ropes and bounced back, ducking as he charged me with a clothesline. I hit the opposite ropes and rebounded once more, and as I came back, I leapt off the mat using my forward trajectory to hit him crossbody, taking him down to the mat. I landed hard on him, winding us both but managing to hook his leg. I heard the Boss shout from behind the camera: “ONE! TWO!”

Bard kicked out, popping a shoulder off of the mat. I growled and drove my forearm across his throat and rolled him up again: ONE!

Kick out.

I slapped and punched the mat, angrily.

Rising, I dragged him to his feet by his arm and yanked him in close. “You’re done, old man,” I snarled into his ear, lifting my knee to his abs to double him up. I snagged his waistband, squatted and lifted him hard, carrying him up and over in a suplex.

Boss: ONE! TWO!

KICK OUT?! Dafuq?!

I punched the mat and roared, getting to my feet. I glared at him as he rolled, trying to get to the ropes. I grabbed his leg and rolled him over, and climbed on top of him, bulge to bulge and started to grind, wrapping my legs around his, I nibbled on his ear, licked up his neck, felt his cock respond as I continued to grind on him. “Yeah, baby blogger bitch Bard…just let it all go. I’m the better man today…”

He moaned and I felt his heart flutter underneath me as I nuzzled his neck and moved my legs into position.

“You done now?” I quizzed, looking into his eyes as I pinned his arms over his head.

“Not a chance, jobberboy,” he breathed.

“Good,” I smirked and spread his arms high above his head and grapevined his legs and ripped his crotch wide as i stretched and pulled the wannabe wrestler out hard and tight.
His eyes popped wide open. “Awgh, FUCK FUCK!!,” he wailed weakly as I stretched the bitch out more and more, laughing in his face.

I have to give the bitch credit…he held out in the hold until my legs started to cramp when I was forced to release him.

Rolling over, I smirked at the boss and gave him a thumbs up.

He remained as stone-faced as ever.

I looked at Bard, “Time to end this once and for all, bitch.” Sneering, I bent down and grabbed him by his arm and waistband, dragging him to his feet.

Sweet…sweet retribution…

I turned sideways and hooked his head and bent down hooking a leg, and then grunting mightily I hoisted him up high in a torture rack which promptly set him yelling and crying out. I carried him around the ring, stomping with each step to increase the pressure on his bowing back, giggling the whole way. Then I stopped midring and began to squat with the blogger across my back, growling with each squat.

Perfect form of course.

Each time I rose, I pulled down on his chin and thigh, further stressing his spinal cord.
“You done? You done?”

He kept yelling and protesting, “Fuck you Marcos!”

I kept squatting and laughing. “Apologize for the shit talk, bitch. You’re done!!”

After a few moments he surprised us both by saying. “Ok! OK! I apologize! Let me down!!!”

I dropped him hard to the mat and smirked, my foot on his ass as I flexed and preened for myself in the mirror, the benefactor at home that was getting more than he bargained for, and most importantly, the boss.

I stepped off Bard and smiled, looking at Kid Leopard still holding the camera, his eye away from the viewer as he smiled.

“Did I make you proud, boss?” I asked, hoping I had officially set everything right.

“Maybe.”

“Maybe?!” I spat. “I fucking kicked his ass! Took a few lessons from Heel University, I might say.” I said with an eyebrow raised, my body drenched in sweat. I wiped it from my brow and stared down at him from the apron.
“You did good, kid.” he said, his catch-all phrase which I always felt was ambiguous. “But there’s one thing that you forgot about.”

“Oh?” I asked.

And that’s when I felt a thick, muscular arm encircle my neck.

Fucking Bard.

I gasped and struggled, feeling my cock expand, looking towards the boss for help but he only reholstered the camera and kept filming. “Never turn your back” I heard Bard whisper in my ear.

I growled and stomped his foot, which forced him to release me. I spun to face him and he whipped his foot up into my nuts. I howled and collapsed to my knees and then fell to my face as a worshipper praying towards Mecca as the hot molten lead ball of pain settled in my stomach from the low blow.

Bard kicked me over on my side and ripped my trunks off of me, and then his off of himself, quickly binding my legs and my arms behind me, rolling me onto my back. My hard cock bouncing and dripping as I stared up at him, growling.

“Fucking cheating bastard,” I sneered.

“‘Heel University’ was it?” He asked, laughing and then placed his barefoot across my throat and pressed down, choking me. I gagged and coughed and thrashed. My cock bobbed and throbbed and leaked.

I heard a commotion in the ring and it wasn’t until Kid Leopard was standing over me with the lens pointed at my oxygen deprived face did I realize…

I’m ready for my close-up., Mr. Demille…

He was getting a close-up…he was setting up the closing shot. I groaned weakly and watched as KL put a hand on Bard’s shoulder…as if they were fucking allies.

I continued to gasp and struggle but the writing was on the wall for this one. I hadn’t got a pin, I hadn’t got an actual submission. I had gotten cocky…careless…

My eyes watered as I felt the betrayal and the humiliation as I stared up at the two, Bard’s bare foot pressing down harder. He bent down and grabbed my aching, yearning cock and stroked it as my struggles began to slow, as my vision started to fuzz out.

Something hot and warm covered my stomach and I heard one last thing before everything went black.

“Ding, ding, jobberboy.”

——–

drakestuffit 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 heard the boss’ earlier words ringing in my ears. “A win is a win…it doesn’t matter how you get it.”

Shaking with rage and throbbing with the humiliation, I dropped my head and gave myself once more the darkness.

——-The End———-

Blogger Reckoning: Part 5 – by Drake

April 5, 2016April 7, 2016 wrestlebard1 Comment

In what I’m told is the penultimate chapter in Drake’s compositional response to my New Year’s piece of wresting fiction, I’m happy to see that I get some reasonable offense in before Drake’s blogger destruction, jobber retribution fantasy turns to my harsh punishment. For the record, if I’m going to get dominated by the Cheshire Cat, I can think of no other way I’d want it than to have his sensational legs wrapped around my ribs. And, fuck yes, I’d be sucking on that pain in order to work in some well-earned adoration of Drake’s hot, powerful thighs. Things don’t look good, dear readers, for my fate, but in a cliffhanger to rival the Walking Dead, I do like the sound of the ending of this chapter!

Blogger Reckoning – by Drake Marcos

Part 5

“Boys! Boys!” I heard Kid Leopard’s voice cheerily call out from ringside as I saw him moving swiftly, the camera brace on his shoulder, his finger ready to go on the [REC] button.

I smiled and turned, beaming beatifically at the boss, giving him a little double biceps flex. “Want to record this for posterity, huh? Little stinger for the client?” I smirked.

“But of course, you know I’m all about fan service and…seeing you beat on someone…well…that’s just got to be seen to be—ACTION!”

I saw the boss’s eyes widen and his finger click but it was way too late by that point as I felt more than saw the blue speedos getting pulled across my throat as my body was dragged back across the ring away from the boss and his whirring camera.

My eyes widened and I gagged and thrashed as I managed to regain my footing, Bard shaking me like a ragdoll as he tightened the blue speedos around my throat. I clawed at the spandex and felt my cock jump a bit as the lack of air creating a sense of sensual euphoria and groaned, my tongue sticking out as I rasped for breath.

“Never turn your back!” Bard laughed and yanked me from side to the side. I coughed and groaned and began to sag.

“Now…now this feels much more familiar…” Bard quipped as I dropped to one knee in the middle of the ring, my hands reaching out for the ropes as my vision started to fuzz over, my mind numbing as I was forced to stare into the blinking red light…the black lens of the camera that seemed to be growing ever wider, swallowing…swallowing me whole…savoring my humiliation.

I rocked back on my haunches as my lust for air went unsated and felt some firm resistance pressing into the back of my head and I remembered…Bard was naked…and winning.

“All that nice, new muscle doesn’t change a thing, jobber boy. It just makes it that much sweeter to feel you failing in the face of my strength.” He said, his voice sounding like poisoned honey dripping from his lips.

0813_lg — Not the first time Drake’s been choked!

My hand faltered in the air and came back to pull at the fabric. I let out a startled gasp, I’m sure my face was an alarming shade of red at this point as my brain started to threaten a full government shut down due to lack of blood flow.

Although the blood was flowing…just to all the wrong places…

As I saw the winks of the red recording light on the camera grow longer, and longer, my movements sluggish and weak, I found myself rocketing forward as Bard released the choke and kicked me between the shoulder blades, throwing me face first to the mat as I groaned, gagged, and retched crawling to the ropes.

I pulled myself up weakly, shaking my head, my eyes feeling like they were ready to pop out of my skull and rubbed my neck as I held an arm out behind me, holding the rope for balance and stability. I saw Bard pulling the baby blue speedos back on he had just employed to nearly unceremoniously choke me out.

I gave him a sneer, a withering glare that I’m sure ended up coming out more cute than threatening. That pitying, annoying fucking grin was enough proof. I made a wide, limping circle, staying out of reach, sucking down air, trying to buy time so I could renew my attack, and make it effective.

Old man river’s going to fucking pay!

He stopped mid-ring and held his hands aloft, cocking his head to the side.
“Now…NOW we’re on equal footing jobber boy…let’s try that again…” He smirked.

I hesitated, letting my eyes take him in for a moment…aside from a few red marks and sweat he didnt look like he had just been put through the ringer. Which he most certainly fucking had! …he seemed almost fresh as a daisy.

I swallowed hard, knowing that he was right…we were on equal footing…the camera was rolling…and the boss…was watching.

I raised my hands and crept in warily.

I could tell he wanted a test of strength but I came in low and locked up tight with him, forcing him into a collar and elbow, knowing I stood a better chance if I could use height and leverage and my full body weight more so than just arms and back. I shoved into him hard, my throbbing cock leading the way, distending the front of the trunks.

It was at this moment I was happy that he had put ont he trunks because if I had to do battle with a naked Bard…I would have been severely distracted.

We muscled and flexed and shoved against each other hard, my hairy chest grinding against his smooth pecs like a scouring pad, our jaws pressed against each other as we both widened our stances and battled for ground and dominance. I felt and saw my biceps pop and swell a bit as I growled and pulled my head back, looking him right in the eye and shifted my foot, giving him a few inches of ground, allowing me to bend my back knee and lunge forward as I shoved against his upper body with everything I had and managed to lift a knee only to land a glancing blow to his ribs. But it was enough.

He grunted and doubled up a bit and I lifted another knee to his gut, this time landing deep in his belly and he groaned and gasped, folding over more. I lifted an arm high in the air and growled and fired the point of my elbow deep between his shoulder blades. He cried out and dropped to his knees arching his back, head hanging over my feet.

Right where he fucking belonged.

I stepped forward, lifting my knee and prodding his head with it. He looked up at me and it must have been a beautiful sight, his eyes traveling from my sweat soaked hairy quads to my bulging basket, my flat, defined stomach, my ever-developing pecs covered in that sweaty mat of signature fur and then finally to the grin that had won me my moniker from him. The only good thing he ever gave me besides free publicity.

He rubbed at his back for a moment and grabbing at my waistband and pressing one hand to my quads to balance himself as he rose a bit up off of his knees, I cocked back and gave him a stinging bitchslap right across the face, watching the spit fly from his mouth.
He looked back up at me with a mocking grin of determination as he lunged forward and buried his shoulder in my abdomen, knocking the wind out of me and taking me to the mat.

I grunted loudly as we hit the canvas together, him scrambling on top of me for position, grabbing my arms and trying to pin them to the mat. I realized that I was beat in the test of strength on the ground and did the only thing I could at that moment. I growled and snapped my legs tight around his ribs. His grin evanesced and morphed into a grimace of pain as I growled and tightened my “bear-trap” around his ribs, him forgetting the test of strength as he reached to my quads, punching and pulling at them as I growled and flexed, shaking his body while he remained trapped.

He sat back on his haunches and battled ineffecutally with my legs as I smiled and laced my hands behind my head, staring down the length of my body at the squirming form of my trapped prey.

I felt his hands go to my thighs again, but this time, even though I could tell he was in pain, his hands turned to worshipful strokes my thighs.

I smirked.

“Yeah, boy, that’s right,” I smiled and unlaced my hands to give him a double bicep flex and flexed my whole body so he could see the newly earned muscle swelling all over my body.

“I learned a few things from you the last time we locked horns…I’m not making the same mistakes.”

I actually saw tears…Fucking tears! in his eyes so I eased up a bit, not being a TOTAL sadist and let him resume his worshipful stroking of my legs as I moved my arms behind my head again, letting my biceps bounce as I watched him drool all over my thighs.

The man has amazing hands, I’ve gotta say. Nice…and soft…like bitch hands…they felt great. So soft that my bulge began to swell in my pink pouch, stretching the zipper covering. He noticed and his hands moved to my bulge and began massaging with one hand, the other working my flexed thighs.

Then, my world exploded.

——- to be continued ——-

Blogger Reckoning: Part 4 – by Drake

March 30, 2016April 5, 2016 wrestlebard2 Comments

As I anticipated, things take a distinct turn for the worse for me in Drake’s latest chapter in his serial response to my homoerotic wrestling fiction (and our real life encounter in the ring a year and a half ago). What an imagination this boy has! I have to admit, however, his pluck and passion certainly turn me on. And his writing is scorching hot…

———–

Blogger Reckoning – by Drake Marcos

Part 4

Nothing can drive a man crazier than being denied what he’s worked so hard, so long for. Once you’ve poured your blood, sweat, and tears into something, you expect a return.

It’s no wonder people go postal.

Having just suffered another defeat (although unofficial to my BG win-loss record for it being a private custom) my balls ached. My pride hurt.

But the Cheshire Cat was not finished.

I came into this day, into this ring, with one clear objective in mind: the destruction of Bloggerbitch Bard. It only helped fuel my anger, hatred, and thirst for revenge that he had taunted me throughout the match with Trey. He stacked the deck FOR Trey that denied me a victory. He stroked out my seed that I had been saving for his face… Oh well…

He thought he was hurting me.

He thought wrong.

drakewoesouth — I wonder if this is the same turnbuckle Drake hung from in our first match…

I sucked down the pain I felt in my balls and wrapped my hand around Bard’s throat and shoved him back into the corner…into the very turnbuckle that I had previously used to fuck up Trey’s pretty face. Our cocks bounced against each other in a sort of perverse sword fight and, almost in sync, our cocks rose to full hardness as I shoved and choked him into the corner. Me from having him in my grasp. Him from…probably the same thing.

My bicep bulged as I squeezed. I saw his eyes bulge, whether from being impressed by the size I had put on since our last meeting or from the lack of air; I nominate the former. I flashed that award-winning smile, the very same smile that had led this former-friend-and-fan-turned-mortal-enemy to dub me with the moniker of “The Cheshire Cat of Homoerotic Wrestling.”

I slid my cock alongside his, both of our rods pulsing in the same beat now as our hearts struggled to regulate and keep up with the blood flow that our members were demanding. I brought my grinning visage closer to his face, the head of my cock pressing against the base of his and wrapped my free hand around the back of his neck and then with a grunt and a growl, I lunged back, tossing the shocked blogger to the mat by his throat.

I stood in the corner as he gasped and rolled onto his back, my sweaty, hairy chest heaving as I breathed hard, watching him rub his throat and plant his hands on the canvas to push himself up. I put my foot on his chest and pressed down hard, flattening him. “Stay down!” I snapped.

His cock bobbed visibly, and I chuckled, staring into the stupefied, wide-eyed expression.
“Whassamatter, Bard…cat got your tongue?” I chuckled. “Come on…all that big talk for over a year now and you’re pussying out now?”

Dear God, I used a lot of cat puns…

His Adam’s apple bobbed in his throat as he grabbed my ankle and threw it aside. I say he “threw it aside,” but I was getting ready to let him up anyways. I spun on my heel, chuckling as he rose to his knees and I mulekicked him in the abs and danced away to the ropes and turned back to face him as he rolled on the mat, coughing.

“Need to ‘work on your core training’!” I quipped quoting his blog post about me having a weak core.

He rolled over onto all fours, climbing for the ropes and I pounced quickly, landing on his back with my full 165 pounds and dropping him to the mat. I sat perched on his back for a moment before I rose and dragged him to his feet and grabbed his tight referee tee and yanked it up, over his head, trapping his arms above his head, hockey-fight style, and crouched low a bit and fired a series of quick stinging jabs to his exposed upper body. He stumbled backwards and groaned, and I grabbed the tee and planted my foot on his impressive abdomen and shoved forward hard with my leg as I simultaneously pulled the t-shirt free of his struggling body.

The kick propelled him into the ropes, which he rebounded off of and I moved quickly, charging to meet him with a clothesline, which dropped him hard to the mat. Holding his chest and coughing, he rolled over as I circled him and bent down collaring and leashing him with the striped tee. I dragged him to his feet and moved behind him, tightening the choke. I reached around and gave his hard cock a few stinging slaps.

“Looks like someone wore their masochist shoes today,” I sneered watching that hard cock bob as I smacked it around a bit.

I released the choke to prevent him from passing out and spoiling my fun. I threw the tee to the mat and bent him over backwards in an inverted facelock and dropped to one knee, busting his spine over the point of the opposite knee and stood up and repeated the action. I remained grounded and reached forward, circling his package tightly with my hand, watching the big blogger cock turn red as I squeezed and then releasing it and raising my arm high, I rained a series of forearms down on his pecs as he remained trapped and bent over my knee with his hard cock dancing about.

I could hear him whimpering in pain and shock. I should say blubbering…

I finally released him and stood, circling his writhing form. His pecs were cherry red and he was clutching at them and his upper back at the same time, his swollen cock smearing the mat with precum. I prodded at his body with my foot as I chided him. “Don’t feel so bad, Bard. Everybody gets their comeuppance at my hands at some point. Just ask Ty Alexander how it felt…” I snarled and pushed him onto his side with my foot.

I crouched and grabbed his tight pants, pulling them off of his struggling body, exposing his gray boxer briefs which had come off slightly with his tight black slacks. I whistled, “Blogger got a nice booty…” I sniggered. “But he’s wearing granny panties! I have something that might fix that…” I laughed as I peeled the dingy boxer-briefs off and went ringside to grab a pair of speedos from my bag. I returned to the prostrate blogger, twirling the baby blue speedos he wore in our first encounter and clutching my pink and white trunks in the other.

I pulled mine on and whipped the blogger in the face with the gear I wanted him to wear so we could retcon our first match.

“Come on bitch, let’s go!!” I roared, finished playing around.

I smirked as I watched him drag himself up in the corner and begin to pull the speedos up his legs. Looking at me warily.

This is going to be fun…. I smirked and raised my fists.

“Ding, ding, motherfucker!”

—— to be continued—–

Blogger Reckoning: Part 2 – by Drake

March 26, 2016March 29, 2016 wrestlebard3 Comments

It’s atypical for Drake to be prompt in his writing, so I take it as a good sign that he’s already sent me part 2 of his sequel to my New Year’s fiction. It’s oddly provocative to read the same narrative I wrote just a couple of months ago told through the perspective of a different character in the scene. The Cheshire Cat sure seems to me to be building up a sweaty head of steam in his writing thus far, which, again, makes me suspect yours truly is going to take quite a pounding before this saga is over. Nevertheless, I’m thrilled to read Drake’s eloquent prose and committed to posting the product of his vengeful homoerotic wrestling imagination to the bitter end.

————

Blogger Reckoning – by Drake Marcos

Part 2

They say that the more time you spend with a person, the more you begin to understand them. It’s also believed that the more time you spend with a person, the more you begin to take on similar character traits.

That is not the case with Kid Leopard. Well, for me anyways…

h0102_lg — Drake might want to ask Brad Rochelle about reading the fine print in any deal with The Boss.

I’ve known the man for years and even after spending this long working for the man I still haven’t been able to glimpse a chink in the armor. He’s completely inscrutable. I haven’t been granted a peek inside the cogs of the machinery of the massive intellect of the Big Man Upstairs of homoerotic wrestling. So when he told me about this private custom bout, part of me wanted to believe this was a test from him. A shot at redemption.

He told me that the person had commissioned a no-holds-barred match between me and Trey…what I heard was “take on Trey and wear the wiry, muscled hunk out and your prize is a nice piece of med rare blogger-jobber steak.”

I salivated at the thought.

I threw myself into the gym with everything I had in the weeks leading up to the bout guaranteeing that I would not be caught with my pants down this time. I would be ready for the fellow BG alum as well as the fawning fanboy of Yawn Dumont and the High Priestess of the Church of Kid Karisma.

The day came, I was hyped at the chance to be back in the ring and in front of the cameras for a private fan. I was boned at the thought of showing the Boss just how much I had learned from him and the other deities of BG in my downtime. I was also boned at the thought of having so much luscious muscle to sink my teeth (and hands) into.

I was ready for a rebirth. A rebranding. A Drake 2.0 (Drake Machina, if you will).
I stood in the lobby of the facility, my mind swimming with thoughts of what I would do to Trey (and then Bard…mostly Bard), stoking the fire of my hard-on. It was throbbing uncomfortably hard in my jock. I had to stop myself from nursing and teasing it too much. As much as I yearned for release, I also knew this was not the time. Nor the place (like all over Bard’s face.)

A knock dragged me rudely from my reverie as I jogged across the lobby to open the door. Who is that rapping at my chamber door?

I stopped cold… my throat went dry as I eyed the blogger that had sunk my net worth in the eyes of homoerotic fans. And then the thoughts of me doing the same thing to his stock pushed their way to the forefront. My cock throbbed as I looked him over. After a moment, I lifted my chin, rolled my eyes, and then waved him in dismissively and headed to the ring, leaving him to follow in my wake…as he should.

Not now, Drake…not yet… I cautioned myself as my nails bit into my palms from the white-knuckled clenching of my fists as I heard him chuckling behind me.

I entered the ring room and forced a smile at the Boss who greeted me with an order. My pride took a direct hit. C4 aka Clean the ring. You sunk my battleship, I thought, my shoulders slumping a bit as I filled the ring bucket with the pungent green disinfectant and climbed into the ring, scrubbing the mats to pristine, camera-ready perfection. Like I’ve done oh-so-many times before. Relax, Cinderella, I chided myself as the two jabbered like old biddies outside the ring, it’s almost time for the ball.

I finished the mats, swearing to myself that this would be someone else’s bitch job after today, and spent a while fiddling with my iPhone as we awaited the arrival of my very overrated co-star Trey Dixon. We waited.

And waited.

The mats were long dry when he finally showed up. And if I know the Boss as much as I like to think that I do, I was grinning ear-to-ear, anticipating a classic Kid Leopard tongue-lashing about professionalism and wasting people’s time.

That’s it?! I thought five-seconds later when a smiling Trey escaped unscathed and entirely unbothered by the Boss’ quick scold. I seethed as I stared at Trey’s tight muscular ass and followed him to the locker room.

0505_lg I stripped down and pulled my gear selection from the locker, the singlet I wore against Ray Naylor. Despite the damage that this little number took from being used as a weapon against me in my match with him, the fabric was resilient and held up quite well. I remember all too well just what transpired in that match, but I looked fucking fantastic in it.

I pulled the straps up over my shoulders and stared at the little mirror on the inside of the locker and flashed my signature smile as I fluffed my chest hair before closing the door and turning to face my opponent du juor.

Trey isn’t known for being very talkative. He is however, known for being just a little too infatuated with himself. And when I say that, I mean this is Narcissus level infatuation. (Or if mythology isn’t your thing, think Ty Alexander’s facebook wall). I found him gazing at himself in the floor-to-ceiling mirror, flashing his pearly whites and pursing his lips duck-style, the singlet straps dangling as he flexed his cut pecs and shredded abs and snapped selfies of himself that would no doubt end up on Instatwitter or some shit for his mentally unstable fans’ consumption.

I couldn’t help but admit to myself that he looked pretty 0801_lg 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.

I think Rachel Maddow was on that night…

I stood in the silent locker room for a moment, steeling myself for what I knew was going to be a battle for something more than just this private collector’s enjoyment.

This was a battle for the name, and dignity, of Drake fucking Marcos.

—to be continued—

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