Hair pulls are one of those little, subtle pleasures that superboosts the erotic aspect of a wrestling match for me. It’s disrespectful. It’s often unnecessarily cruel. It’s frequently functional, permitting a pitcher to position his reluctant prey for new angles of punishment. It stokes the fires of domination, often as plot device to signal that a competitive match has turned into cruel playtime. It can be affectionate, but when it comes to wrestling, it’s value added for me when it’s mean, rough, and adding insult to abundant injury. Here are a few hot and sexy hair pulls to help drag you over the weekly hump.
Joshua Goodman (that’s Mr. Joshua to you!) dragged outmatched Christian Taylor about by his leading man locks in Demolition 27. As I recently mentioned, I theorize that every act of Mr. J’s punishment and degradation transformed naive, innocent babyface Christian into the erotic wrestling institution Christian has become as BG East.
Royce Perry works to impress his new tag team partner, Jonny Firestorm, by adding insult to injury to total humiliation all over double-teamed Calvin Haynes in Tag Team Torture 20.
There’s something extra sexy about a dominant pro heel hunk who calmly demonstrates his mastery with a hair pull. Kelly King holding a sagging Lane Hartley up by his follicles in Pros in Private 13 give me that burst of adrenaline I could use to get over the hump.
Jonny Firestorm absolutely throws everything, including the kitchen sink, at Jake Jenkins in Jobberpaloozer 12: The Works. For my tastes, the hottest moves are paired with Jonny wrapping his fingers through the muscle cherub’s curly locks and prying him apart sadistically.
I’m sure I’ve featured this shot of Dom the Dominator nearly ripping Brad Rochelle’s head off of his neck in Demolition 3. But it’s worth a lingering, repeat look. Sure, a chin lock might have been fractionally more functional to accomplish the same purpose, but the savagery of using Brad’s hair as a handle here is delicious!
Hang in there, my friends! When it comes to surviving this week, it’s all down hill from here!
Another Wasted Wednesday has me catching my second wind to get through the week by soaking in the sight of cocky, confident muscle men taken out. This time, I’m contrasting side-by-side images of said hunks, first at the beginning of a match, with fire in their eyes and the wind at their backs, and then about 20 – 30 minutes later after they’ve been laid waste. It’s a big part of what turns me on about wrestling. The psychological drama of getting face-to-face with your vulnerability at high speed is honestly at least as titillating as the sight of gorgeous bodies barely in tight briefs or less. It’s also why I love re-watching matches, to turn back time and watch the strut and bluster, witness the absolute certainty in their superiority. Would they take it back if they knew they’d be flat out, completely defenseless, and totally humiliated in mere minutes? But they don’t know, so they slap their dicks down and reveal a soft underside that only pride, a rocking bod, and a supersized ego can leave you with.
Here are a few choice wrestling hunks who showed up pumped and beautiful and convinced of their invincibility, who ended up crushed just right.
One of my hardest wrestling crushes thoroughly documented in the pages of this blog is Lon Dumont. I was instantly smitten at first sight when this stunningly beautiful competition bodybuilder didn’t just look the part in his debut match in Fantasymen 22, he absolutely owned the ring and his opponent. Now, I never tire of watching Lon (full-stop, but also let me continue) work his top shelf heel magic, particularly when he rocks muscle heads significantly bigger than he is. But I’ve got to admit that seeing him bested and brutalized at the end of Last Man Standing makes me swoon, all the more for the rarity it is.
I have a very different relationship with Damien Rush. He possesses one of the most outrageously over-sized egos in homoerotic wrestling, if not anywhere outside of Washington, DC. The daddy’s little rich boy backstory makes me love, love, love to hate him, and the bigger and beefier he gets, the more extravagantly puffed he becomes, and the more desperate I am to see him humbled hard. Since his early “swimmer’s build,” he’s been getting a lot of mileage out of his gorgeously thick muscles and comic book proportions. When he stomps into the ring, flexing, and his simpering, contemptuous baritone starts chugging away with silver spoon-fed self-praise and blue blood destiny for greatness, my orgasm is just a tad fiercer for it when I see him plowed under and laid waste, as in Hunkbash 17 when smooth muscle giant Vasily Volkov bashes the snot right out of him.
I haven’t quite decided what my fan-relationship is with hot bodied bro Kenny Starr yet. I mean, fuck, that body, of course. But honestly, I don’t know if my crotch aches more to see him ground into putty or doing the grinding. Ty Alexander makes a strong case for the former in Jobberpaloozer 17. Kenny’s glorious, wedgied ass exposed, nearly drowning in a pool of his own sweat, and unable to muster enough energy to lift his head off the mat is certainly a sensational use of that smoking hot body of his.
Seeing Joshua Goodman (that’s Mr. Joshua to you!) take a turn on the losing end of the stick is another rare treat that leaves me just a little frustrated, honestly. Don’t get me wrong, watching a notorious badass heel undone is that much more pleasurable when said badass is a musclebound physique star with a multi-award winning bulge. The hit Mr. Joshua’s ego takes in a match like his Ring Hunks 1 battle with Aryx Quinn gets me way, way hot and bothered. But fuck it all to hell, seeing him wasted, out cold, and humiliated, and never seeing an opponent unleashing Mr. J’s not-so-secret weapon when he can’t lift a finger to defend himself makes me blow blood vessels. Come ON, Aryx! WTF?!
I’ve been starting to dabble in Thunder’s Arena again, for a change of pace, and there are just so many mouthwatering muscles to sink my teeth into! For example, Battlespace 112 grabs me hard, initially because I can’t decide if it’s silky smooth, mocha skinned surf bro Jack Beaver or mop-headed, smoldering alabaster boy Kid Thing who’s hotter. Perhaps paradoxically (or not), it’s seeing Kid Thing worked to a nub and literally out cold still standing that tips the scales his way for me. Fu-uck, we need a Kid tournament some day [makes note to self for future fantasy match].
Rio Garza. Let me just say his name and step back and watch the ages old fault lines pop open in homoerotic wrestling fandom. I’ve long been on the record that I love to hate the Mexican muscle boy precisely because he never quite managed to go from go-go boy to wrestler. I mean, he wrestled. A lot, to say the least. But I never thought he brought a whole lot more than a dizzyingly sexy body to the table. I know for a fact that at least a couple of his opponents felt the same way as I do, which explains the ferocity behind the brutal beatdowns lovely Rio took in the ring. If you’re going to be a dazzlingly sexy muscle jobber, you deserve the credit for making wasted be so deeply satisfying for fans, as he does in Hunkbash 11.
I should probably quit, but I couldn’t help myself but track down one more stunning fantasyman who comes to mind when I think of pathos in defeat. Kid Brock wrestled in a total of just 4 BG East releases, and still I obsess about him these many years later. It was the angelic babyface somehow misplaced atop his gargantuan, fierce physique. It was a whiff of greatness, like this Kid could legitimately deserve his place in the extremely exclusive ranks of Kid greats at BGE. It was that porn-ready muscle ass and those sensationally thick thighs. But, in the end, it was all that wasted promise, plowed under, destroyed, humiliated, and him leaving an epic career of homoerotic wrestling greatness just lying their on the table, just like he was just left splayed out and destroyed by the likes of Structure in Ring Wars 9. Like seriously, I think this Kid could have owned us ALL if he’d stuck around!
Such a sensationally sweet, sexy, satisfying waste to see hot bodied hunks like these laid out!
For the past several months, I’ve had too little time to savor the homoerotic wrestling scene. One of the new releases that I’m circling back around to drink in, now that I have more time, is BG East’s Demolition 27 from catalog 140. The pairing of bad ass muscle man Joshua Goodman (that’s Mr. Joshua to you!) and perennial pin-up boy Christian Taylor is inspired. Like Mr. Joshua’s crotch, drama is busting at the seams with nothing more than the set-up. Christian is achingly innocent in his very first wrestling match climbing into the ring with the dazzling bulges and perfect proportions of Mr. Joshua right in the middle of his ascendency.
Part of what makes this such a perfect pairing is what we’ve known of both wrestlers’ bodies of work. In his 30 previously released matches (yet taped after his initiation in Demolition 27), Christian distinguished himself as a fan favorite baby face heart throb with effortless eroticism. He’s wrested passionate kisses from about half of his opponents. Perpetually lean, Christian layered on matured muscle over the 14 or so years since he climbed into the ring with Mr. Joshua. Match by match, he’s grown more confident and dangerous. Starring in releases with superlative titles like “sexiest,” “sizzling,” and “hottest,” a seasoned Christian Taylor has demonstrated that he loves the erotic intimacy of fiercely fought, sweat soaked submission wrestling as much as you and I do.
Mr. Joshua, on the other hand, has distinguished himself as one of the most heartless cock teases in homoerotic wrestling history. In his approximately 45 previously released matches, Mr. J has ranged from narcissist muscle jobber to low-blowing, bulldozing bodybuilder heel. But a subplot in his ascendency has centered on fans’ unrequited love affair with his stunningly massive crotch. We’ve repeatedly voted his as the Best Bulge in BG East, and Mr. Joshua keeps teasing us with his wardrobe adjustments mid-match, rearranging his prominent bulge, shoving his hand down the front of his trunks, swinging his moneymaker all over the ring. Early on, his quick crotch adjustments seemed incidental, unselfconscious. But clearly word has gotten back to Mr. J how gay fans swoon for it, and he’s grown relentless about teasing and taunting his opponents/fans with his barely caged anaconda. Right around Matmen 21, he turned full on cock tease, bringing a breathless fan to the mat room to battle for the chance to conquer and claim his grand prize. Ever since, Mr. Joshua has been explicitly acknowledging the obvious fact that his smoking hot bod, and in particular that humungous, low-hanging bulge, is driving gay wrestling fans nuts!
So Demolition 27 was taped before Christian evolved into a fully formed erotic submission wrestler with a penchant for locking his hungry lips on an opponent’s gasping mouth, and probably before Mr. Joshua had fully begun to exploit the power of his mammoth allure. Right there, in that moment, Christian is stretching in the ring in anticipation of his first BG East match, skinny, pale, achingly young, surely nursing the embryonic wrestling kink that would later blossom. And in walks Mr. J, packed into very brief golden trunks that never stood a chance at fully containing his overflowing abundance. “You look like a string bean over there,” Mr. Joshua immediately starts the trash talk. “You’re a dead giveaway as a rookie. You know how I can tell? You’ve got no tan!” Christian looks cool, unfazed. He’s got that James Dean upper lip curl suggesting contempt. But even if you didn’t know what an erotic wrestling enthusiast he would become, you can see the youngster’s eyes lingering, his feigned nonchalance worn thin in an instant as the stunningly gorgeous slab of beefsteak climbs into the ring with him.
“What’s your name, rookie?” Mr. Joshua asks, just so he can make sure the kid’s next of kin is notified when all is said and done. “Christian,” his obviously unsettled opponent replies with a stiff upper lip. “Christian?! Well, I’m an atheist,” Mr. J clucks, “and the pope isn’t going to save your ass, so you’re in trouble now!”
“Have you seen any of my videos,” Mr. Joshua demands to know. “Have you seen what I can do?” He flexes just a little. Christian denies having watched Mr. J’s back catalog, but no shit, there’s a sheepish grin on the kid’s face that makes me melt. His lusciously lipped mouth says no, but everything else about Christian says that he’s unzipped and studied the legendary wrestler’s body of work with more than passing interest. As if in confirmation, Christian’s eyes and the camera simultaneously zoom in on Mr. Joshua’s mountainous crotch.
Supposedly, the story is about the veteran who goes a little overboard breaking in the young buck. Mr. Joshua does love his “lessons.” “Keep the viewers entertained, Christian Taylor,” Mr. Joshua lectures, scooping the kid up and holding him across his huge chest for days on end, passively demonstrating his total control, lording it over his opponent, knowing what it’s doing to fans watching, before pounding long, limber Christian down savagely into an over-the-knee backbreaker. He holds him there, pinned like a butterfly, grinding his elbow into Christian’s crotch.
“We have to put all this hair to good use,” Mr. Joshua continues his lessons. Christian is a worm on the hook, but Mr. J grabs a hand full of hair and keeps yanking the kid off the mat mercilessly. But, when Christian gets a fleeting taste of offense, he hooks Mr. J’s boots nice and snug against his crotch and pries the bodybuilder’s arms backward viciously in a kneeling surfboard. “You want to tell me about those rules now, huh,” the bitter rook snarls. It’s a sweet little morsel of bully revenge fantasy as the rookie owns the bodybuilder. He lets go of the arms to rain down vicious fists into the muscled lower back of his captive. Mr. J is looking seriously ready to get fucked over by a gangly, lightweight Freshman. Finally, he reaches forward and grabs the bottom rope. “You’ve got to let me go because I’ve got the rope! That’s part of the rules!” Lovely, limber, adorable Christian lets him go, because… rookie.
About 2 minutes later, Mr. Joshua is working up a head of steam all over Christian. He’s pounding and stomping out every last ounce of irrational courage in the newbie. Mr. J grinds the kid’s skull between his magnificently muscled thighs in standing scissors, leaning forward and giving Christian the atomic wedgie of the year (why is that not a category!?). He literally splits the kid at the seams, tearing open a hole up the crack of Christian’s square cut trunks. “I beat you so hard I ripped your underwear,” Joshua marvels. “You just couldn’t handle it.” He muscles the newbie all over the place, finally wrapping him into a deep-seated Boston crab, wrenching on Christian’s lovely, long legs and prying his spine severely backward. The rookie pounds the mat in agony and desperately submits. “But that’s another one of the rules. I don’t have to let go. I’m not finished. Just because you say you’re finished doesn’t mean I am!”
“Christian Taylor,” Mr. Joshua contemplates, as he drags the kid to the ropes and forces him to see himself get manhandled in the mirror. “You sound like a good boy. You come from a good town, good family. What are you doing here?!” Here’s the money shot for me, my friends. It’s when Mr. J ties up Christian’s long, lanky arms between the ropes. He doesn’t need to, of course. He’s fucking demolishing the newbie like a stick of dynamite. Rather, Mr. J ties the kid up in order to have his hands free, in order to flex, in order to have an all access pass to Christian’s lovely, pale body stretched out and unable to even curl into the fetal position.
Mr. Joshua brutally pounds the impudent skinny kid trussed up before him. He yanks on those trunks again, hard, to lend that much more leverage to his fists punching Christian’s gut. He yanks so hard, in fact, that Christian’s dick pops out at one point, flailing helplessly in the aftershock of another gut punch (welcome to homoerotic wrestling, newbie!). Mr. Joshua pries Christian’s head backward over the ropes so he can hoist a leg over and straddle this kid’s handsome face. “That’s right, kiss my ass while you’re down there,” the veteran demands. Honestly, Christian’s face is buried so deep, it’s impossible to verify whether or not he obeyed.
I sort of think he probably did. Because here’s the thing, while we can’t know whether Christian already had in mind his evolution into a full-on erotic submission wrestler, we can confirm (in that back-to-the-future sort of way), that following his demolition at the hands (and everything else) of Mr. Joshua Goodman, Christian has taken most every opportunity he’s been given to pucker up and lay one on an opponent. Was Christian as erotically charged by wrestling before Mr. Joshua dismounted off his face, only to spin around and mount him again, this time with his legendary package basically smothering him? Only Christian knows, and I’ve never been able to get him on the line for an interview to ask him. I like to think so, though, that Mr. Joshua popping his homoerotic wrestling cherry (metaphorically speaking) brought babyface Christian back again and again to work up buckets of sweat wrestling nearly (and at times entirely) naked, and often buttoning down long, lingering lip locks on one hot bodied hunk after another. I like to think that Christian showed up that day a good boy, with just a little erotic curiosity, and Mr. Joshua’s unique brand of carnal depravity sensationally and irrevocably corrupted his innocence and spoiled him for anything but erotic wrestling.
Of course, this could easily by just my imagination. But then again, at another telling moment in the action, when Christian is no longer St. Sebastian tied to a tree, Mr. Joshua hooks him into face-to-crotch headscissors, crushing the kid’s noggin for a while, before rolling Christian to his back, still bearing down on the scissors, and grinding his award winning bulge into Christian’s lush lips. There are a lot of ways a moment like that can go down, of course, but what does Christian do? He reaches up, strumming his fingers across Mr. J’s rippling abs, palming the muscle man’s thick pecs. What’s a good boy like Christian Taylor doing, showing up at BG East, squeezing his alabaster body into doomed, lavender trunks, and presuming to climb into the ring with a notorious heel with an ego nearly as enormous as the ballast in the front of his trunks? He’s willingly, eagerly, even, coming face to crotch with a bad boy and hoping that a lot of it rubs off.
In the waning moment of the match, Mr. Joshua keeps yanking Christian by the hair and demanding that he open his eyes to witness his final destruction. I’m pretty sure Mr. J is reading his opponent’s eyes tightly shut as terror, or resignation, or a primal instinct to retreat to his happy place in the face of this horror show. I have a different theory, however. I suspect that Christian was searing the evocative sights, smells, and feels of this match into his memory. In fact, I bet Christian still lies in bed in the dark, these 14 years later, occasionally catching a whiff of Mr. J musk, a muscle memory cramp in his now-toned abs in the shape of Mr. Joshua’s fist, the exact feel of Mr. Joshua’s sculpted pecs in the palms of his groping hands as he struggles not to choke on the legendary crotch relentlessly grinding in to face.
Mr. Joshua does that. He insinuates himself into the homoerotic wrestling imagination and absolutely owns a parcel of property there that no one else has come close to laying claim to. And he knows it. I think he’s systematically come to know it more and more, the more he’s molded hot, eager, gay opponents like Christian into putty. I still hate what a fucking cock tease he’s been all of these years, haunting my dreams (and Christian’s) with his taunting, terrorizing, tantalizing main course that’s never quite served.
And then there’s Christian, 14 years later, looking like a movie star, sporting his own rippling abs and sensationally sexy physique. His been beaten and battered many times, but never split open wide quite like that first day at BG East when he climbed into the ring as just another good boy, from a good town, to lock up with one of the biggest, baddest, sexiest muscle men in the business. Would it all have turned out quite like this without that first ring encounter those years ago, when Mr. Joshua Goodman laid him bare and showed him just how far his wrestling dreams could take him?
So, I loved this match. I’m still waiting to get a good, long look at what Mr. Joshua sees when he yanks on the front of his gear and stares down at the crotch monster squirming in his trunks. But what I’d really like to know is what Christian sees, smells, and feels when he closes his eyes and remembers his first day as a good boy, from a good family, from a good town, first getting introduced to the wide open world of homoerotic wrestling.
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).
It’s been a long time since I composed a post devoted solely to admiring a particular wrestling hold. I’ve been recently obsessing once again over my favorite wrestling hold, the over-the-knee backbreaker.
It’s such a massively dominating move. The pitcher often literally cradles the catcher like a child in his arms, clutching him across his chest, and then drops to one knee, pounding his opponent’s back across his thigh. I love the geography of this hold. The victim splayed out, his vulnerable core stretched wide, legs and upper body pressed backward such that he can’t assume the instinctive duck and cover defensive position to protect his internal organs.
I catch myself gasping in awe at high impact OTKs. There’s a raw, primal, intensely arousing aspect to watching a dominant hunk seriously pound his opponent down with authority, his knee driving viciously into the helpless stud’s spine. It’s magnificent drama when he scoops him directly back up across his chest, standing tall and hoisting the victim high to repeat the move again. And again. Total domination.
I also also love an OTK punisher with big, bulging pecs flexing powerfully, his face hovering so close to his opponent’s muscled torso and quivering crotch. Stretched out on his back, the victim of an OTK is flattened, the topography of his physique stretched out and impotent, in contrast to the flaring shoulders and pumped pecs of his tormentor.
Then there are the subtle variations and innovations that dial up the inherent eroticism of this hold in a homoerotic context. The stolen moments to take advantage of the victim’s helplessness, sadistically brutalizing muscled abs and pecs. Not content to just torture his spine, the man in charge pounds fists, drives in elbows, perhaps digs his finger tips into defenseless muscle and wear him out from every angle.
Ace Aarons handles Richie’s rocks
Richie’s balls demand Mason’s attention as well.
An OTK seems paradigmatically gay (or at least bicurious) when the dominant hunk pays serious attention to that tempting bulge at the apex of his opponent’s bridge. Frankly it doesn’t often go there even in homoerotic wrestling, but every OTK seems like a head nod to those sensational moments when a wrestler leans forward and sucks his opponent’s nipple, seductively slides the palm of his hand possessively across his lower abs, and appreciatively throttles and fondles his arching cock. That’s the heart of homoerotic wrestling for me, with the purpose of the battle to determine who gets to take possession of whose body.
Calvin’s muscle melt
Mitch stiff and in agony
I’m fascinated watching muscled hunks sell this hold. Clearly some wrestlers are built a lot more for strength than flexibility. A stiff, tabletop OTK actually works for me because it looks like it hurts just that much more. When a muscle laden stud doesn’t really have much of a lower back arch to bend across his opponent’s thigh, it also just seems that much more humiliating. But there’s nothing quite as arousing as watching a flexible hunk melt into the hold, bridging dramatically, as if his muscles are draped across a hanger. The submissiveness, the giving himself over blindly to man who’s claimed his body, is golden.
My gratitude to all of the homoerotic wrestlers who have recently fed my craving for OTK hotness. For those moments when you’ve reached through your opponents legs and cupped his beefy ass in the palm of your hand, I salute you. For your graceful bridge and packed, quivering bulge gasping in anticipation of whatever is to come at the mercy of your opponent, I applaud you. I realize this hold is not exactly intuitive to pull off, and for many of you it’s downright awkward as fuck to sell, so I appreciate the gorgeous erotic art of your human sculpture just that much more.
Joshua Goodman (that’s Mr. Joshua to you!) has got to be one of the most underrated wrestlers at BG East. I admit, I’m biased. I’ve been sending love letters to his crotch for years now. But objectively speaking, Mr. Joshua is seriously dangerous in the ring, and getting more so the longer he’s in the business. Opponents never seem to recognize the threat until it’s too late. I suppose it’s easy to underestimate someone so sensationally pretty. One might easily assume that a musclehunk so epically endowed hasn’t had to work as hard as others might have. I suspect I’m not the only one who would do just about anything Mr. Joshua wanted in exchange for a close up look at his marvelous muscles and that titanic bulge. So perhaps it’s understandable that opponents might think he’s more show than go.
Chace LaChance gives Mr. J a smirk and an eye roll before their Hunkbash 19 match. Like so many before him, Chace appears oblivious to the functional potential Mr. Joshua’s fantasyman body possesses. He just sees a gym bunny goomba who looks better suited to a stripper pole than a wrestling ring. And sure, Chace is every ounce as much a pretty boy as Mr. J. He’s channeling Kevin von Erich, with his bare feet, taped ankles and wrists, and insanely fuckable muscle-ass. Chace is solid as fuck and fits the part of a beefy babyface with the potential to bring a boatload of hurt. Opponents and fans take him seriously in a way that they don’t always do for Mr. J.
The match appears to be recorded during Chace’s reign as the wrestler voted Best Body at BG East. It seems like he hasn’t been humbled yet by having Kid Karisma rip that title from his clutches (all hail the king!). He’s flexing in the mirror as Mr. J arrives, and when the recurring Best Bulge winner harasses him a little, Chace is quick to point out that he’s the “muscle model winner” in the room. It’s not the first time that an opponent has basked in the accolades that Mr. Joshua rightfully believes that he deserves. He’s been bitterly watching baby hunks jump in line in front of him as top ranked objects of muscle worship for far too long. He’s had his eye on being a mainstream fitness model for years, but then the likes of Chace keep making Mr. J the runner-up. My theory is that Mr. J’s mouthwatering physique is persistently underrated because no one can tear their eyes away from his mammoth package. What mainstream fitness mag, intent on disguising their inherent nature as softcore gay porn, would want to paste the overtly and over the top eroticism of Mr. Joshua’s Louisville slugger on the their cover?
In any case, Chace flashes his von-Erich-esque hotness and ponders his next match, just assuming that he’s got a victory over this erotic dancer in the bag. Mr. J suddenly grabs him by the back of the head and chokes him over the top rope, making Chace’s powerhouse muscled ass quiver with shock. “It’s dominance time, baby,” Mr. J crows.
It’s a hunkbash, but not entirely one-sided. Chace has been in the business long enough to know how to earn a little respect even when he’s getting buried under hard. The Best Body beefcake interrupts Mr. J’s momentum long enough to nearly decapitate him with a clothesline and scoop him up in a gorgeously muscled bearhug. It’s no secret that I love a heel, but I particularly swoon over a fallible heel. I crush on them a hundred times harder when a heel takes a little taste of humiliation and has to put his opponent in his place with just that much more authority to obliterate the memory of that fleeting moment of hope. Mr. J hoisted off his feet, every muscle clenched in agony, sweet glistening off his forehead, is hot as fuck. For that brief, shining moment, Chace is the barefoot babyface hero with a serious chance of defeating the nefarious bad ass with sheer will and hard work.
It’s just that much sweeter watching Mr. J chop him in the neck with his elbow, pound him corner to corner, and then flatten him like a panic with a sprinting clothesline. “This is muscle worship, boy,” Mr. Joshua snarls, pumping a most muscular pose over top of his writhing, whimpering, despairing victim. Fuck, I’m aching to see another Mr. J match with an opponent who’s even half as turned on by him as I am (somebody please tell me that Randy Stanton has been training with Kid Vicious for his rematch with Mr. J!). Mr. Joshua mentions muscle worship several times in this match, lording his superiority over Chace with relish, implicitly acknowledging you and me, dizzy with lust for him. He tugs at the top of his trunks and shoves his hand into his pouch to rearrange the beast within, which, let’s face it, is really Mr. J’s signature move.
Watch him strut and flex. Just watch him, eyes fixed on his own gorgeous image staring back at him in the mirror, but with his beautiful body turned at the perfect angle for us to adore his physique. Mr. Joshua wants to be worshipped. I want him to be worshipped. Please begin to flood the mailbox of BGE, insisting on booking Mr. J with an opponent with both the raging erotic desire to worship him, and the wrestling skills to demand the full tour.
I digress. Mr. Joshua does that to me. Two particular holds demonstrate Mr. Joshua’s brilliance and beauty most directly. First, he wears Chace out repeatedly with headscissors. There’s just something combustible about watching Mr. J shove a man’s head high up between his thighs. Crotch pillow scissors and face-to-crotch scissors alike draw our attention like a magnet to Mr. J’s gargantuan package. Chace just bitches and whine’s about the humiliation. Fuck I hate him right then and there. He should be thanking his lucky stars.
The other move Mr. J comes back to repeatedly is thrusting reverse bearhug. It’s just meant to be: Chace’s luxuriously muscled ass cheeks pressed firmly around Mr. Joshua’s protruding package. “Fuck you,” Chace mutters impotently with Mr. J’s pole grinding into his crevice. “Did you say something, muscleboy,” Mr. Joshua openly laughs. “I can’t hear you!”
Mr. Joshua manhandles Chace more completely than I can ever remember Chace getting manhanlded before. Over the knee backbreakers serve him up like a Thanksgiving turkey. Mr. J’s squats, with Chace racked across his shoulders helplessly, demonstrate what Mr. J means when he repeatedly announces, “It’s dominance time, baby!” There’s one particular camel clutch that has Chace weeping like a sniveling bitch, begging for mercy, owned in total. Mr. Joshua throws him down with contempt, leans back and slaps Chace’s Best Body butt possessively.
Fuck, this match fires on all cylinders. If you like watching a von Erich get plowed under and owned, body and soul, or if you’re even half the Mr. Joshua fan I am, pull up a chair. Mr. Joshua is back to deliver a message. Anybody jumping in line in front of him for muscle worship glory had better watch his back.
Congratulations to the winners of the BG East Besties for 2017! It was a fabulous year in homoerotic wrestling, and all of the nominees demonstrated the deep bench that BG East can rightfully boast. Some of my picks earned the most votes overall. Some didn’t. They all (but one) get nothing but respect from me. It’s certainly not the first time I’ve seen evidence that my tastes intersect and diverge with other homoerotic wrestling fans. Happily, there’s plenty for all of us to enjoy, and awards or not, my sincere thanks go out to the beautiful men in front of and behind the camera that make BG East a leader in wrestling for a gay audience.
Sexiest Match: Sexiest Match – Ty Alexander vs. Bruno LaBestia (Ringwars 28)
Best Mat Battle: Austin Cooper vs. Christian Taylor (Undagear 28)
Best Ring Match: Cole Cassidy vs. Joshua Goodman (Ringwars 26)
The first half of the BG East Besties ballot never seems to generate as much controversy as the second half. Turning our focus on individual wrestlers seems to incite even more fevered debates about tastes and types and loyalties. BGE has gone six deep for each category, so there’s bound to be someone for everyone to fight over. Definitely don’t just take my word for who you should vote for, but by all means, vote. And in case you aren’t sure who you want to rally behind, feel free to take some inspiration from how I see things.
8. Top Heel
Last year Jonny Firestorm brought home the title as Best Heel at BG East. Jonny has owned this category for quite a while. The only time he hasn’t won, he wasn’t nominated, in which case Kid Karisma stepped up at grabbed the ring. This year pits these two legendary heels against each other and an equally diverse field of styles, attitudes, and interpretations of the word “heel.”
What a field! I’m punching an enthusiastic button for the increasingly rare opportunity to vote for the legendary heel, Kid Vicious. Although he only appeared in one product this year, it was classic KV, through and through. No one else on this list takes nearly as much erotic pleasure making an opponent suffer. My second choice would see Kayden Keller jump the line ahead of both Jonny and Kid Karisma. Kayden has become one of the hardest working wrestlers in homoerotic wrestling, and like KV, he’s growing increasingly comfortable in the role of the erotic sadist. I’m guessing that the popular vote may still break Jonny or Kid Karisma’s way, and obviously they deserve the heel-appreciation. But as for me, KV remains in a league of his own, with Kayden quickly filling the void left by KV’s sparser and sparser appearances in the ring.
9. Top Babyface
The field for top babyface highlights how these awards reflect so much more about the fans than the wrestlers. Some of these guys I wouldn’t classify as babyfaces. Past winners like Biff Farrell and Jake Jenkins are as absent from the poll as they were scarce in new releases this year. So one of these guys is going to take the title for the first time:
As with the heel category, I’m picking a dark horse candidate for as much sentimental reasons as anything else. Mitch Colby epitomizes the erotic-forward babyface that can only inhabit the world of homoerotic wrestling. His epic dismantling of the legendary heel Cage Thunder demonstrates perfectly the distinction that I think so many fans struggle with in distinguishing between a hot jobber and a babyface. And as his opponent has acknowledged, Mitch was in the best shape of his life for that match. I do think it’s criminal that Christian Taylor did not make the ballot. If pressed for a second place, I’d probably go for Richie Douglas. I’m uncertain what character type Zip Zarella is growing into, but he could easily get my vote for top babyface or top heel with a couple more matches under his belt to signal his underlying moral compass. This category seems wide open for predicting a popular vote getter, but I’m thinking things could swing Richie or Mitch’s way.
10. Jobber of the Year
There’s some serious range in interpretations of a jobber among the field for Jobber of the Year. Last year’s winner Ty Alexander is back in the offing, despite his pretty decisive heel turn this year. In fact, I think at least of couple of the nominees this year lack that inevitability about them that I expect to see in a jobber. Take a look at what I’m talking about:
On the one hand, I do love watching Kirk Donahue get his awardless ass beat again and again. But honestly, the perfect depiction of a jobber is Drake’s match trying to reinvent himself as El Favorito. El Favorito is Drake’s acknowledgment that he’s a jobber, that he’s destined to get plowed under, despite his impeccable skills. Perhaps with a new name, Drake muses that he can start over as something other than a jobber. And then Thrash thrashes him like the jobber he is, in or out of a mask, under any name. If I were a betting man, I’d guess that Ty, despite openly acknowledging on tape that he is no longer a jobber, may take this again because… social media.
11. Debut of the Year
There was some insane, out of the blue drama a few months back with last year’s Debut of the Year winner, Beauxregard. The category is, by no means, a guarantee of success or respect. In some ways I think Ty Alexander may be the exception when it comes to parlaying the Debut of the Year award into a solid BGE career platform. Beaux, Kip Sorell, Eli Black… it may be possible that this is a “peaked too soon” award for most (though, of course, I’m always hoping to see Eli elevate his BGE game). So this year’s nominees should beware, take nothing for granted. Winning Debut of the Year is, at best, just the start of your hard work on the way to success. The newbies who should heed this warning include…
I’m a huge backer of most of these guys, so this is another tough call for me. When push comes to shove, I’m casting my vote for one of the classiest acts to jump over from indy pro success, Ace Aarons. Ace had the skills to turn the stink bomb of Luke Lonza into a relatively satisfying squash, because he took seriously what Luke apparently couldn’t. I’m particularly impressed with his most recent mat match, laced with tons of sweat and lust, with fellow nominee Ash DeLeon. An indy pro who successfully translates his skill set to the mat and to an erotic text is quite an impressive debut, indeed! A second place pic for me would be a close call between Ash (who suffered from having only one match published for his debut year) or Zip Zarella (who classes up the place like Ace, but without the erotic twist).
12. Best Abs
2017 provided a feast for six-pack lovers. Last year’s winner Chace LaChance failed to make the cut, and personally I think it’s largely because the competition was so spectacular this year. Also absent were previous award winners Z-Man and Eli Black. So this is another category where someone new is guaranteed to take home the trophy this year. The possible breakout abdominal stars are…
Everyone’s a winner in this category, but when I cast my ballot, I’m going to vote for Payton Meadows. Every inch of Payton is dazzlingly gorgeous, but his abs are exceptionally ripped, balanced, and abs-olutely beautiful. Please, please, please let us see more of him (in every sense of the word) next year. His releases are far too far in between. Second place for me this year is, astonishingly, not Kid K. It was Carter Alexander’s superhuman core that was the standout star of his squash against Kayden, and as I said earlier, his side tat screams for worshiping his sweaty eight-pack. Playing the odds, I’d guess that Richie Douglas could take the title in the popular voting this year, though I never count out Kid K.
13. Best Bulge
After years of there being one standout each season for best bulge, this is suddenly one of the most competitive categories. Last year’s winner, Kirk Donahue, is back to defend his title. Mr. Joshua, who wasn’t nominated last year but has owned the title more often than not, is back in contention. Cage Thunder’s throbbing rod not only blazed to full glory, but got used and abused by his babyface nemesis. And then there was the collective gasp throughout the homoerotic wrestling world when Steve Mason’s debut revealed one of the biggest power tools I’ve ever seen. The full slate looks like this…
I’m sticking with Mr. J in this year’s vote. His bulge continues to be so huge that it gets in the way of his wrestling. He continually has to adjust the packing. It walks into a room about 5 seconds before Mr. J does. And Cole Cassidy managed to display Mr. J’s legendary bulge from entirely new angles this year. I’ve got my eye on Steve Mason’s leviathan, though. I think there’s a chance I might be in the middle of the normal curve this time, and the popular vote might also swing to Mr. Joshua, though I wouldn’t be surprised to see Steve knock the competition out of his way with that billy club of his.
14. Best Butt
This is always one of the most hotly debated categories. I’ve already seen a certain nominee launch a full scale social media campaign to finally take home this trophy after coming in second place last year. Here’s who you get to pick from…
I’m more ambivalent about my vote than in past years, but honestly, who am I kidding? I’m voting for Kid Karisma’s phenomenal glutes again. They’re perfect. Magnificent, functional muscles resting atop those massive upper legs. Damn. A second place for me would be either Ty or the epic last minute debut of Noah Samson. Holy fuck, Noah’s ass is unbelievable. Not as tightly muscled and powerful, but aesthetically a work of art. I keep expecting Ty’s social media campaign to pull the rug out from beneath Kid K’s long ownership of this title. Perhaps this will be year Ty can sway a majority of voters to take their eyes off of Kid K’s glorious ass.
15. Best Body
I was so thrilled last year, after years of promoting the obvious physical perfection of Kid Karisma, that I was finally joined by a majority of voters. This year’s field is, as always, hot competition to try to wrest this oft-traded title away:
For my vote, this is a horse race between Kid Karisma and Peyton Meadows. I’d give Payton the edge for his pecs and abs, and Kid K the advantage for arms and shoulders. But the balance of power tilts on Kid K’s full, muscular leg development (including the often overlooked calves). So I’m inclined to, once again, worship at the feet of Kid K as the Best Body at BG East in 2017. Just to confirm my evaluation, I’d love to see these two physical specimens side by side… and then on top of each other, pounding into each other, squeezing, shoving, and grinding each other. As for who the popular vote will tilt toward, I most frequently guess this one wrong. But my (probably wrong) guess this year is that it will go to Kid K or, perhaps, Van, though I do think Payton is slowly accumulating an audience of gasping fans (in addition to me), with the slow trickle of his new releases over time.
This was a spectacular slate of nominees, and I’m not just saying that because I was on the nominating committee. In fact, several of my top choices changed as a result of seeing the official ballot and being reminded by other nominators of choice contenders that deserved a second look. In the coming days, I’ll keep reflecting on categories that aren’t reflected on the official ballots, but matter a lot to me. In the mean time, give your best argument (respectfully) for your votes in the comments below.
I just found on my doorstep the biggest haul of BG East contraband, behind-the-scenes stash of candid photos I’ve ever seen in one place. Our Man Inside (OMI) of BG East dropped off way over 100 photos of never before seen shots. This smacks of either astonishingly brash cockiness bordering on a secret wish to be caught, or the move of a man with the law hot on his heels and determined to smuggle out every last possible gem moments before he’s found out. Either way, I sense something ominous in this massive moment of homoerotic wrestling espionage, and I’m sending my most positive thoughts OMI’s way, wishing him good health and an “accident”-free near future.
In the meantime, I’m combing through this treasure chest of a manila envelope and trying to decide how best to organize these homowiki-leaks for public consumption. It should come as little surprise that the large collection of photos of a long-time favorite, Joshua Goodman (that’s Mr. Joshua to you!!!) instantly grab my attention and make my crotch swell. And speaking of swollen crotches… fuck. me. senseless. Of course Mr. J was immediately a front runner for Best Bulge of 2017 with his early year appearance in Ring Wars 26 wearing a leopard print loin cloth. But take a gander at what these bright red low rise trunks do to accentuate the elephant’s trunk he has stuffed in that pouch! As usual, the heft of his carry on luggage does not entirely fit in the overhead compartment, and the gap between his upper, inner thigh and the fabric of his trunks is precisely the magnificent tease that has made me love/hate/love Mr. Joshua for well over a decade. Again, I say, who the fuck has got what it takes to compete with this for Best Bulge of 2017!?
While OMI did not smuggle out action shots, these shots of Mr. J and Gil Barrios sneering at one another in the BG East weight room seem to strongly imply that Gil may be the next lucky son of a bitch to get an up close and personal opportunity to inspect the dizzyingly sexy body of Mr. Joshua.
Whatever Mr. Joshua is selling, I’m buying!
And if Gil is the lucky bastard who gets the next opportunity to get his hands on Mr. J’s body, these separate shots I dug out of the massive haul left on my doorstep might suggest that Gil has a hard time handling all that beef Mr. Joshua slaps down on the table.
How in the fuck do I preorder this slighty-more-than-hypothetical bout!? Could this be the match that catapults Mr. J back on top of my favorites list, unseating Kid Karisma’s world class ass for the first time in years? Will this finally be the contest in which Mr. J’s long-teased anaconda finally makes its first free range appearance on camera!? As always, OMI leaves us with more questions than answers. But we’re profoundly grateful for your brave service to the fans, OMI, and we hope you survive long enough to smuggle out more gems. If you need a safe house to escape the BG East muscle about to tie you up in the dungeon for your homowiki-leak bravery, send word. Use the codeword “OTK,” and I’ll know it’s you.
I’ll post more of this latest stash of contraband soon…
Busy-ness has been keeping me away from posting here, but not keeping me from enjoying a lot of new release wrestling. I saw a ton of fantastic matches in February, starring a deep, deep bench of outstanding wrestlers. So this is another month when picking a Homoerotic Wrestler of the Month poses a significant challenge for me. I’ve flipped back and forth a lot in mulling over my choice for which wrestler starring in a new release in February turned me on and entertained me most. But I keep coming back (in my thoughts and in my viewing) to one particular match, and one particular wrestler who holds my gaze riveted to his magnificent physique. So without further ado, I’m aroused to announce that my new homoerotic wrestler of the month is…
On the one hand, there’s a strong sense of righting a longstanding wrong in picking Mr. Joshua for this distinction. I’ve been naming HWsOTM for over 6 years now, and somehow, although I’ve spilled gallons of ink and cum musing over how much I enjoy his wrestling (and body), inexplicably, he has never held the title of HWOTM before now. He has secured the title of my overall favorite homoerotic wrestler in the past, but not for any one specific match, not qualifying him for the brutal month-to-month title. I don’t believe for a second that this is the first time he’s deserved it. No, I’m sure that this has been a ridiculous oversight on my part, entirely indicative of my own moral failings rather than a result of any deficiency or lack of merit on Mr. Joshua’s part.
So let me just start off by apologizing to Mr. Joshua. I have sorely neglected and unjustly passed you over in the past. Your beauty, grace, and prowess as a homoerotic wrestler are not only praiseworthy, but they elevate you into the stratosphere of industry luminaries. You are the epitome of a wrestling fantasy man, and your ascendency to the HWOTM throne is long overdue.
My adoring sidebar with Mr. Joshua aside, I will speculate that it’s entirely possible that Mr. Joshua is only now getting the laud he abundantly deserves because he has only now, in Ringwars 26, faced an opponent who bring out his full potential. I am also a HUGE Cole Cassidy fan. Give me Cole’s ripped muscles, dollar coin nipples, and a bottle of baby oil and I’ll be enraptured for hours. Even more at the heart of my fondest fantasies, Cole is a superb wrestler. More like a force of nature, he is a one man wrecking crew 99% of the time. Facing off against Mr. Joshua, Cole exposes nearly every succulent inch of him. He wrenches and pries him apart, muscle by muscle. It’s not as if Mr. Joshua’s legendarily gargantuan (and award-winning) package has not been targeted by opponents in the past, but Cole possesses an unselfconsciousness about his relish in manhandling Mr. J’s man-handle. Cole centers Mt. J in the frame in astonishing and innovate ways. He serves up Mr. Joshua’s meat on a platter, over and over again, in an obvious nod to pleasing their fans as well as a fighter’s instinct to exploit an opponent’s weaknesses. Mr. Joshua suffers at Cole’s hands in a way that I have very rarely seen before, and the depth of his agony, and the literal ball bashing brutality, milk out of Mr. Joshua an unmatched sincerity.
Another novel element in this Mr. Joshua match is his gear. I cannot convey just how heartily I approve of his leopard print, supersheer, only marginally capable banana hammock. I think the “jungle boy” gimmick has been done so often that it’s a risky venture to gear up a wrestler, particularly a well-known one, into a Tarzan-esque patch of animal print cloth. However, not only does Mr. Joshua pull this off. He makes it his own.
I’m sure I say this every time, but I swear to the homoerotic wrestling gods, Mr. Joshua has never looked better. He’s not just fit. He’s a fucking work of art. That poor, overtaxed bit animal print somehow manages to polish off what is one of the most aesthetically beautiful physiques I’ve seen climb into the BG East ring, and that’s saying A LOT. Mr. J’s skin is silky smooth and bronzed all over to a perfect mocha latte hue. On the one hand, Mr. J’s working class Boston accent and sporty-Guido do, along with that wisp of a manicured soul patch between his chin and lower lip, provide stark dissonance with the wild man-of-the-jungle aesthetic of the gear. On the other hand, the overt sensuality and near-porn peekabo glimpses of baseball sized ball sac squeezing out the sides are spot on. It isn’t that Mr. J somehow comes across as a feral muscle beast raised by apes. But he nails like a mother fucker the part of the male stripper climbing off the pole and directly into the wrestling ring, bringing sensational taunting, tantalizing erotic cred to what turns out to be a legitimate heel-on-heel pro brawl.
There are about 30 distinct moments in the match when I’m aching to climb right into the ring and investigate with my tongue the erotic sculpture that Cole and Mr. Joshua create out of one another. The holds are just that provocative and long-held, like only two stellar pros with strong empathy for their audience could accomplish. And none of it feels gratuitous. It’s 100% brutal corporal punishment. It’s vicious and humiliating and veers full speed into open-faced sadism. They beat the living shit out of each other and, less like a performance than a documentary, the camera is simply there to witness the carnage.
Of course, Cole is lush and extravagantly muscled as always. But he’s the business end of the stick. He’s the one in relatively high-waisted MMA square cuts. He is (as he almost always is) humorless and calculating. The wild card is go-go boy turned pro ring badass Mr. Joshua. An ounce less intensity from Mr. J, even a shaving less vicious aggression on his part, and this could have been one of a hundred lopsided pretty boy massacres. But this time around, pretty’s got teeth. He takes the withering eye rolls and discounting by his opponent, and then throws every ounce of his gorgeousness whole heartedly into pounding the mats to make this legitimately suspenseful.
Mr. Joshua grabbed the title of HWOTM as commandingly as Cole grabbed Mr. J’s testicles, over and over again, and tried to rip them off his dazzlingly hot body. I still long for more Mr. Joshua matches in which his opponents acknowledge what we’re all seeing, that Mr. J is breathtakingly gorgeous. Right at the beginning of the match, I get the impression Cole is understandably impressed with stunning heft of Mr. J’s most prominent attribute, but other than that, Cole largely has little but rage and contempt directed at his sultry opponent. The chemistry works exactly the way a heel on heel brawl ought to, but I will always long to see more narrative in which the inspiration of Mr. J’s muscles (every one of them) is what drives the battle, where opponents overtly crave to conquer and possess this mythical beast. Without going full monty, Mr. J injects some of the most potent, undiluted erotic energy into his matches. Now that he’s faced arguably his most brutal test, I’m hoping that we get to see him face more opponents who will pick up on their side of the erotic narrative. Mr. Joshua is as dangerous and deliriously gorgeous as we have ever seen him. One of these days, a truly appreciative opponent is going to give every taunting flex and crotch adjustment and impeccably groomed and coiffed inch of him the erotic run for his money that he’s got coming to him.
In the mean time, on your knees, mere mortals. The king is setting his hot ass down where, by divine right, it should have been a long, long time ago, atop the throne as reigning homoerotic wrestler of the month.