I told you that last batch of BG East contraband was the fucking motherload, now didn’t I? Just to add context, this 3rd installment is still not all of it. It is, however, sweet, because of all the smuggled goods that OMI dishes out, my favorites are always the captured moments of my favorite BG East wrestlers relaxed, chilling, smiling, clearly enjoying themselves apart from the drama in the ring. These are the shots that make me admire these hotties that much more because they’re unpackaged, (relatively) candid, and somehow make them that much more crushworthy because they’re real. Speaking of crushworthy…
Fuck, every last one of these boys are adorable. No game face. No bloodlust. Just hot young hunks who can beat the living fuck out of each other one minute, and then kick back and chill when all is said and done.
I think this batchlet speaks to OMI as much as it does to the sensationally tasty hunks featured. We know precious little about the identity of OMI, but I can’t help but infer that he is equally as infatuated with Mad Mykel’s ass and Chase Addams nipples as I am. Just as an aside, Mad Mykel has made some tragic gear choices in the past, but I am incredibly anxious to get to see him in action in this jungle boy loin cloth.
And finally this last subcollection for the day features sizzling hotness all around, including the most elusive interview get of my blogging career, Kid Vicious. I’ve begged, borrowed, and stolen to convince KV to sit down with me for an interview. I’ve made promises. I’ve done favors. I’ve had him halfway to the table on at least a couple of occasions, only to have the most vicious tease in the business take a call and turn away at the last minute. I’m still working on figuring out who I have to fuck to get him on the record with me, but once I do, you’ll be the next to know.
I know for a fact that OMI has been taking some heat, in cognito, from the powers that be at BG East for his corporate espionage/fan fantasy fulfillment. Send your kindest wishes and prayers for safety to the homoerotic wrestling gods that OMI remains our man inside. And pass along the word to anyone you know with strings to pull that Kid Vicious gives that sit-down soon.
I know of wrestlers who nearly lost their balls getting caught smuggling behind-the-scenes pics out of BG East shoots, so I continue to applaud Our Man Inside (OMI) who once again has dropped a manilla envelope full of random, unpublished BGE candids on my doorstep. This envelope was huge, so I’ll try to refrain from taking up too much space with my comments or speculations. Though, who am I kidding? I can’t restrain myself from speculating. In any case, OMI, you are my hero!
First up, we’ve got a whole bevy of poolside hotness. I have not appreciated Mad Mykel’s magnificent ass nearly enough until now. On the other hand, Ty Alexander and Richie Douglas’ asses have been on my radar for years. Honestly, who do I need to fuck to get to see more of Richie Douglas incredibly tasty body!? And ever a safety nut, I hope Mykel, Ty and Richie know that I’ve got to hands and a bottle of sunscreen at the ready. Anytime.
Next up, we get a sensationally rare treat of unpublished photos from the BG East ring. I’m instantly titillated by the site of an as-yet-unreleased match pitting papa Shane McCall ripping my long-time infatuation, Drake Marcos, limb from limb. The double team by Kayden Keller and Jonny Firestorm Camel-Crabbing flyweight phenom Charlie Evans is instantly huge drama making my mouth water. But holy fuck, I need to send OMI a gift basket as gratuity for a couple of extremely rare action pics of Kayden working over the stunningly handsome, hot as fuck classic hunk and declared man-of-my-dreams, a contemporary Scott Williams. Please, homoerotic wrestling gods, hear my prayer that this foreshadows new releases starring the Man of My Dreams!!!
So it appears OMI may be a creeper with sensationally good taste, because this next batch has a ton of BGE stars in various states of sleeping, waking, or possibly just cuddling in bed. Such intimate vulnerability. So many slack, supine, defenseless hunks on display. I have an incredibly strong urge to slide under the covers with Kayden and spoon him awake.
This next batch I’ve filed under “letting their hair down.” As I’ve said often, there’s something potently sexy about seeing the ring warriors of my homoerotic fantasies with their guards down, relaxed, happy, and as is evident in these stolen shots, abundantly goofy. And the goof-in-chief most definitely appears to be The Boss himself, who I hope to the homoerotic wrestling gods never finds out who dished me these cutting room floor shots of him hamming it up. This also reminds me, why haven’t we seen more of sensationally hot boybander, Baby Boy Nino Leone?
Finally, this last batch of relatively random shots I’ve compiled under the heading of BGE boys doing what they do best, namely, looking gorgeous. Reigning HWOTMChase Addams eats shirtless, Drake rehydrates after that match with Papa Shane, and KL, Kayden and Charlie prove how devastatingly handsome they look all cleaned up. And then there’s Ty, Kayden and Jonny looking like they’re acting a Shakespearean scene. Shirtless, of course.
Again, OMI, my deepest gratitude and promise of pseudo-journalistic integrity when it comes to never, ever, under any circumstances up to and including corporal torture, will I disclose anything I know about your true identity. Keep the good times and behind the scenes goodies coming. And all of you BGE boys outed for your handsome smiles and adorability in stolen moments of candid life, keep looking gorgeous. Don’t change a thing.
The mundane requirements in my life have kept me from posting more regularly here lately. However, I’m happy to report I’ve still had time to enjoy watching homoerotic wrestling. I’ve recently fallen in lust with a classic batch of matches from almost twenty years ago packaged by BG East as Britbouts 1.
Back in antiquity, when I received my homoerotic wrestling products on VHS, I used to love the promotional trailers at the end of the DVDs, with snippets of other products to tempt and titillate. I remember seeing a promo for Britbouts 1 and particularly being attracted to the 45 seconds or so it provided of excerpts from Kid Vicious mat match with Ron Holloway. In fact, I got off more than once on just that glimpse of this match slipped in at the tail end of some other tape I owned. I clearly remember the look of rage and anguish mixed on the adorably babyfaced pretty boy Ron. I’m sure at some point it was on the top of my next-to-order list, but tide and time and the regular rush of enticing new BG East products made me forget to follow up on it. Happily, I’ve rectified that situation, and I’m even happier to report that the match is every bit as satisfying as I’d imagined it would be when all I had was that hot little teaser with that pumping synthesizer techno beat pounding the soundtrack to the trailer.
Ron Holloway turns my crank the instant he appears on screen, stretching out his super-lean, painfully pale, gorgeously proportioned young body. He’s achingly pretty, but not in the way that so many pretty boys in homoerotic wrestling since are pretty. He’s not pretty in a way that would make him a candidate for the cover of a fitness magazine. No, he’s pretty in the way that I’d develop a dizzying crush on a next door neighbor, or the bag boy at the grocery store, or some nerdy cutie a grade below me in school. He has a Supercuts ‘do and a disarming, bright white smile. His classic, stark white trunks and matching boots somehow make the pale expanse of his otherwise bare body seem that much more vulnerable. His silky smooth jaw and chest place him squarely in the developmental state when one reaches the age of majority, and yet the last volleys of puberty are yet to be fired. His long, skinny legs are lightly hairy in a natural yet self-conscious way. Some would bitch about him being too skinny, I’m sure, but he’s perfectly who he is in this moment in time: beautifully fit, still growing into his long limbs, high on testosterone and late adolescent invincibility, and sporting a fuckable zero-padding set of glutes squeezed supertight inside of what must be size XXS trunks.
Enter Kid Vicious. I’ve been crushing on KV from the moment I first discovered homoerotic wrestling. He looks so young in this match, and still he’s unmistakably all man in this boy-versus-man melodrama. His shaved head reveals the outline of his receding hairline. His chest displays the dark, closely cropped hair of a man who likes control, who maintains a regimented grooming routine and knows at any moment every detail of his body’s appearance, position, and tolerances. He’s lean like Ron, but with a handful more years of muscle maturity and growth. Every hot little detail on the babyface is just a little hotter, a little more developed, a little more fully realized on KV. Also super lean, KV’s pecs are just a little fuller. His shoulders are an inch or two broader. His long lean thighs are just that much thicker than the babyface’s, and like the babyface’s, they’re ungroomed, but just a little hairier on the more mature man. KV is squeezed into red and black zebra print square cuts and villainous black boots.
So this is clearly, from the outset a battle of bright-eyed, beautiful youthful innocence squaring off against jaded, contemptuous sadism. Or perhaps you might conceptualize this as seasoned maturity stepping back in time to kick the arrogant shit out of his young, dumb, and full of cum barely legal self. Ron is impetuous and irrationally confident as he snarls at the deadly dangerous man staring coldly back at him. This was apparently the first time BGE, including Kid Vicious, ventured across the pond, so ostensibly anything could happen here. When West meets Wester, it could totally be the case that the toughnik Scottish prettyboy has the goods to shock and awe the American who so obviously thinks he’s a total bad ass. If you knew nothing of the next 20 years of Kid Vicious’ BGE career, the morality tale being played out here could legitimately hinge on the notion that a Glasgow street punk could upend and completely dominate his upperclassman opponent, proving that KV’s curled lip and heel cred are nothing more than the paper thin boasting of a big fish from a little pond.
Once they start to tussle, however, you’d have to note every signal indicating that this is going to be boy bashing brutality. Kid Vicious takes control of my crushworthy bag boy. He uses each and every edge in size and strength to manhandle the kid, ripping Ron’s quivering shoulders out of joint in a surfboard, milking the fight out him with crushing body scissors clamped viciously around the Scot’s 28″ waist. Ron is so fucking pissed. All of that late pubescent testosterone is still convincing him that he’s more than up to the task of making the Yankee pay for this early humiliation. His bangs flop from side to side, his jaw gapes open, lips curling in that incredibly sexy rage/anguish that so enticed me from the trailer those years ago. Even when KV is totally owning him, the bitterness on the Scot’s face says clearly that he’s seeing revenge fantasies playing across the backs of his eyelids as his eyes are clenched tight in agony.
Ron’s no pushover, to say the least. He takes a cargo ship full of punishment and sucks on it like a lollipop. Moreover, he’s surprisingly patient for someone so young, biding his time and munching on the humiliation for the right moment to counter. Slipping free from a headlock, the Scot cranks the fuck out of a tit-for-tat hammerlock, threatening to rip Kid Vicious’ arms off at the shoulders. KV is more than a little shocked and super pissed off, suddenly playing catcher to this ridiculously babyfaced rook mounted across his back. That familiar sneer on KV’s lips suddenly disappears and then reappears on Ron’s face, as the stark reality comes into focus: Kid Vicious is getting owned by an actual kid.
Ron gets a couple of shocking submissions out of KV, which, in and of themselves, are worth the price of admission. But even sexier is the diabolical comeback KV makes, patiently starting up from the bottom of the hill after each humiliation, and steadily, surely, expertly climbing back to the summit. Regular readers know that my favorite hold is the OTK backbreaker, and featherweight Ron is like a baby in KV’s arms when the Yank scoops him up, holds him there like it’s nothing, and then pounds the kid’s lower spine across his thigh. Babyface Ron writhes and screams. The first cracks to his invincibility fable start to show. With one hand on a knee and the other pressing on the kid’s chin, KV pries his prey backward, promising to snap the little fucker’s back in half.
The other submission that stands out for me (as in, gets me off repeatedly) is Kid Vicious’ magnificent knee breaker. Babyface Ron has mounted a few shocking volleys of offense by this point, and you can see KV is fucking over this. He’s going to maim the kid. He rolls the babyface up, hooking Ron’s left leg and pinning the back of the Scot’s head against KV’s crotch. At first, Rob’s face screws up in pain and he bitches about his quivering hamstring getting stretched to the point of snapping. It looks vicious (appropriately enough). You know the babyface is about to submit, because he’s got nowhere to go and his opponent can wring cruel, bitter anguish out of him at will. But then KV pulls the kid’s captured leg to the left and positions Ron’s hyperextended knee right over KV’s own bent knee. And the genius of this moment comes into clear focus, as KV pulls that much harder on the Scot’s leg, hyperextending the knee sickeningly that much farther around his own. Babyface Ron SCREAMS in panic. He submits about 50 times in the space of 10 seconds, as KV simply soaks it in, smiling sadistically, living for this moment of owning this once-cocky kid in body and soul.
The last thing about his match that I have to mention isn’t a hold. It’s Ron, writhing on the mat after this knee breaker, whimpering like a sniveling bitch, “No more, no more, no more, no more,” in that thick, sexy Scottish accent. KV stands over him domineeringly, silently threatening, and the boy first announces “no more,” but when KV doesn’t appear about to back down, the boy starts begging, pleadingly, “NO MORE!” The hot little bag boy isn’t just done. He’s burnt to a crisp. That facade of invincibility he started with has shattered to the mat around him. His illusions of being “the man” are dashed upon the realization that next to Kid Vicious, he’s just a snot nosed little bitch. The chemistry has changed within him, from equal parts rage and anguish to overwhelming, sour bitterness with a dash of “one-day-I’ll-grow-up-and-then-you’ll-be-sorry.”
Of course, Kid Vicious has about 5 more minutes of corporal punishment and vile emotional abuse to inflict on the overdone flank steak at his feet. He mounts the kid, with the Scot lying totally vulnerable, flat on his back. KV stretches out on top of the rookie, pec to pec, crotch to crotch, maximal body contact. He pins Ron’s hands to the mat above his head and starts a 3 count to finish this little bitch. That persistent overdose of testosterone the late-pubescent kid is simmering in still convinces him to jerk a shoulder free, breaking the count. It’s not a real challenge to KV’s complete mastery of the moment. Just a bitter refusal to accept reality. So KV rolls the kid up, crotch pressed against the Scot’s face, grabs the babyface’s ankles and rips Ron’s legs open wide. Ron’s still just as bitter, just as adamantly wanting to deny the facts of the situation. But he’s good and throughly fucked right here, so KV gets his 3 count.
It’s a fucking shame that Ron Holloway appears to have been a one hit wonder, because he emotes like an Oscar winner. He’s lithe and lovely and fierce and fucked all bundled up into one incredibly tight, sexy little package. I’d love to have seen KV rip Ron’s white trunks off and ride that raw, muscled ass. I’d give a kidney to go back and time and convince KV right then to give the Scot’s ripped torso a tongue lashing from top to bottom. But alas, this is not an X-Fight.
As for Kid Vicious, I find it fascinating to watch him get his hands on a Brit for the first time. It’s little wonder he will return to the UK repeatedly in the years following this match to sink his teeth into more hot Brits. He clearly had a taste for this succulent delicacy from the first moment he laid eyes on Ron Holloway.
I think I may have become too serious in the past 41 days or so. Sure, I believe the very fabric of our fundamental social contract as a modern society is unraveling. And, yeah, I have to acknowledge that I’ve been feeling happy not to have children to worry about suffering in the coming new world disorder. But there’ve got to be some reasons to smile these days. As if reading the secret thoughts of my darkest hours, a long-standing, anonymous, yet dependable friend suddenly reached out and dropped a boatload of candid, behind-the-scenes photos smuggled off the sets of BG East, starring some of the most sensationally sexy wrestlers on the planet taking a little off the cuff joy in life.
OMI (Our Man Inside) has long been aware of my pleasure at seeing candid images of the heroes, villains, and whipping boys who star in the homoerotic wrestling fantasies that I enjoy so much. Far too easily, we who are fans can forget that there are actual people behind the made-for-pro wrestling characters and storylines that we tune in for. Too often, we take our prerogatives as consumers too literally. We collapse the people who put in the time to craft their bodies for wrestling sport entertainment into the products they star in. So we too often feel free to critique not just the products, but the people. We act as if it’s our right, from the anonymity of our side of the computer screen, to trash people based on our tastes and preferences in wrestling entertainment, dismissing the people themselves as worthless if we judge their wrestling products or performances to be uninspiring. I delete comments from the pages of this blog when I think they’ve stepped over that line, because that’s not what this blog is about. People can, and do, do that anywhere and everywhere else on the internet. This blog is about celebrating the industry, promoting the best of what I enjoy in homoerotic wrestling, and encouraging producers and wrestlers alike to continue to titillate and innovate for a homoerotic wrestling sensibility.
So I particularly enjoy these candid shots that give just a glimpse of the men behind the masks (whether literal or figurative). I know that there are some who would likely prefer not to see behind the curtain. I respect that. But these rare glimpses of these hot hunks’ humanity make me love this industry even more.
We don’t have to like them all. Fuck, that’s the whole point really. Some of the hottest wrestling happens when hunky characters who I despise lie, cheat, and steal their way into contention in the ring. The rules of polite (straight) society do not apply in the homoerotic wrestling universe in which these magnificent men show up and throw down, putting bodies and egos and sometimes even their asses on the line in these Greek melodramas that we enjoy so passionately. In that world, these men can fly. They can be broken to pieces and pick themselves right back up and battle on with nothing but sheer will stitching them together. In that world, they’re devious and diabolical. They’re naive and gullible. They’re virtuous to a fault and psychologically flawed to perfection. In that world, they may or may not even be aware that we are crushing on them, debating about them, pulling for or rooting against them. They are apart from us, operating by different rules, and the distance can make us imagine that our estimation of them, in this world, also need not abide by conventions of common decency.
But in this world, they’re guys like you and me. Well, guys who probably work out more, eat better, and, if they’re any good, train to wrestle beyond what 99% of fans ever do. But in my experience, they’re just guys, most of whom are charming and complex, a patchwork of pride and insecurity, just like all of us who are afflicted by this human condition.
And in these waning days of 2016, I could probably use with more glimpses of genuine humanity. I wish every one of these smiling studs success and good fortune in the coming year. I want them to know that they are appreciated, even beyond being adored by those of us who are fans. When they’ve peeled their bruised and battered bodies off the mats, when the cameras are off and the street clothes are on, when they clock into their day jobs where people don’t even know that they are phenomenally sexy fantasymen with superhuman strength and skill when they strip their hot bodies down to supertight trunks, I hope their lives are filled with happiness. They are beautiful and brave, powerful and provocative. They’re terrifying and titillating, inspiring and inciting. They turn us on and transport us to a world in which our fantasies of gorgeous gladiators locked in erotic combat play out, live action, before our very eyes.
Wrestlers, when you’ve had your spine snapped in an OTK backbreaker and punched in the testicles until you’re a screaming, writhing mess on the mat, after you’ve gotten us off with your beauty and your might, I hope the world is kind to you in the coming year. Thanks for smiling. ~Bard
Taking a brief break from the heavy diet of reviews I’ve been dishing out, today I’m lingering a bit on that supremely homoerotic wrestling hold, face-to-crotch headscissors.
I’m sure I’ve mused about this hold before, but I’m too lazy to look it up. So I’ll probably repeat myself when I say that my heart pumps harder in my chest when a straight forward pro wrestling story suddenly introduces face-to-crotch scissors. If you buy that all of pro wrestling can easily be read as an extended homoerotic innuendo, face-to-crotch sort of slaps down the implied erotic subtext and steps at least one toe over the line into straight up homoerotic text.
How wrestlers carry it off, of course, can significantly add to eroticism. I suppose it’s possible to snap your thighs around another man’s head with that up close look at your balls in his face and it be solely about punishment and wrestling victory. But I love watching a wrestler snap shut that bear trap and then enjoy it, openly, luxuriantly, expansively. When someone on the delivery side of this hold pumps his glutes and shoves his hips forward with a little enthusiasm, when he milks the moment with pulsing flexed muscles beating out a morse code of agony from the gasping grunts of his opponent, when he stares down his own hot body and smiles at the sight of his opponent owned and getting primed for sucking cock, when he closes his eyes and leans his head way, way back and that look of an impending orgasm washes across his face, there’s nothing coded about this. This is hot, homoerotic wrestling gold.
The catcher can certainly connect the dots as well. Regardless of who ends up on top after all is said and done, I love it when a captured hunk’s eyes roam hungrily up and down his captors body above him. He doesn’t need to, but if he stretches his hands up and strokes those crushing thighs, the rippling abs, stretching so far as to palm the bulging pecs of his tormentor, it conveys what I’m silently thinking deep inside at that moment. A smothered grappler doesn’t have to, but if he’s man enough to nuzzle the balls bearing down on his face, fuck, maybe even open wide and give the trickster’s treats a hearty lick, it just puts the exclamation point on what this hold conveys from the start: wrestling persistently implies homoerotic intimacy.
When the camera angles and storytelling are just right, face-to-crotch headscissors shine a spotlight on one man’s bulging package, bringing his entire, tasty physique into the mix, making even that swelling muscle of passion a part of the corporal domination of another man. For me, it isn’t even so much about the oral sexual implications, as much as it signals that every magnificent inch of a wrestler’s hot body is engaged in dominating his opponent. Hell, when wrestling companies choose to transition from explicit wrestling to explicit sex, I typically push rewind. Because what’s getting me off is the homoeroticism of the wrestling, not the wrestling as foreplay for sex.
I suppose it isn’t such a far distance between why I’m such a fan of face-to-crotch headscissors as I am a fanatic for my favorite pro wrestling hold, the over-the-knee backbreaker. Both draw my eye to one wrestler’s bulging package. Both center the frame on the outline of a bulging cock and the ballast of balls. Both seem ripe with the erotic potential marrying gay sensibilities and a pro wrestling kink. Both make my pulse pound in anticipation of what happens next to, or with, or on behalf of one wrestler’s swollen pipe.
I sometimes find it ironic that this blog attracts so many visitors thanks to the still frames I include, because it’s the story in and around any one captured slice of time in a wrestling match that tantalizes and titillates me. It’s not any one frozen image that becomes the perfect muse to my erotic imagination, but the drama played out in motion, the slow contraction of muscles, the arching agony in a lower back, the quivering pouch, the writhing feet futilely kicking the mat. I’ve lately talked in terms of “the moneyshot,” meaning that moment in a match at which point I’m likely to climax, but that moment is about the 1,600 seconds before that led up to that moment, the deepening jeopardy of one man, the swelling confidence of another, the bodies growing wet with sweat over time, the veins swelling and pumping harder with blood from the effort and the adrenaline of competition. I get off plenty to face-to-crotch headscissors, but I’m never just getting off to face-to-crotch headscissors.
If there is one valuable analog of face-to-crotch headscissors, I think its the comfort a wrestling company has with the homoerotic eye of their gay audience. In scanning for face-to-crotch headscissors images across several platforms for this post, I found them concentrated in just a couple producers’ catalogs. And I think they play a part in direct proportion to how explicitly companies market to those of us in the audience tuning in and ponying up because we are sexually turned on by wrestling. Of course, face-to-crotch headscissors aren’t the only way of crossing the line from homoerotic subtext to homoerotic text. Hell, they probably aren’t even the best way. But from a strictly correlational perspective, I think they show up in proportion to how much I (at least) perceive of a producer as appreciative of and comfortable with me, as a gay man, watching their wrestling products as a means of sexual gratification.
So probably a close second as my favorite wrestling hold is face-to-crotch headscissors, because when they’re done wrong, they can reveal a whole host of troubled self-hatred bubbling beneath a veneer of nohomo bravado, but when they’re done right, I feel respected as a gay wrestling fan, drawn into the intimacy of homoerotic combat, and turned on hard.
Having recently moved, I’m getting accustomed to a lot of new things. The weatherman keeps reporting on “thund-uh-stoams.” There are apparently 100 ticks for every human being in the region. And it’s fucking hot.
That last part makes me rethink my decision to ignore places with swimming pools in my housing search when I moved here a month and a half ago. I’ve always thought of pools as a pain in the ass. And, honestly, this climate calls for outdoor pools no more than about 25% of the year, so it seemed like a waste. But damn. It’s fucking hot.
I’m sure I’ve posted here about my ambivalence about the swimming pool genre in homoerotic wrestling, but I’m too lazy right now to look it up for you (did I mention how hot it is?). So let me just reiterate. On the con side, pool wrestling too often submerges more than half of the available eye candy. Upper bodies are privileged as the only thing we can see most of the time (and neglecting attention to hot legs is another, more global complaint I make often). There’s probably about 80% of wrestling holds that just don’t translate to a pool. A Boston crab would likely lead to manslaughter charges.
But on the other end of the ambivalent spectrum, I love wet muscles. On that point, sweat, shower scenes, and oil wrestling tweak the same kink in me that pool wrestling does. There’s also something inherently playful about pool wrestling. Watching homoerotic wrestlers do it, it certainly appears to take many of them back to the same days of juvenile, carefree summers getting yelled at for horsing around in and around the pool, playfully bullying chums by seeing who can dunk the other, games of chicken, perched on top of each others’ shoulders and seeing who can topple whom.
While I couldn’t stand an exclusive diet of homoerotic wrestling in the pool, like fresh corn on the cob and the sweetest of watermelons, it’s a seasonal treat that can work for me. Though I have to say I prefer it to conclude with bronzed bodies baking in the sun, making out naked poolside.
Every so often I find myself in a conversation with another wrestling fan about what makes homoerotic wrestling “gay.” I’m not in the camp that would argue that all wrestling is particularly homoerotic. I’ve seen some wrestling that I would classify as thoroughly and tragically straight. An occasional wrestling match explicitly marketed toward us gay fans of wrestling will even strike me as not gay in the least. Which, of course, raises this persistent and recurring question of what makes some wrestling “gay.” I’ve said in the past that I think it’s the queer eye watching a match that ultimately qualifies (or disqualifies) a wrestling match as homoerotic. Thus, a wrestling match doesn’t have to climax in fellatio or anal penetration for me to find it outstandingly homoerotic. For that matter, I’ve enjoyed watching two wrestlers who I’m pretty damn sure are, on their own time, straight as rulers, engage in entirely non-explicit, classic pro wrestling, and peg my homoerotic meter hard. Then, of course, there’s the distinction between a wrestling match that’s explicitly gay as opposed to a wrestling match that’s homoerotic.
There are a lot of moving parts to deconstructing what makes a particular wrestling match gay (or straight, for that matter). But I recently found myself arguing that one component that transforms wrestling into homoeroticism (and not just being gay), is that iconic barometer of male erotic attention: the erection. I’ll add it to my swelling collection of homoerotic wrestling if I get hard watching it. Even faster, I’ll drop it in the “homoerotic” side of the equation the moment I see one of the wrestlers sprout wood.
I’ve had a few conversations with experienced, gay professional wrestlers from BG East about the topic of erections in the ring (or on the mats). Clearly, the heat of competition, the conspicuousness of a camera crew, or perhaps the camera itself can be a cold shower to gay wrestlers who happily report getting hugely turned on by wrestling on their own time, but don’t quickly rise to the occasion when the cameras are rolling. But thankfully, the pro wrestling erection is not all that hard to find at all, and I send up a little cheer and prayer of gratitude to the homoerotic gods every time I spot one.
I’m definitely not a size queen, but it is true that more massively endowed members are more readily spotted, particularly when the trunks are still on. And I really love what a big, growing, stretching, swelling cock looks like straining at the seams of beautifully snug wrestling gear. It’s often (not always) value added for me when a raging erection is openly acknowledged and a full-on plot device in a wrestling match. That said, there’s something poignantly, intensely erotic about the unmentioned special guest that shows up unannounced, obviously born of an unspoken, deep down, honest to the wrestling gods erotic enthusiasm for muscle pounding wrestling.
So, sure, I could conceive of wrestling that’s gay and yet not all that homoerotic (though just knowing that wrestlers are gay likely tips the scales on my side of the screen). And I treasure many wrestling matches between ostensibly straight wrestlers who, nevertheless, crank my erotic fantasies with both (all four) hands hard. But a surefire element that never fails to make me claim a wrestling match as my kind is a hard, bulging, visibly swelling erection (preferably two or more) that stands as a living, weeping embodiment of what has made wrestling an erotic obsession of mine all my life: it’s a fucking fantastic turn on.