Leaving aside (for a moment) that I was in the room when Leon Cyrus faced down the twin twunk terrors, Mickey Knoxx and Nick Lean, One Man Wrecking Crew is a fucking hot match! Two-on-one matches can be tricky. The chemistry, the drama, the technical challenges of wrestling holds… there are a lot of moving pieces and potential pitfalls, to be honest. Individually, Leon, Mickey, and Nick are sexy as fuck, of course. The Venn diagram of what they share in common and what separates them is fascinating. Leon is an institution, a fucking beast of a man who towers over Mickey and Nick and is packing an overwhelming size advantage that would steam roll over either of his lightweight opponents, and in prior encounters, already has. Nick and Mickey are both fit and experienced and gorgeous as fuck, though, and at the outset, I’m thinking that with just a little cooperation and a lot of luck, they seriously might have a chance of humbling the Swiss Menace. When this throw down started, I honestly had no idea what to expect. And that, right there, is my absolute favorite type of homoerotic wrestling match!
“The both of you couldn’t beat me separately, so let’s try the two of you together,” Leon declares, flexing his guns in their faces. Nick and Mickey both scoff at the challenge, though you can’t miss the slight widening of the eyes as they stare up at the mountain threatening to come crashing down on them. It starts out as a gentlemanly tag team set-up, with Nick eagerly (foolishly?) stepping up to take on Leon. And 4.6 seconds later, Nick is hoisted off his feet and getting the life squeezed out of him in a gargantuan bearhug. Leon insists that Mickey tag in to “rescue” Nick, and almost as fast, Mickey is hanging upside down in a bearhug, with Leon indulging in a face full of Mickey’s award winning glutes.
I cannot get enough of Mickey Knoxx. This should come as no surprise to anyone who reads this blog. He’s absolutely beautiful and absolutely nobody’s clone at the same time. He and Leon have opted to wear assless gear to start this match, and if it were up to me, Mickey would always wrestle that way. Mickey’s fucking fierce in this way that’s completely disproportionate to his chances. He comes in like a house on fire, slapping Leon in the chest and, for just a split second, I swear Mickey looks every bit as big and intimidating as the cocky beast who, objectively speaking, has got to have at least 100 pounds over him.
“Who is sexier, I’m not sure,” Leon asks, quite literally saying out loud what I’m thinking as was recording this match. This trip to Wrestlefest NYC was my first time seeing Nick, and sweet fuck, the boy is tasty. When Leon rips Nick’s trunks off, Nick has tantalizing tan lines that make me swoon. His cock is just so fucking happy in that baby blue thong, and I think being forced to choose between him and Mickey might legitimately be one of the rings of hell.
Leon makes one erotic sculpture after another out of them. The energy is so incredibly erotic-forward. Throwing them into a heap on top of each other on the mat, Leon strokes and gropes the suffering pretty boys. “Oh my god, such a pile of sexy meat!” He’s not wrong. Absolutely everyone is crushing on everyone in this sweaty threesome. Stacked like firewood on top of each other, Nick and Mickey start making out and grinding into each other. Left to their own devices, I’m pretty sure they’d just start fucking each other with abandon. But, of course, they aren’t left to their own devices. They’re completely controlled like marionettes in Leon’s hands, dominating one at a time, and both together, continuing his villainous monologue about trying to decide which of them will be his favorite tasty treat.
The Spider Man kiss at around 11 minutes into the match is the moment that has stuck with me hardest ever since I saw it happen live in front of me. Leon has Nick suspended, belly-to-back and upside down, and he’s going to town on Nick’s very happy cock. Mickey’s on his back, flat out on the mat, having gotten his bell rung a few times too many. At Leon’s command, Mickey stretches his head upward, and he and Nick make out with Nick dangling helplessly from Leon’s clutches. And then Micky makes out with Leon. Nick makes out with Mickey’s ass. Leon makes out with Nick. Fuck, so many gorgeous bodies, cocky egos, and absolutely everyone wanting a piece of everyone else.
By the end of this 18 minute match, Leon picks his favorite twunk toy for the day. He’s a better man than I am, clearly, because my ambivalence about who I’m more infatuated with was tearing me in half. After the match was over and my filming job was done, I walked out of the room in an absolute daze, this intoxicating cloud of musk and pheromones and homoerotic wrestling drama seeping into my pores. And watching the match again, it takes me right back. Check it out if an erotic-forward three-way hotel scrap showcasing some of the sexiest wrestling sculpture on the planet is something you’d like to see.
Mickey Knoxx and NonoZ are both super hot wrestlers who can do no wrong these days. At least as far as I’m concerned, I haven’t see a miss from either of this gorgeous men. So the promise of the combination of the two of them is a guaranteed bullseye. In Heel Heat, now available on WatchFighters, we see them square off on the mats at Wrestlefest NYC this past February. They had a professional photographer on hand, and I was seeing pro promotional images before I had a chance to savor the match. I reached out to the photographer, who generously gave me permission to share some of his incredibly hot photographs below, and, holy fuck, there is something to be said for working with a professional! It does not surprise me that these stills are available for purchase as prints. Check out all of PeachyNoir’s work on Instagram and BlueSky!
So I was already hot and bothered (in a good way) by the time I got the chance to settle in and enjoy Heel Heat. Having watched both of these wrestlers quite often, I was giving long odds on Mickey having a serious chance at taking NonoZ. I mean, fuck, just look at the two of them! NonoZ towers over Mickey, and there’s this unmistakable predator/prey vibe between them. The opening drama is NonoZ just flexing his biceps and Mickey being unable to resist diving in and worshiping them. NonoZ is just too big and dominant for Mickey to avoid being put on the mat and mounted within seconds.
Mickey is put through the wringer like dirty laundry, and every second of it is so fucking seductive. NonoZ exploits his height advantage, ripping Mickey’s legs apart in a grapevine, and then just swallows the lucky Canadian’s face in a pec smother. The absolute physical domination is so intense, but it’s much more than just the visuals. Mickey suffers hard, with these wounded whimpers that make my cock twitch involuntarily. And in reply, NonoZ chuckles light but deep, in this way that sounds genuinely delighted by what he can wring out of Mickey moment to moment. The call-and-response is hypnotic, with this subverbal, primal back and forth of taunting and questioning grunts from NonoZ followed by gasps of overwhelmed pain and pleasure from Mickey, and then more delighted chuckles from the masked heel enjoying the power he wields.
Mickey’s feisty, of course. Mickey never gives it away for free, even when he’s got this masked muscle gladiator crashing down on him like an avalanche. He just earns absolutely no traction because he’s totally getting bullied by this sadistic, massive heel on top of him. Mickey spends the majority of the 17 minutes of this match smothered by any one of several tools at NonoZ’s disposal… his ass, his cock, his pecs… his cock again. And again.
NonoZ looks so fucking proud of himself! Mickey’s pretty amazed by NonoZ too. “You’ve got such a nice chest,” Mickey can’t help himself from saying, his voice muffled with NonoZ’s crotch stuffed in his mouth. NonoZ goes back and forth between seducing Mickey by giving him what Mickey’s gasps and gropes telegraph that he wants, and punishing and denying him. It’s savage and erotic as fuck, with Mickey’s body used, abused, and humiliated, and both of them getting turned on nearly as much as I am.
NonoZ strips Mickey to his thong almost exactly halfway through the match. It’s like he’s unwrapping a birthday present, the way he immediately drapes himself on top of Mickey’s body like a blanket. He devours Mickey’s nipples hard enough to make the Canadian scream, but we can’t really hear it with Mickey’s trunks stuffed down his throat.
The face fucking catches me by surprise, to be honest. Not that I’m surprised that a super hot match like this features face fucking, but that it hits me the same as every other moment of the wrestling domination. I’ve marveled at the absolute work of art NonoZ’s cock at full mast is, of course. And I’ve documented often how completely infatuated I am with Mickey’s ass. So it’s not a shocker to me that I’m swooning around the time NonoZ is on Mickey’s back with the Canadian’s arms tied behind him and riding that award winning ass like it’s a rodeo. But honestly, I’m often not as interested in the erotic stakes as I am the intense wrestling. Magically, in this match, it’s all one incredibly provocative and erotically magnificent thing. NonoZ cranking on his cock, and then Mickey cranking on NonoZ’s cock in submission, push my wrestling buttons just right.
It’s not competitive, and it’s a total squash, so check it out if that’s what you’re looking for. It is most definitely hot, the chemistry is explosive, and the pairing of these two gorgeous gladiators is nothing short of a masterpiece. No wonder a professional photographer needed to be on hand to sell prints!
As I’ve mentioned, I was honored and overwhelmed to be asked by Sir Dark to help out behind the scenes with his production of Watchfighters Rumble 2. It’s impossible to convey the vibe in that NYC hotel room packed with 32 smoking hot wrestlers itching for their shot at plowing their way through that deep, deep field in order to come out on top. Part of the genius of a spectacle like this is you’re almost guaranteed to have at least one WF favorite (or many more) in the mix. Honestly, it was a large hotel room, particularly for Manhattan, but there was just no room to move without bumping into one hot wrestling hunk after another in various states of undress. Not that I mind bumping into hot wrestling hunks, mind you. But then Sir Dark put a camera in my hands and told me to me get down to the business of capturing this submission-elimination rumble on video. Fuck, talk about feeling torn. A huge part of me just wanted to eye fuck this boiling brood of muscle and ego churning on the mat in front of me. But Sir Dark also terrifies me just a little, so I was also feeling extra motivated to do my very best to capture on camera something that did justice to the incredibly sexy spectacle playing out in that unsuspecting corner suite.
Well, the fruit of my labor and, much more importantly, the brainchild of Sir Dark and the incredibly hot wrestling of 32 grapplers has been revealed, and you can now stream Watchfighters Rumble 2 (Parts 1 and 2) and see how we all did. To be clear, I was behind one of two cameras that day, the other being manned by cousin Scooter. By the time we pushed record, it had already been absolute chaos, which, true, is Sir Dark’s brand. Late arrivals, wrestlers shoulder-to-shoulder gearing up, some pre-match promos… so much going on, and I desperately wanted to savor every single thing at the same time. Just getting 32 rowdy wrestlers to pipe down for the start of the match was drama, but finally, with Sir Dark running the show, one by one, the wrestlers took to the mats, vying to be the last man standing.
Kicking the melee off were KC Ryder and Mickey Knoxx. KC is a total babe who I got to watch wrestle for the first time last year at Wrestlefest Live ’25. I love his energy and that viking marauder hotness, but if you know me at all, you know my eyes were glued to Mickey. Fuck, that man is hot! KC bullies Mickey with an opening side headlock, and like a fucking boss, Mickey hip tosses Ragnar and mounts him like he’s finally had enough of getting called a jobber. If you’re watching the video, this camera angle you see at the opening is mine, and you can practically see my ambivalence, torn between capturing the entire scene and wanting to center ever second on Mickey’s magnificent ass.
Mickey mean (regardless how he’s doing in the match) is the energy I’m trying to channel for 2026. He headscissors KC, sneers into the viking’s pained eyes, and slaps him in the face. And then starts wave after wave of wrestlers clocking in for their turn at stirring the pot and doing their best to clear the field with submissions. Seon Cruz is entrant #3, and instantly, the energy level slams all the way to 11! Whenever there is an odd number of wrestlers on the mat, someone is getting double-teamed, which is fucking drama. The pup is all long limbs and aggressive, with devastating holds, but even behind that mask, he absolutely always looks like he’s loving life like a dog with a new bone.
Rick Roma was counted in as entrant #4. As I mentioned in my review of Rick and Sir Dark’s tag team match at Live, Rick is passionate and fierce, though I think his pro-style fills a ring better than the mat. Whenever there’s four wrestlers on the mat at the same time, the action almost always plays out with pairing off into parallel play. Seon and Mickey go at each other with a hot passion, while Rick looks like he’s trying to take advantage of the fact that KC’s been on the mat from the start. There’s a super sexy beat where Seon and KC strike side-by-side leg nelson’s on their targets in this fun, spontaneous way that’s becomes a gorgeous work of art.
In terms of my camera work, I did my best not to show too much favoritism to Mickey’s award winning ass. You’ll have to let me know if you see my biases in terms of frame and focus. But, then again, a whole lot of fresh competitors immediately tucked in to get a piece of Mickey’s delicious hotness, so I had plenty of excuses. Dante Lesen, who I interviewed about three years ago, clocked into the scene with the vibe of the giant at the top of the beanstalk who gets off on crushing little guys into jelly. The big boy end of the roster starts seriously crowding the mat when Wrestlefest Rumble 1 champ, Kayden Keller, stomps onto the scene as entrant #6. With Dante and Kayden in the 6’2/6’3 height range, figuring out how to frame the hotness in the camera lens got seriously challenging. Tall boys standing, wrestlers flat on the mat and stacked on top of each other… where the fuck do I point the camera!?! So much fucking hot drama! It’s a full 6 minutes in when the first submission goes down with, of course, Kayden wringing it out of the unlucky first out Seon with a brutal camel clutch. Still, so much fucking wrestling was left on the mat.
I feel like warning the wrestlers on the mat, distracted with trying to top each other off, that the shit is about to go down when Bobby Carter is counted in. Bobby is this fucking wall of muscle and take-no-prisoner’s aggression that instantly gets me hard (which makes paying attention to the camera work challenging). Bobby’s sapphire blue posing trunks have no chance of keeping his gorgeous glutes corralled, and he has this magnificent way of not giving a fuck as he’s focused like a laser on serving up hot suffering. I sort of want to resent him for being the one to eliminate Mickey with that savage ball claw, but I can’t pull it off. Bobby’s too fucking hot and entertaining for me to hate on. Yet another tall boy heavyweight, Dynamo, is counted in around the 9-minute mark, and fuck, it starts to look like an avalanche when, in various combinations, Dante, Kayen, and Dynamo start cooperating. KC is the first victim of the heavyweight cabal who finally eliminate the wrung out viking. Grinning like the Cheshire Cat and looking hungry to make mischief, Drake Marcos is counted in and there’s a palpable shift in focus as he, Rick, Bobby, and Dynamo all descend like a swarm on Kayden. Fuck, I never get tired of seeing big, brutal bad boy Kayden getting wrung out, and the quadruple-team absolutely fucks him up until the Rumble 1 champ is humiliatingly dethroned, tapping out in panic.
If you think eliminating Kayden might level the field for the middleweights, think again. Wrestlefest Live ’25 champ, Tarz Lando clocks in, and raw, brute force, heavyweight muscle keeps telling the story on the mat. Fuck, that muscle beast is a force of nature! Tarz crushes the fuck out of two or three stunned opponents at a time, starting to seriously clear the table wringing submissions out of Drake and Dynamo in quick succession. Bobby also taps in a foldover pin with those magnificent cheeks sadly being eliminated. The next entrant, Barrett, barrels onto the scene, and Tarz almost immediately makes him regret it. Cameraman extraordinaireMiles X clocks in and makes the dangerous calculation to team with big Tarz to beat the shit out of Barrett‘s balls, which I don’t think is exactly the worst situation Barrett could imagine for himself, to be honest. And then, at the 16-minute mark, a total wildcard I never saw coming is counted in, Chris Collins.
I’ve seen Chris online before, but holy fuck, in-person he’s both more gorgeous and more diminutive than on screen. Seriously, he looks like a lamb to the slaughter. Like, honestly, I was literally feeling this impulse to pick him up by the scruff of the neck and yank him to safety before he could get broken to pieces. But then the sexy little minx marks out who he’s going to go at first, and it’s… Tarz Lando. Holy fucking shit! The chemistry between massive, burly muscle beast Tarz and petite, lean and limber Chris takes me completely by surprise. Watching the video gives me exactly the feel I had recording the scene at the time. Chris fearlessly swarming all over Tarz is fucking hot as hell. Even Tarz doesn’t seem to be quite able to believe it, as he tries repeatedly, and fails repeatedly, to yank the “spider monkey” off his back. Genuinely, Chris absolutely shocks by squeezing a submission out of Tarz with bodyscissors, and then he won’t let go! Like, Tarz is trying to crawl off the scene, and Chris will not let him! The ferocious little ferret is all accelerator, no brakes, and he’s got a taste for devouring beef! No shit, he squeezes a second shocking submission out of Tarz with those gorgeous, lean legs clamped around the big man’s head!
It’s masked mayhem for the next three entrants to the stunning drama. This is my first look at Alex the Great, Masked Machine, and Red Adrian who, in that order, bring fresh muscle and intensity to the mat. Alex immediately goes after Chris, and I can’t decide if this is genius strategy going after the spunky little spider monkey who can wring two submissions out of Tarz Londo, or just opportunistic because Alex absolutely dwarfs and dominates him. Masked Machine lands like a cruise missile locked onto Barrett’s balls, and even Barrett’s notorious ball bashing tolerance crumbles, making him tap out of contention. Red Adrian shows up with that mask and those fucking gargantuan pecs and, fuck, you’ve just got to pause and admire those slabs of meat! Someone could feast for days on those pecs! Chris’ face absolutely disappears, buried deep between Red Adrian’s mountainous pecs, and I’m not sure if he just might drown way down there!
So, part 1 of the Rumble wraps up with Chris Collins, Masked Machine, Alex and Great, and Red Adrian on the mat and a whole lot of other hopefuls slinking off with their bodies and egos bruised and their hopes to climb out of this pit on top dashed. And half the field is fresh, untested, and chomping at the bit to get their shot in the second half of Wrestlefest Rumble! Even though I was there in person, it’s still stunning to watch this play out on the screen, with about thirty mini-dramas, 16 wrestling hunks (in just this first half of the roster), and 12 eliminations leaving bruised egos piled up off camera in that shoulder-to-shoulder packed NYC hotel room. Honestly, several of my favorite beats from the entire rumble played out in part 1, but the second half the roster featured still more of my long-time favorite wrestling hunks dialing up the drama, spicing up the action with even more erotic twists and turns, and leaving exactly one fan-favorite wrestler outlasting everyone to become the new Wrestlefest Rumble champ.
As I mentioned in my last post, this year at Wrestlefest NYC I enjoyed (and was only slightly terrified of) getting to experience what it was like being behind the camera, recording some incredibly hot homoerotic wrestling content. I’ve been a consumer of homoerotic wrestling for so long that being literally behind the camera put me through some fascinating mental gymnastics that made me think about my relationship to homoerotic wrestling content in a new way. Not to get too existential here, but being the one pointing the camera has made me think about myself and my relationship to what turns me on about wrestling just a little differently.
Last Year’s Hottie Ring Announcer for Wrestlefest Live 2025
If recording homoerotic wrestling content was an exercise in mental gymnastics, Wrestlefest Live this year was nothing short of a mindfuck for me. In a good way. Probably. Mostly. Wrestlefest maven Scooter approached me a couple of months ago to feel out if I might be up for being ring announcer. My almost immediate answer was yes, and then a couple of hours later, I was suddenly questioning what the fuck I’d just gotten myself into. I mean, I’ve watched enough wrestling to be familiar with the role of a ring announcer. But, then again, have I ever actually, really paid attention to what a ring announcer does? Honestly, when a ring announcer is doing his thing, I’m mostly just cranking up my horny heat in anticipation of the match to come, right? Fuck, I should’ve paid more attention! I snapped a dozen pics of last year’s ring announcer at Wrestlefest Live 2025, so you’d think I was paying attention then. But no, I was just crushing on the hot ring announcer.
My only other time doing anything remotely like this was co-hosting the Gay Wrestling History panel event at Wrestlefest two years. That time, I had the legendary Bob Wood to lean on as co-host, though, and it was mostly moderating a lot of talking and reminiscing, rather than hyping up a hungry crowd. For Live this year, I had an outline of the matches from the event organizer, KC Ryder. I had the list of who’s wrestling in which matches. I had a few announcements to make at the beginning, a few people to thank at the end. It sounds straightforward, right?
Holy fuck, it was barely contained chaos! I was chatting with BG East’s Kid Vicious afterward who assured me that putting on a show like this is always this wild and improvised with a thousand last second details to wrangle into one event narrative. And that’s definitely what this was like. An hour before the event started, I was in the dressing room with all of the wrestlers trying to take down details of exactly how they’d like to be introduced, finding out if there were any important beats to plan for. Holy fuck, just try to imagine me, one of the most notorious homoerotic wrestling-infatuated people you’ve ever read, trying to stay on task surrounded by about 25 smoking hot wrestlers in various states of undress. I’m still not sure if that’s my idea of heaven or hell. There was one classic moment where I was trying to write down information on how Beau Jordan and Ben Monaco preferred me to introduce them before their match. I’m assuming I was probably staring, glassy-eyed, at Beau’s bare, luscious pecs, because he abruptly grabbed my pen, took my paper, and wrote it down himself. I mean, he wasn’t being a dick about it. At all. It had more the feel of “Oh, you poor, completely overwhelmed walking hard-on, let me help you out.”
Beau Jordan knows I’m not looking at his eyes
Actually, the spirit of pitching in and helping out was everywhere. Of course, this room was packed with massive muscles and even bigger egos that were going to climb into the ring later that evening and tear into one another in a bid to come out victorious, but there was a whole fucking lot of cooperation and collaboration required by everyone to just get to that stage in the first place. Like, when I was getting down the details to introduce Kayden Keller’s handicap match against both TK Wu and Freddy Campbell… I could be misremembering, but I think it was Kayden’s suggestion to announce the team of TK and Freddy by both their combined weight and combined height, which was almost certainly my funniest line in the ring that night. Everyone was pitching in ideas to put a little polish on this very underground event in order to make it shine. There was just a ton of earnest respect for professional wrestling in that dressing room. Everyone was there, fit as fuck, and even with some occasional pre-show nerves in evidence, absolutely everyone focused like a laser on putting on a phenomenal event to entertain an appreciative audience.
Being ring announcer made this completely different from my experience of attending Wrestlefest Live the previous two years. For one thing, I didn’t get to enjoy the wrestling itself nearly as much. As soon as one match started, I was checking my notes about what happens next in the show. Not that I didn’t get to watch some. I’ve absolutely got to download these matches the minute they hit Watchfighters, because what I did get to watch, it was hot and intense and all-in entertaining. But I dialed in absolutely every ounce of my attention just for that minute or so before each match when I was in the ring, trying read my scrawled handwriting to get the intros right, trying not to look like as nervous as I felt, trying to remember when to wait for each wrestler’s ring entrance. And just when I would think I’ve got a grip on this thing, someone improvises or plans change. Kirk Donahue (that sexy bastard) rips the microphone out of my hand before I can introduce his opponent. Sir Dark grabs me by the face and plants a kiss on my mouth as he and Rick Roma are pumping up the crowd before their tag team match. KC Ryder pulls me to the side to give me a surprise announcement to make just before intermission. Sir Dark grabs me by the face an plants a kiss on my mouth. Did I mention that one already? Fuck!
There’s no way I can try to do justice to the hot wrestling, so I’ll save a full set of reviews for when I can watch the matches once they’re released. But I can share some blurry, impressionistic flashes of what I experienced when I was tearing my eyes away from my notes to watch the show. Like, in the opening four-way match (Ty Alexander vs Pup Leopard vs Sid Shaw vs Spenser Locke), the choreography of four fierce men tearing into each other and in the din and chaos, crafting these unmistakable characters for absolutely everyone to read. I mean, Ty Alexander was Ty, right? Self-obsessed almost to the point of comical if it weren’t for him delivering some of the biggest hits on opponents of the evening. Spenser Locke was the overly earnest football jock punch-drunk on adrenaline and getting his bell rung. Pup Leopard somehow was immediately the babyface hero holding the entire audience in the palm of his paw. And Sadistic Sid Shaw was that fucking mountain of intensity and muscle that always looks like he’s about to bulldoze everyone and bury them under 10 inches of asphalt.
The wrestling got really homoerotic!
I probably saw more of the second match than any of the others, because it was legitimately a rip-n-strip match that went all the way and, most importantly for my tastes, kept going! I announced the rules, of course (thanks to Beau patiently writing them down for me), so I knew someone was going to be naked and defeated before this one was over with. But intellectually knowing that’s coming is just a whole different experience than watching the gear come off and these two gorgeous beefcakes suddenly wearing nothing but boots and the magnificent muscles the homoerotic wrestling gods blessed them with. Like, even I didn’t really know if this was just a tease. Hell, Ben came out interrupting me when I introduced him, in street clothes, saying he’d thought better of the match stipulations and was backing out. But what I loved even more than that these guys literally just put it all right out there for everyone to see, was that they kept wrestling! The brutal pro wrestling punishment continued, indulgently naked and unselfconscious. The fact that the ref, who was last year’s ring announcer who I crushed on, also lost his shirt and got into the action only made me love this match even more.
A lot of us got a mouthful of Sir Dark
There was some super fun tinkering with tropes in the tag team match between Sir Dark/Rick Roma and Rocko Mortis/Dash Halley. Have I mentioned Sir Dark planted a kiss on me at the beginning of that match? Honestly, quite a bit after that was a haze for me, but I absolutely loved the storytelling. “From Italy (Sir Dark) and Little Italy (Rick Roma) and weighing in at exactly the right amount of marinara sauce….” The surprise babyface heroes in this match were fucking on fire. Give me a bold type and underline babyface who pounds his crotch into his opponent’s dazed face, and I’m completely sold! Rocko and Dash as goth baseball playing zombies made for a pitch perfect contrast with their crowd-pleasing opponents, and the tension in that divide between Team Vendetta and The Gothletes was sensationally ripe for homoerotic pro wrestling melodrama done right.
Wild Man Dick Clayton punished The Handsome Strangler hard
The match just before intermission was sponsored by Cole Cassidy and his Weekend Wrestling operation, pitting Wild Man Dick Clayton against the legendary erotic scamp, the Handsome Strangler. Fuck, trying not to eye fuck those two guys in the dressing room was nothing short of torture. So, I happily eye fucked the fuck out of them along with everyone in the audience when they climbed into the ring for their match. But it was the special guest referee for this match that took my breath away: Elite Eliot. I have obsessed over Eliot for years. His live match against Zip Zarella for BG East’s first Wrestling with Pride has gotten me off more times that I could possibly count. I think the wrestling was hot and beautifully executed, but no shit, I couldn’t say definitively for exactly three reasons. One: Wild Man Dick Clayton’s ass in that loin cloth. Two: Handsome Strangler’s mouthwatering pecs. And, three: Elite Eliot hog-tied in the middle of the ring, left for fans (and a ring announcer) to take selfies with at intermission.
I was first in line during the intermission to take a selfie with hog tied hottie Elite Eliot
After the intermission there came my funniest line of the night introducing TK Wu and Freddy Campbell squaring off against Kayden Keller. That vibe of the terminator taking out two out-matched pretty boys landed beautifully. There was a lot of painting outside the lines throughout most of the matches, but the adrenaline rush of watching mighty Kayden go on a rampage and tombstone fucking everyone, including the ref (MPJ) had this sensational off-the-rails feel to it. In fact, I wasn’t really sure how to handle my ring announcer duties at the end of this one, with the ring littered with knocked out wrestlers several minutes after the bell had been rung.
Kayden owning TK Wu
The penultimate match of the show was such a fucking crowd pleaser. The promotional material for the BG East sponsored match had been teasing Kirk Donahue taking on a “mystery opponent’ for months. The posters just showed a silhouette of hot muscle hunk next to Kirk’s smirking double bicep. I heard so much talk about this in the weeks leading up to the event! I heard more than a few fans grousing about the gimmick being overdone. Why the mystery? And of course, every one of those conversations was an answer to that very question. I had fans swear to me that they had the inside scoop on who the mystery opponent was, and, for the record, everyone who shared their theory about who he was was incorrect. So, I had the distinct honor of getting to be the one to put the mystery to rest when I introduced the triumphant return to the ring of none other than Z-Man! A lot of us have followed on social media news of Z-Man having been seriously injured in an accident a while back. He’s got some seriously impressive scars that hint at the hell he’s been through. But holy fuck, that man is never in anything but pristine and perfected condition! He is so fucking gorgeous and in such phenomenal shape. I don’t actually know what the extent of his injuries were, but I was cheering him on along with absolutely everyone in the place as he went toe-to-toe with dastardly Kirk Donahue. Fuck, the drama was breathtaking. You could hear the collective gasps and tense holding of everyone’s breath as Z-Man and Kirk battled back and forth. And when Z-Man absolutely clawed his way to victory on nothing but his drop dead gorgeous looks, stubbornness, and the flood of good will pouring down on him from this roaring and appreciative audience, the rafters were shaking with excitement.
The triumphant return of Z-Man!
The final match of the evening was a 7-man elimination match for the Wrestlefest Live championship belt, and it nearly broke me. I mean, it was designed to be barely contained chaos, so what was delivered was exactly as ordered. But my responsibilities as ring announcer for this particular match only actually made sense to me about 10 minutes before the match started. I had seven staggered ring introductions to make, starting with the stunning Chase Addams squaring off against perennial favorite Ethan Axel Andrews. Straightforward enough. I think I nailed that part. But then, it got way more complex. Not to pull back the curtain too much on the production side of things, let me just say that it was solely up to me to start the countdown every couple of minutes (or so) before announcing the next entrant. I know I fucked up Leon Cyrus’ entrance, damn it. I forgot to actually announce his sensational moniker, “the Swiss Menace.” I think I got the rest of the intros right. I’m pretty sure I announced at least one elimination in error, but despite the ref arguing with me, somehow I had the final word. Fuck, if I’d known earlier the power I held! I absolutely loved how this match played out, with some of my very favorite people in homoerotic wrestling (Lobo Gris, Tarz Lando, Mickey Knoxx, and Bobby Carter) commanding the spotlight to the extremely climactic end. Also, a quick shout out to referee Chris Collins for seeming almost as overwhelmed as I felt, while looking sexy as fuck… and for single-handedly being responsible for illegally eliminating one of the final three competitors. Fuck, I love pro wrestling melodrama!
The final three!
Again, this post is all about me. Please stay tuned for a more full-throated send up of the sensational matches that went down at Wrestlefest Live 2026 once they’re available for us all to enjoy on video. But just one last observation from my extremely subjective perspective: as phenomenal as the wrestlers were, and as much work was put into putting on this incredibly fun show behind the scenes, a key ingredient that was absolutely essential to making it work was the fantastic audience. I don’t just mean this as a cliché. Genuinely, it takes an audience of earnest wrestling fans like this to land this plane as spectacularly as this one landed. These wrestlers literally bared it all, they put their bodies and egos and dignity on the line, and there wasn’t a cynical snark the entire three hours. They poured a ton of love and respect onto absolutely everyone, and the sum total of the event was so much more than any one incredible match, more than any particularly impressive move, more than all of the hot bodies combined, even. It wasn’t just fun wrestling. It was an event, and everyone showed up for it, and that made it fucking fantastic.
I think that’s a bit of what I’m taking away from this experience… none of us are “just” seat warmers in this homoerotic wrestling community. We’re all participants. We’re all co-creating the edges and the heart of what it means to be passionate about homoerotic wrestling, as wrestlers, as content creators, holding the cameras, producing events, buying hot products, cheering for our favorites, and, yes, even ring announcing. Homoerotic wrestling isn’t something just happening on the other side of our screens, or only inside the ring with us merely spectators on the sidelines. We are, all of us, creating this community, this economy, and this fraternity out of our shared passion and investment of ourselves in all our varied ways. Keep up the amazing work, my friends!
I was talking with a first-time Wrestlefest NYC attendee while we were hanging out in the lobby of the New Yorker last weekend, and the newbie said exactly what I’m thinking whenever I’m socializing at a fest. “I see these guys and think to myself, wow! I’ve jerked off watching that guy wrestle!” I’d venture to guess that one of the top motivations to attend a Wrestlefest is to get to see and bump shoulders with the wrestling stars we get dehydrated over. I’d bet one of the other top motivations to attend is creators showing up to create wrestling content to market to the rest of us who are excited to get a chance to meet those on-camera wrestling stars.
I think that I occupy a novel place in the swirling constellation of people and events that constitute a Wrestlefest. I possess this curious type of notoriety mostly for slowly constructing this blog for coming on 17 years. A surprising number of attendees at a Wrestlefest seem to have read me, which always blows my mind. However, no one really recognizes me on sight. If folks are familiar with me, it’s not my face they recognize. It’s much more likely my words… maybe, occasionally, someone might recognize my voice from Sidelineland Sounds posts. I think my self-perception and the curated point-of-view of my narrative voice here on the blog is that of a relatively anonymous everyman in the homoerotic wrestling universe. And, honestly, I enjoy inhabiting that space.
Derek Da Silva retweeted me!
But blogging about homoerotic wrestling for so long has placed me in tantalizing proximity to the real celebrities, which, honestly, I also enjoy. A lot. I remember early in my blogging days wondering whether a wrestler might ever read what I’d written about him. I assumed not, but along the way, I discovered that sometimes they did. A few months into blogging, Derek da Silva posted a link on Twitter to my review of one of his matches, and I just about blew a blood vessel with excitement. Wrestlers have reached out to thank me for something I’ve written, which is absolutely always a thrill. A handful of times, I’ve even had wrestlers contact me with a tactful request for a correction to something I’ve erroneously written, which, honestly, has the same effect on me (“fuck, he read it!”). Eventually, I got the opportunity to start interviewing wrestlers, and occasionally hang out with, share meals with, and in a few treasured instances, even wrestle some of the wrestlers I’ve enjoyed watching on video.
I have a Pavlovian response to the Moynihan Train Hall at Penn Station now.
I found myself straddling that divide between the content creator crowd and the everyman homoerotic wrestling enthusiasts in a whole new way at Wrestlefest NYC this year, though. A few months ago, I got a message from Sir Dark, asking me if I’d like to help out behind the scenes with a new rumble match he was lining up at the start of the fest. I immediately and enthusiastically said yes, though I had no idea what I’d actually be doing. I switched up my train schedule to get there in time, and basically walked out of Penn Station and was immediately on the job helping wrangle wrestlers and get all of the participants in the right place at the right time. I can’t quite find the words to capture the vibe of an insane number of gorgeous wrestlers squeezed shoulder to shoulder inside a hotel room, changing in and out of their clothes, anxiously warming up, sizing each other up. I was wanting to look everywhere at the same time.
Sir Dark
Sir Dark shoved a camera in my hands, gave me a 30-second tutorial, and suddenly I was manning the primary camera for the next 45 minutes! If I didn’t totally fuck it up, there’s going to be an incredibly hot cavalcade of sexy wrestlers battling it out in a Wrestlefest rumble match on Watchfighters in the near future. I’ll be very excited to review it once it comes out, because… fuuuuuck, so much fucking hotness was packed into that hotel room. But, holy shit, in the moment, the pressure of not fucking this thing up suddenly had me pitted out in under a minute. It’s fucking hard! I mean, it certainly wasn’t made any easier by there being anywhere from two to eight wrestlers on the mat at any given time. Where to point the camera!? How to restrain myself from gasping and moaning (“fuuuuuuuuuck”) and ruining the shot? I’m convinced this was karma for any and all snarky comments I’ve made about camera work in past reviews. But honestly, what a fucking trip being a few inches away from a steady stream of sexy mat wrestling playing out live right in front of me. It was almost an out of body experience, as I self-consciously observed myself being the one framing the action, attending to one angle versus another, circling this direction or that to give the camera one narrative lens at the expense of another choice I could’ve made. And, at the same time, I kept finding myself awestruck that these sensationally sexy wrestlers were tossing and twisting and squeezing one another to submission close enough that I could’ve reached past the camera and literally touched them.
My boss for the morning, Mickey Knoxx
And then the next morning, I went from my first ever duty behind the camera of hot wrestling content creation to my second opportunity. I heard that Mickey Knoxx and a couple of other wrestlers wanted to film a three-way match and needed a cameraman. Perhaps buoyed by unfounded confidence (I mean, I honestly don’t know yet how my camerawork played out for Sir Dark’s rumble), I offered my services and they were graciously accepted. Again, I knew practically nothing about what I was about to record. What that turned out to be was another swoon-inspiring three-way confrontation between Mickey, Nick Lean, and Leon Cyrus. Holy fucking hell! I don’t know when this will come out on Watchfighters (again, presuming I didn’t totally fuck it up with my camera work). I’m not exactly sure with what liberty I’m entitled to talk about it, but it’s not like I signed an NDA or anything. I’ll just tease that it’s a sensationally intense contrast of size and attitude, with even the combined aggression and craftiness of Mickey and Nick just barely stacking up against the beefy bulldozer, Leon. And talk about stacking… fuck… okay, I’ll save the details for when it’s actually released, but I’m thrilled to be able to sneak off set these little tidbits I’ve always wondered about as strictly a consumer: the grunts and moans and sweat are real. The whole thing is just so fucking intense and intimate and immediate in a way that’s completely consistent with what shows up on the screen when I’m watching matches like this on video. Fuck, these boys go at it, and however much management or producing went into it before I showed up, cocks were genuinely stiffened by the hot action, and I’m not just talking about mine.
Rocky Sparks recording at last year’s Wrestlefest Live show
My first two stints behind the camera were a blast. I have a whole new appreciation for the craftmanship that goes into creating homoerotic wrestling content. It takes a lot more than just beautiful men throwing down. These were absolutely immersive experiences unlike quite anything else I’ve experienced in my many, many years of obsessing over homoerotic wrestling. I had a whole new appreciation for Rocky Sparks and MilesX as I watched them man the cameras at the Wrestefest Live show on Saturday night. I chatted with Rocky about his camera work briefly after the show. Rocky brought up the “voyeur kink” angle of what can make being behind the camera exciting. Watching and being watched wrestling, recording and being recorded wrestling… there’s a super hot interpersonal dynamic there that makes the creation of wrestling content something a bit different than my experience of “just” wrestling itself or “just” watching. Rocky told me he loves being behind the camera, and after watching him record three Wrestlefest Live events over the past three years, I can testify that he’s fucking amazing at it. If the action in the ring wasn’t so incredibly captivating, I could probably get off just watching Rocky circling the ring like a shark and somehow magically always being in the right place to capture just the right angle, to document every moment of spontaneous agony and sadistic delight.
Me doing what I do best
I feel like I’ve earned the right to consider myself an expert in terms of being a lifelong consumer of homoerotic wrestling videos. I’m really good at watching and getting off on hot wrestling content (I mean, I’m really, really good at that). I’m an enthusiastic novice when it comes to wrestling itself. Even “novice” is giving myself far too much credit, but it’s an entirely different experience and a different and delightful turn-on for me to be grappling with an opponent than it is to watch a wrestling match. And, it turns out, being the one behind the camera is a whole different dimension of wrestling turn-on for me. It’s powerful and intense and pressured. It’s immediate, and yet half a step removed from the drama playing out in front of the camera. Manning the camera is to be purveyor of a wrestling narrative in a way I’d never experienced before last weekend. It’s to be the designated voyeur, the appointed docent framing the wrestling art with context and perspective that might, if done right, accentuate and celebrate homoerotic wrestling action in a way that a consumer downstream might be able to be drawn into the room and feel the immediacy of the action, too.
I often describe myself as “not a convention guy.” This characterization is based on having had to attend work-related conventions in my non-wrestling-related career, and pretty much hating them. I may have even feigned sickness halfway through one work convention in order to justify going home early. I was a super shy kid and grew into a relatively introverted adult who can, when needed, socialize and schmooze, but it’s not my happy place. Having arrived in Manhattan for my thirdWrestlefest NYC and my fourth Wrestlefest overall (also, super fond memories of my first Wrestlefest in Toronto), I’m having to rethink that picture of myself I’ve had for decades of being “not a convention guy.” Maybe it was less about me just not liking the forced socialization of conventions, and more about me just not enjoying socializing with my non-wrestling-infatuated work colleagues. Because walking off the train and into my hotel and finding the lobby packed with dozens of wrestlers I’ve enjoyed watching on video and socializing with online and at past fests, it turns out, this is my happy place.
Making small talk doesn’t feel like a chore here as I’m mixing and mingling at Wrestlefest like it normally does. Running into wrestlers who read the blog is a pretty good icebreaker, of course, but I’m pretty sure it’s more than that. There isn’t that sense of pressure I often feel weighing me down in a lot of large social gatherings, where I’m constantly assessing how quickly I can bring a conversation to a close without seeming too rude. I love talking to all of these beautiful men as deep into wrestling as I am. I’m not worrying so much about being noticed checking out the bevvy of hot guys absolutely everywhere, because we’re all doing it, and it’s really the raison d’être of 500+ gay wrestlers assembling in one place, right? And I just don’t have to burn any of that mental energy I spend in other settings trying to not let my thoughts play across my face when I’m deep into picturing what the hot guys around me would look like wrestling. It’s literally why we’re all here.
Being at the Kick-Off Party last night sort of brought this home to me in a fresh way. Probably a dozen times or more I locked eyes with different guys as we acknowledged that we were both checking someone else out, and we just smiled in acknowledgement. And I didn’t have to try to manage anyone else’s implicit homophobia. No need to try to sooth anyone else’s sexual insecurities by me looking away and pretending I wasn’t just eye fucking Beau Jordan’s ass and picturing him wrestling in that mesh singlet he was wearing last night. We were all eye fucking Beau Jordan’s ass and picturing him wrestling in that mesh singlet. He was wearing that mesh singlet so that we’d all be eye fucking him and picturing him wrestling, I’m pretty sure. Of course, part of what I’m describing is just being in queer spaces, but I think it’s more than that. There are plenty of queer spaces that don’t feel at home to me like this does. I’ve almost reached the conclusion that it’s not that I’m socially inept and still carrying around that awkwardly shy kid from my childhood making me count the seconds until I can get out of mixing and mingling. I’ve just spent most of my life mixing and mingling with the wrong crowds.
I wonder how I might have a completely different impression of myself if I’d grown into myself under different social conditions – if I’d had access to spaces where what I was really passionate about was validated, rather than all those things that it was always assumed I should be passionate about, but really wasn’t (sports, cars, girls, etc.). I mean, I know that there are plenty of gay wrestlers into those other things in addition to wrestling, but just talking about myself here, I wonder if I’d have a whole different impression of myself and the way I navigate the world if, much earlier in life, I’d even known that spaces like Wrestlefest could exist in my world. I’ve written before about noticing my sense of self changing since getting involved in meet-up wrestling. I feel more attractive. More assertive Stronger and more capable in general. And last night at the Wrestlefest Kick-Off Party, it also occurred to me that I’m happy to be swimming in this sea of wrestlers of all shapes and sizes wearing anything everything from thongs and jock straps to trunks to ass-less singlets to street clothes. And, did I mention that fucking sexy mesh singlet that Beau Jordan wore?
Another thing I’ve learned about myself is that I never can remember to take pics at these shoulder-to-shoulder hot wrestler mixers. I just can’t bring myself to put a screen between me and the thrilling experience of being there and shouting over the din with friends and checking out this gorgeous assembly of wrestlers. I put out feelers to a few of those gorgeous wrestlers who did take pics, and I want to thank Barrett and Sir Dark for letting me drop them here to try to illustrate, just a little, the joy and drama and wave upon wave of wrestler eye candy that, it turns out, is my happy place.
I totally missed the BG East Besties season this year. Literally, the flu hit me like a ton of bricks last week, and by the time my fever broke and I crawled out of my sweat soaked bed linens with enough working brain cells to engage with the world again, the voting was over and the winners were announced. In past years, I’ve spent weeks obsessing over these awards. I’ve openly lobbied for my slate of nominees from time to time, which, let’s be honest, turned out to be completely uncorrelated with actual votes. I’ve second guessed the nominations process and spread baseless conspiracy theories about vote rigging (just for fun). So, it feels sort of bewildering to discover the entire process played out on its own while I was hacking up a lung and feeling like my head was about to explode.
I’ve enjoyed seeing more lauds and awards for homoerotic wrestling in recent years. Other companies and other bloggers have been calling out their favorites, and I’m here for it. I seldom completely agree, of course. BG East fans never fail to break a different direction from where my fanaticism points me in the Besties, and the shout outs and laurel crowns laid out by other companies and passionate fans and commentators will typically overlap with many of my tastes, but definitely not all of them. Like, there’s that Zach Reno superfan from Wrestlefest NYC last year who regularly lobbies for me to lay down more love for lovely, lovely Zach. Don’t get me wrong, I’m totally dialed into Zach, but I’ll probably never be as devoted as this superfan. But that’s what I love about awards season. As much as it can be invalidating for passionate wrestlers who get overlooked (and I get that), the more shout outs from more perspectives reflecting a greater diversity of tastes and passionate opinions are hopefully getting the word out to wrestlers and producers about the range of what we like. I get my chops busted regularly for having “too narrow” of tastes and interests, but the solution isn’t me pretending to like stuff others like just to put them over. The solution is more praise from more people, more purchases, more enthusiasm and fan-wrestler-producer engagement.
I enjoyed a ton of sensational wrestling in 2025 that entertained and turned me on. In terms of Sidelineland-approved awards and my wrestling infatuations, I’m happy to lend my voice to heaping praise on the hot hunks who turned me on hardest this year. Here are my picks for the body awards:
Best Butt: Mickey Knoxx. I’m an ass aficionado, and 2025 shoved a whole lot of spectular glutes in front of me. I get why Monstah Mike took the Bestie, but for my money, the aesthetics of Mickey Knoxx’ gorgeous ass just can’t be beat. I’d probably pick Joey Mason’s bubble butt for 2nd place for me, but again, the field was rich.
Best Bulge: Bruno. I’m turning to the deep roster at Abs Art on WatchFighters for my pick for best bulge. I’ve been captured by Abs Arts’ turn to more full-on erotic content with their Bruno Extra channel, and getting an unobstructed view of what Bruno is packing has been a highlight of 2025. Second place bulge for me: Beau Jordan. Fuck, that scimitar is hypnotic!
Best Legs: Alexxwrestler. This masked man was haunting my dreams in 2025. His cockiness is an aphrodisiac all on its own, but it’s his gorgeous legs and, especially, how he uses them to wring opponents out like dirty laundry that sends me. Best Body Bestie Winner Chase LaChance gets my second place nod for his gorgeous tree trunks.
Best Body: Bruno. Yeah, 2025 was the year of Bruno-obsession for me. His body just makes me gasp every time I see him. It’s a lot more than the sum of its parts, and watching him use it to wrestle is an absolute fantasy-cum-true. Second place for me is Bruno’s sometimes-partner-in-crime, Roland. Get the two of them in a wrestling ring, and I may quit my job of never get off my computer again.
Pulling the focus back a bit from just the eye candy, there was a whole lot of wrestling in 2025 that made me swoon. In terms of wrestlers doing what wrestlers do best, here’s my list of shout outs:
Favorite Babyface: Dio Characi. Fuck, yes, every day of the week. For the third year in a row, Dio got the Bestie for 2025. He’s such a prototype for what I think of as a babyface… impossibly pretty face, rocking hot bod, with this impish edge-of-naughtiness about him that I can’t tear my eyes away from. And did I mention I met him at Wrestlefest NYC last February?! My second place choice would be Bobby Carter for all of the same reasons.
Favorite Heel: Brendan Byers. Yeah, I totally swing with the rest of the BGE fans who handed the title to Brendan for the second year in a row. In May, I did a retrospective review of Brendan’s debut match against BBW from back in the day, and I’m still in awe of the career arc he’s taken. In 2025, he was a fucking hungry beast. My second place pick is Sir Dark. He defies categorization, but really, let off his leash like he was when he fucking devoured KC Ryder at Wrestlefest Live last year, and I’m hard pressed to think of when I’ve cheered harder for a rabid heel.
Favorite Jobber: Mickey Knoxx. I always feel like I need to apologize for naming someone as a phenomenal jobber, but there’s a whole lot more to being a magnificent jobber than losing. Mickey is a sensational example of that rare art. He’s tough, with a seriously mean edge, fierce and gorgeous, and not idling for a second, deserving again and again the ire, fury, and hungry beating of one opponent after another. My second place is yet another gorgeous Canadian, Ryan Reilly, who I had the distinct pleasure of chatting up at the WrestleFest NYC kick-off party last year. Fuck, how I get off on seeing that boy hurt.
Finally, let me just call out some of the matches that rose to the top of my list. It’s always comparing apples to oranges in these types of shout outs, but again, in the interest of celebrating some sensationally hot wrestling entertainment that dropped in 2025, here I go:
Favorite Match Match: Characi vs. LaChance, BGE’s Wrestleshack 35. It sort of shocks me to agree, yet again, with the majority of BG East fans in calling out his super fun and sexy shack match that I reviewed in June. I adore both of these hunks, and putting together their phenomenal bodies and lush personalities and watching Dio being unable to restrain himself from worshiping and possessing Chase’s award winning body felt so fun, funny, and authentic. My second place mat match is the one I reviewed just a few weeks ago, in which Tarz Lando and Adam Stone get down to business in a semi-private backyard soaked in oil.
Favorite Ring Match: Jordan/Cruz vs Knoxx/Mortis, Wrestlefest NYC Live. This category is suddenly very challenging for me to narrow down, because it’s simply impossible for me to disentangle the thrill of being in the front row of that show from evaluating the relative merits of matches I watched on my computer. It was wild and immediate and sweaty and sexy, and I’m still musing over how homoerotic wrestling needs to see a whole lot more of a Chippendale Stripper Erotic Terminator. Second place is Canuck/Reilly vs MPJ/Bruno from the same show, for many of the same reasons. That classic babyface vs heel tag team beat down was so well told!
Favorite Erotic Match: Knoxx vs Sterling, BG East’s Ruff ‘n’ Raunchy 10. Normally, I’d insist on nakedness to really elevate a match as best erotic wrestling, but fuck, what these boys do in thongs (barely) is totally on fire. Fuck, the sweat, the ravenous lip locks, the possessing and grinding while keeping the battle for domination perfectly on simmer is a work of art. For my second place favorite erotic match, I’m pulling out one I haven’t yet reviewed, but I promise I will. Yjrgn vs Twinkfighter on WatchFighters is some of the hottest, most unapologetically mean-erotic wrestling I’ve seen in a long time. These guys go at it hard, and the harder they punish, the bigger their cocks get (particularly Yjrgn). No pretense. Just intensely hot submissions for the purpose of turning themselves and us on.
I think I’ll leave it there, because I could spend another week writing this and still find more gems from 2025 that I want to treasure. As always, this isn’t to slight anyone or anything by failing to shout out any of the rest of the hot wrestling action from last year. And, of course you disagree, in whole or part, because that’s the pleasure of being part of a diverse community of varied opinions and tastes. Congratulations and much gratitude to everyone who put out hot wrestling content in 2025. I hope you get all the strokes and lauds you so richly deserve!
2025 was a shit show. And, at the same time, it included some of the most fun and fulfilling things I’ve ever done. Whenever I mention anything even obliquely political, I know that it’s going to grind the gears of some readers. However, after 16 and a half years, it’s still my blog. So, I’m fine to start 2026 shedding some followers who can’t tolerate hearing me say that 2025 seemed to me to be a complete dumpster fire when it comes to free speech, human rights, and the rule of law. Of particular relevance to what I write and obsess about here, the pendulum swing toward sexual repression and desperate conformity aren’t just politically ominous. They’re already having a direct and damaging impact on what has always been at the heart of this blog, namely, the celebration of homoeroticism and, specifically, homoerotic wrestling. It’s chilling, that explicit social project to transport us into a romanticized, puritanical re-imagining of a Reagan/Thatcher/Brezhnev world order (but with internet and social media-supercharged globalization and without the lip-service to democratic idealism). But, then again, my homoerotic wrestling self came of age in 1980s. I’ve witnessed the ways that we endured under the pall of cultural repression, and I honestly don’t think there’s any way to stuff the genie back into the bottle, no matter how much a neo-Falwellian moral minority tries to crawl into bed with the incoming tide of a transparently lascivious cult of personality. The first time around was scary and dark, and we’ve probably got scary and dark times still ahead. But, I believe we’ll march out of this moment in history like we did the first time, chagrined and with a shameful reckoning ahead, but with hard earned victories against provincialism and the persecution of sexual and gender diversity and, let’s face it, sexuality itself.
But, like I said, 2025 had some of the most enjoyable and rewarding moments for me in recent years, as well. My mind is already on WrestleFest NYC again. I’ve got my room booked and bags packed already for next month, but holy hell, WrestleFest NYC 2025 was pretty unbelievably fantastic. I regularly have flashbacks to the kick-off party last year, walking around the bar and feeling like my homoerotic wrestling social media feed had magically materialized in 3D before me. I mean, even if I didn’t recognize dozens of the homoerotic wrestlers I regularly get off to from my Smaug’s treasure of wrestling videos, the eye candy alone at that party, with all of these gorgeous men in singlets (+/-) would’ve been haunting my wet dreams all year long. I might have mentioned before that I chatted with Dio Characi that night, which has got to be near, if not at, my top, brush with fame for 2025. I actually don’t believe I’ve mentioned before that, after we were done talking, Dio turned back to his friends nearby, and I swooned every time his truly magnificent ass incidentally bumped against me in the crowded press of hot horny men packed into that bar. Fuck, 2025 definitely wasn’t all bad.
The WrestleFest NYC Live event was another absolutely spectacular highlight of 2025 for me. It was hot drama, without any effort to disguise that this wrestling show was entirely for gay eyes. It was earnest and larger-than-life in a way that mainstream pro wrestling shows don’t come close to for me. If anything, it was that much better for the authenticity and all-in brilliance of bringing homoerotic wrestling drama into the ring and in front of a sold out crowd with absolutely everyone in attendance being on the page. Sitting in the front row that night was fucking special for me. Not just because it was fun and sexy, but because it was this beautiful crystalizing of a community of us who, I bet, all quietly got off to watching professional wrestling on TV at some point in our lives. I’ve got my ticket to the sold out 2026 show already in hand, and I’m hoping to have another sweaty, nearly naked wrestler/wrestlers fall into my lap again.
Speaking of brushes with fame, I profoundly enjoyed wrestling with Scott Williams again in 2025. I continue to marvel at my life each and every time I stand in front of the Thunder. Talk about homoerotic wrestling fantasies materializing before my eyes… fuck, Scott is literally the fantasy muscle man of my dreams, somehow, improbable yet true, standing in front of me and demanding that I show him just how much my infatuation and fanaticism translate into crushing him into perpetually shocked submission. He confessed to me the last time we scrapped that, a couple of years ago, when we wrestled for the first time, he approached that meet-up in a spirit of “charity,” indulging a fan fantasy just to be generous. He keeps coming back for more, though, which makes me think he’s either the most charitable muscle man on the planet, or he genuinely looks forward to trying to earn back that Thunder cred he spends down every time I wring a submission out of him.
Another truly gratifying adventure in 2025 was finally launching a creative collaboration between me and my best buddy, AR. We’ve been writing and creating homoerotic wrestling fiction together almost daily for years now, and we’ve been discussing the possibility of formally sharing some of the art we co-create with other homoerotic wrestling fans. The precise recipe of our written narrative and AR’s gorgeous graphic art bakes up something that feels both entirely novel and thoroughly familiar to a homoerotic wrestling sensibility. In May, we began taking subscriptions for our original homoerotic wrestling serial, Heels & Heroes, an erotic pro wrestling fantasy told in entirely original graphics and text. We launched a roughed-out version of our vision directly on Patreon, and then an amazingly talented and generous subscriber and friend, JoseSustanciaP, constructed a stand-alone site for us to have even more creative freedom to build the Heels & Heroes universe. It was something I was genuinely proud of, not only because I love the quality and integrity of the content, but because it reflected this wonderful synergy that I enjoy so much with AR.
Much less satisfying, and much more in keeping with the zeitgeist of 2025, was what happened next with Heels & Heroes. After posting weekly updates for more than six months, we were nearly at the climactic end of the initial story arc, encompassing seven chapters centered on a traveling big-time international professional wrestling fed putting on televised wrestling shows down the U.S. East Coast… when abruptly, Patreon deleted our account and confiscated the $1,000 we’d earned through subscriptions thus far. This was as completely unexpected and out of the blue as it sounds. In a truly Orwellian turn emblematic of 2025, Patreon publicly announced one day in November that they had revised their community standards, and a day later, our account was deleted and all evidence of having every existed scrubbed from their platform. I hope that subscribers were, in fact, reimbursed for all of the money that they invested in Heels & Heroes, as Patreon implied they would. AR and I are deciding how to finish the final chapter of Heels & Heroes for fans to enjoy, while we consider the realities of a world in which censorship and gaslighting are increasingly mobilized to pretend that homoeroticism does not, and never did, exist. And doesn’t that just sum up a whole lot about the end of 2025 for all of us?
I’m still way bitter about how things played out with Patreon, but almost two months later, I’m more philosophical about it. This whole debacle happened literally at the same time that Can-Am was announcing they were closing business because of the patchwork of U.S. states who have enacted laws trying to outlaw internet pornography. These anti-pornography laws have been buoyed by the political tide of a head of state famous for (among other things) asserting that men with enough celebrity star power are entitled to grab women by the genitalia. Companies like Patreon, as well as purveyors of homoerotic content like Can-Am that we take for granted, are cracking down as the end result of a concerted effort to protect the sensibilities of a moral minority that’s gunning for much more than just pornography. They’re out to construct a world in which sexual and gender minorities and the celebration of eroticism don’t exist, or, let’s be honest, they’ll exist only behind closed doors and mostly for the benefit of those with sociocultural capital to keep themselves and their desires hidden. As we come to the close of 2025, I finally get all the romanticism about “the way things were” and hearkening back to a pre-internet, pre-social media world dominated by a U.S. president who refused to acknowledge the existence of AIDS, much less truly mobilize resources to fight the epidemic, because it was (mis-)understood to be “just a gay disease.” Yeah, it’s no coincidence that the puritanically romanticized re-imagining of the world they want to drag us into was in its hey day right around 1984.
Oh, wait. Did I get political again? Honestly, if you don’t recognize that your life, your passion, your homoerotic wrestling kink, your sexuality, and your very existence are political, you should should probably wake up right about now. Wake up. Act up. Keep yourself safe, but recognize that this is a shit show. New players. New technology. But this is a shit show we’ve seen before. And, while far from everyone survived the 80’s the first time, yet, we endured. So, join me in making a commitment to celebrate homoerotic wrestling in 2026. Not because someone else has given you permission to, but because we are fierce and beautiful and defiant and passionate, and we will continue to endure.
This is the time of year when I start getting excited for the holidays. I mean, sure, Thanksgiving is tolerable, and I enjoy exchanging presents around Christmas. New Year’s Eve means less and less to me as I grow older, it seems, but MLK, Jr. Day later in January feels like it’s growing in pertinence and urgency this year. But for the past few years, what I think of as the climax of the holiday season is really the Presidents Day holiday, aka Wrestlefest NYC. A few months ago, I was more ambivalent, grousing about how expensive a weekend in Manhattan is and the hassles of travel. But at this point, the excitement and anticipation have taken over, as I think about a few hundred sexy men who all share the same passion for wrestling that I do suddenly concentrated within a few blocks of Penn Station. Meeting up with old friends, being shoulder to shoulder in a bar with wall-to-wall singlet-wearing hunks, watching a live homoerotic wrestling show, and, oh yeah, throwing down with opponents I’ve enjoyed wrestling before and squaring off against a few new wild cards… that quantity and quality of eager anticipation I used to feel as a kid for the approach of Christmas is now entirely transferred to Presidents Day (which, ironically, was probably my most forgettable holiday when I was a kid).
BG East’s recent release of Motel Madness 25: Revenge stokes that eager excitement for the sexy spontaneity of a Wrestlefest. There’s the public side of Wrestlefest that, honestly, I enjoy just about as much as the private wrestling side. Motel Madness 25 opens in the loud, crowded bar that’s hosted opening night live oil wrestling at WFNYC the past couple of years. You can hear the electricity in the air in the appreciative hoots and whistles when Mickey Knoxx and Bobby Carter are introduced. Watching a couple of EXTREMELY lucky fans/wrestlers get the honors of coating both of these gorgeous boys’ bodies in oil as the crowd roars with excitement punches that intensely hot button of public homoeroticism that has me turned on immediately. It reminds me of the BGE at Paradise matches that regularly pop up in the shuffle of wrestling content I get off to, when all eyes are on these barely clad muscle boys getting liberally lubricated with everyone simmering with envy for the hands that get the honors of applying the oil.
I probably should disclose again that I am completely biased about both Bobby Carter and Mickey Knoxx. To be completely honest, I love both of these guys. As I’ve mentioned before, I got to know them a bit online before meeting them in person, and they’re just solid, genuine, good people. I probably over-identify with Bobby’s encyclopedic knowledge and passion for homoerotic wrestling videos, although, as proud as I am of mine, Bobby’s familiarity with every gay wrestling video produced in the past 30 years puts me to shame. And Mickey’s combination of introvert/shyness and uninhibited debauchery absolutely charms the pants off of me. I’ve since enjoyed hanging out with both of them, and they both feel like friends I’ve known all my life. Honestly, when they started showing up in BG East releases, I sort of worried that feeling a personal connection with them off camera might be an obstacle to me lustfully objectifying them on camera.
I need not have worried. Fuck, they’re hot as hell! When they start wrestling in that way-too-small blow-up pool in the bar, it’s homoerotic poetry in motion. Bobby’s body blows my mind. He’s got the tapered-V torso of a competitive bodybuilder, with that tiny waist and magnificent muscled ass that belongs on a comic book superhero. I know for a fact that Bobby is way cerebral, but there’s something just raw and carnal about this gear he kicks into when he’s wrestling. And I’ve never NOT swooned at the sight of Mickey, especially when he wrestles, but, yeah, any fucking time. He’s got those supernatural fey king eyes that are almost as paralyzingly gorgeous as his perfect ass. Like Bobby, he’s also got that sensational ability to be nowhere else than in the match when he’s wrestling. Neither of them seem to have an ounce of self-consciousness about them. They’re just going at it like there’s nothing else in the world but a super hot opponent vying for control. The oil wrestling is perfectly balanced between eroticism and wrestling. It’s not like the tight confines of the pool lend themselves to serious competition, but fuck, they pull off some astonishingly beautiful wrestling despite the geography and oil. Like, how in the hell does Mickey hold that suspended bearhug with so much glistening lubrication? I’m genuinely gritting my teeth in concern for both of them when Bobby hoists Mickey into a stunning erotic sculpture of a torture rack, but holy hell, he locks Mickey down as if they weren’t confined to a 6’x4′ plastic rectangle and coated in oil.
No one’s a loser, but Bobby owns Mickey’s gorgeous body to the delight of the bar crowd before all is said and done. Mickey doesn’t appear to hold a grudge as they make out in exhaustion, but looks may be deceiving. Because the second match of Motel Madness 25: Revenge picks up the story at WFNYC a year later. Mickey’s invited Bobby to his hotel room for a rematch, and his preternaturally fog-colored eyes look fiercely determined. The erotic tension is instantly thick in the air as they check out each other’s phenomenal physiques poured into tight singlets. Their scrap continues to teeter on that lust/competition edge, until right around the moment that Mickey suddenly grabs Bobby by the ankles and viciously stomps on the bodybuilder’s balls until Bobby submits. Bobby is clutching his assaulted testicles and gasping in shock when Mickey finally lets him go. “I don’t remember you being that mean,” Bobby observes. “It’s the new me,” Mickey snarls back like a boss.
The action continues to be mean and intense in a way that only makes it that much sexier to me (and, quite obviously, to Bobby and Mickey, as well). The scrap on the portable wrestling mats is rough, like that super sexy camel choke where Mickey grabs one of the stripped singlets and uses it to strangle his trapped opponent. It’s when the action spills onto the bed, though, that things get serious. Honestly, wrestling on a mattress typically slows things way down for me, but these two dial it up as soon as the sheets start flying. Bobby sits on Mickey’s face in a foldover pin and wedgies that Tauwell singlet so deep Mickey’s choking on it.
You can tell who’s the loser in the hotel room based on who’s screaming and begging and obediently saying the winner’s name on demand. But it’s all just poetry at that point. The pain and pleasure are just delicious notes in the lustful concoction Mickey and Bobby brew up in that Manhattan high rise hotel. The product is subtitled “revenge,” but this dish is served steaming hot and both gorgeous men are savoring every mouthful with an open genuineness that just can’t be faked.
Watching Watchfighters Rumble Match – Part 1 gives me so many vibes of being at a Wrestlefest. Actually, it specifically gives me vibes of being at Wrestlefest Canada. I swear I stayed in that hotel room! Well, I’m pretty sure it’s at the hotel I stayed at when I enjoyed attending WF Canada three summers ago. But the vibes are about a lot more than the accommodations. There’s this serendipity about the pop-up community that forms at a fest. My best analogy is to summer camp, where you look forward to getting thrown into this community of people outside of your regular life, and the proximity and shared interests and just everyone stepping outside their lives and into this chosen community creates this incredibly fun esprit de corps. The (no shit) 13 wrestlers who join Sir Dark’s rumble in WF Rumble Match – Part 1 all look like they’re having a fucking blast.
It was at Wrestlefest Canada I experienced my first of many group mat matches. The rumble has all of those elements, but bigger and more intense and with an even more out of control feel of a melee. The premise is, like a pro wrestling rumble, a new wrestler is added to the mix every so often, and wrestlers are eliminated when they submit. And that’s it. Like, that’s all the rules. So the wrestling drama depends entirely on the luck of the draw, pacing, and the fickle alliances and betrayals that play out depending on who happens to be on the mat at any given time. It’s absolute chaos AND it’s got this compelling momentum that I can’t take my eyes off of.
I’m tuned in for my favorites featured, of course. Sir Dark appears to be the mastermind of the mayhem, which, honestly, is so on brand. If you could bottle chaos, I think he’d guzzle it daily. He’s got this constant edge of unpredictability about him, I think showcased never more clearly than in his Wrestlefest Live match last February in NYC. But he’s souped up and riding the feral edge about him as this rumble starts up, but holy shit is he in there with the yin to his yang. Ethan Axel Andrews is the other wrestler to kick off the Rumble, and he’s more like a cruise missile. Their opening scrap against each other is one of the most intense of the next 20 minutes, which sort of makes sense because all their attention is on each other, and their both fresh and primed. Ethan is rolling, exploiting his size advantage for a bit when he latches on a leglock and threatens to snap the Dark one at the knee. Sir Dark screams at him with total bile and adrenaline, “Fuck off, NO!” Fuck, that guy rocks me.
Every minute (or so, the timing isn’t entirely precise), a countdown signals the arrival of a new wrestler to join the fray. In these raucous 20 minutes, favorite wrestlers of mine show up in the mix and I’m unable to stop myself from cheering at my screen. Mickey Knoxx comes in hot, flexing and strutting and wasting no time tearing into Feroce in a completely unfair double team with Demonflex. Isaac Andrews comes in looking gorgeous as fuck with his hairy chest and beard. Kayden Keller and Chase Addams turn the heat way, way up when they take each take their turns as the fresh man diving into the mix.
Just like it works at a fest, though, there are also these unexpected finds, wrestlers I don’t think I’ve ever seen before but once I do, I can’t take my eyes off of them. The fourth entrant is introduced as Mischief. He’s adorable, with this gentle giant feel about him as he strides onto the mat. And then, holy fuck, there’s nothing gentle about Mischief! The guy is grinning ear to ear the entire time, so transparently loving that uncorked chaos Sir Dark is serving up. Two things in particular about Mischief make me swoon. One is just how much delight he takes in muscle bullying a smaller opponent. No apologies. No giving a little guy a fighting chance. He just licks his lips and tucks in to the bite sized morsels with relish. The other thing that catches my eye and turns me on about Mischief is this go to move he has of buttoning an opponent up and just clamping his huge hand over the guy’s face and refusing to let the fucker breathe. He does that more than once, and it’s such a fucking BOSS move.
There are some other new-to-me wrestlers that instantly impress me. I’ve seen Feroce DeLeon on Watchfighters before, but I was not expecting just how much absolute abuse his hot body can soak up. I met Kevin Nova at that fest in Toronto a couple of years ago, and he’s buffed up and gotten super aggressive in a way that makes him fit right into this wild melee. I’ve followed Demonflex on social media for what seems like forever. We’ve had near-misses at scheduling a 1:1 for the two of us, and watching how much fun he has swimming in this chaos makes me want to make sure that meet up happens soon. Veneno is this tasty little masked scrapper who looks like he should get submitted super fast based on nothing but size, but there’s a short king under that mask who is taking on everyone and in the center of the fray at all times and holding his own like a terrier. For some reason I think I have seen Neil Rey somewhere, but I’m not placing him, but he’s fascinating to watch come in and join this big boy gang triple teaming the little guy on the mat at the time.
That little guy is the other new-to-me wrestler epiphany that caught my attention out of everything happening at once in the maelstrom. Honestly, I was worried about pretty boy B Sprite when he first showed up. I mean, this kid is pretty. Too pretty, and lithe, and lean, and he ends up in the turbulent waters right when there’s the likes of big, burly bad asses ripping into each other like Isaac and Kayden and Neil. I have to immediately reassess lovely B Sprite, though, when he doesn’t skip a beat, and half a second after stepping onto the mat he’s got a claw working on twisting Mickey’s balls off. Lovely B Sprite is fucking mean and skilled, and sure, maybe I’m just identifying with him because he goes after Mickey like he’s got blinders on.
Writing a review of the Rumble is a bit like trying to film it, I suspect. There’s just so many mini-dramas playing out, it’s impossible to see them all in one viewing. Actually, it’s impossible to see them all upon repeated viewings, because the camera misses some of the action on one side the mat while documenting the grappling on the other side of the mat. Like, I’m not sure what drove terrier-like Veneno to actually submit, because the camera and I were enthralled with watching Kayden lift Mickey by the balls, cradling the wailing Canadian across his chest, and then slamming Mickey down in a brutal gut buster. If you like clean edges and drawing within the lines, the Rumble may not be for you, because it’s super raw and spontaneous and messy. And I’m convinced every single one of those wrestlers is having an absolute blast because he loves wrestling, and he’s exhilarated by the chaotic brew Sir Dark is serving on tap.
I’m going to towel off and settle in for the Rumble part 2, now. I had no idea this was exactly the international wrestling drama I needed to take my mind off the end times!
Sidelineland 