In the face of gross inhumanity, and particularly in the face of religious hyper morality imposed on everyone else, I’m reminded that being gay, adoring homoerotic wrestling, putting all that out there and letting others in the world know that we’re not alone… all of that is a political expression of liberty. In the spirit of loving on the French, let me just acknowledge a few of the Frenchmen I’ve adored.
StayPuft, a regular reader and commenter here, predicts that the likes of Thunder’s Arena’s Johnny Bravo and Frank the Tank wouldn’t make the Neverland cut. Specifically in reference to my post on the beauty of a flexible wrestling body a few days ago, I complained about bodybuilders so developed that their muscles actually impede the natural motion of their joints, much less the delights of a particularly flexible body that can stretch beyond natural tolerances in a wrestling match. Frankly, StayPuft is on the money here (as usual). I’m fascinated by bodies like Johnny Bravo and Frank the Tank, but if I close my eyes and picture what will make my engine rev, these two don’t do it.
It’s not that I write them off entirely, though. I find them fascinating to watch. The sheer mass of muscle they pack around makes me scratch my head in wonder. The marvels they can perform in a wrestling bout with someone of mere mortal stature are also simply fascinating to me. Watching Johnny lift, twist, slam, and contort Z-Man like a pipe cleaner is quite entertaining. Hell, it’s even wrestling kink-provocative for me. But what’s drawing my wrestling kink eye is Z-Man’s sweet proportions being crushed. What’s fueling my fantasy isn’t Johnny’s muscles or size, per se, but his domination and humiliation of his plaything, ever-smirky sex kitten, Z-Man (my thanks to Mr. Mike for permission to repost Thunder’s Arena pics here).
Some of my early sexual fantasies were fueled by photographs in such magazines as Muscle & Fitness and MuscleMag. Guiltily purchasing those periodicals was the setting for a great deal of my sexual self-recognition. Superhumanly muscled competition bodybuilders were the objects of my lustful desires. But even then, the heavy weight Olympic class boys were not the pages most well-worn. Lee Haney, Dorian Yates… I would pass them up in a second for a sweet shot of Bob Paris, Francis Benefatto, or Berry Demey. There was some line that I had hardwired into my head that made the likes of the biggest of the big boys fascinating, but the likes of the massive-yet-aesthetically proportioned boys super-erotic.
More to the point, as StayPuft notes, “hooray for diversity!” I’m a fan of you embracing your kink and owning what it is that makes the blood pump faster. And, for the record, I could put my ankles behind my head not so long ago, and now that my commitment to my yoga is renewed, perhaps one day again, soon.