Thank Your Lucky Stars Boys

I’m sure I was probably too harsh a couple of days ago when I took poor twink Hunter James to task for not enjoying his muscle worship session with Braden Charron nearly enough in Muscle Domination Wrestling’s Oil Hunks 2. Muscle Master Kevin himself had to comment that I probably got the wrong end of the stick, mistaking Hunter’s deer-in-the-headlights-nervousness with a lack of enthusiasm. Fair enough. It got me thinking about point-of-view. POV in a well-told story typically takes the reader into the scenario in some relatable way. The character from who’s POV the story unfolds is identifiable and comprehensible to the reader. We may not exactly embrace them, but sometimes the truly masterful story is the one that sucks us into the POV of someone we might otherwise think is incomprehensibly other to us (hello, Dexter).  Like Hunter James in OH2, there’s a play on POV in many homoerotic wrestling products that pit a man of pure fantasy, ripped from the cover of a physique mag, unattainable like a star in the heavens, and pits him against an opponent who is relatable to the average Joe wrestling fan. The drama unfolds with the majority of viewers squarely in the back pocket of the average Joe, the Everyman. He may win or lose, compete or cave, but the story unfolds with us securely experiencing the scene from the POV of the boy who’s got to be thanking his lucky stars to get thrown into the deep end of the pool to swim with the gods for a brief moment in time.

Okay that’s certainly a look of pleasure on Hunter’s face when he obediently peels Braden out of his trunks.

Hunter James being dominated and “forced” to oil up and admire a naked Braden Charron is a case in point. Hunter is not a physique star. I’m not saying he’s not a handsome little piece of meat, but the contrast between his lean, undefined, attainable body and the bulging, tanned, impeccably groomed beauty of Braden is a contrast that seems to almost inevitably shove most of us into the POV of Hunter. That’s probably why I’m so harsh on him. I think of myself, briefly, vicariously, as him. I’d dig my fingers deep into those glutes when Braden demands that I spread baby oil across his ass, so when Hunter demurely paints on a paper thin coat by barely making contact with that ass, I want to slap the twink around. That’s NOT my POV, damn it. Enjoy it! Play with it. Thank your lucky stars and then dive in with both feet and celebrate the phenomenal physique standing there naked in front of you demanding your adoration.

Randy Dowell looks like he’s staring into the face of a Greek god as he kneels at the feet of Mark Merino.

I’m overemphasizing the attainability aspect of the Everyman, I’m sure. I’m not saying that a wrestler can’t look hot and still carry off the role of selling the average Joe thanking his lucky stars. Take Randy Dowell, for example, who in Wrestle Worship 2 had the stunning good luck to not only worship both Mark Merino and Stan Greer, but to watch, in awe, as Mark and Stan battled with one another over who’s hunky body Randy should worship last. The plain, cold truth is that Randy Dowell is a hot, handsome hunk in his own right. He’s not nearly as massive as Mark or Stan, but he’s fit, hard, and handsome as hell. But its context and sell that make him work as our eyes and ears (and mouth and nose and especially hands) in the ring, with the DVD promo letting us know that Randy is a fanboy who pelted BG East with a flood of pleas to get to meet gorgeous Mark in person. And Randy is thanking his lucky stars over and over, enthralled, enraptured, turned on like a light switch and hitting every mark that a muscle fan would insist on hitting when faced with the smorgasbord of beef set in front him.

Randy Stanton may not take possession of Mr. Joshua, but on behalf of us all, he gets an appreciative, lingering grope in of Mr. J’s amazingly hot bod.

Another Randy, Randy Stanton, similarly is in possession of a hot, fit, lean bod all his own, but the handsome hunk is absolutely salivating when he strolls into the BG East mat room behind none other than Joshua Goodman (that’s Mr. Joshua to you!). Again, context builds this narrative every bit as effectively as Randy’s awestruck and truly awesome sell. The match description explains that Mr. J is playing with fire, letting himself get picked up by star-struck Randy and offering up full possession of Mr. J’s phenomenal physique should Randy have what it takes to own it. Holy hell, what a concept! What a cocky sell both of Mr. J’s gargantuan, mammoth, oversized, mouthwatering massive ego (you thought I was going to say something else), as well as transforming hottie Randy S. into, well, you and me, another guy dizzied by Mr. J’s gorgeousness and slack jawed at the wide open opportunity to get his adoring hands all over that body, heart pumping with the possibility of tagging Mr. J’s ass and, more importantly, unleashing the beast that Mr. J infamously smuggles down the front of his drawers.

That average Joe Drake Wild is about to live the fantasy of so many of us, climbing to the top of Tyler St. James and planting his flag for all mere mortal homoerotic wrestling fans everywhere.

Can-Am pulled off a similar motif in their recent release of Pro Sex Fight 10.  In this case, it’s much less about the context and the narrative off camera, and built almost entirely on the stunning, striking contrast between the two sex fighters, Drake Wild and Tyler St. James.  Tyler is a fantasyman like few others. Tanned, impeccably toned, beautifully blue-eyed Tyler is posted at 6’2″ and around 247 pounds, while lithe, lean, pale Drake is reported to be somewhere in the vicinity of 5’4″ and a buck and a quarter or so. That alone sucks me into that ring irresistibly entranced by the David v Goliath implications, but even more so by the fantasyman v lean, brooding mini-twink. Visually, I’ve seen Drake’s sort out at the bars on plenty of occasions, including the attitude and the Napolean-complex-will-fuck-you-up-for-real stance. I can’t say I’ve ever seen a heavenly vision quite like Tyler in real life, much less had the opportunity to climb into the ring, call him on his shit, and both figuratively and quite literally fuck him up.

Mark Nelson gets exactly what he wants from Brooklyn Bodywrecker, including the slap on the face as he kneels at the feet of one of the most notorious heel daddies to have entered the ring.

My final example of a thank-your-lucky-stars boy who pulls this motif off persuasively is Mark Nelson’s fanboy meets his worst nightmare/fondest fantasy Brooklyn Bodywrecker in Demolition 3. Another fanboy granted his fondest fantasy, Mark is sucking down the humiliation and punishment of BBW like a parched bedouin in the desert. The tension of physical domination, of terror, of the battle of bodies and wills is no less present, and Mark is another hunky hottie, but the sell is all about the point of view of the average Joe who comes face to face with a real, life, towering homoerotic wrestling god.

Who’s your favorite Everyman wrestler and in what match?

Casting Call

Braden Charron is pretty proud of himself.  Of course, he should be. Have you seen his physique!? But he’s proud of himself not just because he has the body that stars in a thousand gay men’s fondest fantasies. He’s also proud of himself for figuring out a clever way to scratch a particular itch.  You see, he told his opponent in Muscle Domination Wrestling’s Oil Hunks 2 that he wanted a wrestling match with him.  In fact, what Braden’s really itching for is a beaten-into-submission muscle worship session with the poor, lucky bastard forced to lather Braden’s bulging muscles in oil and give him all the adoration that Braden so richly deserves.

Hunter James starts with the calves.

Braden telegraphs that something is up when Hunter James shows up and Braden asks him if he’s ready to “wrestle.”  Literally, Braden uses air-quotes around the word “wrestle.”  Of course, Braden’s pre-match instruction for the kid to bring a bottle of baby oil might also have tipped Hunter off.  To his credit, Hunter isn’t shy about immediately obeying Braden’s commands right off the bat, obediently breaking out the baby oil and startingto put a pretty shine on Braden’s hot body from the ground up.

“Take your time,” Braden has to tell him, because Hunter is in way, way too much of a hurry.

“So what I want you to do is take your time, get down on your knees, put some on your hands, and start from ankles up, one leg at a time, and take your time, cause I want these calves to start showing.”  To his credit, the kid dives right into the opportunity.

Hunter’s look toward the camera could have been the cheekiest, sexiest nod to you, the wrestling fan jealously watching him get his hands all over Braden’s bod. But I think Hunter is actually either looking for stage directions or checking the clock.

Oil Hunks 2 is muscle worship punctuated by brief outbursts of entirely one-sided wrestling domination. Braden toys with Hunter, keeping the kid at heel with voice commands alone, but then relishing the feel of his slicked down muscles torturing the skinny punk in a camel clutch, a full nelson, body scissors. The precise formula is about 4 parts worshipping Braden’s beauty to 1 part suffering Braden’s punishing ways.

“Rub it in good!” Braden has to tell him repeatedly, because Hunter just isn’t feeling this moment the way you or I would.

“Rub it in good. Massage it. Rub it in real good. Enjoy it. Enjoy what it feels like to be rubbing a real man!” Braden coos deeply.  Unlike the twink from Oil Hunks 1, Hunter doesn’t look like stroking Braden’s ego is heavy lifting. However, he doesn’t look like he’s enjoying it one tenth as much as I (or you) would.  While I get a kick out of seeing the punk in total and absolute submission to Braden’s will from start to finish, Hunter doesn’t have to adjust his own crotch even once, despite rubbing baby oil all over Braden Charron! What the hell?

I know wrestling fans who would donate a kidney to take this ride!

“Many men would love to be doing what you’re doing right now,” Braden explains as he command Hunter to once again coat his phenomenal physique in baby oil, really rubbing it in to Braden’s beautiful glutes. And that’s the real rub, in the middle of all of this rubbing: although Hunter James doesn’t look like he minds this assignment, he doesn’t look the the luckiest son of a bitch on the planet. His ministrations are functional, but hardly enthusiastic.  When Braden gives him a naked muscle posing routine to enjoy, Hunter calmly, perfunctorily mutters, “Yeah, that’s awesome.”  Read that quote like the 80’s porn actor who discovers that the massively muscled and humungously hung pizza boy has an impulsive need to get naked and fuck. “Yeah.  oh.  yeah. that’s. really. great.”

Hunter just doesn’t earn this. He doesn’t deserve it. He clearly doesn’t appreciate the lottery he just won.

Braden Charron fans line up for a big drink of Braden right where you want him. Wrestling fans, buyer beware, because there’s zero “combat,” just a smattering of actually wrestling holds, and very little real heat. For my personal kink, I still think that MDW is waiting for the wrestler who can really pull this off on the catching end.  Brad Barnes and Braden Charron as snarling, dominating muscle bullies is a fantastic innovation, but the Oil Hunks series is still looking for the playful, eager, I’ll-make-you-work-for-it-but-I’ll-be-thrilled-to-be-forced-to-worship-you costar to really turn this franchise into a barn burner. This is “homoerotic wrestling” fare in the technical sense, and there’s plenty of audience who will love the hands-on-Braden motif, but this doesn’t quite count as homoerotic wrestling (sans air quotes) for me.  I hope MDW keeps at this nuanced alchemy, because the promise is golden, even if these first couple of attempts haven’t quite catalyzed.


Here’s Looking at You

My recent interview with Muscle Master Kevin, resident boss at Muscle Domination Wrestling, sparked precisely the conversation and contention I expected it would.  MDW is the newest kid on the homoerotic wrestling block, and in carving out their unique niche in the market, they’ve straddled some lines that leave many titillated, some provoked, and at least a few uncomfortable. I have to say that I found Kevin remarkably thoughtful and well-spoken, embracing a non-defensive posture even while addressing concerns that MDW’s domination/submission focused products may appeal to the internalized homophobia some of their gay audience. Agree with him or not about the quality and meaning of the content, Kevin’s motto is clearly centered on giving fans what they want.  I really hadn’t been exposed to much of the more “controversial” content at MDW, so Kevin sent along both a primarily wrestling-focused match and a primarily sub/dom themed squash for me to sample.  Here’s my take on MDW’s sub-dom demonstration, Glove Fetish Beatdown.

Muscle Master Kevin is not here to “instruct.”

I had to look up the name of Kevin’s opponent from the website, because he’s called a lot of things in these 23 minutes, but never his actual name. The lean, boldly tatted kid is called Hunter James, which seems like a much bolder name than befits a deer-in-the-headlights like he is in this squash.  When I say squash, I mean that this is 100% Kevin. Hunter has zero offense. His contribution to this scene is almost entirely limited to his screams, wails, and anguished cries of pain.  He apparently thinks he’s here to get some instruction in full contact combat, donning nothing but sparring gloves and mid-thigh undergear.  His mere suggestion that Muscle Master Kevin might be his “instructor” sends the boss over the edge, initiating non-stop brutality that grinds Hunter physically and, especially, psychologically into the mat. Within seconds, Kevin has beaten the air out of his lungs and driven the kid to the edge of panic and despair. As Kevin promises, this is going to be a long night for young Hunter James.

Total domination and the display of hot asses!

There are some sweet highlights of moves and holds that stroke the wrestling kink fanatic in me just fine.  There’s a moment when Kevin has Hunter’s noggin trapped high and tight between his thighs. Kevin rolls him over and repeatedly lifts his hips, and then drives his opponent’s forehead into the mat. Fuck, I love that move. The total humiliation and ownership is incredibly tasty. Kev’s hot ass rises and falls over and over, stoking me harder and harder. Hunter’s face plows repeatedly into the mat.  He’s got nothing as he’s pounded into a limp, dizzy mess.  Kevin finally rises on his knees, Hunter’s head still trapped between them, and flexes his biceps, showing off his gorgeous V and powerful shoulders. Yes, I get way into that maneuver whenever I see it, and Kevin works it beautifully.

Kevin’s got him right where he wants him.

The dicier moments for political correctness come no sooner than about halfway through the scenario. Kevin has been unloading a steady barrage of soul-withering trash talk the entire time, battering to pieces Hunter’s ego-strength and demonstrating with words and actions that he’s a mealy worm next to the power and domination of Muscle Master Kevin. Misogynistic themes that, let’s face it, run throughout homoerotic wrestling are peppered liberally throughout, as Kevin berates his opponent as a bitch and a pussy.  Then when he’s crushing Hunter’s windpipe with a nasty choke, the kid coughs and gasps, inspiring Kevin to mutter, “Listen to you sputtering like a fucking fountain!” The apt metaphor makes me chuckle a bit. Then, suddenly, Kevin unleashes a veritable litany of boundary bashing provocations. “A pussy. A bitch. A twink! A faggot! A grunt!! You’re a jobber, that’s what you are!”  The term “fairy” pops up a few minutes later.  The terms pussy, faggot, and fairy are the ones that pretty much pull me out of the moment, but as I’ve said before, the strictly sub-dom genre, which can definitely include gay men totally into that type of verbal assault, isn’t my thing.

Muscle Master Kevin flexes and purses.

I do, however, enjoy a fine looking man, and when the cool wave of discomfort washes away, I return my attention to appreciating the real star of the show, Muscle Master Kevin’s gorgeous muscles and beautiful face. Fuck, the stud has HUGE traps! Hot wrestling does exactly what this squash manages to do, and that is display stunning bodies beautifully as they work the magic of wrestling. As Kevin flatly proclaimed, he’s got simply perfect nips and veiny bis that are hard to take your eyes off of.  How a babyface beauty this pretty built his own empire as a dominating heel is a bit of a mystery to me. He likes to purse his lips and stare straight into the camera, which does nothing but remind me over and over that the man has a boyish handsomeness that’s simply remarkable. I’d so love to see him show up on some other Boston-based production’s doorstep as Clark Kent, a mild mannered, self-contained studpuppy who fights a good game but gets his beautiful ass handed to him repeatedly by dirty, no good heels.  Having chatted with Muscle Master Kevin, however, I put the chances of that happening at somewhere around 1,000 to 1.

Muscle Master Kevin is destroying Hunter James, but he’s looking at you.

What Kevin does best, besides look dazzlingly beautiful, is convey with perfect clarity his full attention on his audience. It’s not like he needs to give Hunter too much attention. Stick a fork in him at about the 2 minute mark, because he’s already done way back then. But this squash, and let’s face it, the career of Muscle Master Kevin, is about what’s going on between him and you. He stares into the camera frequently, even as he lays down more humiliating banter expressly directed at Hunter, successfully welcoming you into the heart of this altercation. And here’s where I think Kevin dangerously straddles a fence that I actually suspect he may not even be aware of. Sub-dom fanatics, I’d bet money, are captured in Kevin’s gaze and hear his humiliating taunts and own them entirely. He may be crushing and gloating over Hunter James, but I’m sure there are MMK fans who feel it deeply as Kevin crushing and gloating over them. To those who want to be dominated, owned, and made a muscle stud’s “bitchboy” (as Kevin explains he’s doing to Hunter), Kevin’s fixed stare into the camera delivers exactly that. But then again, there are many of us into homoerotic wrestling that actually love the busting through the 4th wall as a nod to the voyeur-class among us. Kev’s sly grin at the camera makes me smile, as if the rock hard gladiator is dedicating his performance to nobody else but me. He’s expressly giving me what I want, which is not to be called a faggot fairy, but to watch a gorgeously muscled man crush and claim an outmatched opponent. Kevin turns his attention from the camera slowly, gazing at his peaked bicep, as if appealing to me to feast upon the pristine beauty of a muscle hunk having bested a once hopeful challenger.  Is he dedicating this masterful demonstration to me, his lustful home viewer, or is he promising the same treatment to the twink bitchboys watching at home? Clearly, this is art teetering on a stark contrast between these two possible interpretations.

Kevin aims to please.

So fair warning: if you’re turned off by explicitly homophobic language (which is the only way I can describe the use of terms like “fairy” and “faggot” here), or misogynistic insults (“pussy,” “bitch”… which frankly I intellectually don’t care for, but somehow never seem to mind in fact) then Glove Fetish Beatdown is not your kink. There are some sweet pro wrestling moves, and an overwhelming squash can definitely work for many of us, however. Hell, if you’re just curious to see what Muscle Master Kevin’s physique looks like when applied to corporal punishment of a ridiculously outmatched opponent, this is a feast for your eyes. It doesn’t stroke the kink I harbor for the drama of erotic combat, because Hunter is almost instantly little more than a prop to demonstrate Kevin’s power and domination. I know for a fact that there’s plenty here for many neverland readers to enjoy, and some here that many neverland readers won’t care for. But I believe Muscle Master Kevin’s sincerity when he says that he strives to give his fans what they’re asking, begging, pleading for. So get your asses over to MDW and send Kevin your sincerest desire for what you want to see, and if it happens to be a bespectacled handsome face like his falling prey to dirty tricks and erotic domination at the hands of a brutish heel, let Kevin know that Bard sent you!