Tag: Kid Karisma

Asses Named

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No one posted a perfect score for this week’s installment of Name That Ass. I’m still looking for teacher’s pet. Keep studying, gentlemen. Adoring homoerotic wrestling asses requires intense, exhaustive study. Don’t be discouraged if you didn’t do well. I grade on a curve, and preparing for the next quiz should be it’s own reward. In the meantime, here are the answers to the quiz:
Ass #1 belongs to:

 BG East’s Tyrell Tomsen.
Stunning size and gorgeous proportions, when Tyrell is naked and soaked in sweat in the wrestling ring, he can strike one of the most lustworthy still life’s on record. As pictured, Tyrell was playing dominating bully to opponent Braden Charron for Strip Stakes 1. It was Tyrell’s Summer Sizzler against Bobby Horton that convinced me that Bobby deserved the title of homoerotic wrestler of the month last summer.  Tyrell has definitely been out-wrestled in his brief tenure with BG East, but he’s never been out-muscled or out-classed when it comes to his picturesque physique.
Ass #2 belongs to:
BG East’s Kid Karisma.
Kid K has captured me in his gravitational pull lately, and I’ve found myself circling back to marvel at his performances over and over again. His ass, in particular, is simply astonishingly beautiful. This particular shot is from his face off with Rocco in Gear Wars 1. I’ll gush soon about his Wet ‘n Wild appearance with Christian Taylor, but in the mean time, marvel a little longer at those glutes…

Did ass #3 pose a challenge? It belongs to none other than…
Can-Am’s pornboy extraordinaire, Mark Wolff.
Blake Onassis would have also earned you full marks for this one, since he’s cross listed under both names. This particularly fun shot is of Mark getting his face smashed into the lockers by Billy Herrington (also AKA’s Billy Marcus) for Lords of the Lockerroom. He was always a pornboy musclegod, with an ass for days and nipples the size of half dollars. Frankly, it wasn’t really Mark’s wrestling that ever sold me, but I’d buy some full contact moving pictures of that body anyday.
I imagined ass #4 might have given some students trouble. It belongs to…
Naked Kombat’s John Magnum.

I’m positive that I’ve seen Magnum wrestling somewhere else, but for the life of me, I can’t remember where. He blew my socks off (pants, too!), when I saw him in his one and only (to date) appearance at Naked Kombat in a nail-biter against Phillip Aubrey. Phillip nearly took the big muscle brute in this match. If there was ever a tie, in the gestalt sense, these two boys were perfectly, evenly matched, despite having distinctly different styles and builds. John’s personality, though, is absolutely kink-stastic. He’s 110% present. He delights in every second of domination, and he struggles to free himself from absolutely ever nano-second under Phillip’s control. He’s a beautiful man, and although I haven’t had an opportunity to enjoy much more wrestling from him, I get a little contact high off of his tweets now and then.

I didn’t hear from any advanced players who correctly identified the monster muscle glutes of ass #5 as belonging to…
Thunder’s Arena’s Coupe.

I’ve marveled before that Coupe is a muscle freak. That does not always equate to homoerotic gold, but just like his trunks in his poolside back-and-forth with Cameron Mathews, Coupe is indeed homoerotic wrestling kink gold in my book. If ever there was a body that absolutely required comment, even awe from his opponents, it’s Coupe’s. But that’s not really what Thunder’s does, sadly. It’s much more frat house romp than full on homoerotic body worship. I haven’t seen him at Thunder’s in a while, but I’ll just put it out there here and now, if ever Coupe is looking for some homo muscle worship to make up for all the neglect the boys at Thunder’s have made him suffer, I’m first in line with the baby oil.

So how did you do? I put more weight in progress over time than any individual quiz grade, so I hope that you’re finding that you’re performance is improving as you take more Name That Ass quizzes. Don’t be discouraged if you didn’t do as well as you’d hoped. We both know that you love the subject matter, so devoting yourself with renewed enthusiasm to your studies should be no burden at all.

The Kid Club

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A couple of weeks ago I mentioned that I was celebrating “Porn Sunday” with a fresh, new purchase in support of the fine, hardworking people who bring us high quality wrestling kink. Okay, so it wasn’t all philanthropic on my end, I admit. It’s also true that I was craving, in particular, a taste of a sweaty, leopard thonged, red-headed muscle boy.

Wait, leopard-thonged!? That’s right. In my newest purchase, Sexy Showdown 5: Florida Fun, red-headed hardbody Kid Karisma is sporting a snazzy leopard thong. When Len Harder first gets a glance at the thong under Kid K’s trunks, Len is living large and in charge abusing the hell out of Kid K’s balls. Fascinatingly, Kid K desperately points out that he had “special permission” from the Boss to don the leopard print. For Kid K’s sake, I hope he was being honest about that.

My Porn Sunday 2011 purchase pleases me. Kid Vicious’ match against Skrapper is astonishingly sexy as only Kid Vicious can deliver. But for today, I’d just like to marvel at the wonder that is Kid Karisma’s match against Len Harder.

Kid K entertains me more with every match I see him in. He’s putting the erotic into the homoerotic wrestling gig more and more explicitly all the time, and I’m loving it. He has a twisted, sadistic sense of humor that, paired with his “Teutonic god-like” physique (nicely put), makes him some of the highest quality wrestling kink on the market these days, I think.

Did I mention the red hair? That’s a rare piece of gorgeousness to be admired. From someone with a bit of Scot in my genetics (accounting for red facial hair on my otherwise brunette composition), I frequently have a taste for a red-headed gym bunny with a homo-fratboy-feel about him and a gleeful delight in dominating and humiliating an opponent. In other words, I frequently jones for some Kid K.

This match is closer than you might imagine (or at least it was for me), primarily due to Kid K’s overconfidence. If I had a body like his, I’d be overconfident too… at all times… in all ways… Len looks downright adolescent in comparison with Kid K’s hard muscle tone, massive pecs and shoulders, fantasy ass, and powerful legs. But Len likes to dominate and humiliate as well, and every fraction of a second that Kid K gets distracted by his own success, Len manages to make the “Teutonic god-like young man” (really, nicely put) pay. Ass-to-face, crotch-to-face, claw-to-crotch, claw-to-pec, bearhug, inverted bearhug, forehead-to-forehead, mouth-to-mouth… the dark intimacy throughout this mat romp is non-stop and intense. I’ve never scene a crotch-to-crotch battle quite as literal as theirs, but indeed, hands behind their backs, Kid K and Len take turns plowing each other’s crotches into one another until one of them is the clear winner of that fantastic exchange.

Frankly, I must admit, when I first saw Kid K, I questioned the wisdom of letting him claim the moniker of “Kid.” Another big, stunning boy tried to fill those shoes before and found himself out the door under the weight of disappointed expectations far too soon (as far as I’m concerned). But just like the dubious, dangerous wisdom of Kid K in a leopard print thong, I think Kid K has established himself as a risk-taker, a nasty tool for delivering delightful punishment, and a legitimate member of that exclusive fraternity, each known, deceptively, as “Kid.”

A True Romantic

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I’m not into Valentines Day, really. Too much compulsory heterosexuality in the air. It’s NOT that I’m not a romantic. It’s just that I can’t take red heart chocolate boxes and red roses seriously (well, I’m always a sucker for receiving flowers… just something other than red roses, please).

The Enforcer v Blueboy – BG East – Masked Mayhem 4
Even more than the compulsive heterosexuality, there’s something intentionally fictive about Valentines Day that irks me. No one’s relationship, even the most melba toast straight couple, looks like the gooey, saccharine, “you complete me” idea promoted in commercials and greeting cards. There’s something passionless and sterile about the whole production that swings the whole constructed reality of romance toward enmeshment and abstraction and away from physicality. Sure, the morning news shows mentioned men giving lingerie to women as evidence of the link between sex and Valentines Day. But if I were to hazard a guess, I’d say that there’s likely a decrease in the amount of sex happening today, directly attributable to the chocolates-and-roses sentimentality of it all.

Kid Karisma v Len Harder – BG East – Sexy Showdown 5: Florida Fun

Now, if there were a Valentines Day card that said something like, “Show me that you really care: Wrestle me to the ground, pound me into submission, and then shove your tongue down my throat,” well, then perhaps I’d think that this contrived “holiday” has something for me.

Dean Tucker v Drake Jaden – Naked Kombat – 7/22/09

If there were an FTD card that I could send with the orchids that said something like, “First to cum gets ridden like a pony,” that might enhance the romance of the day for me.

Landon Mycles v Michael Vineland – Can-Am – Pro Sex Fight 1

If a date promised me that, for dessert, he’d treat me to an over-the-knee backbreaker, then just maybe I might associate Valentines Day with some sexual passion.

Mitch Colby v Patrick Donovan – BG East – Wrestler Spotlight – Mitch Colby

A jock strap, buckets of sweat, and a schoolboy pin lip lock are a so much more to the point than chocolates and lace and plastic-wrapped shrubbery. I hope today has something truly romantic and passionate in store for all of us, which will have absolutely nothing to do with Hallmark, FTD, or Godiva. It’s not that I’m not looking for romance. I just don’t think it comes to any of us tied up with a bow with the sales receipt in our pockets.

Words and Silences

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It doesn’t take long reading this blog to realize that I am a big fan of dialogue. It’s one of the texts that makes a homoerotic wrestling scene sparkle. I’m not a fan of a wrestling scene filled with silence broken by only the occasional grunt or gasp, even when the combatants are doing everything else that I love (yes, Enforcer, I’m talking about you!). Some sweet, snarling, domineering dialogue makes the contest more than just about the bodies. It should be about heart and soul and ego and will, and that story can get a major assist with letting the boys say something about what it all means. I’ve been fishing through my collection of inspiration lately, and a couple of snazzy talkers have made me smile (and swoon) all over again.

In Gear Wars 1, Kid Karisma shows that he’s all about dialogue-as-humiliation as he and Rocco go for broke to be the first to strip the other wrestler’s gear off of him. From start to finish in his match, Karisma offers a running commentary that’s every bit as arousing as the visuals (and that’s saying a lot!). For example, at one point Karisma is, for the moment, having his way with Rocco, claiming his back at will and choking him to submission with Rocco’s own shoulder strap. Karisma is loving the moment. He’s loving himself. He’s loving being in total command of Rocco’s body. He flings him to the wall and stands up, flexing and admiring himself (get in line, Kid K!). Rocco coughs and gasps, clutching his throat, causing Karisma to laugh derisively. “Oh, you don’t want to get choked any more? Cute… cute. How’s that look, huh?” Kid turns his back on Rocco and peels his singlet down, leaving his world class muscle ass bare in his jock strap. “Yeah, oh, I think you want to get choked by something else, don’t you?” Turning around to face Rocco, he pulls the front of his singlet down and bounces the pouch of his packed jock-strap in the palm of his hand.

It’s poetry, I tell you! It’s nothing that I expect to find in straight up wrestling, and it’s everything and more that I look for in full-on, no apologies homoerotic wrestling. It’s like performance art mashed up with poetry slam mashed up with my fondest locker room fantasy.

Rusty Stevens still holds possession of the title as my favorite homoerotic wrestling pornboy these days, in no small part do to his lightening fast, razor sharp, verbal wit on the mats. One of the many  moments that Rusty has Mitch Colby on his back, schoolboy pinned in the Breaking Point, Mitch is squirming and gasping for air as Rusty sits on his chest and slides forward, shoving the pouch of his sweat-soaked jock-strap onto Mitch’s face. Mitch’s muffled gasps are cut short by Rusty’s package pressed against his lips, “I… I can’t….”

“What!? You can’t what?” Rusty delights, looking down. “You can’t breathe? Losers don’t get to breathe!” Rusty snarls, slapping Mitch’s face with his cock and pulling up on Mitch’s head, shoving it harder into his crotch in complete humiliation.

Again, I say: it’s poetry. Sweaty, muscled bodies clutching, squeezing, grinding and controlling one another to the beat poetry of verbal domination. Fantastic. Simply fantastic.

…In Love and War

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I’m facing some stiff competition in my life these days, and not the good kind. This competition is more the stab-you-in-the-back and step-on-you-as-you-lay-bleeding type. I’m accustomed to this brand of competition, frankly, but that doesn’t mean that I like it. I keep thinking that if someone is so intent on fucking me over, shouldn’t I at least get a kiss first?

Which brings me back to a topic I’m fond of bringing up repeatedly. I’m a fan of a liberal use of lips in a homoerotic wrestling match. I know some guys who think of a kiss as an unwelcome, tender diversion in the heat of battle, but I am not in that camp at all. There’s something fantastically dominating about an intense, tongue down the throat lip lock. To lay an opponent out so vulnerably that you can literally taste victory works for me as an entirely appropriate element of homoerotic combat. Along the lines of the “spoils of war,” a kiss can be a hot moment to revel in the delights of owning what you’ve conquered.

Another angle that I’m already on the record in support of is the kiss as a benevolent gift from a stern master. This is the end of the match lip action, after a decisive victory is secured. Particularly after it’s been hot and painful, merciless and brutal, when the loser has conceded that he’s got nothing to put up any longer and he’s completely at the mercy of the better man, when there’s nothing left to gain by withholding mercy any longer, a generous, passionate kiss is icing on my very favorite cake.

As a fan of lip action, I’ve been awfully happy with a number of recent matches from BGE lately. Patrick Donovan’s stern disciplining of his weak-link partner, Steven Thomas, turns to benevolent reward once Patrick’s pounded his point home (so to speak).

I haven’t seen Kid Karisma and Len Harder’s “Sexy Showdown” yet, but I for one am thrilled to see KidK sucking face. A big, beautiful muscle stud taking delight in shoving his tongue down a skinny kid’s throat is fantastic melodrama, in my opinion. Pop me some corn and let me settle in for the long-haul. That’s entertainment.

I like to think of Mitch Colby’s end of the match lip lock on Rusty Stevens in Breaking Point as a symbolic passing of the torch. That match-of-my-dreams sealed the deal that Rusty was in sole and undisputed possession of my personal favorite homoerotic wrestling pornboy title. That kiss, with Rusty planted on his back with his knees in the air, just made me all sorts of happy. After a snarling, sniping, low-blow-laced, insult-laden, sweat-soaked back and forth battle, Mitch’s mouth planted on Rusty’s made me believe for a moment that it isn’t just about the victory, that it’s not just about the paycheck, that it’s not just a het-anxiety-laden battle tPublish Posto avoid feeling “emasculated” by submitting to another man. For just that completely fictitious, but wonderful moment, I bought that it was about the intimate, lusting, carnal delights of two beautiful men celebrating a hard fought battle.

I know it’s a fiction, just like I know the nasty backstabbers in my own life aren’t about to give any love. But I can always dream.

Where It Hurts

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When I was a kid, I’d typically scheme all the time to start a wrestling match with a friend. Inevitably in the fumbling scramble, sooner or later, someone would get “racked,” by which we meant that they took a blow to the groin. It was always unintentional… or, at least, it was always unintentional on my part. Looking back on it, I sort of suspect that some of my wrestling buddies probably threw in a precisely placed knee every so often. I was always such a naive babyface.

The new Arena update at BG East has tickled my fancy once again with some preview pics of an upcoming release featuring the mouth-watering ass of Kid Karisma in action against Len Harder. This looks like it leans more the to homoerotic side than most of what I’ve seen Kid in, including some suck-face and ball claws. Good, good times…
The fact that this catches my eye and tweaks my kink so instantly is a relatively new thing. When I was a kid and would wrestle with my buddies, getting “racked” was an instant time out. The action stopped whenever someone took a blow to the groin. Every boy learns about the bundle of nerve endings in the groin, don’t we? At some point or another, we all experience that near-paralyzing pain of taking a shot to the balls. All the air rushes out of your lungs. Your head feels like it’s about to explode. You instinctively roll up into the fetal position with your hands cupped over your crotch to protect it from further abuse. It’s no fun, and as a kid it was typically a mood-killer for me.
Ball abuse as a mood-maker has been only a pretty recent development for me. I’ve always liked the concept of hands on genitals in my homoerotic wrestling. I just always cringe when I see some convincing bashing, twinges of some of my own greatest hits echoing through my body. I swear, it’s tissue memory more than anything cognitive. I see a blow to the balls, and I have a pre-cognitive cringe reflex. But lately, I find some hot, hard ball claws intensely erotic. I’m writing ball abuse into every fictional wrestling match I write.
I think I attribute my expanding my wrestling kink repertoire to Derek da Silva. He shows up frequently in homoerotic wrestling on the other end of the ball bashing stick. And he clearly LOVES it. I mean, seriously, he gets harder the more he gets bashed. Now, if Derek were naked and just hanging the laundry on the line, I’d be unable to stop myself from masturbating. But Derek grappling, getting ball bashed, and getting off on getting bashed has just turned a key in the back of my mind somewhere.
I still cringe. But the cringe and the pain and the primal domination of ball abuse are somehow doing it for me these days like never before. And it’s not like you can shake a stick and not smack up some ball torture everywhere you turn. Hell, in Naked Kombat you get points for it. It’s absolutely mandatory.
Can-Am has long sprinkled ball torture throughout their products. I remember one particular match that blew my mind when I saw Jimmy Dean shove his hand down the back of Mark Wolff’s trunks, reach between his legs, and claw at his testicles from behind. The boys, the gear, the ring, the bodies… everything about that makes me gasp a little.
BG East has ball claws featured prominently everywhere, in explicitly ball-torture themed products and otherwise. There’s just something stunning about the sight of a bodybeautiful, musclegod/ken doll like Jace Bradley pressed against the ropes and completely at Mr. Joshua’s mercy with his balls firmly in Mr. Joshu’s hand.
So I guess what this post is really about is the evolution of sexual appetite, the refinement of erotic tastes, and the observation that even when it comes to my wrestling kink, I’m not the same person I was even a couple of years ago. What strikes me as erotic, arousing, and captivating is growing and maturing as I march through life, scarfing down homoerotic wrestling every chance I get.

I Know It When I See It

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“Every Once in a while, a wrestler comes out of nowhere and blazes across the sky like a meteor, or a shooting star. Kid Karisma, blessed with a ripped physique, energy, personality and wrestling skill to spare, is one of those blazing stars.”
That’s the beginning of the text-teaser for BG East’s new product, Gear Wars 1. I love reading lines that like. They transport a sincere little production from softcore porn into ancient Greek melodrama. Text like that sets us up to recognize hot, sweaty scrappers hurting one another on wrestling mats as the Olympic gods that they truly are, playing out their private battles for all of us to watch, admire, pick sides and own our little piece of the divine drama.
A perceptive author painted the picture of Kid Karisma for us as “this Teutonic god-like young man with the impressive torso, sculpted arms, and beauteous bulbous butt.” This is what good text does for this genre. It puts its finger precisely on the obvious truth staring us in the face, but it does it with such skill and art that we see more than we may have seen without it. Yes, Kid Karisma is indeed Teutonic god-like. I’d never have thought of him in those terms, but now that you mention it, that’s exactly what he is! His ass is indeed a beauteous bulbous butt. It’s not like I hadn’t noticed, but the alliteration and string of apt adjectives capture precisely what is so stunning about Kid’s ass.
The text here is like 3-D glasses at the movie theater. It’s not as if we can’t appreciate the 2 dimensional pictures on the screen without them, but the words of the craftsman bring the images into high definition. They make that bulbous butt pop right out of the screen. They trigger our imaginative perception that makes us experience this not like a photo album, but as if that gorgeous ass was right in our faces, as if we could actually reach out and grab those astonishing cheeks in the palms of our hands and feel the muscled heft of that jaw-dropping derriere.
The byline for this pic of Kid captures my thoughts exactly. “Kid Karisma: They don’t come any more iconic than this. Tom of Finland and MATT would love this guy!” And there it is again, precisely! Kid in his tube socks and jock strap, with that astounding ass looks exactly like a caricature of a homoerotic wrestling character from the classic artists of the genre. Spot-on description for the almost unspeakable beauty of a freckle-faced red-head with the body ripped directly out of my most cherished fantasies.

Art provokes. That’s the bottom line for me. If it’s too obvious, then it’s journalism. If it’s so esoteric that I don’t care, it’s folly. But if I’m provoked, if it makes me do a double take, if I’m perplexed, aroused, indignant or adamant in response, then it must be art. Like the Supreme Court’s struggle to define obscenity, I may not always have an objective definition of art, but I know it when I see it. Like the sight of Rocco’s face squashed underneath Kid Karisma’s ass while Kid leans back to crush his opponent’s skull, grimacing in concentration as if on the threshold of ecstatic climax… that’s art, boys.

And art and capitalism intersect at the point that I see the photos; I read the text; my heart begins to race as my hand is drawn, as if by a mind of its own, to my swelling cock. And I am provoked to own a copy of the divine drama for myself.

Gratitude

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On a day set aside for giving thanks, I’m counting my blessings. I’m thankful for this bizarre discipline I accepted for myself to write this blog and publish some of my fiction online. It’s a vulnerable, annoying, enriching and rewarding endeavor.

I’m thankful for ring rookies David Taylor, Tyrell Tomsen, Kid Karisma and Rio Garza who’ve climbed into the ring in the past several months and laid claim to my imagination. For their poundable pecs and astounding asses, for their breathtaking biceps and crushing quads (and BG East’s generous permission to post their photos), I’m truly grateful. And for David and Tyrell’s phenomenal phalluses, I can’t say how happy they make me.
I’m thankful this year that Mitch Colby likes, and likes to pound, men. For all his sweat-soaked suffering and his growing accomplishment at putting younger punks in their place, I’m filled with gratitude.
I’m thankful that Derek Da Silva read and got a kick out of my treatment of his wrestling performances. For his shout out, for the mindblowing tolerances of his fantastic body, and for the amazingly beautiful artistry of all those tatoos, I’m thankful.
I’m thankful that Chris Cuomo went fishing this summer and shared with his twitter fans the beauty of his shirtless body.
For Mehcad Brooks, a resident of Bon Temps for such a short time, baring his irresistible ass and being so generous with displaying his round, luscious pecs, I’m thankful. And for Alexander Skarsgård’s six foot, four inch Swedish gorgeousness, I’m grateful that his eternal character will be with us for more seasons to come.
Finally, for all the kind friends and gentle critics I’ve met online through this blog and my wrestling fiction, I’m thankful. I hope you all are surrounded by friendship and love today.