Model Wrestling

I like to pretend that I’m unaffected by the social control mechanisms of advertising. I “never” click on click-through ads. I don’t even look at direct mailers before I toss them. But it’s such a superficial self-deception. Put a gorgeous male model in a wrestling singlet, and I’m captured by capitalism and unthinkingly signing over my self-determination and credit card number.

Fashion models in wrestling gear are like a car accident on the highway. I can’t tear my eyes away, and I hate myself a little for it. Dress up Jonathan Jesensky in gear, give him a nice coat of fashion-shoot sweat, and my jaw drops open a little as I stare helplessly, occasionally wiping the drool that escapes the corner of my mouth.
Strip Chad White to his underwear and tell him to lift another hardbody upside down as if he’s about to slam him mercilessly to the ground, and I’m stopped in my tracks.
Taunt me with the suggestion that a male model in gear is, in fact, an actual wrestler, and I become a mindless puppet on a string. Shoot aforementioned Chad White grappling with former high school wrestler-turned-model, Kerry Degman, and I get entirely lost in marveling at the provocative spiral of art imitating life.
Craft your advertisement around another wrestler-turned-model, Brock Harris, and I’m mindlessly clicking-through, a helpless captive of the evil geniuses of advertising. Put young Brock in a singlet underneath a dress shirt and tie, and a new star is born in the continuous wrestling scenarios running through my imagination. The overlapping boundaries of the tamed corporate male, the primal gladiator armed only with his stunning body, and the sexual warrior in the act of stripping off the clothes that disguise his underlying beast… I have no self-control. I am bought and sold at the will of ruthless ad men. I am both consumer and product in a world in which life and art and life imitating art and art imitating life dig the channels of consumption that I sail so obediently.
I’m captured and aroused by the model as wrestler, and I hate myself a little for it.

Nips (no Tucks)

As I continue to be in the thrall of pecs, my attention is drawn to nipples. Generally, nipples aren’t particularly erotic for me. The size and shape of pecs are the point of attraction, the grab-ability, the pound-ability. Nipple-torture in
gay wrestling doesn’t really send me over the moon. Nipples that have grown deformed from too much torture are a major turn-off. But despite not really turning my crank, male nipples are pretty fascinating.

Aesthetically speaking, I think that male nipples can be “too big.” It’s entirely genetic, so no fault. I’m NOT an advocate for cosmetic surgery to create a uniform standard of attractive nipple-size. In fact, some large areolas are quite beautiful.
Male Model Jeremy Jesensky is sporting some major league nips, and, like squarehippies, I find them entrancing. I think someone turned down the temperature for the photo shoot of Jeremy in a wrestling singlet and jock strap, though, because the nips are noticeably more petite. The tats, the tits, the pecs, the half-removed wrestling gear… mmmm, this is a very, very nice photo, in deed…
Again, aesthetically speaking, niples can be too small, too. Disproportionately tiny nipples make me wonder if there was some external factor stunting their growth at some point in their development. But small nipples are not, in and of themselves, a problem. Small nips and the right bod are quite beautiful as well. Paul Rudd’s nipples are nearly too small to be beautiful, but I cut him slack because of the adorable gay guy he played in “Object of My Affection.”
Thomas Jane from “Hung” looks like he’s sporting some micro-nips in this pic, but I think the water in his shower scene must have just been cold, because they look pretty average in other scenes.
Sometimes small nipples just make nice pecs look even bigger. At the end of the day, variety is the spice of life, and big or small, nipples are simply an essential part of the beautiful male form.