Tag: Mitch Colby

First Class

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It’s been my policy to avoid posting pics from the BG East Arena until the matches are available for sale on the main page. One reason for this is so that I don’t get a flood of “where can I find this match!?” comments. A second reason is that I figure membership should have its privileges, as the old credit card commercial instructs us, and just like the classist foundations of procedures for boarding an airplane, those who pony up should enjoy some perks.

That said, I’m unable to resist posting some preview pics of the upcoming release of Sunshine Shooters 4. My inability to restrain myself is partly a result of the fact that Arena members can already download this match for viewing (so we still have our class privilege), and also because it’s been well-documented that I have both a pathological lack of impulse control AND a crazy crush on Mitch Colby. So there’s access to instant download, Mitch in peak physical condition, and he and juggernaut Brook Stetson stripped to jockstraps and soaked in each other’s sweat. I’m as defenseless as the picture of Mitch with his wrists hogtied behind his back in his own jockstrap (more on that in a second).

Sunshine Shooters 4 has more surprises in store, including the appearance of internet phenom it-boy, Z-Man, wrestling for the first time in the big leagues with BGE. But what I’m obsessing about is Mitch, all 6’2 and 206 pounds of Florida-tanned gorgeous muscle, getting tied up like a pretzel and mounted from behind by 5’11, 240 (!) pounds of thick, granite, hairy musclestud Brook Stetson.

This is not a squash. Man-of-my-dreams Mitch brings some extremely impressive skill and tenacity to the mat. He even wrings a submission out of the mountain of a man in front of him. But, damn! Brook is an astonishingly skilled wrestler and uses every opportunity to exploit his weight and strength advantage to work Mitch into one humiliating, compromised position after another. The sight of Mitch’s head getting completely crushed high between Brook’s ridiculously huge and fantastically inked thighs is wrestling kink perfection.

But wait. Brook then uses Mitch’s own jockstrap to tie the tanned hunk’s wrists behind his back, taunt and humiliate him some more, and then slide Mitch back between his gargantuan thighs for a face-to-crotch head scissor!? I had no idea that you could so decisively improve on perfection. Now, I love Mitch in charge and muscling around his opponents. But there’s something entirely intoxicating about him tenaciously coming back for more, over and over, and getting completely devasted and made defenseless. This match rocks my wrestling kink world. Once it launches for the coach seats, I’ll have much more to say on the matter.

A True Romantic

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Give and Take

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At some point I lost track of Wrestling Arsenal’s fine blog, but I just found it again. He has a nice, smart take on wrestling, and he’s got a fun sense of humor. Wrestling Arsenal’s post yesterday, for example, offers an insightful examination of the suffering wrestling hunk.

“The true beauty of pro wrestling,” he writes, “lies not in the strength and stamina of the winner, but in the frailty, vulnerability, and suffering of the loser.” The ironic twist is that so many of us want to see our favorite wrestler suffer. Hell, I’d venture to guess 99.9% of the readers of this blog get wildly aroused to see our favorite wrestler suffer! Wrestling Arsenal argues that the sight of the suffering hero stirs the most profound pathos. Our sympathies and identification with the sufferer are boiled down to the most potent essence of humanity as we watch the vulnerability of one man laid out so completely, without the least pretense of dignity left to him.

I like this deconstruction of the iconic moment of a wrestler’s suffering. It strikes a chord in me. It also makes me think about the additional element that causes a drastic drop in my blood pressure: the victor gazing down upon the suffering loser. I think all the same elements apply that Wrestling Arsenal describes. And I think that there’s also an element of profound intimacy in that exchange between the two battlers that speaks directly to the inherent homoeroticism of wrestling.

When Jack Guerin climbed into the ring with Joshua Goodman (that’s Mr. Joshua to you!), he had a grin that stretched from ear to ear. He was a young, hard, eager rookie. Seriously sweet pecs and thick shoulders. Ominously, he’d not done his homework, though. He didn’t really know who Mr. Joshua was. He didn’t know what Mr. Joshua was capable of. He didn’t know that 15 minutes later, he’d find himself flat on his stomach in the middle of the ring, completely dazed and nearly delirious. And the key thing that young Jack didn’t know was that Mr. Joshua was standing overtop of him, his feet straddling Jack’s torso, staring down at the young buck’s muscled back. There’s an element of self-congratulations about the victor’s gaze upon his beaten, defenseless opponent. He’s appreciating his handiwork. He’s admiring the effect of his labors played out so explicitly on the suffering body of his once-invincible challenger. Of course, Mr. Joshua is also just waiting for poor Jack to crawl back up to his hands and knees so that he can drop his ass down punishingly into the small of Jack’s back, sending him crashing back to the mat (and then needing to adjust his massive package for his effort). But before that, there’s something almost more intimate about Mr. Joshua’s fixed gaze on upon his outmatched opponent suffering beneath him than any physical contact exchanged between the two.

I haven’t yet seen the classic battle between Dante Rosetti and Davey Dee from Fantasymen 13, but I confess that I’ve been nursing a growing infatuation with Dante lately. The sight of Davey smiling down so malevolently as Dante is flat on his back in the center of the ring is an entire novel of story telling in one photo. Okay, set aside (if you can) the distracting sight of Davey’s cock so clearly outlined beneath the taut, shiny fabric of his white tights. And once you’ve managed to tear your eyes away from both men’s stunning physiques, take another look at Davey’s face. With his head cocked slightly to the side, he’s soaking in Dante’s defenseless. With his hands planted domineeringly on his narrow hips, Davey is simply delighting in the physical vulnerability of his gorgeous opponent. Even though I haven’t seen the match, I can tell with absolute certainty that the the gorgeous dark Italian that climbed into the ring with such a sense of inevitability about his victory couldn’t have imagined he’d be flattened and helpless soon enough. Whatever these two got up to in the ring (or out of the ring, for that matter), this pleased, assessing gaze that Davey gives his beaten hunk just seems astonishingly intimate to me.

My last case in point comes from one of the all time great mat battles in my book. Mitch Colby, the then owner of my favorite homoerotic wrestling pornboy title, faced off against the timeless physique and constantly growing mat savvy of BG East veteran Patrick Donovan. These two stunning hunks compare stats before the match starts. Mitch has an extra inch of height and a couple handfuls of pounds over Patrick, but both coldly calculating studs agree that they’re evenly matched on paper. When the scramble begins, it turns out that they’re evenly matched in practice, as well. The submissions fly fast and furious. Both boys are twisted and crushed to the point that it makes me wince just to watch it. They both fight a little dirty, taking unnecessary advantage, refusing to break on submissions, resorting to crotch claws to steal the wind from each other’s sails. When Patrick suggests a bearhug challenge, both long, tall slabs of beef are soaked in sweat and put on gorgeous display as they take turns willingly suffering in each other’s arms. Back and forth, back and forth, you begin to wonder if either of these boys will manage to build the momentum to finally derail his tenacious opponent.

But in the end, Mitch conquers like the reigning champ he was. Patrick is lying in pools of both boys’ sweat, flat on his back, pretty much oblivious to the world in the exhausted haze Mitch left him in. Mitch flexes and preens. He throws his own little victory party as he celebrates while Patrick slowly writhes on the mat with Mitch’s foot planted alternatingly on his ass and then crushing his crotch. And then Mitch takes up that familiar position, his feet straddling Patrick’s ridiculously narrow waist as he stares down long and hard at the fallen gladiator. Patrick’s instantly inadequate orange thong barely does the job of reigning in the veteran’s swollen moneymaker. True enough, Mitch pretty quickly connects all the dots going through your mind and mine by dropping to his hand and knees, grinding his own pouch into Patrick’s, pinning the loser’s wrists over his head, and tasting the sweet taste of victory. But I swear to you, that moment that Mitch is hovering, gazing down at his beaten man, that’s the most intimate moment of this match in my mind, as Mitch simply witnesses up close what Wrestling Arsenal calls “the vulnerability, frailty, and suffering of the loser.”

Power and vulnerability. Strength and weakness. Dominance and submission. Victory and defeat. It’s the combination of these elements that write the wrestling stories that grab hold of us. I keep watching not for the sight of one man’s hand raised in victory, but for that erotic telling of the story of a relationship, of power against power and the slow turning of power into vulnerability.

Wrestling Ink

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I think it’s been a while since last I took the time to marvel at the particular pleasures of wrestling ink. While I’m awfully entertained by many of my favorite wrestlers who manage to be a work of art and a blank canvas simultaneouslyl, I continue to nurse a visceral infatuation with tattooed wrestlers.
True, it isn’t Thunder’s Arena wrestler Big Sexy’s tattoos that make me marvel the most. It takes a lot for his extensive and colorful body art to fail to be the most eye catching feature on his fantastic physique. But there’s pretty much nothing that could beat that ass of his, though I, for one, would like to get in line for just that task. As his ass is true to his name, his expansive and gorgeous ink is also both big and sexy. His most recent scrap after calling out devasting muscle hunk, Ace Hanson, is just about the sexiest pairing of wrestling bodies I’ve ever seen.

Another recent Thunder’s match, Mat Wars 22, also has me appreciating some more wrestling ink. Perennial battler Angel is simply stunning for both his beautiful body and the delightful artwork. I’m also intrigued by the sizable crucifix tattooed on the ribcage of new wrestler, fratboy-deluxe, Jackson. Is it sacrilegious of me to note that the crucifix makes me hot to see Jackson suffer even more? Probably. Nevertheless…

Recent BG East matches have also been well-populated with ink lately. Newcomer Hoyt Riley already has a massive quantity  of body art, and it looks like he’s in the middle of getting more. Some outlines ready for shading make me wonder if his beatdown at the hands of Mitch Colby may have provided the down payment for another trip to his artist.

Far less expansive, but still sexy as hell are Jonny Firestorm’s armband and shoulder characters. I’d love to see Jonny both continue to heel and take more ink. Send the pretty, pretty boy rookies to Jonny and the legitimate wrestler rookies to Denny to break in. Denny and Jonny can fight over who gets to welcome the pretty, pretty boy legitimate wrestlers to BGE.

Last, but certainly not least, I’ve appreciated the gorgeous art on Can-Am’s Michael Vineland lately. I’m still a little giddy over his fantastic performance with rookie homoerotic wrestling pornboy, Landon Mycles in Pro Sex Fight 1. I’ve gone heavy on the appreciation of Landon’s performance, including making the pornboy turned “pro wrestler” last October’s homoerotic wrestler of the month for the effort. But credit where credit’s due, Michael accounts for at least 50% of the excellent salesmanship in this match, and he’s bigger and harder than I’ve ever seen him. He’s also got a lot of ink adorning those incredibly sexy, massive muscles of his.

Year in Review – Favorite Moment #1

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Surely it can’t be a mystery what my #1 favorite moment in blogging of 2010 has been.  I started tracking my favorite homoerotic wrestling pornboys a year and a half ago, with Mitch Colby holding the inaugural title for months on end. Derek da Silva shook things up near the end of 2009, coming on strong, mentioning my blog on his Twitter account, and just like that, Derek kneed Mitch in the groin and brought the big man to his knees. Derek managed to hold the title a precious brief snapshot in time, though. Shortly after, Mitch’s Wrestler Spotlight was released, and largely on the merits of his sweat soaked mat battle with Patrick Donovan, Mitch squeezed Derek between those tree trunks he calls thighs until the title popped right back into his hands. That earned both battlers my #1 favorite moment of 2009.


Something unexpected happened in winter of this year though. Specifically, Rusty Stevens happened. Rusty’s performance in Can-Am’s first Arena release completely took me by surprise. After beating his jobber opponent into the mat, naked with his gorgeous pipe a-swinging as he paced around the loser, Rusty let loose with a trash talk clinic on corporate turncoat Aryx Quinn that made me dizzy with desire. Just like that, he climbed up from the hordes of hopefuls to slam Derek’s ass to the mat and ride him like a pony into the top contender spot for my favorite homoerotic wrestling pornboy.


Shortly thereafter, the dark horse showed up in Arena 2, picking right up where he left off, trash talking circles around Aryx Quinn. It was his “spanking the baby” dance, illustrating how, when Aryx is unconscious at the end of the match, he plans on “tapping that ass,” that pulled off Rusty’s second consecutive stunning upset. He came up on Mitch from behind and managed to snag the title as my undisputed favorite homoerotic wrestling pornboy right out of Mitch’s hands almost without a fight. That swagger! That razor wire wit! The body of an adonis, the mouth of a trucker, and the wrestling chops of a serious player… Rusty settled into the top spot in my rankings like he’d owned the place from the start.



The earth shook beneath my feet the day that BG East posted their preview pics of their first summer release, The Breaking Point: Sexy, Sexier, Sexiest over at the BGE Arena. A truer word has never been spoken in dubbing Rusty’s head-to-head mat battle with none other than Mitch Colby as “sexiest.” I’d played that scenario out in my imagination enough times that the promise of a Rusty v Mitch mat battle seemed too surreal to believe. I whipped out my… wallet so fast that my ass got burned, and I waited with desperate impatience to see these two titans of my homoerotic wrestling lusts actually face off in jock straps.

Let’s be honest, here. This could easily have turned into the #1 disappointment of the year for me. I’d worked this match-up over in my own wrestling kinked imagination so often that Rusty and Mitch were in serious danger of never being able to live up to my fantasy. Would this turn out to be too much of a good thing? And most importantly, would this prove to be the game changer that managed to topple Rusty’s cocky, trash talking ass right off his throne and reinstall #1 contender Mitch with the title he really did own from the beginning?



My joy knew no bounds when I popped in the DVD and sat back to watch The Breaking Point: Sexiest. Mitch was simply huge, a mountain of a man. No longer the svelte fitness competitor of his recent appearances, Mitch was the epitome of a big-n-beefy battler. He just took up so much fucking space in that Florida sunroom! It’s not like a lot of people could dwarf the 6’0, 200 pounds of lean muscle that are Rusty, but Mitch did it the instant he stepped on the mat. Rusty instantly did what Rusty does best: he launched a psychological attack on his opponent’s ego to leave him flat-footed for the physical assault to follow. He threw a couple of jabs at Mitch’s weight and fitness, calling attention to his own sliced to shreds physique. But there’s just no denying the look of intimidation that sneaked across Rusty’s face frequently as the two titans locked up. This was not going to be the walk in the park that Rusty, in his supreme, cocky self-confidence, probably had in mind.

They wrestled hard. They both had sheets of sweat pouring off of them before the trunks got ripped off. It was a back and forth battle, with both hunks determined not just to win, but to tame their opponent into true submission. Mitch’s size advantage started to swing momentum decisively his way about after about the halfway point. He squeezee the air out of Rusty in a fantastic bearhug, shaking the pornboy like a rag doll. Rusty countered with a completely unexpected toe suck to tame the beast he’d awoken in Mitch, but Mitch would not be denied. The #1 contender beat a final submission out of Rusty before lording over the wasted champ, pumping on Rusty’s gorgeous cock until he popped.



What makes one my favorite homoerotic wrestler, though, is not always the score card at the end of the match. In this case, Mitch threw everything he had at the title holder, weaving together a smoking hot story of homoerotic domination. But Mitch never managed to successfully “tame” Rusty. Rusty remained feisty and fierce even with his cock completely under Mitch’s control. It’s Rusty’s smart mouth that made the razor thin margin of victory not in the match, but in my rankings. Sitting squarely on Mitch’s face, about halfway through the match, Rusty preened as if he was about to cum with the sheer exhiliration of the moment of domination. With a chuckle in his voice, Rusty snarled down at Mitch, “I’m thinking you may want to give, but then again, my ass is in your face.”



And again, I was helpless against Rusty’s razor wire wit woven seamlessly through his sweat-soaked, grunting and grinding, hell bent on a humiliating homoerotic wrestling performance. Mitch won the battle, but Rusty held onto the title as my very favorite homoerotic wrestling pornboy, and that, my friends was my favorite moment of 2010.



It didn’t hurt that the BGE website referenced this very blog in the description of the match, but I swear to you, this would’ve been my most favorite moment of 2010 in any case. Even as I toast to the reigning champion at year’s end, I’m eyeing what 2011 might hold for the pornboy rankings. Trent Diesel has been coming on strong, a major workhorse earning his homoerotic wrestling credit with a steady stream of performances, mostly over at Naked Kombat. Rusty’s performance in
Raging Stallion’s Brutal was, frankly, underwhelming (not that I think that was Rusty’s fault, but he was simply underutilized). Either way, the title seems to be under serious contention again, with Trent looking like he could overtake the champion through sheer hard work and tenacity (not to mention his jaw-dropping physique, aesthetically perfect tats, and speaking of aesthetically perfect, have you taken a look at Trent’s ass!?).

2010 was indeed a fantastic year for me, and hope it was for you as well. For all the readers who keep me honest and the readers who egg me on, for the producer’s and back office boys working the homoerotic wrestling business for a living, and for the hardworking hunks, both pornboy and non-pornboy, wrestling their asses off for our entertainment, I especially lift a toast of joy and appreciation for you all. For Rusty, Mitch, Trent, Mr.
Joshua, Lon, Landon, Bobby, Enforcer, Denny, and the steady stream of generous, hot and sweaty boys doing the hard and certainly not risk-free work of homoerotic wrestling, I toast to your good health and continued success in the coming year.

Words and Silences

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

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

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

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

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

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

Collapsing the Metaphor

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A little while back a reader interrogated me offline about my deprecating straight-up wrestling and fixating, instead, on more explicitly homoerotic fare. If it’s just about “grab-ass,” as he put it, doesn’t it lose the aggro, the potential ferocity? In short, he wondered, in my fixation on the homoerotic, don’t I lose some of what’s essential to an authentic wrestling kink?

First, I want to say that the occasional, seemingly inadvertant (yet literal) grab-ass in a match has quite an allure, even in the context of a match that’s light on the homo or the explicitly erotic. Dom the Dominator and the seventh wonder of the world known as his physique are profoundly arousing for me in most any context. But when he scoops up a young, eager Brad Rochelle to drop him across his knee, digging his fingertips into the gorgeous, round, hard ass of boy wonder… well, I know I’m not alone in wearing out the VCR tape at that precise moment to catch that delightful moment of grab-ass in freeze frame (and later, slow motion). I like to think even the more straight-up performers throw in some gratuitous moments like this. And I adore them for it.
But back to my original point… there are plenty of moments when watching two beautiful men pound the hell out of each other and sell some convincing aggression will be all I need to completely exhaust myself. But there are some periods, such as the one I’m in now, where I absolutely crave the homoerotic component of my homoerotic wrestling. A literal, lingering grab of the ass can catapult me into a deeply satisfying, body-affirming, gay-affirming, passionate place that without it, can leave me feeling a little desperate. The BGE classic, Tommy Lopez, in a mutual, tender ass grab in the midst of a sweaty, snarling smack down is the value-added that I’ve got a major lust for these days.
It’s not just the literal grab-ass I’m talking about, of course. Grab most anything and hold on appreciatively, and it can definitely count in my book. Of course, a cock-grab or a ball-grab (or for those with large enough hands, a cock-and-ball-grab) connects all the dots for the elements that I’m talking about. But frankly, a commanding, appraising hold on your opponent’s chin can leap-frog well you beyond a play-it-straight tussle. An appreciative squeeze of a meaty pec (I’m not talking a claw here, but a grab), sends my brain firing on all cylinders in moods like I’m in right now.
But I love a collapsed metaphor, and a commanding, solid handful of glute seals the deal for me whenever I’m treated to the sight. Another BGE classic, Brian Baxter, had an ass for days himself, so his thumping of Tim Anderson’s juicy melons is just asking for it, begging for it, making me start talking at the screen pleading for a return of that awesome, satisfying favor on Brian. Grab that ass! I’m looking for the element of grab-ass in my wrestling right at the moment.
You know me. You know I can go on and on about the role of imagination, and you know I can fill in the gaps in just about any story to make it suit my particular kinky tastes. But even I, sometimes, find myself feeling like a literalist. So to the reader who complained that I’m too much into the “grab-ass” scene, I do, truly, get your point. And sometimes, nothing else but some grab-ass will do.

…In Love and War

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Homoerotic Wrestler of the Month

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Trent Diesel’s reign as my homoerotic wrestler of the month is coming to a close. I’m still rooting for more wrestling action from the prime time porn boy, at which point he might make another -of-the-month appearance, or he could seriously make a run in my favorite homoerotic wrestling pornboy rankings. In the mean time, time marches on. New releases this month have been pretty abundant, particularly for the lean months of summer. BG East released the second half of their catalog 83 new releases, including some notable performances by Rio Garza & Reese Wells, Bobby Horton & Tyrell Tomsen, and an impressive 1-on-2 beatdown by Donnie Drake. Naked Kombat put up 4 contenders, including a pretty damn tasty oil match debut for one hard, compact little bundle of hot muscle, Sami Damo. I’m too confused to track the timing of Can-Am’s to-disc releases, so I’m just going to count their Max subscription releases as new to me, since that’s where I’m getting most of my Can-Am fix lately. As a result, I’m tossing in the first few scenes from Arena 4, Toy Fights, and Jobe Zander vs. Aryz Quinn Director’s Battle as contenders. If you’re keeping count, Aryx Quinn is in all three of these Can-Am releases, which brings to mind my comments about Rio Garza’s overexposure recently. But in the interest of keeping the peace, I’ll just let it pass. Did I miss any new releases?

Well, without further ado… my pick for reigning homoerotic wrestler of the month is Bobby Horton.

A major factor in my selection of Bobby is how he came completely out of the blue to shock me into awed respect. The last time I caught sight of Bobby, Mitch Colby’s balls were wresting on his chin in Backyard Brawls 5. While I was jealous of that position, I really didn’t take much note of Bobby (my eyes were all over Mitch).

Well, Bobby’s come a long way, baby. Storming the ring against muscleboy Tyrell Tomsen in BG East’s Ring Rookies 3: A Heel is Born, Bobby grabbed hold of my attention with both hands, shook me around a bit, slapped my ass and absolutely made me sit up and take notice.
Bobby emerges as an out-and-out freak in this bout with Tyrell. A screw shook loose somewhere along the way (perhaps in getting manhandled by the drop dead gorgeousness of Mitch), and Bobby is wrestling like he just doesn’t care who he hurts any more. Wait, I take that back… Bobby is wrestling like he cares just a little too much about hurting just about anyone. He’s a little maniacal, a lot sadistic, and he moves like a work of pro-style art.
Not to give it all away, but Bobby is the one mentioned in the subtitle of this match. He’s getting some major kicks thwarting the overwhelming power of Tyrell and, in turn, laying some devastating hurt on the big man. He also takes as good as he gives, but it’s the give that really turned me into a Bobby fan this month. Bobby’s in the nonpornboy ranks (so far… I can always dream), but he brings plenty of kink with him to his beatdown on Tyrell. He’s got the moves. He’s got a hot, made-for-pro, rough and tumble body. And now that he’s got a balls-out giant-killer lust to lay down some hurt, I say he’s the total package. Bring on some more Bobby!

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Several recent comments here have sent me thinking more deeply about what it is that a wrestling kinkster gets in explicitly homoerotic wrestling that he doesn’t in basic cable pro. “The gay” has had a longstanding presence in straight-up pro wrestling for… well, forever, hasn’t it? The classic flaming pro-wrestler with his feather boa, dancing on the balls of his feet, have been a not-so latent element in the scene for at least as long as pro wrestling has been televised, it seems to me. I made a break with regularly following straight-up pro scenes about a decade ago, but when I’m flipping through the channels, I get the impression that “the gay” continues to creep more and more into that scene. Hasn’t there been and openly gay wrestler or two? Isn’t the erotic sub-text getting more and more main-text, as the modern audience is catching on to what so many of us have understood for a long time… that two hardbodied, barely clothed hunks grinding and squeezing their bodies together can’t help but be about sexual prowess, if not outright sex.


But I’m so far out of the straight-up pro loop, I’ll have to rely on those many of you who keep up with it to correct me. Feel free, in fact. I’m blindly wandering into a subject that I know, at most, only 50% about: what is it that we gay wrestling kinksters get in our homoerotic wrestling that we don’t get in straight-up basic cable pro? (Indie fanatics can tell me if this applies to that scene as well)…. In no particular order:
Tear-away crotch gear. And for that matter, full-on centering of the gorgeous male erection. If these elements were popping up in straight-up pro, it would seriously make me consider diving back into that scene. As it is, I’m thinking that, despite a diversity of gear and gear-related stories in straight-up pro, the tear-away crotch and the aroused cock are entirely in the domain of the homoerotic side of wrestling. Please, tell me I’m wrong.
Hand-to-bare-crotch ball abuse. Before I washed my hands of straight-up pro entirely, crotch abuse was on the rise. But as far as I know (and you will correct me), wrestlers actually stuffing their hands down each other’s trunks and clawing each other’s balls for all it’s worth (or even better, entirely naked, prolonged cock and ball bashing), marks a dividing line between wrestling packaged for us as opposed to wrestling packaged for them.
Passionate, full on, tongues-down-throats kissing. I can remember at least a couple of instances where a straight-up pro story used a man-on-man kiss as the excuse for violence (not hard to read the homosexual panic storyline here), but never as the mutual climax of the physical competition. Hard fought, sweaty, pounding, tooth-and-nail wrestling should lead to some intense respect and mutual gratification, I think. If the buff bigboys on basic cable occasionally lost themselves in passion at the end of a particularly close fought match, again, I’d absolutely have to tune back in.
Naked bearhugs. Well, naked everything, really. So we’ve been led to believe that the ancient Greeks battled it out this way, but as far as I know, other than the occasional bare-ass moment (treated as a moment of ego-crushing humiliation), the straight-up pros keep their gear on their bodies. A bearhug or a boston crab or a head scissors may be technically identical between the two genres, but the innovation of losing the gear first completely retranslates everything into a language I’m much more fluent in, and whose tones I find much more pleasing.
Oil wrestling. Especially naked oil wrestling, but seriously, any kind of oil wrestling seems like it’s this side of the neutral zone between straight-up pro and full-on homoerotic wrestling. Lubricating bodies can’t help but make everything more arousing, both in the action and on this side of my television screen. I suspect I could be on thin ice on this one, and I’ll be very pleased to be corrected to learn that the straight-up pros are breaking out the babyoil for one another… but I’m doubtful.
Toe-sucking. Okay, I can’t remember seeing this in a wrestling match before my current favorite homoerotic wrestling pornboy, Rusty Stevens, pulled it out as a defensive move against Mitch Colby this summer. So it isn’t exactly a staple of homoerotic wrestling. But somehow, I can’t see this innovation showing up in prime-time. Both genres have overlapping standard toolkits for distraction and diversion in a match, but I, for one, am really pleased when I see some erotic worship as a strategic move.
The naked pony ride. Or, really, the loser-gets-used scenario in general, involving any element of nakedness. The pony ride itself seems to be a signature primarily at Naked Kombat, though I’d love to see this gimmick show-up elsewhere. Somehow, I could imagine seeing it cross-pollinate through other homoerotic wrestling companies about a century before it would show up in straight-up pro… though Joe at Ringside at Skull Island continues to feature some fantastic indie boys I’d pay good money to see ride or get ridden… naked, of course.
The jack-off. Either post-match or, as Aryx Quinn illustrates here with Braden Charron (and KL on Chris from yesterday’s post), locked in a classic wrestling move, a forced to cum show of domination/voyeurism/humiliation. This falls under the same theme as the any-straight-up-pro hold that turns naked idea, but add to that some masturbation, and, well, this just isn’t going to show up on basic cable anytime soon… or a pay-per-view extravaganza… or, well, anywhere other than the homoerotic specialists.
Oral. The spoils of victory never tasted so sweet on any, any, any straight-up pro match as it does when a homoerotic wrestler lays his loser out and sucks his cock like there’s no tomorrow. Depending on the angle, the loser-gets-forced-to-suck story (see every Naked Kombat match, for example), also works only on this side of the line. Just as an aside, I’m more a fan of the taste of victory than I am of the loser-gets-face-fucked plot. Ironically, there’s something almost “straight” feeling about the latter to me…
Anal. Most of the same comments apply here. This just isn’t going to show up for the straight-up pro boys, though how sweet would that be to see some of those fine, muscle-asses on the line and plowed in the center of the ring when they lose? But that’s precisely what leads me (and many of us, I’m sure) to homoerotic wrestling products. Straight-up pro only takes us so far. Our imaginations can complete the scene, but there’s something awfully satisfying and, in some ways, validating about seeing the scenario play out exactly the way you and I would imagine. I don’t think that a match needs to end in a forced-fuck to be homoerotic, by any means. In fact, I get a little tired when it seems to be obligatory, and I get the impression that the creativity and competition of a wrestling match sometimes turn into clock-punching routine as the boys go through the familiar motions. But a victory fuck closes the circuit in my mind. From the anticipation, promise, and implications of straight-up pro, homoerotic wrestling fills in the silences and opens up the possibilities that turn me on like no baggy-shorts prime-timer has ever done.

I know I’ve missed a lot. I’m sure I’ve overstated my case… because that’s just what happens when I have a whole blog to myself to rant and ramble. But seriously… sincerely… I’ll be pleased no end to hear what I’ve managed to get completely wrong here.