I’ve been getting more requests lately to collaborate on new wrestling fiction. Teaming up is one of my favorite genres in homoerotic wrestling, so this just seems to have all sorts of great potential.
I’ve been told by someone who should know that tag-team wrestling in the homoerotic genre is pretty difficult to manage. I don’t know if it’s coordinating schedules, having enough time to generate some entertaining chemistry
, managing four bodies flying through the ring without any permanent damage… I could imagine any and all of these things could be obstacles to more tag-team homoerotic wrestling products.
And I suppose that some of the same potential pitfalls and obstacles to getting 4 hunks in the ring to tell one story may also have parallels in the work of co-authoring original fiction. Schedules, working chemistry, making sure no one gets a permanently injured ego… the give and take and intrinsic balance required to collaborate and co-author requires finesse. I firmly believe that not everyone can partner up with just anyone. And even when words get on the page, there’s that hard to define element of chemistry that just has to be there or else it isn’t… All the moving parts might work, but if partners just aren’t in sync, it may just fall flat.
But when it works, teaming up can open up a lot of possibilities that are closed to me when I’m devoted to my singles career (so to speak). Teaming up to take on a big, big project that would probably defeat either one of us alone is a good example. Wrapping our minds and creative juices around a complex, yet hot property to double-team it into groaning submission can be a sweet, sweet victory. Of course the opposite is true as well. When you partner up to tackle the behemoth project and find that both your asses are handed to you in defeat, it can be just that much more humiliating.
Fortunately, my experiences with tag-teaming on writing projects has been pretty fun and, I think, successful. I like to think that I carry my end of the work load and that I’m pretty easy to work with. And so far, the partners I’ve stepped into the imagined ring with have been delightful to team with. When a new collaborator pushes me in a new direction, introduces me to new characters, and brings their own arsenal of innovation and creativity to a project, well frankly, that’s hot. Watch for some of these projects to get polished off with a double-teaming three-count and published to the Sidelineland wrestling fiction site in the coming weeks.
Have I gone off on a rant about this before? Probably. It bears repeating (that’s my excuse for forgetting what I’ve said already). Anyway… my thoughts today return to the beauty of men’s legs. I love legs. I love the shape and size of them. I love the concentration of power in them. I’m a big, big fan of powerful legs wrapped around another man’s torso, squeezing so hard that it makes the captured man’s jaw drop.
At moments when I’m particularly obsessing about legs (like now), suddenly I notice how often the objectifying eye cuts them out of images of beautiful hunks.
In the fashion world, pictures of gorgeous men seem much more often than not to slice just below the waist, or at most, just above the knee. What matters to the objectifying, dissecting eye is clearly the territory between (and inclusive of) the crotch and the face. Not that there’s ANYTHING wrong with those bits. Give me a couple of weeks and I’ll be obsessing over pecs or abs or shoulders or noses… you know me. I’m fickle. But when I want to linger on the beauty of hot, hard, muscled male legs, the truncated shot of a male model is so aggravating!
I’m no fashion photographer. I don’t have training in graphic design. But I think it says something about what we look for and what we see, that the beauty of the fit male form is so frequently legless. If we who are consumers of the objectified male form were all about legs all the time, surely the torso shot alone would not be nearly as preferred. What counts, what attracts, what sells is clearly, primarily, above mid-thigh. This must drive full-time foot-fetish guys bonkers. In a leglust moment, I need to search a bit to find the whole, stunning package of muscle and proportion, displaying the professional object-of-lust male form from head to toe.
Perhaps it’s not a coincidence that some of the staple recurring characters in my wrestling fiction show off their gorgeous legs full-on. Ben Godfre, who in my imagination is presently in a hot and sweaty post-match three-way muscle worship scene with Jared Prudoff and Ellis McCreadie, can be found in quite a few pics showing off his tasty, tattooed legs. Wendell Lissimore is a study in muscle and grace, with legs that stretch for days. In his one match so far in my imagination, I wrote a starring role for his fantastic legs, involving Brendan Fraser trapped in the ropes and Wendell hanging from nothing but a figure-4 headlock that just about decapitates George of the Jungle.
Zack Jonathan markets his amazing body all over the place, including in the ring and on the mats, not to mention in pin-up photo shoots. I still think Zack needs a severe, bare-assed spanking over an opponent’s knee to atone for many, many self-conscious wrestling performances (though I’m hoping his improvement on that count continues). But I give him credit. In addition to a beautiful everything else, Zack has fantastic legs and he displays them and uses them skillfully.
You know me. I’m the first to crop out everything but a particular body part that I’m presently obsessing over. I dissect the male form as much as, if not more than, anyone else. I freely participate in the objectification of the male body, turning people into objects, and those objects into disassembled pieces, and those pieces into ends, in and of themselves, for my sexual gratification. But I do appreciate the whole package, from head to toe, with every inch in between part and parcel of a beautiful, graceful, inspiring work of art. And when I’m in the mood to taste some gorgeous, hard, powerful legs, an abridged torso, much less a pretty headshot, will simply not do.
The internet is quite a forum for letting it all hang out. I certainly don’t share the depth of intimate details with perfect strangers that I encounter face-to-face, that I’m willing to share with personal strangers who remain faceless on the other end of an internet connection. The medium is a remarkable venue for confession, community, and self-disclosure. Clearly, it’s also a medium ripe with opportunities to behave poorly.
I’ve noticed an uptick in the number of people attempting to comment on this blog using non-Latin-based characters and embedded with multiple links. While I sincerely appreciate the international following that the blog might attract, just be forewarned that any comments with embeds will be rejected, and the only non-English comments permitted will be those written in Swedish (ask Swito). I do my best to be a generous host, so I expect my guests to behave themselves appropriately. Embeds with potentially dangerous links are bad manners. To those of you who might want to comment with embeds linked to spyware or other noxious tricks, I think someone needs to sit you down and teach you a thing or two about manners.
Similarly, the large number of notes I get each day notifying me that I’ve won Britain’s national lottery are just bad form. No I will not give you my bank account number so that you can deposit the millions of pounds to which I have miraculously become entitled. I won’t give you my bank account number so that you can give me your dead husband’s millions in oil revenue from Africa. I won’t give you my bank account number in order to assist you in a most profitable business venture. I could not, would not in a house. I could not, would not with a mouse.
I’m just talking about good manners. Don’t try to steal what doesn’t belong to you. Don’t prey on the naive. Don’t bilk the simple-minded or gullible. It’s just bad form. And to those of you who persist in angling to cheat and steal, trick and betray, I can only hope that someday someone will powerslam your ass so hard your teeth rattle, climb on top of your chest, pin your throat to the floor and spit in your face until you submit, relent, and think better of your bad behavior in the future.