The first time I posted about my appreciation of the value added by tan lines, I received some surprising back channel heat. There are, apparently, some guys who find tan lines unsightly. I honestly had no idea. I’ve always found them provocative and tantalizing. There’s something that much closer to naked about tan lines. They signal something vulnerable, something delicate, to otherwise hard bodied beefcake. They allude to modesty unmasked, to an uncommon intimacy shared with those who get a glimpse of them. Tan lines serve as a literal and figurative boundary, and in the homoerotic gaze, they seem to inherently speak to disregarding boundaries and propriety and self-restraint. All my respect to the hot hunks on a quest for that all-over tan, but as for me, I get an extra hard heart pump from an impossible to miss tan line!
Calvin Haynes’ sensational ass turns me on that much harder when Mason Brooks’ reveals his beautiful tan line in their match on Calvin’s Wrestler Spotlight.
Drake Marcos, bless his heart, tanned like a mother fucker before getting his turn riding muscle cherub Gabriel Cross inX-Fights 34. The bike shorts he was soaking up the sun in left an indelible mark in my memory.
When Alexi Adamov got to be the first at BGE to get his hands on Mitch Colby on Alexi’s Wrestler Spotlight, I was shocked by how enticingly distracting Mitch’s tan line is, even with all of that ripped, gorgeous, sweaty muscle everywhere to look at.
Rhino taped several matches for Thunder’s Arena sporting bike shorts tan lines that somehow make his massively thick thighs look just that much more gargantuan. Here, he’s got Scrappy draped across his shoulders like wet towel in Mat Rats 105, and somehow all I can see are those sexy-as-fuck tan lines.
I feel in my gut that Alex Oliver doesn’t really get just how crazy-sexy he is getting plowed under in a made-for-gay-eyes wrestling match. His deep, deep, dark tan contrasting with his lily white upper thighs on display in Cameron’s manhandling of the boy makes me want to lick him so, so much.
Help me out and let me know what more sexy-as-fuck tan lines to watch for in homoerotic wrestling!
At any one time, I’m typically nursing a throbbing crush on around half a dozen wrestlers. All it takes is a glimpse of one of them, and my heart pounds and my cock grows hard. It’s a rotating stock of sexy studs commanding my infatuation, but there are just a few wrestlers who show up on my shortlist and stick around long and hard.
One of the first homoerotic wrestlers to instantly be elevated to crush status is BG East’s Scott Williams. I’ve written about my infatuation with Scott in the past, so I’ll just point out that if I were stranded on desert island and could only have 3 hunks with me for an endless round-robin of homoerotic wrestling, Scott is now, and almost always is, on that island.
My homoerotic wrestling imagination has really been the theme of this blog for over 10 years. My musings have flitted from pro wrestlers, to wrestling-for-gay, to Hollywood hunks and beefcake journalists I’d like to see wrestle. But the real subject is always how my erotic imagination possesses my thoughts and inspires my cock. It’s just a thought-exercise that you’re invited to join me along, exploring my homoerotic wrestling fantasies that, for the most part, are solely playing out in my mind’s eye. But then again, there was that time I obsessed relentlessly for months about my fierce ambivalence between settling on Mitch Colby or Rusty Stevens as my reigning favorite wrestler, only to discover Kid Leopard had made my fantasy come true by pitting them against one another in The Breaking Point: The Sexiest.
I’ll keep nursing my regression to magical thinking and silently hope that I, just wishing it and naming it out loud, can make a fantasy match-up come true. I have some fantasy matches in mind, but I want to carve out what I intend to be a recurring series here, namely picturing tasty twinks for man-of-my-dreams Scott Williams to devour.
Scott has commented in the pages of this blog that he likes getting his hands on new crops of young wrestling twinks. That acknowledgment alone sent me pouring through the catalogs of new releases to decide who it is Scott should get his hands on first, at least in my imagination. For the record, Scott has not endorsed this series, nor has he approved any of the opponents I have in mind for him. If Scott wants a rewrite, or even a retraction, of absolutely anything I write about him, I’m his to command. Like, literally, Scott. Anything I can do for you, let me know.
The first twink I’m picturing that Scott should demolish is stunningly pretty, doe-eyed sexy boy, winner of the Debut of the Year of 2018, Kenny Starr. Just sizing the two of them up turns me on, because numbers are sexy. At 6’2″ and 190 pounds, Scott would tower over little Kenny, who stands at 5’9″ and 175 pounds. Kenny wears a playful smirk on his boyish face at the start of every match, like he’s just here for the fun and games and the free drinks and ready sex that come with being a young, ripped, erotic wrestling starr.
So just picture Scott squaring off against Kenny in the BG East matroom, Kenny grinning and chuckling about “beating up grandpa,” and Scott staring back, deadly serious. Fuck, I love Scott’s game face. Glaring almost half a foot down at Kenny, his stone cold, humorless stare would visibly unnerve the cocky twink.
Kenny would take the initiative with a lightning quick lunge, taking a leg with a self-satisfied grin. Kenny’s plan would be to shock and awe the veteran with youthful speed and aggression. Scott would just watch, appraisingly. Even when Kenny sweeps the leg and slams the veteran to his back, I picture Scott just holding his hands out to his side, calmly, cooly studying the ankle biter quickly mounting his lightly hairy chest and sliding into a schoolboy pin. Kenny’s crotch dangling just over Scott’s face, the young stud would break out into that adorably exuberant shit-eating grin, flashing his baseball biceps and basically just waiting for Scott to admit that he’s outmatched.
I think Scott would indulge the moment a while, because he enjoys the view and he knows he’s winding up the kid’s flawed sense of invincibility. But mid-chuckle, little Kenny would get bucked off and tossed across the matroom. Kenny’s certainty in his own superior speed would be shattered when Scott beats him to his feet, and then just flat out beats him. Scott likes long, strength-sucking endurance holds, so he’d start with a vice-like side headlock, dragging the twink around a couple laps of the matroom while crushing Kenny’s skull between a bulging bicep and his ribcage. Dropping to one knee, I can see Scott turning the crank in that magnificent way he has, pumping the headlock like he’s working to pry the stubborn lid off of a jam jar. Kenny would whimper and wilt sagging lower and lower until Scott takes him all the way to the mat, still crushing his skull relentlessly.
Seriously, I can see Kenny tapping out to the patiently tantric headlock in the first 3 minutes of the match. It wouldn’t exactly surprise Scott, but it would sort of piss him off. The veteran relishes a test, and a cocky bro rolling over right out of the gate would inspire some serious punishment. Sure, he’d let go of the “submission” hold, but he’d give the kid exactly 1.5 seconds before sliding him into crotch-pillow headscissors and clamping down with his lovely, long, hairy legs. Little Kenny would writhe and whimper louder, struggling to pry the thighs away from his throbbing head.
Scott would slowly transition to a figure-4 choke, then an armbar, then a tautly strung bow-and-arrow, patiently milking each crush and stretch. The matwork would be masterful, burying the increasingly desperate kid under joint wrenching torture from head to toe. A weak-ass 2nd submission would squeak out of the pretty boy to an incidental half nelson that Scott was using to set up a camel clutch. Scott would throw him down in disgust, exasperated by the would-be tough guy crumbling before him. As little Kenny whimpers petulantly, nursing his battered ego, Scott would call him a crybaby, all talk and no substance. He’d spank the kid’s ass with loud, cracking slaps that would make Kenny spasm and cry out.
Scott’s patience would run out, waiting for his opponent to get up and fight like a man. Dragging him up by the back of his straining trunks, Scott would hook an arm between Kenny’s legs from behind, hoist him off is feet, and pound the gasping kid down in a gutbuster across his knee. You’d hear the air violently rush out of Kenny’s lungs, even as Scott would hoist him back up and slam him back down, again and again. When the kid doesn’t even squirm on the line, folded humiliatingly across Scott’s bent knee, the veteran would peel the back of Kenny’s sweat-soaked trunks down, exposing that lily white, perfectly round ass. I can see Scott squeeze the produce appreciatively for a while. It’s not like Kenny has any fight in him to complain. Until, that is, Scott starts spanking the naughty boy hard. Screams would punctuate the wet slaps, as the veteran hungrily studies the red palm prints he leaves behind. “Cry for me, crybaby,” Scott would growl. Kenny would weep in frustration.
Kenny’s pleading submissions would fall on deaf ears. Hell, I’d bet Scott would crack some senior citizen joke about needing new batteries for his hearing aids, and not being able to hear this wailing twink. Of course, the truth is that the veteran would be tickled by every yelp, savoring every tear. He’d drag the kid up, demanding that the weak-kneed punk leave his ass cheeks hanging out. When petulant Kenny stubbornly pulls his short pants back over his red hot glutes, Scott would violently shove him into the wall face-first, pinning his head to the wall with one hand while using the other to yank his opponent’s trunks halfway down his quivering legs. You could just hear the twink’s impotent sobs grow more frustrated, then more desperate, as Scott pins the kid’s wrists to the wall overhead and grinds his crotch into Kenny’s ass.
Kenny wouldn’t disobey when Scott demands, again, that he leave his trunks where they are. Even as the veteran throws him wall to wall and then body slams the kid to the mat, Kenny would leave his trunks awkwardly hanging mid-thigh. Scott would sit low and mean in the saddle across the kid’s bare butt in a Camel Clutch demanding that the kid cry, which he would. Loudly. Scott’s Boston Crab would be a little more work to cinch in place with Kenny’s trunks sliding most of the way to his knees, but all the easier for the veteran to transition to a single leg and reach down and squeeze the boy’s hanging balls.
Kenny would submit again. And again. And again. With his tormenter’s claws ripping apart his perky lean pecs, Kenny would give. In an abdominal stretch hanging like a cut of tenderized beef on the hook, he’d cry out in submission again. Twisted, tossed, and tortured, the twink’s trunks would slide lower and lower, until he’d be swaying, barely standing unassisted, his pale white beauty marked all over with red welts turning angry purple, and his prettyboy designer trunks mid-calf. Panting, heavy-lidded, half out of it, Kenny would self-conciously start to bend forward when his gear finally drops to his ankles. Scott would just have to “tut-tut,” and the demolished twink would jerk back to attention obediently, swaying on his feet, eyes on the floor in humiliated subjugation.
Scott would take one last stroll around his tamed trophy, offering light praise for the kid’s quick obedience, and promising to make a man out of him. Little Kenny wouldn’t say anything, because, really, what would there be to say? He’d just grunt in resignation when Scott shoves an arm between his thighs from behind and hoists the kid across his gorgeously muscled shoulders. If he pulled down on Kenny’s neck and legs, he’d wring more screams and tears out with a torture rack, but there’d really be no point to that any longer. Scott would just be wearing the kid like a wrap now, taking in the sight of himself in the mirror, soaked in sweat and in full possession of the adorable little muscle bro who’d been so filled with cocky overconfidence 20 minutes ago. With his conquest balanced across his wide shoulders, Scott would flex a little. He’d have earned the right to indulge in the self-congratulations, giving credit where it’s due, namely to his phenomenal physique and mat experience. Finally, he’d stride to the door and side-step through it, carrying his naked prize with him.
At least, that’s how I see it. It’s a lot more lopsided a match than we’ve seen Scott wrestle, but seriously, have you seen those huge, corded arms of his with veins popping out in his recent guest appearances at Wrestling with Pride? With the shape he’s in, and company he keeps, and boatload of experience to draw from, I just see tasty little Kenny demolished by the man-of-my-dreams!
[Note: The following post is addressed specifically to BG East classic, Scott Williams, in response to his comment specifying what blog topics he would, personally, find entertaining. If you are not Scott Williams, you may feel free to continue to read, but just know that this is really all about pleasing the man of my dreams!]
Honestly, Scott, yours are the headscissors by which I judge all others. I love the way you milk them with waves of contracting muscle. It’s supposed to be a static hold, but you bear down ever tighter, shifting the angle, fine tuning the pressure. Other wrestlers try to make it look effortless, propped nonchalant on one elbow, smiling, pedestrian, pointedly not breaking a sweat. I grant you, that element of facile control can be super sexy, but then I think of that grimace of concentration on your face as you squeeze, light grunts of your effort punctuated by gasping agony of your prey. Every lovely muscle in your body is coiled, strung taut, actively crushing an opponent’s skull trapped between your relentless legs. Of course, I’m not telling you anything you didn’t already know, so let me turn my attention to surveying other “punishing quads” that epitomize both the brute force and the subtle artistry of sensationally sexy headscissors.
I have to confess, working on this has become a labor of love, and my list of killer quads to vet for you here just keeps growing. I’ve given up on attempting a definitive list in one post. Consider these 4 fine specimens as merely my first installment in paying you back for inspiring so much pleasure and so many homoerotic wrestling fantasies.
The first wrestler that sprang to my mind is Mitch Colby, and not just because I’m almost as big a fan of him as I am of you. Have you wrestled Mitch? I would imagine you and he would be well-matched in skill and temperament. Not only does he pretty invariably clamp on headscissors in almost every match, but he has this sensationally sexy way of locking on and then bearing down on them that reminds me a lot of you. He likes them super snug. He’ll often grab a fist full of hair and yank his opponent’s head as high as possible between this thighs for the extra pressure, and his pleasure. He’ll twist his hips to the side, really working it, crushing his opponent’s skull and cranking on his neck. When he’s firing on all cylinders, and he’s been squeezing a while, his eyes close. His face goes slack, and his head rolls backward. Now, I don’t know if he’s ever literally climaxed with some lucky fucker’s head crushed between his long, powerful thighs, but I feel pretty certain that’s what his face looks like when he cums.
My next set of punishing legs for your consideration, Scott, belong to Logan Vaughn.
You’re the expert, of course, Scott, so tell me if I’m wrong when I say that the most punishing quads aren’t always the thickest. However, when I think scissors, I think of the thickest thighs I’ve ever seen on a wrestler: the lovely legs of Logan Vaughn. Logan’s sojourn with BGE was tragically short, but his work elsewhere had all ready caught my eye by the time I saw him in exploiting his gargantuan quads to perfection in Florida Fights 5. Have you seen that match, Scott? Holy fuck, it’s a leg lover’s dream match. Logan’s inner thighs are like a black hole, irresistibly sucking Trey Dixon in, over and over. There are a dozen or more scissor variations, and every one of them completely incapacitates lucky Trey. Logan’s head scissors are the sweetest for my tastes, though. Trey’s head looks like a golf ball, completely dwarfed between the sequoias swallowing him. Logan is one of those hunks who make scissors look effortless, but seriously, if he earnestly bore down on them, Trey’s skull would have surely cracked. There’s seamless, totally convincing worship that breaks out, only when Logan permits it. This match is on my most-played list, mostly for the 8th Modern Wonder of the World that is Logan’s superhuman legs and the absolute perfect use he puts them to.
Correct me if I’m wrong, Scott, but I feel certain I’ve seen you trash talking with Kayden Keller on social media, alluding to having faced the hot, young heel in person. If so, you know better than I can imagine just how punishing Kayden’s quads are.
I have to include him in my list, however, because his legs make me swoon. Literally. Like, when I was fortunate enough to be able to conduct interviews at BG East a couple of years ago during a weekend of taping, I sat down with Kayden and commented on his stunning, sexy, strong thighs. And he flexed them, just smiling at me as I was instantly light-headed. I bravely attempted to continue the interview, but he just tugged his shorts up higher and flexed his quads some more, and I struggled to string together a coherent sentence. I’ve adoringly tracked his career over the years, from fierce heel pup to, now, the multi-award winning reigning Heel Champ of BG East. He’s grown up good, Scott! I don’t know when you may have faced him last, but I’d love to know if Kayden’s quads are as devastatingly powerful as they look, or as dizzingly sexy when they’re clamped across your skull like a vise.
I’ve got a list of twice this many names, but in order not to sabotage myself, I’m going to give you just one more for today. It’s a wild card. I don’t know how you might feel about competition bodybuilders and fun-and-games frat wrestling, but I’d like to draw your attention to Thunder’s Arena’s Loki.
I feel like you might not track someone like Loki because he dabbles in wrestling, and you’re, clearly, serious as a heart attack. But hear me out. This muscle kid is absolutely draped in luxurious, thick, aesthetic muscle. And when he hits the mats, 9 times out of 10, he’s going to shove an opponent’s skull between those gargantuan, competition-ready quads. So, sure, he may not be really on the same scene, but you’ve got to admire him for his ready impulse to crack craniums with his quads. Often, his fratboy opponents can’t help themselves but grab hold (in awe, I’m certain). To his credit, he just lets them. If they try to pry him apart, he just holds them by the wrist, keeping them close enough to touch, but not break the hold. The flashing of his flexing quads as his opponents face’s go 2-dimensional is pure gold. Judging by the look of exquisite ecstasy as they’re crushed in the vise, I don’t think it takes a lot of effort from him to make opponents see stars.
I’ll take a break now, because I’m a bit dehydrated, Scott. I hope this has given you a little entertainment and perhaps a little provocation. I’ll be back at a future date to explore the most punishing quads in wrestling some more, along with your other wish list item, some focused attention on Dirty Daddy!
I recently bumped into Ash DeLeon on social media. Ash gave me one of my last interviews I posted before my hiatus from blogging, and he graciously agreed to a follow-up interview to inaugurate my comeback. The conversation ranged from gut punching to lip locks to which upperclassmen heels he’s ready to challenge.
Bard: Thanks so much, Ash, for helping me reboot the blog with an interview!
Ash: It’s my pleasure! Glad to have you back. Missed your blogs about the underground gay wrestling world, man. You have no idea how much I thrived on those when I was just a fan of all the top wrestling companies.
Bard: So, I’ve been out of the loop for about a year and a half, with limited bandwidth to keep up with homoerotic wrestling, sadly. What have I missed?
Ash: I will say this, you missed out on quite a bit! In terms of my career in BG East, I guess the three biggest “achievements” went from wrestling in front of a live crowd in a match for Wrestling with Pride, to being called a “veteran” by BG East rookies in my most recent BG East shoot. Oh, and of course, the product I was featured in along with Kayden Keller, Nathan Sargent, and Rocky Sparks, that won best product of the year! BAM! I very much consider that my first win for the annual BG East awards. But I believe quite a few of my matches have come out since your hiatus. There have been a few particular matches that I think you may have enjoyed, including my Three-Way Thrash with Kayden Keller and Luke Reel, to my Gut Bash match with Kenny Starr, and to my latest match against Ethan Axel Andrew’s himself, in a fantasy-brought-to-life of the classic “wrestling coach versus his student” match. It’s been quite the year of growth for me.
Bard: Damn, you have been busy!
Ash: I have been! But in the best ways possible!
Bard: Tell me about Wrestling with Pride 2. It sounds like that was your first match in front of an audience of fans. What was that like?
Ash: It was my first live match. So the story was that the gentleman who was supposed to wrestle Dimitri could not make it. It was kind of last minute, too. So in the scramble of trying to find someone to fill that card, the Boss asked me if I was willing to do it. I can’t even describe the amount of anxiety I got when he asked me but…. I did get a 101 pro lesson back when I wrestled for UCW. So I remembered the fundamentals of pro matches, like how to take bumps, safely do basic moves, etc. However, pull all of those out of the attic and apply them in a live audience?! Yeah, I was nervous as hell. But I worked with Jonny and Dimitri, and they gave me a crash course on how to develop a good show for a pro match. In the end, I was told it came out pretty good! I remembered everything they taught me, and was able to apply it to the match. To me, the match went smoothly, and the crowd seemed to enjoy it. Besides injuring myself, I thought I did decent enough to put on a good show. I will say, it’s hard to explain what it’s like when you have a crowd cheer your name to get up and keep fighting. It was like, the best kind of adrenaline injected into you, from pure energy from the crowd. It was awesome!
Bard: It sounds thrilling! Were you injured bad?
Ash: I was! It was something I did to myself actually (laughing). So in the madness, I forgot to bring boots to the venue, so I had to go around and ask if anyone had spares, and the only guy who did was Tiko. Who had spare boots, but they had heels in them… so… At the end, when I was setting up the super kick and was stomping in the corner Shawn Michaels-style. The second stomp I did, I had a huge shockwave of pain fire up my leg, and I knew something went wrong (laughing). So that limping I did out of the ring? It was my leg more than anything else.
Bard: Damn, all of that Dimitri beef pounding down on you, and it’s footwear that really fucks you up? That’s unexpected!
Ash: (laughing) Ah, yes little Luke was a fiesty one. After Kayden had his fun with the boy, he wanted to present me with a “challenge.” Granted, when I first saw that Luke was the challenge, I didn’t take it seriously. I learned real quick that Kayden had tricks up his sleeve. The real challenge was getting handicapped so hard with the knee to my balls, then getting beat on by both Kayden and Luke! I’ll admit they beat me pretty bad. My abs were clearly the focus, but I knew what Kayden really wanted was for me to prove, then and there, that I could take what I can give. Boy, did they test my resolve! However, I think it was safe to say I impressed Kayden by the end of that one, and Luke clearly loved every second of my pay back. Now Kayden has essentially taken me under his wing to learn how to be a legendary heel on the BG East roster. Always been my desire, since I watched my favorite heels destroy BG East’s sexy jobbers!
Bard: Well, I sort of want a little naked Luke Reel to sit on my dashboard and wag his hot body at me on my long commutes. I’m fascinated by what it may mean to be “taken under Kayden’s wing.” Do heels foster heel-friendships? Like, do you wonder if Kayden, Mr. Top Heel himself, might string this “mentor” thing along, just to make sure he’s there to beat you back down if you rise too far?
Ash: (laughing) Well, you can see how Kayden and I worked on the same beat when we were… well, beating on little Luke (laughing). Who knows? Maybe Kayden and I will become the new (maybe the first) destructive tag team of BG East. I am keeping on my toes with him. I know, as I keep learning the ways to heel, he will take me on in a brutal 1-on-1 match. And when that time comes, I’ll be ready. Who knows? The student could surpass the master at that point.
Bard: Well, I love the drama, so however it plays out, I’ll be looking forward to it. When you speculate that you might be the first destructive heel tag team of BG East, you do realize that Kid Leopard and Kid Vicious teamed up in one of the early Tag Team Torture series, don’t you? Because if you’re calling out KV and KL to a heel-off, I’m there with popcorn!
Ash: Damn, you caught me in my BG East history lesson! I’m going to be honest, I have always wanted to step onto the mats against either, or both of them! And however that plays out, I would be quite content. It would be such a raunchy and dirty battle! Just the way I like it! Wouldn’t that be a fight for the ages?
Bard: It’d be epic, my friend! Seriously, I need a front row seat to that match! You know I’m going to be reaching out to KV and KL and telling them that you’re calling them out, just to try to stir that pot to a rolling boil!
Ash: (laughing) Go ahead man! I have taken on plenty of sadistic dudes and bruisers in my career. I won’t back down at that chance, either!
Bard: Excellent. I never tap into my inner heel quite so fully as when I’m stirring up shit between other people. I expect to see you in a Kid Leopard kiss-of-death within moments of the quarantine being lifted! I’d like to return to a topic you and I have had a couple of times in the past, if you don’t mind. It seems like your first love is really gut punching. My first love is, honestly, homoerotic wrestling itself, which obviously overlaps with gut punching extensively. But is it the same kink, do you think? What do you see as the relationship between the two?
Ash: I never mind talking about my kinks! Especially in gut punching! I will start with saying, like most did, I had a certain “fascination” with watching the hunks on WWE when I was a wee lad. So back when I was a preteen, I always knew I had this…. special kind of lust for abs. It’s obviously my favorite muscle group on a man. But, my lust for it was much deeper. Even my 12-year-old self knew that. I knew that even before I accepted that I am gay. And my favorite expression I wanted to do onto a sixpack was punch it. I felt so odd, but the wonderful World Wide Web showed me that there are many others with the same interest. As I grew up, and I surfed the web, I found 3 specific videos that…peaked my interest. First, was a legendary video clip from Gutbash 5with KV and Steve Thomas. Second, a clip of that sexy Drake being gut punched in NRW. And third, Axel versus JR, in one of UCW’s first videos. I definitely don’t think they are the same kink though, although they have many similarities, but the energies of the heel and jobber versus puncher and punchee are similar, as well. The control in those dynamics definitely turns me on.
Bard: That makes total sense. I certainly find some solid punching in the context of a match to be provocative. I think I veer toward the other side of the coin, though, if I think about the difference between a punch to the abs and an abdominal claw. I think the claw turns me on more because the contact lingers. The application of pain lingers. The punch, even a series of punches, are like punctuation marks to me, but the story is in the intimacy of the wrestling holds.
Ash: I love how you compared the ab claw and a gut punch! I will say, I think there is a way to make the gut punching sequences quite erotic, at least, in my opinion. See, it’s all about the set up to the punch, that is, teasing the abs by slowly rubbing my fist against his abs, before the hit. Sometimes distract them with groping or even a lip lock before bringing that fist into the sweet spot! I will saw I will prefer a good ol’ ball claw over an ab claw (shocking I know).
Bard: I think I get that. It’s much more than the punch itself. The prelude, the rising tension, anticipation, whether they’re anticipating what actually comes or not. I don’t think I quite got that control and domination side of gut punching!
Ash: That’s exactly what I am talking about! I’m glad I helped shed light on the dynamics! At least on my end, I am sure not every gut punch enthusiast has the same ideology on the fetish, but I hope some do!
Bard: Tell me more about what you prefer about a ball claw.
Ash: Now, I will say CBT and ball busting did grow, with a big thanks to BG East in that regard. Particularly, Ball Bash 2 with Jonny Firestorm and Reese Wells. God that was a hot match. But my attraction to ball busting is this: it’s the easiest method to get your opponent to bend to your will and make him crumble in your grasp. That’s why ball claws are one of my favorite “holds” in erotic wrestling. So as you fans may have seen from my match against Nathan Sargent, I am pretty good at ball bashing, too! Who knows, maybe I’ll be known for making a legendary ball bash match on the BG East catalog, too. I have already been told my Gut Bash against Kenny Starr was something to remember. That has also been one of my biggest BG East accomplishments, too! Along with giving Jonny Firestorm and Kid Vicious the biggest smile during a match I filmed, not too long ago, with me as the heel working over a jobber. I was so happy when I saw that… while staying in my heel character, of course (laughing).
Bard: Oh, fuck yes, Reese Wells was a revelation in Ball Bash 2! I don’t think I’d ever really thought of someone getting off on getting their balls bashed before watching little Reese’s cock so visibly rise to that occasion. Crotch Crushers 1 was a similar epiphany for me, with the added benefit of seeing Mitch Colby and Derek DaSilva so beautifully marry punishment and pleasure.
Ash: Yes, Derek Dasilva looked like a fun guy to beat on! Reese Wells has been a dream opponent of mine actually. I have quite a few of those.
Bard: You know, of course, what else I’d bet would make Kid Vicious smile during a match? It’d be you and Kayden taking some serious lessons from the masters!
Ash: I love that idea! You are thinking of Kayden and I taking on Kid Leopard and Kid Vicious?
Bard: Yep, that would be golden!
Ash: That would be a freaking treat! I bet Kayden would be more than down for that too! Even if it means we get beaten (laughing).
Bard: I offer to referee. And I’d be a totally corrupt ref, just so you know.
Ash: Oh, yeah? Something tells me you would be on their side then and get a few licks in.
Bard: I’d have an idea of how things should play out, but I’ll leave it at that. You’d have to see which side of the scales I’d have my thumb on. Anything more you can reveal about your recent heel match that made the veterans smile, without the need for a spoiler alert?
Ash: I’ll say this much. It was a match with a rookie on the roster that I brought in recently. He made a big splash at BG East already, but since he and I have already gotten acquainted prior to him joining BG East… let’s say it translated very well on film. Also I am hoping it wins best lip lock for the next annual awards, but I would say fans should expect it to be one of the most brutal, yet sensual matches I have done to date for BG East!
Bard: What a teaser! I love it. I’ll be waiting breathlessly for it to come out. You also bring up another topic I’d love to hear more from you about. Lip locks. What elements make for a perfect wrestling kiss?
Ash: I have to really think about this one because it seems so natural to me; and that might be the reason. I usually only do a lip lock when it is natural. My energy and my opponent’s energy has to be on the same level, or at least to some degree. I think the best match that has captured that from my releases so far has been in the Three-Way Thrash with both Luke and Kayden. There is a lot of power in a kiss, just as powerful as a gut punch or a ball claw; it’s just a different kind of power. I guess I would say it’s that double-edged sword effect. A good lip lock sucks the fighting energy between the two wrestlers, even if it’s for a moment. Until one of those wrestlers realizes it’s their time to either strike again, or turn the tables. There have been plenty of times where it has either worked in my favor, or allowed my opponent to get a chance to get me on my back. And honestly, regardless of the outcome of a lip lock, I can never get enough of them!
Bard: You’ve definitely convinced me that I need to get my hands on that three-way!
Ash: Glad I sold you on it! I have a feeling you will enjoy it.
Bard: Before I let you go, can you tell me what’s the sexiest thing a homoerotic wrestling fan can do with his time when the world is in quarantine from a global pandemic?
Ash: The sexiest thing a fan can do is support his favorite wrestlers/wrestling companies. Because like everyone else, we will not be able to film for some time. For example, I was actually set to film for BG East next week, but obviously that got cancelled. So supporting is sexy to me. Help keep the business you enjoy alive! I have been doing it, too!
Bard: Whatever the world looks like after we’re past the pandemic, I desperately hope there’s a vital homoerotic wrestling industry in it! I have a year’s worth of new releases to catch up on, so I’ll do my part. I hope everyone who reads this interview will renew their support by purchasing a new wrestling match to add to their collections, too. And now, more than ever, buy from the source. We’ve got to support our wrestlers and gay producers!
Ash: That’s was amazing, man, thank you so much. So happy to have you back on the scene!
It’s been a long time since I composed a post devoted solely to admiring a particular wrestling hold. I’ve been recently obsessing once again over my favorite wrestling hold, the over-the-knee backbreaker.
It’s such a massively dominating move. The pitcher often literally cradles the catcher like a child in his arms, clutching him across his chest, and then drops to one knee, pounding his opponent’s back across his thigh. I love the geography of this hold. The victim splayed out, his vulnerable core stretched wide, legs and upper body pressed backward such that he can’t assume the instinctive duck and cover defensive position to protect his internal organs.
I catch myself gasping in awe at high impact OTKs. There’s a raw, primal, intensely arousing aspect to watching a dominant hunk seriously pound his opponent down with authority, his knee driving viciously into the helpless stud’s spine. It’s magnificent drama when he scoops him directly back up across his chest, standing tall and hoisting the victim high to repeat the move again. And again. Total domination.
I also also love an OTK punisher with big, bulging pecs flexing powerfully, his face hovering so close to his opponent’s muscled torso and quivering crotch. Stretched out on his back, the victim of an OTK is flattened, the topography of his physique stretched out and impotent, in contrast to the flaring shoulders and pumped pecs of his tormentor.
Then there are the subtle variations and innovations that dial up the inherent eroticism of this hold in a homoerotic context. The stolen moments to take advantage of the victim’s helplessness, sadistically brutalizing muscled abs and pecs. Not content to just torture his spine, the man in charge pounds fists, drives in elbows, perhaps digs his finger tips into defenseless muscle and wear him out from every angle.
Ace Aarons handles Richie’s rocks
Richie’s balls demand Mason’s attention as well.
An OTK seems paradigmatically gay (or at least bicurious) when the dominant hunk pays serious attention to that tempting bulge at the apex of his opponent’s bridge. Frankly it doesn’t often go there even in homoerotic wrestling, but every OTK seems like a head nod to those sensational moments when a wrestler leans forward and sucks his opponent’s nipple, seductively slides the palm of his hand possessively across his lower abs, and appreciatively throttles and fondles his arching cock. That’s the heart of homoerotic wrestling for me, with the purpose of the battle to determine who gets to take possession of whose body.
Calvin’s muscle melt
Mitch stiff and in agony
I’m fascinated watching muscled hunks sell this hold. Clearly some wrestlers are built a lot more for strength than flexibility. A stiff, tabletop OTK actually works for me because it looks like it hurts just that much more. When a muscle laden stud doesn’t really have much of a lower back arch to bend across his opponent’s thigh, it also just seems that much more humiliating. But there’s nothing quite as arousing as watching a flexible hunk melt into the hold, bridging dramatically, as if his muscles are draped across a hanger. The submissiveness, the giving himself over blindly to man who’s claimed his body, is golden.
My gratitude to all of the homoerotic wrestlers who have recently fed my craving for OTK hotness. For those moments when you’ve reached through your opponents legs and cupped his beefy ass in the palm of your hand, I salute you. For your graceful bridge and packed, quivering bulge gasping in anticipation of whatever is to come at the mercy of your opponent, I applaud you. I realize this hold is not exactly intuitive to pull off, and for many of you it’s downright awkward as fuck to sell, so I appreciate the gorgeous erotic art of your human sculpture just that much more.
Holy crap! It’s been a month since I had a chance to post anything. Time flies when life is full and busy. I have managed to squeeze in a little time writing a few match descriptions for the new release of BG East’s catalog 128. So even if you don’t know it, you very well may be reading some of my writing in that format. As so often happens with big pauses in my blogging, I’m now facing a backlog of intentions and plans. I’ll do my best to backfill, but hot new wrestling releases wait for no blogger.
With that in mind, I want to describe the sweat soaked pleasure it was to watch one of my longstanding obsessions climb into the ring again in the new release of Ringwars 29: Steeped in Sweat. Honestly, all it took was watching Mitch Colby stretching before the match to get me dizzyingly aroused. Over the years we’ve seen Mitch in various states of fitness. There is no version of him that fails to turn me on, mind you, but in RW29, he is mind bogglingly gorgeous, primed and pumped, tanned and toned, with mile wide shoulders and an impossibly narrow waist like Clark Kent at a day at the beach.
There’s something coolly majestic about Mitch. I suppose if you look like he does, and you’ve hammered your rockin’ muscles so sweetly out on your 6’2″ frame, you can afford to be chill as fuck. He’s self-possessed and confident, this side of cockiness. I always get the impression that Mitch wants a challenge. He gets a little contemptuous if it’s too easy. Mitch appreciates serious competition. He wants to prove himself.
“Serious” is not a word that jumps to the front of the line when Jobe Zander struts into the ring room. Fuck, I hate this guy. And by hate, I mean, fuck, I ache to see someone beat the living shit out of him and strip him naked. He’s always a contender for biggest bulge in the business. And he enthusiastically puts his most prominent feature forward in every match, calling attention to “the Centerpiece,” and taking every opportunity to shove his massive package in an opponent’s face. Jobe is loud and over the top and almost comical, which is clearly his modus operandi. He struts and barks and presents himself almost as a caricature of the narcissist pro wrestler, invariably disarming his opponent who struggles to take him seriously.
Do NOT fail to take Jobe Zander seriously! Mitch learns what most of Jobe’s opponent’s learn. Underestimate him at your peril. He takes it to the beach body beefcake with authority, and I love watching Mitch struggling to dig himself out of a hole. Even before the low blows and dirty tricks take over the narrative, Jobe quickly outhustles my fitness model infatuation and works him over like a boss.
As is almost always the case, inexplicably, it’s Jobe who’s first to attack his opponent’s balls. I’ve got all sorts of feels about watching him claw the fuck out of Mitch’s bulge. First and foremost, just getting a feel of what Mitch is packing is a vicarious thrill. In particular, this reach through the legs from behind with a subtle twisting chaser is as if I’m remote controlling Jobe. Mitch, with his glistening, superhuman muscles quivering in agony and whimpering, is a work of art. But I’m also rolling my eyes at this move because you know, for a fact, what happens next when Jobe, possessing arguably the most massive crotch in competition, flings open the door of crotch attacks.
That shit just got real, now, didn’t it, Jobe? I’ve been taken to task before for crushing hard on a classic babyface disciplining a vile heel. But I can’t help it. Sometimes I want to see an earnest, magnificently muscled jock slap a loudmouth cheater down and make him regret it all. I know, I’m such a mark. When I’m pounding one out in ecstasy watching Mitch make the previously cocky bad boy weep and beg, I don’t give a shit. These two hunks can manipulate me any way they want.
Jobe make SUCH a huge deal of his HUGE deal, it’s no wonder that, yet again, this match really becomes all about “the Centerpiece.” He shoves it in Mitch’s face. He demands that the hunky heart throb pay homage to the legend that is straining the seams of Jobe’s pouch. “The tide has turned, Mitch the Bitch,” Jobe snarls down atop the schoolboy pin, smothering Mitch in his ball gag. “I’m the Centerpiece here,” he monologues like a Batman villain. “Nothing can stop me now!”
It turns out, a 6’2″ fitness competitor in the best shape of his life can, actually, stop Jobe Zander. Mitch milks the babyface retribution to perfection. He scolds Jobe mercilessly for his greed and self-centeredness. He punishes him brutally, employing all of those stunningly gorgeous muscles to accomplish the task of dominating and destroying this quite serious competition. It’s not as if it had to go this way. It’s not as if Mitch is, by his nature, hell bent on humiliating and bullying an opponent. He’s just cashing that check that Jobe’s been writing all along, piling on complete domination to not just beat him, but to disprove every taunt and brag and unnecessary act of poor sportsmanship along the way. “How about that for a Centerpiece,” Mitch demands to know, resting his balls on Jobe’s chin and anointing his own big bulge the new title holder.
There are a lot of familiar components to this match, if you’ve watch many of Jobe’s more recent bouts. But there are a few delightful innovations in this pairing that I have to mention. One such innovation is that Jobe makes Mitch scream. I mean, really scream. Mitch typically is the type to screw up his face and put a cork in it when he’s suffering hard. Agony paralyzes and gags him most days. But when Jobe really cranks on his balls, crushing and twisting and dragging him around the ring by them, Mitch lets loose with some crotch tingling screeches of pain. Fuck, I love that chink in the muscleman’s armor.
The other notable part that I want to mention is all the trunk pulling. It’s like Mitch knows how much I’ve been wanting someone to finally rip Jobe’s trunks off and show us what the heel has been teasing for years now. That doesn’t quite happen, despite my longing. Nor does Mitch bend him over the top rope with Jobe’s anaconda in his hand and Mitch’s manhood up Jobe’s round ass. But both wrestlers give us peekaboo glimpses of the underworld, dragging each other around by a fist full of trunks and showing off just a little of the astonishing beauty both men criminally cover up with their gear.
Mitch’s bearhugs are sexy as fuck. If watching his gargantuan deltoids flex and swell as he crushes his wailing opponent suspended a foot off the ground doesn’t get you off, then it is a complete enigma to me why you would read this blog.
This match pushes a ton of my buttons, so if we share any buttons, I recommend you tuck in. My infatuation with magnificent Mitch has only grown with his latest display of his power and beauty. If the wrestling gods ever bother to hear our prayers, then please, oh PLEASE, let’s see Mitch pit his mouthwatering muscles again another longstanding infatuation of mine, Scott Williams. That would be the headliner match to the “Masters Division” matches I’ve been fantasizing about for so long now.
The first half of the BG East Besties ballot never seems to generate as much controversy as the second half. Turning our focus on individual wrestlers seems to incite even more fevered debates about tastes and types and loyalties. BGE has gone six deep for each category, so there’s bound to be someone for everyone to fight over. Definitely don’t just take my word for who you should vote for, but by all means, vote. And in case you aren’t sure who you want to rally behind, feel free to take some inspiration from how I see things.
8. Top Heel
Last year Jonny Firestorm brought home the title as Best Heel at BG East. Jonny has owned this category for quite a while. The only time he hasn’t won, he wasn’t nominated, in which case Kid Karisma stepped up at grabbed the ring. This year pits these two legendary heels against each other and an equally diverse field of styles, attitudes, and interpretations of the word “heel.”
What a field! I’m punching an enthusiastic button for the increasingly rare opportunity to vote for the legendary heel, Kid Vicious. Although he only appeared in one product this year, it was classic KV, through and through. No one else on this list takes nearly as much erotic pleasure making an opponent suffer. My second choice would see Kayden Keller jump the line ahead of both Jonny and Kid Karisma. Kayden has become one of the hardest working wrestlers in homoerotic wrestling, and like KV, he’s growing increasingly comfortable in the role of the erotic sadist. I’m guessing that the popular vote may still break Jonny or Kid Karisma’s way, and obviously they deserve the heel-appreciation. But as for me, KV remains in a league of his own, with Kayden quickly filling the void left by KV’s sparser and sparser appearances in the ring.
9. Top Babyface
The field for top babyface highlights how these awards reflect so much more about the fans than the wrestlers. Some of these guys I wouldn’t classify as babyfaces. Past winners like Biff Farrell and Jake Jenkins are as absent from the poll as they were scarce in new releases this year. So one of these guys is going to take the title for the first time:
As with the heel category, I’m picking a dark horse candidate for as much sentimental reasons as anything else. Mitch Colby epitomizes the erotic-forward babyface that can only inhabit the world of homoerotic wrestling. His epic dismantling of the legendary heel Cage Thunder demonstrates perfectly the distinction that I think so many fans struggle with in distinguishing between a hot jobber and a babyface. And as his opponent has acknowledged, Mitch was in the best shape of his life for that match. I do think it’s criminal that Christian Taylor did not make the ballot. If pressed for a second place, I’d probably go for Richie Douglas. I’m uncertain what character type Zip Zarella is growing into, but he could easily get my vote for top babyface or top heel with a couple more matches under his belt to signal his underlying moral compass. This category seems wide open for predicting a popular vote getter, but I’m thinking things could swing Richie or Mitch’s way.
10. Jobber of the Year
There’s some serious range in interpretations of a jobber among the field for Jobber of the Year. Last year’s winner Ty Alexander is back in the offing, despite his pretty decisive heel turn this year. In fact, I think at least of couple of the nominees this year lack that inevitability about them that I expect to see in a jobber. Take a look at what I’m talking about:
On the one hand, I do love watching Kirk Donahue get his awardless ass beat again and again. But honestly, the perfect depiction of a jobber is Drake’s match trying to reinvent himself as El Favorito. El Favorito is Drake’s acknowledgment that he’s a jobber, that he’s destined to get plowed under, despite his impeccable skills. Perhaps with a new name, Drake muses that he can start over as something other than a jobber. And then Thrash thrashes him like the jobber he is, in or out of a mask, under any name. If I were a betting man, I’d guess that Ty, despite openly acknowledging on tape that he is no longer a jobber, may take this again because… social media.
11. Debut of the Year
There was some insane, out of the blue drama a few months back with last year’s Debut of the Year winner, Beauxregard. The category is, by no means, a guarantee of success or respect. In some ways I think Ty Alexander may be the exception when it comes to parlaying the Debut of the Year award into a solid BGE career platform. Beaux, Kip Sorell, Eli Black… it may be possible that this is a “peaked too soon” award for most (though, of course, I’m always hoping to see Eli elevate his BGE game). So this year’s nominees should beware, take nothing for granted. Winning Debut of the Year is, at best, just the start of your hard work on the way to success. The newbies who should heed this warning include…
I’m a huge backer of most of these guys, so this is another tough call for me. When push comes to shove, I’m casting my vote for one of the classiest acts to jump over from indy pro success, Ace Aarons. Ace had the skills to turn the stink bomb of Luke Lonza into a relatively satisfying squash, because he took seriously what Luke apparently couldn’t. I’m particularly impressed with his most recent mat match, laced with tons of sweat and lust, with fellow nominee Ash DeLeon. An indy pro who successfully translates his skill set to the mat and to an erotic text is quite an impressive debut, indeed! A second place pic for me would be a close call between Ash (who suffered from having only one match published for his debut year) or Zip Zarella (who classes up the place like Ace, but without the erotic twist).
12. Best Abs
2017 provided a feast for six-pack lovers. Last year’s winner Chace LaChance failed to make the cut, and personally I think it’s largely because the competition was so spectacular this year. Also absent were previous award winners Z-Man and Eli Black. So this is another category where someone new is guaranteed to take home the trophy this year. The possible breakout abdominal stars are…
Everyone’s a winner in this category, but when I cast my ballot, I’m going to vote for Payton Meadows. Every inch of Payton is dazzlingly gorgeous, but his abs are exceptionally ripped, balanced, and abs-olutely beautiful. Please, please, please let us see more of him (in every sense of the word) next year. His releases are far too far in between. Second place for me this year is, astonishingly, not Kid K. It was Carter Alexander’s superhuman core that was the standout star of his squash against Kayden, and as I said earlier, his side tat screams for worshiping his sweaty eight-pack. Playing the odds, I’d guess that Richie Douglas could take the title in the popular voting this year, though I never count out Kid K.
13. Best Bulge
After years of there being one standout each season for best bulge, this is suddenly one of the most competitive categories. Last year’s winner, Kirk Donahue, is back to defend his title. Mr. Joshua, who wasn’t nominated last year but has owned the title more often than not, is back in contention. Cage Thunder’s throbbing rod not only blazed to full glory, but got used and abused by his babyface nemesis. And then there was the collective gasp throughout the homoerotic wrestling world when Steve Mason’s debut revealed one of the biggest power tools I’ve ever seen. The full slate looks like this…
I’m sticking with Mr. J in this year’s vote. His bulge continues to be so huge that it gets in the way of his wrestling. He continually has to adjust the packing. It walks into a room about 5 seconds before Mr. J does. And Cole Cassidy managed to display Mr. J’s legendary bulge from entirely new angles this year. I’ve got my eye on Steve Mason’s leviathan, though. I think there’s a chance I might be in the middle of the normal curve this time, and the popular vote might also swing to Mr. Joshua, though I wouldn’t be surprised to see Steve knock the competition out of his way with that billy club of his.
14. Best Butt
This is always one of the most hotly debated categories. I’ve already seen a certain nominee launch a full scale social media campaign to finally take home this trophy after coming in second place last year. Here’s who you get to pick from…
I’m more ambivalent about my vote than in past years, but honestly, who am I kidding? I’m voting for Kid Karisma’s phenomenal glutes again. They’re perfect. Magnificent, functional muscles resting atop those massive upper legs. Damn. A second place for me would be either Ty or the epic last minute debut of Noah Samson. Holy fuck, Noah’s ass is unbelievable. Not as tightly muscled and powerful, but aesthetically a work of art. I keep expecting Ty’s social media campaign to pull the rug out from beneath Kid K’s long ownership of this title. Perhaps this will be year Ty can sway a majority of voters to take their eyes off of Kid K’s glorious ass.
15. Best Body
I was so thrilled last year, after years of promoting the obvious physical perfection of Kid Karisma, that I was finally joined by a majority of voters. This year’s field is, as always, hot competition to try to wrest this oft-traded title away:
For my vote, this is a horse race between Kid Karisma and Peyton Meadows. I’d give Payton the edge for his pecs and abs, and Kid K the advantage for arms and shoulders. But the balance of power tilts on Kid K’s full, muscular leg development (including the often overlooked calves). So I’m inclined to, once again, worship at the feet of Kid K as the Best Body at BG East in 2017. Just to confirm my evaluation, I’d love to see these two physical specimens side by side… and then on top of each other, pounding into each other, squeezing, shoving, and grinding each other. As for who the popular vote will tilt toward, I most frequently guess this one wrong. But my (probably wrong) guess this year is that it will go to Kid K or, perhaps, Van, though I do think Payton is slowly accumulating an audience of gasping fans (in addition to me), with the slow trickle of his new releases over time.
This was a spectacular slate of nominees, and I’m not just saying that because I was on the nominating committee. In fact, several of my top choices changed as a result of seeing the official ballot and being reminded by other nominators of choice contenders that deserved a second look. In the coming days, I’ll keep reflecting on categories that aren’t reflected on the official ballots, but matter a lot to me. In the mean time, give your best argument (respectfully) for your votes in the comments below.
Like I said, I was underwhelmed by the October new releases, so I’ve foregone naming a Homoerotic Wrestler of the Month for that month and am doubling down on November. The first winner was my running favorite homoerotic wrestler who can’t stop winning my infatuated fanaticism even if he tried, Kid Karisma. My other HWOTM is also a long time infatuation and a perennial friend of this blog. Kid K’s co-HWOTM is none other than…
Motel Madness 14 represents the culmination of what has to be one of the longest, hottest, most misdirecting sell in homoerotic wrestling history. It’s got to be close to a decade since Cage started harassing me about my fawning adoration of Mitch Colby. As soon as I’ve said a complimentary word about Mitch over the past 10 years, like clockwork Cage has popped up in the comments section to tell me that my fawning over Mitch is misplaced fanaticism. “Bitch Colby,” Cage has persistently misidentified him, tauntingly calling him a pretty boy whose victories only come when he’s picking on a wrestler much smaller than he is. All flash and no substance. Couldn’t handle a real man. “The bloggers waxed euphoric about his physical perfection, his skills, how he filled his trunks,” Cage commented in a recent post on his blog, clearly rehearsing his eye rolling contempt for this blogger’s Mitch-lust. On and on, Cage has been calling Mitch out with a pointed fervor that I don’t think I’ve seen from one wrestler to another in social media, and certainly never sustained for such a long time.
I’d actually heard this match was in the vaults for some time, and I was perplexed by the odd juxtaposition of Cage’s raging trash talk and what appeared to have been embargoed evidence as to whether Cage has what it takes to back up all of his withering insults to Mitch’s magnificence. I actually heard through the grapevine that part of the problem was that Cage “forgot” to wear his mask for this match, and once unmasked, it’s hard to sell a masked heel in future matches. Whatever the extensive behind-the-scenes drama was, I tucked in with relish to watch all of that salivating, snarling contempt from this heel dig its claws deep into one of the prettiest, most babyfaced babyfaces in the business.
As I’d expected, when Cage is on offense, he’s fierce as fuck. He writes in another recent blog post about the curiosity of wrestling unmasked, and I have to say, it’s oddly disconcerting/provocative for me to watch as well. He’s more handsome than I’d have guessed. Almost pretty, in fact. I almost forget at times that this is Cage Thunder. And then he knees Mitch in the balls, punches his pecs beet red, and folds the muscleboy up and makes him choke on his bulge, and there’s no mistaking it. This is Cage Thunder. “What do you say, muscleboy,” he taunts, quite literally spanking Mitch’s gorgeous ass. Sitting on his face and driving his fists into Mitch’s meaty pecs, he asks rhetorically, “So, Mr. Bodybeautiful, how does that feel?” Yep, that’s Cage Thunder. It’s delightful watching his look of ecstasy when he’s working over his dazzlingly pretty nemesis. We don’t quite get to enjoy that side of the equation when he’s masked.
But even more provocatively, Motel Madness 14 gives us a glimpse at Cage caged. Agony twisting his face. The clear look of panic as he realizes that Mitch’s “prettyboy” muscles very well might just crack one of his ribs. We’ve seen Cage hurt before. It’s relatively rare, because he’s such a dominant heel, but it’s happened often enough to remember. But unmasked and undone by the fitness model he has been deriding for a decade, I can’t imagine how much less satisfying it would have been if he’d endured this muscleboy reckoning from behind his mask.
Read Cage’s blog and you’ll see that he’s suddenly soft pedaling his extremely well-documented taunting dismissal of Mitch, and now that this climactic end to a decade-long feud is available for public consumption, it’s clear why. Mitch Colby fucking owns Cage Thunder! A suddenly philosophical and contemplative Cage reflects in the pages of his blog about his undoing. It may have been that he was outmuscled. It may have been that he was just too turned on by the “overhyped prettyboy.” It may have been because he felt oddly out of step without his mask on. I’m sure all of the above excuses that Cage offers are true enough. But whatever may have been behind it, I can tell you one thing for sure: Mitch makes Cage his bitch!
I mean, Cage Thunder gets buried under! This would have been a humiliating loss even if Cage hadn’t been talking shit about Mitch for years. As it is, it’s shockingly debasing. Cage chokes on Mitch’s bulge repeatedly. He’s “forced” to kiss Mitch’s mountainous biceps in complete subjugation. It’s less that Mitch beats him, and more than Mitch herds him like a sheep to the slaughter, patiently grinding Cage down to raw nerves and shattered illusions.
I guess, honestly, I am surprised that Cage was so handily manhandled, even by the likes of by longtime babyface hero Mitch. But I’m downright shocked that a conquered Cage is so completely played by his own unmistakable lust for this man of muscle crushing him. All of Cage’s snide comments about how pretty and without substance Mitch is echo through my mind as I watch Cage’s eye’s lustfully soak in the sight of Mitch’s mighty muscles pinning him to the mattress. I’d honestly have thought Cage would have been hating himself right around the time he was lapping like a dog at the deep crevice between Mitch’s pecs, burying Cage’s face. By the look on his face, he’s not hating anything right around that time, though.
This is definitely not the first time we’ve seen Cage get ramrod hard by the heat of battle, but this is the first time I can think of when you can watch his cock visibly stiffen in his trunks the more brutally he is being dominated. I’ve long known that Cage Thunder is erotically stimulated by beating another man into submission, but I honestly had no idea that he’d rise to the occasion of having a babyface muscleman put him in his place.
I think it’s entirely possible that Cage Thunder’s well-known inside track with The Boss could have been what kept Motel Madness 14 under wraps all these many years. If that were the case, I can only guess at what it may signal that his complete undoing at the hands (and pecs and legs) of Mitch Colby has been released anyway, and Cage’s epic downfall publicly documented. But I also think it’s entirely possible that Cage Thunder just played the longest running fan con in the history of homoerotic wrestling. I’m certain that well after this match was taped, Cage was still trashing Mitch in the comments section of this blog. He was still selling that heel contempt, that total trashing dismissal of one of the prettiest boys in the business, well after he and Mitch knew full well that he got owned by the gorgeous muscleman. And in the end, the dramatic reveal is just that much tastier for the real audience of Cage’s relentless call outs of Mitch over the years: you and me.
This would have been a crowd pleaser of a match, even if Cage had not been selling the hype for ages. But because he has been selling the hype, because he had built up the expectation of a classic muscleman destruction at the hands of a dominant, erotic heel, this match became downright legendary the moment I set eyes on it. At the end of the day, it’s clearly evident that Mitch is deeply satisfied by the results of this motel match. And there’s no mistaking the enraptured pleasure playing out across Cage’s unmasked face (and naked cock) as he settles into to that supremely rare feeling of being crushed into complete submission. And for everything on camera and off, for one of the hardest working heels in homoerotic wrestling, this match gets a standing ovation and a shower of my euphoric adoration, not to mention earning Cage Thunder a well deserved second title as Homoerotic Wrestler of the Month.
I went to college at a very, very small liberal arts school with a very, very unsuccessful Division III football team. They sucked. A lot. Literally, years went by without a single victory. Not that I was involved in the program, but it was no secret that recruiting for the football team was a major bitch. No scholarships. No pro career prospects. Very little hope of ever tasting victory before they graduated or, even more likely, they’d burn through eligibility while hanging on by the skin of their teeth to skimming by in their academics and finally just walking away to dig ditches. Our football team literally shrunk while I was enrolled in college, each year’s freshmen getting smaller, while bigger players went elsewhere. My junior year, the football team recruited a wide receiver who was, I kid you not, 5’2″ tall. Thing is, though, he was fucking fast, with big, powerful thighs, an exceptionally stellar muscled ass, and gorgeous, Tom Cruise-ish good looks. Despite their abysmal record, I suddenly took an interest in football that year.
This pint-sized wide receiver with big league glutes and a baby face starred in many a homoerotic wrestling fantasy in my imagination. Just writing about him now is making me hard. There was just so much fabulous potential wrapped up in his tight, taut, petite jock body. In the never ending erotic wrestling tournament in my head, the little wide receiver inevitably got muscle bullied around the ring by bigger guys. I always pictured him getting picked up and thrown from corner to corner. Tall, ripped, cocky hunks (typically from our extremely successful and wildly popular basketball team) would, in the no holds barred wrestling matches in my collegiate imagination, deliver a barrage of high impact, high altitude power moves on him, gorilla presses, scoop slams, one-handed choke slams, spine-tingling suplexes that catapulted his magnificent, muscled ass from corner to corner.
Rereading my interview with Charlie Evans and perusing several of the comments to that interview remind me of that hot, gorgeous little wide receiver firecraker with a supremely fuckable ass. As I’ve mentioned several times lately, the difference in size itself became erotically charged for me. But far beyond just visuals, I crushed hard on the little stud because of the drama of a vastly undersized hottie audaciously running out onto the field and climbing into the pro wrestling ring in my imagination (through the bottom two ropes, of course) and staring fearlessly up at the overwhelming odds towering above.
I was relatively agnostic about my all-time favorite wide receiver’s win-loss record in his homoerotic wrestling career in my mind. Like the very best babyfaces, he was always dangerous and perpetually vulnerable at the same time. I distinctly remember him getting his jock strap ripped to shreds and having his rock hard muscle cheeks plowed hard by a particular, hot, muscled black power forward. I also have clear memories of him turning the tide on a certain aloof, blond, aristocratic shooting guard who was schoolboy pinned and force fed the beer can cock of the smirking, flexing wide receiver. Win or lose, he was a favorite object of my homoerotic wrestling imagination not despite his stature, but because of it. And not just because of his stature, but because of the inherent drama of an ambitious, earnest, hard working little stud throwing himself headlong at the big boys.
As I told Charlie, I continue to nurture a crush for David vs. Goliath homoerotic wrestling matches. I like big vs. little matches where the differential is massive, the odds are long, and the action is brutal. I love seeing audacious little studs hoisted over head and pounded into the mat. I love seeing them take every ounce as brutal an assault as any heavyweight and then keep peeling their battered, petite, bite-sized bodies off the mats and defying the big boys demanding that they submit in body and soul.
While I don’t care for many matches in which one competitor is just furniture, getting moved and manipulated and owned effortlessly, a match in which a seriously undersized wrestler is defiantly sucking down a mountain of abuse is in a squash-class of its own for me. If the little guy walks in with his head up, clenches his jaw in the face of fate, and demands respect by just surviving a magnificent beating, I will so get off on that just like I did when I staged wide receiver getting his sensational ass tagged in the middle of the ring by that power forward.
However, I think my hardest David vs. Goliath fantasies flip that script with a vengeance. When the audacious little underdog battles back against the barrage of muscle and mass, now that is fucking hot. When he starts accumulating riding time on a thoroughbred 50 pounds bigger, my adrenaline pumps into overdrive. And when I pictured my pretty little wide receiver slapping down a big, cocky all-American who’s never tasted defeat before, when he wears the big boy the fuck out, slapping that beer can in Goliath’s shocked, humiliated face, then little David is fucking king of my world.
I hold heartedly agree with the implication of Charlie’s argument that every homoerotic wrestling roster needs the little guys. Ever roster needs the underwear models and the bodybuilders. Ever roster should have raw edged street punks and square jawed All-American heroes. They should all have daddy’s little rich boys and ripped, raging, beautifully endowed sex brawlers. The industry should invest in recruiting hard edged pros and hot, inexperienced nerds. It should put up flat footed pornboys and fierce, lanky, long-distance runners. Personally I’m longing for a snarling radical fairy doing battle with a white collar stock broker on the homoerotic wresting down low.
The homoerotic pro wrestling industry is as susceptible to the tyranny of the capitalist market place as anything else, of course, so I certainly understand when, occasionally, it seems like everyone climbing through those ropes looks and moves and suffers alike. But as someone who has watched a TON of homoerotic wrestling (not even counting that running channel in my imagination of round the clock homopro), I’m always longing for producers to fill those niches Charlie and I talked about. Tickle those erotic fantasies we didn’t even know we loved. Populate our screens and imaginations with the great diversity of dramas, bodies, races, ages, etc., that makes oppressively straight real life bearable.
And most definitely, gives us pint-sized baby face heroes audacious enough to climb into the ring with beasts a foot taller and 80 pounds heavier, and to tell us a compelling, seat of our pants, crotch-tugging homoerotic wrestling drama that reflects real life writ larger, more erotic, and completely improbable, but yet, speaking to our real lives.
And now, excuse me. I need to go dig out an old college yearbook.
Taking a brief break from the heavy diet of reviews I’ve been dishing out, today I’m lingering a bit on that supremely homoerotic wrestling hold, face-to-crotch headscissors.
I’m sure I’ve mused about this hold before, but I’m too lazy to look it up. So I’ll probably repeat myself when I say that my heart pumps harder in my chest when a straight forward pro wrestling story suddenly introduces face-to-crotch scissors. If you buy that all of pro wrestling can easily be read as an extended homoerotic innuendo, face-to-crotch sort of slaps down the implied erotic subtext and steps at least one toe over the line into straight up homoerotic text.
How wrestlers carry it off, of course, can significantly add to eroticism. I suppose it’s possible to snap your thighs around another man’s head with that up close look at your balls in his face and it be solely about punishment and wrestling victory. But I love watching a wrestler snap shut that bear trap and then enjoy it, openly, luxuriantly, expansively. When someone on the delivery side of this hold pumps his glutes and shoves his hips forward with a little enthusiasm, when he milks the moment with pulsing flexed muscles beating out a morse code of agony from the gasping grunts of his opponent, when he stares down his own hot body and smiles at the sight of his opponent owned and getting primed for sucking cock, when he closes his eyes and leans his head way, way back and that look of an impending orgasm washes across his face, there’s nothing coded about this. This is hot, homoerotic wrestling gold.
The catcher can certainly connect the dots as well. Regardless of who ends up on top after all is said and done, I love it when a captured hunk’s eyes roam hungrily up and down his captors body above him. He doesn’t need to, but if he stretches his hands up and strokes those crushing thighs, the rippling abs, stretching so far as to palm the bulging pecs of his tormentor, it conveys what I’m silently thinking deep inside at that moment. A smothered grappler doesn’t have to, but if he’s man enough to nuzzle the balls bearing down on his face, fuck, maybe even open wide and give the trickster’s treats a hearty lick, it just puts the exclamation point on what this hold conveys from the start: wrestling persistently implies homoerotic intimacy.
When the camera angles and storytelling are just right, face-to-crotch headscissors shine a spotlight on one man’s bulging package, bringing his entire, tasty physique into the mix, making even that swelling muscle of passion a part of the corporal domination of another man. For me, it isn’t even so much about the oral sexual implications, as much as it signals that every magnificent inch of a wrestler’s hot body is engaged in dominating his opponent. Hell, when wrestling companies choose to transition from explicit wrestling to explicit sex, I typically push rewind. Because what’s getting me off is the homoeroticism of the wrestling, not the wrestling as foreplay for sex.
I suppose it isn’t such a far distance between why I’m such a fan of face-to-crotch headscissors as I am a fanatic for my favorite pro wrestling hold, the over-the-knee backbreaker. Both draw my eye to one wrestler’s bulging package. Both center the frame on the outline of a bulging cock and the ballast of balls. Both seem ripe with the erotic potential marrying gay sensibilities and a pro wrestling kink. Both make my pulse pound in anticipation of what happens next to, or with, or on behalf of one wrestler’s swollen pipe.
I sometimes find it ironic that this blog attracts so many visitors thanks to the still frames I include, because it’s the story in and around any one captured slice of time in a wrestling match that tantalizes and titillates me. It’s not any one frozen image that becomes the perfect muse to my erotic imagination, but the drama played out in motion, the slow contraction of muscles, the arching agony in a lower back, the quivering pouch, the writhing feet futilely kicking the mat. I’ve lately talked in terms of “the moneyshot,” meaning that moment in a match at which point I’m likely to climax, but that moment is about the 1,600 seconds before that led up to that moment, the deepening jeopardy of one man, the swelling confidence of another, the bodies growing wet with sweat over time, the veins swelling and pumping harder with blood from the effort and the adrenaline of competition. I get off plenty to face-to-crotch headscissors, but I’m never just getting off to face-to-crotch headscissors.
If there is one valuable analog of face-to-crotch headscissors, I think its the comfort a wrestling company has with the homoerotic eye of their gay audience. In scanning for face-to-crotch headscissors images across several platforms for this post, I found them concentrated in just a couple producers’ catalogs. And I think they play a part in direct proportion to how explicitly companies market to those of us in the audience tuning in and ponying up because we are sexually turned on by wrestling. Of course, face-to-crotch headscissors aren’t the only way of crossing the line from homoerotic subtext to homoerotic text. Hell, they probably aren’t even the best way. But from a strictly correlational perspective, I think they show up in proportion to how much I (at least) perceive of a producer as appreciative of and comfortable with me, as a gay man, watching their wrestling products as a means of sexual gratification.
So probably a close second as my favorite wrestling hold is face-to-crotch headscissors, because when they’re done wrong, they can reveal a whole host of troubled self-hatred bubbling beneath a veneer of nohomo bravado, but when they’re done right, I feel respected as a gay wrestling fan, drawn into the intimacy of homoerotic combat, and turned on hard.