Tag: Luke Guldan

All of Us Rentboys

wrestlebard5 Comments


Stephen Colbert makes me laugh. He’s also pretty hot, in a nerdy, irreverent smart-ass-in-a-business suit way. Sometimes his parody of the conservative right-wing-baiting media whores is a little creepy… I’m always sending up a little prayer that no one is thinking that his ridiculous mimic of hateful talking points is sincere. As long as I can have faith in that, then Stephen Colbert is nerd-tastic entertainment for me.

Imagine the extra does of erotic joy, then, when I saw Wednesday’s episode of the Colbert Report and caught the completely gratuitous shirtlessness from one of the starring characters in my wrestling fiction, fitness model and aspiring actor, Luke Guldan.

The Colbert Report Mon – Thurs 11:30pm / 10:30c
Alpha Dog of the Week – George Rekers
www.colbertnation.com


Gratuitous shirtlessness was the point of Colbert’s snide commentary on a disgraced religious right-ball who was discovered to have hired a male prostitute to rub him down naked during his European vacation. Colbert suggested that he hires his cameramen from the same “rentboy” website, and then the shot cut to Luke, aka “Julian,” running one of Colbert’s cameras in all his musclebound shirtless glory.

I know it’s a skit. I know that Luke isn’t “Julian,” and he isn’t actually a rentboy. Still, Luke has shown up on the Colbert show before, so it certainly looks like Stephen is a return customer at “renting” the services of beautiful Luke. When it comes down to it, aren’t we all in this society renters of bodies? Speaking specifically to the audience that reads this blog, don’t we all pay money to take pleasure (or in Colbert’s case, profit) from a flexed physique, a strutting stud, a chiseled chin, a pair of legs locked painfully around the body of another, a driving cock, a muscled ass…? I tend to think that in this day and age, in this society, we are consumers of bodies, all of us renting one another for what turns us on and/or pays the bills.
Not that I’m saying it’s wrong (or right, for that matter). I’m just saying… capitalism defines us by the means of our production. In a society aspiring to be the most genuine devotees to capitalist ideals, rentboys (whether they be prostitutes, bag handlers, comedians or homoerotic wrestling pornboys) illustrate the extremes to which we go to participate in the social value of commodifying all means of production. What pays the bills, what satisfies the lusts, what gets the job done is more and more tied to the quantification of one another’s bodies. The world of my wrestling fiction emerges from these questions I have about where we’re all heading in our pursuit of capital as the only inherent good. I certainly don’t suggest that I’m above it all. I whore out myself in my own ways (which don’t include being available to rub down homophobes in oil on European vacations), and I eagerly, sometimes ravenously consume the sights, sounds, tastes, feels and smells of fantastically sensual bodies offering themselves to be worshipped (at a price). I just think it bears mentioning and considering. Beauty, worth and dignity are far more than skin deep, and despite the illusions of our social order, none of us is simply worth what someone else will pay. Each of us is worth infinitely more than that.

A Dish Best Served Cold

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Imagine, if you will, a world in which male models are inexplicably, innately, supremely talented in managing and manipulating people. Then imagine a bodybuilder turned fitness model challenging a fashion model and a fashion-model-turned-actor-turned-fashion-model to a 2 on 1 grappling contest. The fitness model does better than one might expect with two vicious competitors coming at him from all angles at once. But in the end, he’s tagged, bagged, and mounted (so to speak).

I posted pretty much that story line in my celebrity wrestling fiction group about three weeks ago. Hopefully it was a little more graceful and engaging than the cliff notes. To my genuine surprise, although the match received some kind compliments, there were several opinions voiced calling for a rematch. Reading between the lines, some readers expressed their confidence that given another shot, hot hardbody Luke could dismantle and humiliate Andrew and Ashton in devastating fashion.
As for me, I sincerely wasn’t sure that Luke was up for it. But okay, I let him take a shot. I posted yesterday the follow up to Luke’s humiliating defeat. I hate teasers that give too much away, but I realize that I’m no Agatha Christie. So here’s a decisive moment to give you an idea of what I’m talking about:

In a flash, Luke went from rubbing Ashton’s hair affectionately to grabbing a handful of the hair in his fist. With his left hand, Luke grabbed the waistband of Ashton’s underwear and yanked upward. Twisting his powerful torso, Luke jerked Ashton forward, sending the top of his head crashing hard into the nearby wall. The sickening dull thud of Ashton’s skull impacting against the wall echoed around the room. Ashton bounced away from the wall and fell to his ass, his eyes rolling into the top of his head as his torso swayed from side to side. Andrew threw himself off the wall and charged over. “That’s just about enough of that, mother fucker!”

Luke turned and faced Andrew squarely. He pounded his massive pecs with his fists fiercely and snarled, “We’re just getting started!” Andrew stopped in his tracks, suddenly realizing that Luke had planned this confrontation all along. Luke’s muscles were pumped. His body was shining with a layer of sweat. And he looked like he could rip a fire hydrant out of the sidewalk.

“Oh fuck,” Andrew said, suddenly reversing course and taking two quick steps backward. It was too late, though, as Luke launched himself diving across the distance between them. Spearing Andrew’s midsection with his right shoulder, Luke lifted him off his feet and threw him hard to his back.

If text-based wrestling captures your interest, you can check out this wonderful world filled with hot, hard hunks pounding on one another for their bread and butter. Comments are always welcome, including gentle critiques. Story ideas are even better. And the best of all is the fan cocky enough to rip off his shirt and throw himself into the action (as in, submit some wrestling fiction of your own to share)!

Game

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The male model as fighter seems to be a common pose. Particularly the fitness models seem to regularly pop up with fists raised and chins down. Since everything is a commodity, these pics beg the question: what’s being sold here? It’s not the clothes (particularly for those models in-stance not wearing any). I propose that what’s being sold is that package of elements that is essentially at the heart of what I write about all the time.

It’s sex. It isn’t vanilla sex, but it’s the sex that emerges from lust and aggression simultaneously. The gorgeously hard body, tensed and toned, positioned in order to display the narrow waist armored by six-pack abs is intended to tell the story that turns me (and so many of you) on. Designer/director Tom Ford tells the tale with his arms around two sweaty boxers poised for the fight. The kiss on the forehead exposes the fierce-faced hardbody as the object of lust.
I can just smell the fantastic elixir of testosterone and sweat emanating from Bryan Thomas. The male model in a fighting stance taunts the gay male gaze. It promises sex and violence in one sweet image. It draws us in to the erotic combat of hand-to-hand, body-to-body competition, offering us the prize that if we beat him, we own him.
Tattooed stunner Tegan peers over his clenched fists at us, his thick, flexed forearms like the steel bars of a cage. His warm-ups sag below our line of sight (for full frontal trade of bewitching Tegan, aka Jagger, check out ChaosMen), with all the muscled lines of his torso pointing us downward. Perhaps, just perhaps, if we step inside that steel cage and take the beating that Tegan is planning for us, if we fight hard enough and suffer desperately enough, he’ll give us one final workover with his most impressive muscle of all.
Philip Fusco looks more like he wants to put up a fight, but not actually win. He’s too intent on displaying his chiseled face than protecting his vulnerable jaw. He’s planted vulnerably on the backs of his heels, subtly signaling that the battle will be short-lived, but his endurance to be worshiped as the conquered god he is will go on eternally.
I can actually hear the photographer’s voice instructing Philip to arch his back a fraction more here, to stick out that oh-so-round bubble butt just that much more. Once again, Philip is flat on his feet, entirely conscious of his body, ante-ing up a fighter’s pose just to signal that he’s game. This isn’t the form of a savage sadist ready to beat us into submission, but rather the eager bottom secretly begging us to call his bluff and drop him to his hands and knees. He isn’t actually planning on suffering too long, but we can teach him the ecstasy that awaits him (and us) when his endurance is tested, when his cries of submission are ignored, when the pain is unrelenting until he can genuinely stand no more.

Jamie Dominic appears as if in the post-coital position in which we might leave him after beating him senseless with those boxing gloves we placed tauntingly across his exhausted cock. He’s earned that coat of sweat glistening in the crevices of his shredded abs. He’s battled past the point that the gloves came off, past the point that the trunks came off, past the point that the jockstrap came off. In nothing but his sparring boots, he’s been hammered down until he moved too slowly to defend himself any longer. He’s been squeezed and probed, tried and pried until he had nothing left but to submit in body, mind and spirit. Back in the locker room, he struggles with his pride beneath the brim of his cap, our gloves re-enacting the final hold that forced him to give himself entirely for our pleasure. He’s even now reliving the bout, blow by blow, as the memory of the beating washes through him and begins to dislodge the gloves. He’s vowing that next time he’ll do the conquering. Next time, he won’t succumb to his own guilty ecstasy at being owned, used, and put away wet.
So, perhaps not quite all of this narrative is necessarily written into the male model in fighting stance. But you and I know that at least the kernel of that story is undeniably there, calling to us, taunting us, displaying for the world, but particularly us, that aggression and sex are a potent combination.