When I decided to resurrect the blog here, I thought about what I enjoyed most about the exercise. I’m planning on leaning into the pleasure, in the interest of maintaining a healthy, long-term relationship with the task of putting my homoerotic wrestling thoughts into text. As a result, you can count on seeing more wrestling fiction, more guessing games, and, yes, I strongly suspect you’ll find me obsessing about hot news boys. One of the countless little value added elements to homoerotic wrestling for me is a hearty yank on an opponent’s trunks, and thus the tradition of Trunk Pull Tuesday.
I’d go so far as to suggest that trunk pulls were one of the first subtle elements in professional wrestling to ignite my homoerotic imagination. Ostensibly, a wrestler grabs his opponent’s trunks for leverage. With next to nothing else adorning the wrestling body, a wrestler uses the trunks as a handle to snap that snap mare, to drag him into motion in order to pound him that much harder with a fist, or a knee, or a clothesline.
Of course, that’s not the only thing I saw, as a kid growing up watching hot bodied hunks wrestling on television. I saw alluring glimpses of skin and tan lines normally discretely covered by modest patches of fabric. There was a fleeting view of a little more ass cheek, a tantalizing flash of lower abdomen, implicitly drawing attention away from the wrestling text and toward the erotic subtext just beneath the surface.
It remains a particularly titillating element in homoerotic wrestling, as far as I’m concerned, when, wrestling for gay eyes, a grappler yanks on his opponent’s trunks. Even when it isn’t prelude to stripping gear off entirely, it automatically bridges the narrative of combat and the story of sexual arousal. There’s still a third layer of eroticism for me when I can tell the puller gets it, that he knows how sexy this is, that he is, like I am, turned on not just by the competition for falls, not just the pleasure of spoiling a ripped opponent’s modesty, but that he feels the gravitational pull of the whole thing drawing him, and his opponent, and his audience into an explicit story of sexual attraction with the turbo boost of wrestling for erotic position.
The driving momentum of all those homoerotic wrestling punches and headlocks and spladles and scissors is heading toward a story centered on what happens in the geography underneath the trunks. There are endless recipes involving various quantities of aggression, narcissism, brutality, contempt, competition, ego, and lust, but the trunk pull is a tried and true ingredient for turning up the erotic heat, at least for the gay wrestling fan, if not for the combatants themselves.
Okay, I’ve banned myself from searching for more tasty trunk pulls. For now. Until next Tuesday. Keep yanking, wrestlers (and fans).
I went to college at a very, very small liberal arts school with a very, very unsuccessful Division III football team. They sucked. A lot. Literally, years went by without a single victory. Not that I was involved in the program, but it was no secret that recruiting for the football team was a major bitch. No scholarships. No pro career prospects. Very little hope of ever tasting victory before they graduated or, even more likely, they’d burn through eligibility while hanging on by the skin of their teeth to skimming by in their academics and finally just walking away to dig ditches. Our football team literally shrunk while I was enrolled in college, each year’s freshmen getting smaller, while bigger players went elsewhere. My junior year, the football team recruited a wide receiver who was, I kid you not, 5’2″ tall. Thing is, though, he was fucking fast, with big, powerful thighs, an exceptionally stellar muscled ass, and gorgeous, Tom Cruise-ish good looks. Despite their abysmal record, I suddenly took an interest in football that year.
This pint-sized wide receiver with big league glutes and a baby face starred in many a homoerotic wrestling fantasy in my imagination. Just writing about him now is making me hard. There was just so much fabulous potential wrapped up in his tight, taut, petite jock body. In the never ending erotic wrestling tournament in my head, the little wide receiver inevitably got muscle bullied around the ring by bigger guys. I always pictured him getting picked up and thrown from corner to corner. Tall, ripped, cocky hunks (typically from our extremely successful and wildly popular basketball team) would, in the no holds barred wrestling matches in my collegiate imagination, deliver a barrage of high impact, high altitude power moves on him, gorilla presses, scoop slams, one-handed choke slams, spine-tingling suplexes that catapulted his magnificent, muscled ass from corner to corner.
Rereading my interview with Charlie Evans and perusing several of the comments to that interview remind me of that hot, gorgeous little wide receiver firecraker with a supremely fuckable ass. As I’ve mentioned several times lately, the difference in size itself became erotically charged for me. But far beyond just visuals, I crushed hard on the little stud because of the drama of a vastly undersized hottie audaciously running out onto the field and climbing into the pro wrestling ring in my imagination (through the bottom two ropes, of course) and staring fearlessly up at the overwhelming odds towering above.
I was relatively agnostic about my all-time favorite wide receiver’s win-loss record in his homoerotic wrestling career in my mind. Like the very best babyfaces, he was always dangerous and perpetually vulnerable at the same time. I distinctly remember him getting his jock strap ripped to shreds and having his rock hard muscle cheeks plowed hard by a particular, hot, muscled black power forward. I also have clear memories of him turning the tide on a certain aloof, blond, aristocratic shooting guard who was schoolboy pinned and force fed the beer can cock of the smirking, flexing wide receiver. Win or lose, he was a favorite object of my homoerotic wrestling imagination not despite his stature, but because of it. And not just because of his stature, but because of the inherent drama of an ambitious, earnest, hard working little stud throwing himself headlong at the big boys.
As I told Charlie, I continue to nurture a crush for David vs. Goliath homoerotic wrestling matches. I like big vs. little matches where the differential is massive, the odds are long, and the action is brutal. I love seeing audacious little studs hoisted over head and pounded into the mat. I love seeing them take every ounce as brutal an assault as any heavyweight and then keep peeling their battered, petite, bite-sized bodies off the mats and defying the big boys demanding that they submit in body and soul.
While I don’t care for many matches in which one competitor is just furniture, getting moved and manipulated and owned effortlessly, a match in which a seriously undersized wrestler is defiantly sucking down a mountain of abuse is in a squash-class of its own for me. If the little guy walks in with his head up, clenches his jaw in the face of fate, and demands respect by just surviving a magnificent beating, I will so get off on that just like I did when I staged wide receiver getting his sensational ass tagged in the middle of the ring by that power forward.
However, I think my hardest David vs. Goliath fantasies flip that script with a vengeance. When the audacious little underdog battles back against the barrage of muscle and mass, now that is fucking hot. When he starts accumulating riding time on a thoroughbred 50 pounds bigger, my adrenaline pumps into overdrive. And when I pictured my pretty little wide receiver slapping down a big, cocky all-American who’s never tasted defeat before, when he wears the big boy the fuck out, slapping that beer can in Goliath’s shocked, humiliated face, then little David is fucking king of my world.
I hold heartedly agree with the implication of Charlie’s argument that every homoerotic wrestling roster needs the little guys. Ever roster needs the underwear models and the bodybuilders. Ever roster should have raw edged street punks and square jawed All-American heroes. They should all have daddy’s little rich boys and ripped, raging, beautifully endowed sex brawlers. The industry should invest in recruiting hard edged pros and hot, inexperienced nerds. It should put up flat footed pornboys and fierce, lanky, long-distance runners. Personally I’m longing for a snarling radical fairy doing battle with a white collar stock broker on the homoerotic wresting down low.
The homoerotic pro wrestling industry is as susceptible to the tyranny of the capitalist market place as anything else, of course, so I certainly understand when, occasionally, it seems like everyone climbing through those ropes looks and moves and suffers alike. But as someone who has watched a TON of homoerotic wrestling (not even counting that running channel in my imagination of round the clock homopro), I’m always longing for producers to fill those niches Charlie and I talked about. Tickle those erotic fantasies we didn’t even know we loved. Populate our screens and imaginations with the great diversity of dramas, bodies, races, ages, etc., that makes oppressively straight real life bearable.
And most definitely, gives us pint-sized baby face heroes audacious enough to climb into the ring with beasts a foot taller and 80 pounds heavier, and to tell us a compelling, seat of our pants, crotch-tugging homoerotic wrestling drama that reflects real life writ larger, more erotic, and completely improbable, but yet, speaking to our real lives.
And now, excuse me. I need to go dig out an old college yearbook.
I like not only a wide variety of bodies and builds and characters and gear and ages and races and ethnicities and scenarios in homoerotic wrestling, but I also like the combination of contrasts. Let me be clear, I have nothing against hunks squaring off against similarly fashioned hunks. But I’ve long experienced some special kink bonus about mismatches, or, more generically, unmatched pairs. For example, there’s something that turns me on exponentially about wrestlers in entirely different types of gear. One in street clothes, the other in pro trunks, for example, or one in an earnest amateur singlet and the other in a stripper thong. I’m not entirely sure why, but fuck, yes, that contrast cranks my cock with just that much more enthusiasm. It’s also relatively rare, I find. So much more often, opponents are not only dressed similarly, but even dressed in identical gear choices, just in different colors.
A more common unmatched pairing, which often lends itself to a mismatched pair as well, is the big vs. little throwdown. There are, of course, many ways to measure size, but on my mind today is the tall/short dichotomy. Watching a pair of hotties face off, when one opponent’s nose basically comes up to his opponent’s sternum, turn me on like nobody’s business.
And I’m not just talking about squashes, where big guys manhandle and abuse guys 3 weight classes below them from start to finish. I only occassionally tuck in to a big bully squash like that, but a particularly fine vintage for me is the big vs. little pairing that turns out delightfully competitive, or perhaps even tilted toward a particularly skilled little guy cutting a big man down to size.
Perhaps it has to do with blurring the lines, this extra excitement I have for the unmatched pairs. In straight-up competitive sports, there are weight classes that control the narrative, that offer the illusion that the ultimate outcome is indicative of the better man, the skilled or more determined (or luckier) combatant. An unmatched pair of contrasting sizes may acknowledge that the tale of the tape in homoerotic pro wrestling is almost never about fair play and the raw measure of strength and skill.
There’s attitude and lust, sadistic impulse and desire to dominate. I may still expect the smaller man to get outmuscled and manhandled, but pro wrestling has always relied on a suspension of disbelief, and when, through cunning or skill or an equalizing shot to the balls, the little guy puts a convincing hurt on his goliath, I don’t just go with it, I scream full steam ahead!
Particularly when it’s competitive, I definitely don’t mind it when a hot bundle of compact muscle gets a beating from his taller opponent, either. I’ve mentioned in the past how, every so often, a squash turns sour for me if it comes across as just bullying. But if the scenario sells legitimate suspense about the ultimate outcome of the match, I’ve certainly found myself getting off to a big man putting a hurt on a pint size muscleman probably as frequently as vice versa.
I’m not sure if I’ve come to any more clarity about my delight in a mismatched tall vs. short homoerotic wrestling match. But I know what I like, and things pump harder and hotter for me when a big guy and a little guy lock up, thrown down, and, especially, when they the winner (whichever part he played) sexually lords it over his vanquished foe.
Despite my explicit preference for homoerotic wrestling fare with an element of competitive suspense about it, I’ve been finding myself watching, and enjoying, quite a number of one-sided matches lately. The “squash” is a particular subgenre that I can enjoy, but, like I’ve said, I tend to prefer to see more give and take, more narrative suspense. So it’s interesting to find myself sitting in front of a whole lot of lopsided squashes. Sampling more than my typical diet of them, I’ve been reflecting on what almost always does work for me in a squash, what can but doesn’t always work, and what almost never works for me in a squash.
First, what almost always works for me is seeing a dominant pitcher deeply delighted by the feel of mastering his opponent. This is what I’m talking about when I prattle on about “owning,” when one wrestler doesn’t just beat the other, doesn’t just make him tap out or submit, but takes visceral pleasure in controlling an outmatched contender. Obviously, the absence of this element can make a squash a bore for me. The squash where the dominant stud seems thoroughly dismissive, so out of his opponent’s league that he can barely be bothered to pay attention to the suffering he’s causing, tends to disappoint me. I’ll feast for days off of a viscious, dominant heel who obliterates an opponent in a landslide and convinces me, one way or another, that he could very well need to rub one out soon before or soon after the camera’s are turned off, because he’s just too damned turned on. Frankly, this doesn’t even need to be entirely about sexual tension. I’m less interested in whether the winner wants to fuck his opponent’s ass in victory than I am in whether the experience of conquering, controlling, and possessing an outmatched opponent in and of itself seems capable of giving the winner erotic pleasure. Whether he cums all over the catcher’s face on camera, or just leaves me believing that he needs a little “alone time” in the locker room to pound one out on his own, I’m buying it, if he’s selling it.
A lot of examples come to mind. Most of Kid Vicious’ catalog falls neatly into this category. If KV doesn’t bust a load all over a lamb-to-the-slaughter opponent, I feel 99% certainty that he took care of it soon afterward. He always looks to me like he’s mentally getting off on destroying an opponent (the prettier, the harder). Kid Karisma taps this consistently as well. His recent Undagear 23 match with reigning homoerotic wrestler of the month Marco Carlow is a perfect example. Kid K looks like he’s eating this squash up with a spoon, and when he rips Marco’s gear off, poses overtop of his fallen prey, and beats a hasty retreat from the mat room, I’m convinced it’s not just a hasty retreat he’s about to beat. Jake Jenkins muscle mauling of it-boy Kip Sorrell in Backyard Brawls 8 is another specific example. I think of JJ as one of the most G-rated wrestlers on the scene, but his laughter, his luxuriating in Kip’s total destruction beneath him leads me to write the off camera script that has JJ needing a moment to himself to celebrate beating the living fuck out of that ridiculously pretty pin-up boy.
There are other elements of a squash that can, but don’t always, work for me. A predator who plays with his food, for example, can sometimes turn me on, other times no. I’ve written my appreciation for trash talking taunts in the wrestling ring for ages, but in a squash, withering derision can seem more like dickishness than homoerotic tension. Personally, I find taunts more erotically provocative when the battle is close, when there’s suspense as to whose brash boasts will be born out as true, and who will be humiliated in regrets for winding up his betters with checks he couldn’t cash. In a squash, taunting trash talk and verbal humiliation are tricky for me. Sometimes I’m stoked hotter. Somtimes not. Cathweight squash scenarios also can go either way for me. When the opponents are so clearly, ridiculously mismatched in size, a big-beats-little squash can sometimes work for me in a big way, but at other times leave me a little bored with what turns out to be the forgone conclusion. Competitive catchweight matches or, even, little-beats-big squashes typically float my boat big time, all else considered, but it’s a touchy thing if it’s a big-beats-little squash from the start.
Guido Genatto’s matches teeter back and forth with me around some of these coin toss elements. He won’t relent in physical or emotional abuse until an opponent is a pool of sweat and tears, sometimes just this side of the line for turning me on, sometimes just the other. For the big beats little squash dilemma, big Joe Robbins similarly sometimes comes up heads, sometimes tails.
Finally, it’s a little hard to put my finger on precisely the element that almost never works for me in a squash. I know it by how I feel, rather than by the specific content of the wrestling. When I’m left genuinely feeling sorry for the loser, when I have this impulse to call the principal’s office and report an incident of homophobic bullying in the halls, then I’m totally not on board. When it’s so one sided and the dominant stud is heaping on misogynistic insults, questioning the battered boy’s masculinity, then it touches a nerve that makes it hard to stay in the mood for. There’s a particular stripe of sadism that’s more sociopathic than homoerotic, that delights in inflicting suffering but seems more likely to end in the winner pissing on the loser than cumming across him. That schtick is not in my wheelhouse (no judgment implied, though if it is in yours).
My most recent experience with this is the third match in Undagear 23, in which Ethan Axel Andrews fucking brutalizes delicately gorgeous Jayden Mayne. I’m not just saying this because Jayden charmed the pants off me in his interview here late last year, selling the living fuck out of being an earnest, ambitious babyface on the rise (though that, he did). And fuck, Ethan’s turned my crank more times than I can count. But then there’s this crime scene that unfolds in Undagear 23. Ethan mauls Mr. Hollywood in such a way that I’m sort of hoping for someone on the camera crew to break this shit up. I’ve seen Ethan sell me over and over on his erotic delight in owning an opponent, but here, he just strikes me as a bully. He’s just mean, not because he’s getting off on it, or he cares if you’re getting off on it, or he secretely intends on stripping Jayden’s fine, fine ass bare and taking the spoils of victory with a Trojan on. He just comes across as enjoying hurting defenseless creatures, just because he can. Call PETA. There’s a sicko who enjoys torturing puppies!
Now, I’m 100% certain that there are plenty of homoerotic wrestling fans for whom Ethan’s mugging of Jayden is pure gold. Jayden is genuinely outmatched and outclassed from start to finish, and there’s an undeniable beauty in his spoiled masculine innocence. I’m not suggesting that anyone else does or should feel about it the way I do. I’m just musing, in my own little corner of the internet, about this thing that can take me a little by surprise: a homoerotic wrestling match that simply, essentially, fails to push my buttons. Squashes are just like that for me.
I’ve been trying to coordinate schedules with Jayden Mayne for nearly a year now in order to get some time with this young stud for an interview. He’s got leading man good looks, a ripped young body, and a dangerousness about him that made me take notice of him from the very beginning. We finally pulled it together for what I hope will be just the first of many interviews as this ambitious giant-killer advances further in his wrestling career. As you’ll see, Jayden’s got plans.
Bard: I’m so excited to get the chance to talk with you, Jayden. I have documented proof that I’ve been a big fan of yours from the first time I laid eyes on you in Ringwars 19. What experience did you have when you first showed up wrestling at BG East?
Jayden: I didn’t have very much experience before I started with BGE, other than wrestling my kid brother and friends grown up. I learned a lot from watching TV. It was something I’ve always wanted to do. I feel like a superstar when I step into the ring.
Bard: You look like a superstar, too, stud! That face, that body, that attitude… you grabbed my attention instantly. Speaking of attitude and being a superstar, what’s it like from the inside being that ripped young stud climbing through the ropes to do battle? Who are you channeling and how would describe the persona you take with you into the ring?
Jayden: I would describe my character as a professional wrestler as being ready anytime to take on whoever dares to step into the ring with me, no matter how big he may be. I think people underestimate the smaller guys in this line of work. I’ve always been portrayed as the “underdog,” but I’ll tell you, I always put up a hell of a fight.
Bard: Damn straight, you do! I love that edginess that you have when you wrestle. I’m stunned that you didn’t have much prior experience because I always read you as seriously dangerous, even going against much bigger guys.
Jayden: I live for that challenge! There is nothing better than flipping a 220+ pound beast over my head and seeing the look on their face as they fly overhead. I like taking on bigger opponents because I like that challenge. I’m working hard right now to get my weight up and hope to be around 160 pounds in my next bout. Then maybe me and Joe Robbins can meet again, except I’ll be doing the bulldozing!!!
Bard: I’m a little breathless right now just hearing you call out 240 pound Joe Robbins for a rematch. Save me a front seat for that show! I’ve got a major soft spot for a smaller guy who puts major hurt on the big boys. Therefore, clearly, it should come as no surprise that I love watching your matches. So you’ve wrestled in the ring, the BG East gazebo, the backyard. Where do you feel you wrestle best?
Jayden: I feel like the ring best suits my fighting style. I like to throw some punches, as you saw in Gloved Gladiators. The ring allows me to do that and use my quickness and agility to my advantage.
Bard: Another thing I feel like I pick up from your ring persona is that you’re likely to say shit like it really is. So I’m just going to throw this out there and see where it goes: who’s the most annoying opponent you’ve faced so far?
Jayden: Attila. He talked a big game but seemed like he couldn’t handle the heat when I put the beat to him with the gloves. So he had to resort to a low blow to gain the edge on me.
Bard: See, that’s what I mean! I just knew you’d wouldn’t be one of these wrestlers who tries to avoid saying the honest shit about opponents. And I love that you mention that match with Attila. You owned that acrobatic son of a bitch when it was a boxing match. I thought you were going to knock him out before the gloves came off, despite knowing full well that this is BG East wrestling we’re talking about. But then holy crap, he exploits the low blows and rides you relentlessly. What a dick. And I mean that both literally and figuratively. Is there anybody you’ve met at BG East who you’d call out for being all talk?
Bard: Hell yes you did! I did not see that coming either. And knowing now that you had very little wrestling background makes that match that much more astonishing, since Jake is constantly billing himself as the total package, high school state wrestling champ, MMA fighter, fitness model, etc. etc.. The look of shock on his face getting owned by you is priceless! Who have you met at BG East who seems like someone you could hang out with, go drinking with and enjoy?
Jayden: I would like to party with Jonny Firestorm. He’s been in the game a while and seems “real” to me. I’d definitely toss a few cold ones down with Jonny.
Bard: Solid choice, I think. Jonny seems like he has a lot of friends who speak highly of him. My mind keeps going back to your Catchweight match against gargantuan Joe Robbins. When you’re walking into a match so overwhelmingly the underdog, when you know you’re very likely to take a major league beating, what keeps you focused? What do you do to face down the odds and the fear?
Jayden: I have taken a few beatings, yes, but each one makes me stronger and last longer. I was not raised as a “pansy” or a quitter. It makes me train even harder. Soon, I will be a force to reckon with! Mark my words!!
Bard: My money is on you! What does it mean to you to be a wrestler, to be someone fans rally around and want to see more of?
Jayden: Wrestling keeps me in shape and allows me to experience something that people all over the globe only dream about! I’m very fortunate to have as many fans as I do. I’m hoping to expand in the next year, and maybe offer some private matches or specialty videos. Is there anything Jayden Mayne fans would like to see? Ideas?
Bard: I’m always, at all times, full of ideas for seeing hot studs like you wrestling! I’ll start cataloging my Jayden Mayne fantasy match ideas for you now, and perhaps we’ll see some more inspiration from other fans who know you’re open to suggestions. You mentioned that wrestling keeps you in shape. I for one, love the shape you’re in. Is there a particular body part that you’re most proud of?
Jayden: I’m not proud of any certain body part, because Jayden Mayne is the total package! Do any of my fans disagree?!
Bard: I’m going to go out on a limb and say, no, there are no Jayden Mayne fans who would dare quibble with the truth that you possess an incredibly hot look, head-to-toe, including lots of great parts right in the middle. I’m fascinated to see what you look like with an additional 10 to 15 pounds of muscle on you, once you reach that goal you mentioned. Is there anything else you’d like to tell (or ask) fans who look forward to more wrestling from you?
Jayden: I’d like to thank all of my fans, and I plan on coming back stronger than ever. Hopefully expanding my career, doing some work for some other companies or venues as opportunities arise. I’m always open to suggestions. In fact, I’m looking forward to hearing what the fans would like to see from me next!
Bard: Awesome attitude that will do nothing but earn you more fans, Jayden! And I’d just like to add that I’m just a little infatuated with your role as giant-killer, so I hope we see more of you shocking and awing the big boys who overlook an “underdog” like you. Just ask Darius or J.J. what’s at stake in not taking Jayden Mayne seriously enough! Keep us updated on what’s cooking in your world, and if you get some inspiration from fans about new career moves or custom matches, I hope you’ll feed all of our imaginations by letting us know about it. Thanks so much for taking the time to chat with me, Jayden. I’ve got nothing but respect and high hopes for where wrestling takes you next.
I’m willingly channeling Joan Rivers for today’s flight of fancy for the sake of alliteration. God forbid two wrestlers show up for a match wearing the same gear, but honestly, there’s a finite number of choice, sexy homoerotic wrestling gear out there. It’s bound to happen. For example, we’ve seen the same eye-catching baby blue bikini trunks with yellow piping round the waist and thighs on several wrestlers, including (at least) Tyrell Tomsen, Joe Robbins, Dick Rick, and most recently, Brad Barnes. So, sure, we could easily debate for days which of these massive mountains of muscle would win in a battle royale ring rumble. But besides that, who wears those hot trunks best (or, alternately, who needs most to have them removed… with my teeth)? Of course, the correct answer is that we have to see them take them on and off in person to know for sure, but if you had to pick, who would it be? Vote below!
The first glimpse I ever had of Lon Dumont piqued my interest. He was handsome and lean with beautiful muscles and a strikingly hot shaved head. Sprinkle some salt in the crevices between his six-pack abs, stick a slice of lime in that mouth, and I’ll bring the tequila! But while Lon was undeniably attractive in still frame, when I saw him wrestle Eddy Rey in what I still think is the sexiest forced-to-flex match I’ve yet seen, I was completely captured. The swagger, the strut, the cocky trash talk… before Eddy even hoists his long muscle bod over the top rope to climb in, Lon already had me completely entranced. Then that body and that attitude providing the platform for a completely self-possessed, high quality pro wrestling beatdown sold me lock, stock and barrel. It didn’t take long for him to slide his hot ass into the top ranks of my favorite homoerotic wrestlers.
Lon is all smiles and good natured respect before a match
Lon was a finalist for votes in BG East’s Top Heel of 2012, but honestly, I think he’s hard to pigeonhole. He typically starts out a match on an optimistic note. He’s usually the first to show some respect for an opponent. Out of the starting gate, Lon is more self-assured, good-natured, and witty than vicious, snarling or hell-bent on humiliation. But then poke him a bit, as opponents always do, and you’ll get a rise out of him. He’ll go from 0 to 60 in a split second. It’s common to hear Lon muse wistfully, “It didn’t have to be this way,” in brief pauses between pounding the shit out of a dazed and confused opponent. I get the impression Lon would enjoy it if his wrestling matches were gentlemanly contests of strength, skill and stamina between mutually respectful athletes. Is this the mindset of a heel? I’m not sure. Then again, once he’s been provoked, once yet another cocky hunk has miscalculated the incredibly lean, aesthetically gorgeous physique star, the depth of his snarling, punishing cruelty is an astonishing thing to watch. Thus provoked, the brutality stretching from corner to corner, trapped in the ropes, hair pulled, contempt raining down as Lon isn’t satisfied with literal victory, but insists on delivering complete humiliation and ego crushing psychological domination, certainly has the strong whiff of a highly accomplished heel.
Big Joe shows no respect
In Lon’s terribly mismatched ring battle with giant Joe Robbins in Gut Bash 8, he invited the massive side of beef in the ring with him to compare physiques. As with most masses of muscle who climb into the wrestling ring, Joe is looking at different criteria in his side-by-side comparison. Aesthetically, considering proportion, definition, overall conditioning, and the balance of leanness with muscle mass, Lon my be 95 pounds lighter and over half a foot shorter, but he’s head and shoulders above big Joe. Lon gently insists on respect from the big man (which, of course, he doesn’t get) on every comparison of body part by body part until they get to flexing their quads. Lon is the first to acknowledge that big Joe simply has him beat in that department. Honestly, one of Joe’s upper thighs is about as thick as Lon’s waist (which says wonders about both bodies), but Lon puts it right out there that he’s got major work to do to get his legs in as mind-boggling a shape as his diamond carved abs. Big Joe doesn’t give a flying fuck about Lon’s bodybuilding trophies and near approximation of perfect physical conditioning. The 240 pounder beats the living daylights out of my long time wrestler crush, determined to prove the point that his own undeniably strong, less defined abs are more “useful” than the living anatomy chart next to him. I’m unconvinced that he proved that point, rather than establishing the fact that a 7 inch height advantage and a 95 pound weight advantage is hard to beat. For my tastes, Lon takes the mugging like the champ he is, as exquisite in dining on suffering as he is on dishing it out. But I’ll admit that my long-time infatuation with him strongly influences my interpretation of events.
Lon keeps improving on perfection
Lon has since been superseded in the ranks of my favorites by ass-tastic party boy Kid Karisma, but that’s hardly the extent of the changes. As Hair Stakes illustrates, Lon is nothing short of shaggy these days, coming an incredibly long way from his former shaved scalp. And of course Ethan Andrews is a mop head as well, establishing the highly entertaining premise of this match: loser loses his locks. There’s been a good deal of armchair hairstyling from Lon fans, debating which “do” he rocks the best. Me, I’d sell my firstborn to get my hands all over him at any phase of his follicle development, though I have to admit I’ve got a big, roaring hard spot for watching Ethan wrap his fingers in Lon’s curls and drag him screaming across the ring.
Lon’s got a new hairdo and brand new bulging quads!
But holy hell, let’s not allow the title and explicit story of this match to distract us from the rest of what’s developed about Lon since I first fell in lust with him in Fantasymen 32. He’s been through about 2 and a half competitive bodybuilding seasons since then, and his already worship-worthy body has come a long way. Most provocatively for this viewer, Lon’s legs are phenomenal!
Hair Stakes, definitely… but look at those upper legs!
He’s certainly not going to get any more respect from big Joe Robbins, I’m sure, but a casual observer (or a rabid Lon Dumont fanatic, like me), has got to admit he’s packed on muscle mass while maintaining that insane, lean conditioning. I think it helps that he’s not wearing knee pads, so we can see the mountainous heads on those lower quads (note to Lon: don’t wear knee pads). But no one in their right mind can argue with the fact that like his hair, his legs have come a long, long way.
Lon takes the situation firmly in hand.
Having obsessed about his phenomenal body yet again, let me also repeat that Lon’s mouth continues to be one of the sexiest assets this stud brings with him in an already deep, deep arsenal of sexy assets. Ethan is also a notorious trash talker. His bread and butter at Rock Hard Wrestling is taking pretty muscle boys by surprise and destroying them in body while crushing them in mind and soul with his razor sharp tongue. And perhaps that was his game plan when he climbed into the ring with Lon: one more muscle head to be taken for granted by only to out hustle with experience and dirty tricks along the way to watching them whither underneath an endless onslaught of ego bursting trash talk. Verbally, the offense is Ethan’s from the start, because you know, Lon would have been just as happy to settle this like gentlemen. Ethan is many things, but I can’t imagine he gets called a gentlemen often at all, at least not by his opponents. He tells Lon he looks like a lesbian, which gets a slight chuckle and an eye roll from the bodybuilder. Ethan drips condescension as he suggests Lon looks like a cancer patient in a bad wig. Lon sneers and throws in another eye roll at both bad taste and poor humor. But when Ethan suggests that Lon has crows feet, and that he’s probably getting too old to stay in the high impact game, Lon’s foot puts the pedal to the metal. Note to future opponents: Lon does NOT like being mistaken for someone older than he is (how old is he?!).
Ethan is a master at serving up a dish of battered muscleboy most appealingly.
At the top of Ethan’s assets in homoerotic wrestling is his uncanny ability to not only make a pretty muscle boy suffer, but to display him so seductively. When on offense in Hair Stakes, this match is no exception for him. He squeezes and stretches Lon’s bodybuilding competition-ready physique mouthwateringly. He’s savvy and vicious and tenacious like a terrier (which is incredibly hot to me), and he sprinkles in verbal domination and slowly humiliating corporal punishment into this incredibly (and hilariously) sexy battle in which long hair is used by both battlers in delightfully creative, agonizing ways.
Lon’s lovely hamstrings and perfectly positioned ass!
With the extensive experience of both of these wrestlers, it should come as no surprise that the pace is relentless. There’s little time spent jockeying for who’s on top because both boys are decisive and expert at applying holds. It’s a chess match. Move and counter, advantage secured then lost.
Lon’s curls bounce as he locks on a game changer.
But like so many smart ass hunks before him, Ethan can’t quite keep up with Lon’s barrage of trash talk or his mastery of the ring. Lon subdues the scrapper by shutting his mouth for good, putting him out cold and displaying almost every one of his own mouthwatering muscles to perfection each step along the way. Between being so beautifully displayed by young Ethan and then showing what all those pretty, pretty muscles are good for, this match does something momentous to me. It stokes my Lon-mania back to full blast and results in the rare event of a change in the rankings of which wrestler owns me the hardest.
I’d trade places with Ethan here any… damn… time!
That’s right, Lon has upended (which, let’s face it, may be Kid Karisma’s best side anyway) Kid Karisma to decisively make me put the crown of my reigning favorite homoerotic wrestler on his shaggy head. Kid K is no more than half a step behind him by my count, so the competition is arousingly tight for the title. I still give Eli Black the edge on a match by match comparison of Hair Stakes with Gut Bash 10 for the homoerotic wrestler of the month title. But in the overall rankings, Hair Stakes gives Lon just the boot up on idle Kid K that he needs to climb to the top and sit very, very pretty.
When Eddy finally arrived, Lon continued to captivate me by taking the lead in the dance of establishing the plot. Eddy encouraged Lon to continue with his posing routine, but Lon refused with a snort. “People pay to see me flex,” he explains. Lon wasn’t about to just give it away for free. When Eddy proposes that perhaps he might just make Lon flex for him, Lon put his hands on his hips and tilted his head to side, thinking. When he acknowledges that Eddy is a tall drink of water and calls him, “Sprout,” I both laugh and grow even more aroused at the same time.
Eddy obediently flexes for Lon
In short order, Lon confirmed my fondest hope. Via a blindside assault on big Eddy, Lon demonstrated with brutal grace that he has not only the body, not only the persona, but also the ring savvy and wrestling skill to deserve my firmly established fanaticism. On message like a bear trap, Lon made sweaty Eddy flex his hot muscles over and over, wringing one submission after another out of the big man. Lon was patient but firm as he physically and psychologically broke down big Eddy, systematically transforming him from an over-confident, hard-bodied hunk into a whimpering, obedient, defenseless plaything.
As documented here at neverland, each and every new release from Lon Dumont makes my heart flutter like a star-struck schoolgirl. I most appreciate his rookie wrecking work, such as beating down to size the likes of big, dumb (and presumably full of cum) Terry O’Daly and, most recently, hairy bruiser Morgan Cruise. Big, strong, barely legal studs like these are genetically predisposed and socially trained to believe that they deserve to come out on top over smaller, more mature opponents. Handsome, letterman jacket-wearing sides of beef grow up unfailingly reinforced in the faith that youth and size merit victory when they stand, flexing, side-by-side with the likes of 5’6 and 15/16″ tall, 150 pound, 30-something opponents. When Lon picks them apart like Thanksgiving turkey leftovers, you can see their rookie worldviews come crashing down around them. As Lon cuts them down to size and then lifts his right boot, pauses as he takes aim, and then stomps all over them, tenderizing their cornfed muscles from head to toe, the likes of Terry and Morgan learn that the real world will not be handed to them on a platter just because they’re big, fit and young.
Ripped Lon and partner Chace LaChance
Versatility turns me on, as well, and my reigning homoerotic wrestler of the month can tell more than one story. Teamed up with too, too tweezed go-go boy rookie Chace LaChance, Lon was also convincingly one half of pretty-in-peach, going down in two out of three to big, nasty Donnie Drake and his sadist apprentice, Doug Rand. Babyface heroes who battle valiantly but are bested by crafty shortcuts and vile double teams are beautiful to behold. When Lon is knocked out cold and laid out defenseless and vulnerable next to his pretty partner in the middle of the ring, all that gorgeous muscle so helpless and humiliated makes me gasp.
Joe’s huge thighs crushing Lon’s armored core
And speaking of gasping… when I interviewed Lon earlier this year, I asked him what it would take to be bested in a singles match. “Perhaps someone with a 100-pound weight advantage might have better luck,” he answered bluntly, “but besides that, I just don’t see it happening.” Perhaps going on the record like that gave the boys at BG East a devilish idea, because the next time we saw Lon climb into the ring, he was face-to-face… or perhaps, face to sternum… with 6’2″, 240 pound Titan, Joe Robbins. Bigger men have gone weak in the knees in the shadow of humungous Joe, but Lon is a study in self-control. Whether Lon’s prediction from my interview was playing through his mind as Joe wrapped his tree trunks around him and crushed him into sobbing agony, I don’t know. But while nearly 100-pounds of weight advantage did, indeed, blemish Lon’s undefeated 1-on-1 record, Lon proved that he’s not just entertaining when he’s large and in charge. He’s a vision, suffering for days, enduring boatloads of pain for a marathon session of gut abuse that incredibly reluctantly wrings a string of submissions out of the bodybuilder. When Lon is gasping, clutching his rips, slumped against the ring apron, his loss to Joe is just one more check in the win column when it comes to confirming my lustful devotion.
Picture perfect Lon rips Terry O’Daly’s knee off
Not everyone is turned on by what I’m turned on by, but one thing that defines this blog and my lust is wrestling. And Lon is first and foremost a sexy-ass wrestler. Just like his stomps, his masterful application of joint wrenching submission holds is brutally graceful. The rookies that Lon excels in destroying are typically ham-handed, a little awkward as they work themselves into position to snap on a Boston crab or have to use trial-and-error to figure out the most effective angle to work a bearhug. Lon, on the other hand, slides like liquid gold into position. He knows just how far a knee will bend, just how much tension a back can take. He’s such a technician that he can afford to be an artist as well, flexing his body just right, snarling beautifully, displaying his writhing opponent gorgeously for the perfect camera angle.
Like me, Lon can’t help but marvel at the image of his complete mastery over Morgan Cruise
It was Lon’s deeply satisfying rookie wrecking of hairy chested bruiser Morgan Cruise that earned him, at last, the title of homoerotic wrestler of the month. The vision of Morgan’s Prometheus Bound performance nearly earned the rookie the reader’s choice as the rookie with the most potential. I, for one, am very, very keen to see Morgan and his cleft chin show up again to see if he can start to learn some of those lessons that Lon so patiently offered him. But as beautiful as Morgan’s destruction is, my eyes are stuck like glue on every flex, every vein rising to the surface, every angle of Lon’s body as he demonstrates his mastery of the ring and as he masters Morgan’s powerful body and so vulnerable soul.
Lon’s excellence of execution
There’s something profoundly erotic about a man who is completely self-possessed and in control of his emotions even as he administers debilitating doses of pain and suffering. This probably explains why I continue to enjoy Dexter so much (despite Michael C. Hall’s stubborn refusal to let us see his ass), and it most definitely explains, in part, why Lon captivates me so thoroughly. He’s a rational wrestler. He’s thinking as he’s applying that armbar. He contemplating the moral of the story, even as he’s threatening to rip poor Morgan’s head off of his neck. When Lon is finished with Morgan, he gives the wrecked rookie a thoughtful examination. It’s not personal. Hell, Lon even suggests that he’d be willing to entertain teaming up with beefy Morgan to continue to tutor the heel-hopeful.
Lon’s rippling abs, sculpted quads, bulding shoulders, rock hard pecs, perfectly employed.
Lon has been working my wrestling kink like a champ from the moment his flexing image appeared on my screen. His charming interview from last February proved that Lon is a quality human being in addition to being a captivating homoerotic wrestler. He’s been at the top of my charts for a long time when it comes to my favorite homoerotic wrestlers (non-pornboys), and his destruction of Morgan Cruise’s body and dreams makes him, at long last and unquestionably, my homoerotic wrestler of the month.
I’m perpetually irritated by the presumption of politicians who propose to speak on behalf of “the American people.” As soon as I hear the phrase, “the American people” come out of the mouth of a politician, I have an instant, low boil rage that starts. Even when politicians who speak on behalf of “the American people” say things that I agree with, I’m irritated by the arrogant, self-serving rhetorical device of glossing over the diversity of opinions, priorities and passions of 300 million in order to construct some nugget of partial truth that is fundamentally nothing more than pithy propaganda. I’ve toyed with the notion of refusing to vote for any politician who speaks on behalf of “the American people,” but within the past 10 years, that would mean that I’d never vote for any candidates for national office, and that just doesn’t seem right to me.
The purpose of this rant is really just to reiterate a point that I make often around here: even within the relatively cozy confines of the homoerotic wrestling kink “community,” a multitude of tastes and opinions and passions define us as diverse, contradictory, and complex. Anytime I see someone argue about what “gay wrestling fans really want,” I stop reading, because it’s a fundamentally flawed premise that undermines any argument that follows. If at any point I’ve ventured into that territory of speaking for “us all,” then you have every right to call me out on my hypocrisy. But despite any unapologetic moments of intellectual discontinuity, I strive to reflect on the pages of this blog my tastes, my kinks, my passions and predilections. Come along for the ride if you like, but I really know only what I like, not what you like.
For example, I’m infatuated with Lon Dumont. While I’ve heard from several readers who are similarly fanatical about Lon, I’m not under the impression that all of us in the homoerotic wrestling kink corner of the internet are unanimously enraptured with the sharp as a whip, witty, competition bodybuilder with many years of pro-wrestling experience. Some of you probably didn’t have the same knee-jerk, raging arousal to learn that Lon would be appearing in a catalog 87 new release from BG East. Speaking for no one other than myself, however, the news a couple of weeks ago of a Lon Dumont wrestling match was profoundly titillating.
The existential dilemma posed by Lon v Joe is age-old and intimately wrapped up in the calculus of aesthetics and masculinity in the male form. Lon is a gasp-worthy work of art. He’s perfectly proportioned, cut like a Tiffany diamond, and virtually flawless. I say “virtually” only to give a nod to Lon’s concession that Joe has incomparable legs, which Lon doesn’t even pretend he can compete with. But Lon is unwilling to concede that his sliced to the bone abdominals and obliques are indisputably superior to Joe’s, which, less face it, are flat and fit but nowhere near the perfect shape of Lon’s. Joe, on the other hand, dismisses Lon’s abs for being just about aesthetics, and instead argues that his are superior because they “serve a purpose.” Form versus function, beauty versus beast, grace versus power… there are a lot of ways to approach it, but in the end, it touches on primal questions of the nature of masculinity, making this match explicitly about who’s got better abs, but implicitly about who’s got bigger balls.
Joe is always menacing understated, at least in everything I’ve seen him in. His voice rumbles at an octave lower than some canine’s can hear. It isn’t necessarily apparent at the beginning of the exchange just how personally Joe takes Lon’s rapid fire, cocky swagger and insistence on his superiority. As they take turns, all gentlemanly and self-restrained, delivering fists into each other’s mid-sections, the irritation on Joe’s face slowly grows. It’s not until Lon’s final punch doubles Joe over and sends him stumbling backward, clearly in pain, that we see with crystal clarity how Joe really feels about this entire situation. He’s pissed. He’s really, really pissed.
As Lon predicted in his exclusive interview on this blog a few months ago, the one thing that can pose a serious challenge to Lon in a 1-on-1 is a massive freak of mother nature about 100 pounds bigger than he. Joe is precisely that massive freak of mother nature, and Lon is just never going to weather Hurricane Joe for the long haul without an act of God intervening on his behalf. This match quickly reminds me of some of the classic “endurance” battles of homoerotic wrestling days gone by, where the match is all about watching how much punishment one man can take. The pinfall or the submission is less pertinent than the seconds of agony ticking away between them, each one bearing testimony to the man on the bottom’s tolerance for pain.
With wrestling savvy, salesmanship, and world-class conditioning, Lon can take a whole lot of punishment. He manages just a few rallies, but momentum never stays Lon’s way for long. But what exponentiates Lon’s sexiness in Gut Bash 8 isn’t just the erotic gold of watching a gorgeous hunk suffer; it’s that he takes it for so long. He makes Joe work for every gasp and wince and pleading submission. Joe is coated in sweat by the end of this story, because Lon makes the big, big boy work for it like someone with a the weight advantage that Joe has over Lon should never have to work.
The hints from earlier in the year were that Lon has an invitation to appear in more BG East bouts, perhaps this time sporting a full head of hair, even harder muscles, bigger quads, and a thicker back. I don’t know if Lon is still on tap to show up in another wrestling fantasy for me to be infatuated with. But if he is, I’m pulling for the powers that be to unleash Lon on boys who are, say, within 30 pounds of his weight class. Watching Lon take on big boys is definitely entertaining, but I’d love to watch him work over a cocky musclehunk somewhere near his own size. Lon has a commanding presence, a totally packaged persona, and top-notch delivery of precisely the wrestling repertoire that turns me on. More Lon may not be at the top of everyone’s wish list, but it’s at the top of mine!
While a California nut job has garnered unfortunate attention for predicting that the world will “end” today, I have to reluctantly admit that I’m having a profound religious experience at this very moment. I haven’t been “raptured,” but I’m enraptured by yesterday’s release of the latest BG East catalog. So much eye candy! Surely there’s some divine inspiration bringing together the likes of coverboy handsome muscle stud, Marco Carlow, and Dev Michaels with BG East-style motel wrestling. And speaking of divinity, I’m powerfully provoked by the promising return of the lickable body of Angelo Blanco in lip-smacking, dicks out, asterisk-punctuated Masked Mayhem 8. I’m aching to see Jonny Firestorm and my former homoerotic wrestler of the month, Bobby Horton, sorting out who’s badder, now that I’ve read Joe’s preview review. But it’ll probably come as no surprise that it’s Gut Bash 8 that’s made the Hallelujah Chorus from Handel’s Messiah ring in my ears.
I’m on board with anything I can get my hands on starring my favorite homoerotic wrestler – nonpornboy, Lon Dumont. If there were ever abs screaming out for gut pounding testing, it’s the competition-quality physique of sexy Lon. Sweet Jesus, that body brings a tear to my eye! Lon’s sporting a shaved head, so if I’m tracking his heads-up from my interview with him a couple of months ago, this match against Joe Robbins must have been taped sometime last year.
Oh my God, oh my God, oh my God! Behemouth 6’2″, 240 pound Joe Robbins stacked up side-by-side against crystal cut, 5’7″, 145 pound Lon is a heaven-sent scenario. I’ll take some big v small wrestling fun anyday, but when “small” is the physique of a podium-topping competitive bodybuilder, this just opens up incredible possibilities of homoerotic wrestling paradise.
Holy shit! Lon in still frame getting an ab-workover by big Joe is perfection. So I’m not sure how to upgrade on perfection when it comes to Lon’s razor sharp wit and fast-on-his feet cocky banter forged from years of pro-wrestling. More of Lon is always an answer to prayer, but gut pounding from a beasty Joe is pure, unmerited, divine grace.
Ah, hell, but wait… Joshua Goodman (that’s Mr. Joshua to you!) shows up on the other side of this Gut Bash 8 package. And speaking of packages, Mr. J has got to have made a pact with the devil, to be that handsome, that gorgeously fit, and having that much heft to have to stuff into skin tight trunks. It’s no wonder that Mr. J is the top contender in my book, to be in line to challenge Lon for the title of my favorite homoerotic wrestler – nonpornboy.
Damn, damn, damn! While I still say every Mr. J new release ought to repeat the storyline of Matmen 21 (Mr. J challenges an amorous admirer to wrestle for the opportunity to earn the reward of full contact bodyworship of Mr. J), I won’t turn my nose up to Mr. J putting his “20 pack” on the line in a gut pounding ring battle with big Eddy Rey.
The sight of Mr. J squeezing Eddy’s face between his muscular thighs as Eddy is tied up in the ropes makes me think all sorts of delightfully guilty thoughts. One of those thoughts is that this ought to be one of the rides at that homoerotic wrestling theme park that I’ve been fantasizing about lately. I’d wait in line to take Eddy’s place here, that’s for certain. Mr. J is one of the best at making being bad look so, so good. He’s a devilish, sneaky, powerful, egomaniacal hunk who is always chomping at the ass of my favorite homoerotic wrestler- nonpornboy, Lon for my loyalty. It’s like Lon is there, flashing an ab-crunching double bicep pose on my right shoulder, and Mr. Joshua has one hand cradling the back of his head and the other stuffed down his trunks (rearranging his manhood), on my left shoulder.
And here I am, right in the middle, in pure heaven!