I’ve been SOOO pleased to be writing wrestling fiction again with more success in getting complete stories on the page! I expect to have at least a couple of new matches posted in the next couple of weeks, the way things are going. This has also coincided with a lot of new readers signing up at the Producer’s Ring and Sidelineland. As another public service announcement you’ve probably read already, Producer’s Ring is a site that represents an ongoing series of celebrity wrestling matches/fights in an apocalyptic version of the world that I dreamed up where capitalism has overthrown democracy, consumerism rules the world, and homoeroticism and wrestling kink are the currency of world power. Sidelineland is a sister-site to Producer’s Ring where I post my own wrestling fiction unrelated to the world of the Producer’s Ring, and where I try to drum up more of you to contribute your own original works of wrestling fiction (happily, with more and more success!). And just a reminder that the most effective way to access the sites and participate in discussions of story ideas and feedback is to sign up at the Producer’s Ring group and the Sidelineland group (the “sign up” process is just to weed out lurking haters).
Along the lines of my wrestling fiction, superherofan has posted some new caps of Gerard Butler from The Bounty Hunter. These are reminding me of one of my fondest storylines from the Producer’s Ring. As the story has unfolded, Gerard Butler challenged Sean Maguire to a grudge match in the Seattle bathhouse wrestling venue known as “The Focus Group.” Not to spoil things too much for those of you who haven’t read it, but suffice it to say that Sean’s smartass mouth comes in very handy in subduing the raging Scot, physically and sexually dominating him, and transforming him into Sean’s very own adoring, submissive cub (be careful what you wish for, Gerard!).
Not long afterward, Sean and Gerard maneuver behind the scenes with the brokers of power in the Producer’s Ring for a team challenge match against Jonathan Rhys Meyers and his own submissive boytoy co-star, Henry Cavill (backstory there, as well). By the end of the challenge match, Henry has been “stolen” from Jonathan, and from the looks of things, he’s not so unhappy about joining the new pack.
With this new inspiration of big-n-beefy Gerard dropped in my lap (now that’s an image that I need to linger on), and with recently clearing my queue of wrestling fiction projects, I’m feeling a hankering to see daddy Sean with his cubs in tow, mixing it up again with some new celebrity hunks. Perhaps a three-on match, or Henry and Gerard teaming up with Sean at ringside “coaching” his boys, or even Gerard in singles again. One way or another, though, I’ve got my sights set on a beefy Scotsman showing up in a wrestling fantasy soon!
Everyone’s doin’ it. I tend to try to avoid bandwagons, but what the hell. In honor of the utterly decontextualized St. Patrick’s Day, here are a few of the products of the Emerald Isle that I’m always happy to see more of.
My favorite Irish lad, by a long shot, is Cillian Murphy. The moment I saw him in 28 Days Later, I was instantly in love. He lit up the bleak, post-apocalyptic landscape like a spotlight. He was naked, vulnerable, fierce and simply stunning to watch.
It’s true, I lust after Cillian, but I must confess, I also have a crush on him. If I ever had the opportunity to look into those fluorescent blue eyes, I’m sure I’d fall into them and drown.
He plays an insane sadist really well, which is a serious turn on for me (talk amongst yourselves). Whether he’s driving people crazy in Batman or playing nasty mind games with random strangers in Red Eye, I love his use of his mesmerizing, transparent, ice blue eyes as cover for a sick and twisted heart. Being emotionally captured by Cillian does not preclude me from having a strong desire to see him suplexed and scissored. But I just can’t bring myself to picture anyone else tussling with him other than me.
Running a close second behind Cillian is actor-now-director Stuart Townsend. Playing the vampire Lestat in leather pants is pretty much guaranteed to catapult a hunk into iconic status in my mind (unless your initials are T.C., then you’re mostly just a dick).
There’s something fundamentally sexual about Stuart. He oozes sensuality. He must be touched, smelled, tasted… thrown into a sweat-soaked camel clutch until he submits in body and soul.
And Stuart is also aging really, really well.
Irish hot-head Jonathan Rhys Meyers has already made two appearances in my fictional wrestling fantasies, with mixed results. Jonathan can convince me that he really is King Henry VIII, despite being an Irish boy who looks absolutely nothing like the ginger, portly despot (sorry, my English friends). Jonathan sells this story with the attitude that suggests he’s used to playing the bully.
Which is exactly what makes him ideal for a wrestling fantasy. Well, that, and his hard little body that demands to be beaten severely and promises to keep coming back for more.
My final favorite Irish lad is, I realize, #1 for many other people. Colin Farrell is the perpetual naughty boy of Hollywood. His tats are quite beautiful. His big brown eyes are gorgeous. He has a classically handsome face. He’s displayed his well-endowed erect cock for the world to take a gander. I think he even has a gay brother that he’s vocally supportive of. Still, he only comes in behind Jonathan and Stuart and a mile behind Cillian in my affections. He’d make a great babyface heel, but he’s been so overexposed that I’m just not drawn to him… as much as the aforementioned beauties. Not that I would kick him out of bed, or turn down the opportunity to have him deliver some sadistic low blows in the ring. Bring it on, Colin. Take our best shot.
Happy, hunky St. Patrick’s Day, everyone.
Once again, I hate myself a little for being so easily manipulated. I want to be Grizzly Adams living off the grid. I want to be the revolutionary. I want to vote third-party. But then I look around me and realize I’m such a tool of capitalist hegemony. My corporate masters clearly string me along, from True Blood to Dexter and, now, to The Tudors, dangling beautiful man-flesh in front of me and sucking money out of my wallet which is now attached permanently to my cable bill.
Anyway… another season (surely the last?) of Jonathan Rhys Meyers smooth shirtlessness starts tonight, and it’s already getting my blood pumping. For an Irishman with no resemblance at all to Henry VIII, he has certainly sucked me in completely to his performance. I’m fascinated to see how he transforms the horrific, bloated, flesh-rotting-on-the-bone historical figure of Henry VIII into a hot and sexy fashion model. Did I mention his frequent shirtlessness?
The ridiculously handsome Henry Cavill is also worth another look, though I’m combing my memory of my English History class in college, feeling a growing certainty that Henry’s character has a bad end. Well, pretty much everyone in Henry VIII’s life met a bad end, didn’t they? I’m confident none of them were quite so delicious to behold as young Henry (Cavill).
For my money (because that’s all I count for in the capitalist hegemony), I was crushed that Kristen Holden-Reid (a guy, a very, very hot guy) was killed off before the end of season 1. It was more Kristen’s gorgeousness in A Touch of Pink that I was rooting for than anything else. Writing a beautiful gay character in King Henry VIII’s court (having a torrid and quite hot, though self-hating, man-on-man love affair), was awesome revisionist history. I like to spend my lifeblood in the capitalist hegemony (my money) on seeing more of Kristen Holden-Reid.
Because real life fiction (?) is never enough to entirely satisfy me, I’ve written an evolving story line in my celebrity wrestling fiction for Henry and Jonathan. An Irishman picked to play Henry VIII over his co-star who’s an Englishman named Henry!? There had to be off-camera drama. So in my imagination, I see some really bitter competition between those boys to determine who really is king, with one hunk being conquered and transformed into an obedient and loyal subject. Frankly, the real Henry VIII produced much more outrageous melodrama than any of us today, but at least my melodrama is rife with homoerotic combat and body worship.