Injury Time-Out

No, I’m not calling an injury time-out for myself. I’m just musing on the injury time-out in homoerotic wrestling. The point really is physical domination, so it should come as no surprise that wrestling of all stripes should come with the occasional injury. Even the “kayfabe” element of wrestling, I have to imagine, has it’s fair share of real-life bumps, bruises and breaks. Then of course there’s the sadistic angle so relished in our homoerotic wrestling fare – the wrestler who doesn’t just want to win; he wants to make his opponent hurt. While that’s one hot scenario from where I sit as a consumer, again, I have to imagine it’s chock full of risks associated with actual injury that requires (or should) medical attention.
This topic pops up for me in particular after I watched Naked Kombat’s release yesterday, pitting Phenix Saint and Cameron Adams against (never-bet-against-him) DJ and Viking farmboy Blake Daniels. Halfway through round 1, Phenix has DJ in a bad way. DJ’s head his locked against Phenix’ ribcage like a vice, with Phenix cranking like a mother-fucker on DJ’s left shoulder. He pulls DJ forward, sort of bulldogging/pile-driving the curly head scrapper into the mat. It looked nasty, with big, brute Phenix muscling the skinny boy around like a plaything.

The thing is, however, that Phenix actually fucked up his own shoulder in that maneuver. A few seconds later, after DJ has tagged in his partner, Phenix calls an injury time-out, rubbing his left shoulder and wincing in genuine pain. He finishes off the round, but disappears from the scene between rounds due to damaging his shoulder. NK adeptly improvises a 1-on-1 for round 2, and pulls in an unfortunate understudy to take Phenix’ place for round 3 (but not round 4… seems sketchy to me). In the post-match interview, DJ smirks when asked about the injury-provoking move when Phenix dropped him on his head. “Yeah, he got hurt out of it. I’m fine,” he chuckles. Like I said, do NOT bet against DJ.
For quite a while, NK explicitly swore off live audience matches because, they found, there were just too many injuries that resulted from the extra adrenaline pump the wrestlers got from the fans. Perhaps they have a new insurance carrier now, because a couple of months ago they began releasing many more live audience matches, which thrills me no end. Of course, injuries still occur. Leo Forte delivered a sharp, defensive foot to Trent Diesel’s face in their tag-team tussle from April 13, 2011 (setting up their “grudge” match last week). You can almost literally see stars circling around Trent’s head for a moment. Like the champion he is, however, Trent shakes it off, roars like a beast, and comes back hungrier than ever. Reminds me of Trent’s 2nd match from over a year ago, when he beat up on 2 opponents in one outing because Patrick Rouge had to bail for an injury after just one round. You can tell that, for the most part, the pornboys really respect and even care for one another over at NK… and STILL they end up doing serious damage from time to time.
I don’t think of myself as bloodthirsty, and yet… there’s something about the injury time-out that multiplies an already erotic wrestling match. Take Brit grapplers Brad Flash and Torvik Tirva and their Motel Madness 11 match. Just like a live audience does it for Naked Kombat, a pre-existing grudge can pretty much always increase the odds of injury. Apparently Torvik and Brad have met on more than one occasion prior to Motel Madness 11, and it seems that each time Torvik schools his smaller opponent with relish. While Motel Madness is hardly one-sided, and Brad dishes out just a fraction less than he gets in return, Torvik turns on the afterburners at the end of this match and goes for nothing less than twisting Brad’s knee like I used to twist Stretch Armstrong as a kid (have I done a “What Turned Me Gay” for my Stretch Armstrong yet?). Torvik is relentless and not merely uncaring of the potential for causing his opponent injury; he’s hungry for it. He bares his teeth like a feral animal and works that leglock like Brad’s knee had personally insulted Torvik’s mother. The match only comes to an end when Brad can’t stand on his messed up knee any longer. Nursing his knee on the couch, he extends his hand, conceding like a gentleman to the opponent that has yet again bested him. Torvik smacks the hand away with contempt, turns his back on the loser, and flexes with pride, rubbing in his cocky superiority.

Perhaps the wrestling injury is like the car race crash. No one wants to admit it, but they thrill to watch it happen. The adrenaline in the stands pumps harder. The vicarious rush of endorphins washes over us. No, it’s not like I want to see anyone permanently fucked up or require medical attention. But dancing along the edge of danger and flirting with injury-provoking aggression has an erotic component that I simply can’t deny. And the injury time-out, the nursing and assessing and wincing and gauging the will to soldier-on in the face of danger, is itself sweet, hot wrestling text.

There Oughta Be a Law

I was holding vigil all weekend in anticipation of the arrival of summer. It still hasn’t arrived, as evidenced by my pasty white skin and layers of clothes, but the hot morning weatherman on my local television news station promises me that I’ll be in short sleeves tomorrow, just in time for the solstice.

So there’s no quiz for you this week. Considering school’s out and the grads are still hung over, I figure you deserve a break from test-taking. I’ve also been abundantly distracted by my first taste of the juicy new releases from BG East. I’ve been trying to pace myself and drink plenty of fluids, but one moment in Fantasymen 33: Muscle Pros keeps grabbing my attention. At one key point in the development of the match, Z-Man is appropriately taking a well-earned, nasty beating from Kid Karisma. They’ve both given and taken their fair share of pounding, but now Kid K has beaten the mocha-skinned muscle model into submission, and then added a gratuitous ball claw on the pretty boy just to seal the deal. Z-Man is finally writhing on his stomach on the canvas, clutching his balls in agony, when Kid K bends over (just linger on those last 4 words a while…. okay, now continue), grabs Z-Man’s pink trunks, and wedgies them high up his ass.

So a couple things speak to me here that probably don’t need mentioning (but that’s what I do around here, isn’t it? I mention everything I think). Z-Man’s bare ass is beautiful. A work of art. I’d go so far as to say his ass is even pretty, and I mean that with all due respect. I’d frame those golden glutes and hang them on a wall. Yanking the fabric away to give a less-obstructed view is nothing but an act of politeness from Kid K to you and me, as far as I’m concerned. Sure, it seems to dial up the agony in Z-Man, but seriously, that wedgie is a thoughtful gift from Kid K to us. “Take a look boys,” Kid K could have just as easily said out loud. As Kid K himself remarked earlier in the match, examining Z-Man’s vulnerable ass in a compromised moment, “Oh yeah, definitely very, very pretty!”

But then Z-Man does the unforgivable (as far as I’m concerned). As soon as he catches his breath, he quickly reaches behind him and digs the pink fabric out of his crack, re-covering those dessert-like cheeks. I’m not exaggerating when I tell you, I yelled at the screen the first time I saw this. That punk-ass bastard (said lovingly)!  When the trunks get wedgied, ripped, yanked or stripped, in homoerotic wrestling they need to stay that way. Screw your decency and sense of humility or dignity, Z-Man! Those went out the door well before you were screaming like a baby, trapped in the ropes, with Kid K’s claw crushing your testicles from behind. When your ass gets displayed by someone as generous and thoughtful as Kid K, you should just take it like the babyface muscle model rookie that you are (at least in these parts).

Before anyone gets the wrong idea (though I have no control over that, I’m reminded often), let me clarify that I love this match. I love Z-Man in this match. I LOVE Kid Karisma in this match. I can’t quite make it 10 minutes into this match before a dramatic cardiovascular event happens within me. It’s not that I actually don’t like Z-Man or his work here. I just feel like there should be some policy that says that homoerotic wrestlers that lose full coverage of their gear should have to just grin and bear it. There’s sort of a justice about it. Once the skin is exposed, it should have to stay that way. Any homoerotic wrestler who readjusts his gear to cover back up should merit a merciless and humiliating beating and the penalty of losing ALL his gear before all is said and done.

This brings to mind (in my constant stream of consciousness sort of way), Christopher Bruce’s “comeback” against Cole Cassidy in Demolition 10. Cole applies perhaps the nastiest wedgie I’ve ever seen as a defensive maneuver when he’s trapped in Christopher’s crushing bearhug. Unlike Z-Man, however, Christopher shows the instincts of a veteran. He and Cole deliver precisely what it is I’m tuning in to see here. He just keeps right on wrestling, his gorgeous bubble butt bouncing beautifully unencumbered by his trunks. I’m sure it wasn’t comfortable, but Christopher didn’t climb into that ring to be comfortable. He climbed in there to deliver what you and I pay for!

Naked Kombat’s recent match illustrated that Phenix Saint has the same veteran instincts. I’m pretty sure that NK instructs the wrestlers to leave the gear wherever the action takes it. But some can’t help themselves but tug the trunks back up, as if that was going to mean anything in round 3 and 4. But I enjoy watching Phenix completely un-selfconcious as he soldiers on after rookie farmboy Blake has yanked his red trunks three-quarters of the way down his ass. The trunks and the exposure clearly mean nothing to Phenix, and yet they mean so much to me. So his single-minded focus in ignoring his ass hanging out makes me root for Phenix that much harder.

And speaking of hard, and just to complete this stream of consciousness ranting, this makes me think of the truly remarkable rookie debut four months ago of seriously entertaining grappler, Adonis, running circles around Gianni Luca and tying the Italian up in knots. NK gives points for getting your opponent’s gear off of him. They get special points in round 2 when they can yank their opponent’s jockstraps over their heads, as opposed to just ripping them off. Adonis illustrates his tenacity and determination by working the “over-the-head” points in round 1, when Gianni is still in his speedo-style trunks. Cranking on Gianni’s skimpy red trunks like there’s no tomorrow, Adonis rips the crotch out of them and slowly manages to stretch them up and over the Italian jobber’s head and eventually entirely off his body. Not only is this a feat, in and of itself (buy a pair of speedos and just try this!), Adonis doesn’t skip even a beat as he performs this maneuver while simultaneously maintaining complete control of Gianni in one completely dominating, crushing, humiliating hold after another. We need to see Adonis and his gorgeous tool in action again!

I’m not entirely sure I’m finishing this post in the same spot where I started it, but let me just conclude by saying this is what gear is meant for in homoerotic wrestling: getting removed. Whether it’s in the form of a vicious wedgie that reveals the gorgeous glutes beneath, or if it’s in the form of ripping the extraneous garment off entirely, gear inevitably stands between me and the next level of homoerotic pleasure. While it’s certainly true that I can be entertained with hot wrestling involving all gear staying firmly in place from start to finish, if there are any wardrobe malfunctions (and especially the intentional ones), it ought-a be a law! Leave gear where ever the action takes it, especially if that’s stretched so high up Z-Man’s ass crack that it makes the muscleboy gag!


Naked Kombat’s Phenix Saint explains his plans in his pre-match interview this week. “My strategy is to get him with the speed and the agility, and I have the experience. And I’m going to use everything against him, and let him think he’s in control. And just when he thinks so, I’m going to…” Phenix snaps his fingers, “…flip it on him. Bam-bam-bam!” he mimes spanking his opponent’s ass. “And bam-bam-bam!” he illustrates three quick punches.”

It’s the “bam-bam-bams” that spike my wrestling kink! Fight dialogue (before, during, after) exponentiates the erotic in homoerotic wrestling, for my tastes. You’ve heard this from me before, many times. Everything about homoerotic wrestling works on me, but what comes out of a wrestler’s mouth can be a turbo boost to the already fantastic formula of hot bodies, skimpy gear, sexy swagger and intimately dominating physical combat. The testimonial is a particularly entertaining vehicle for highly eroticized wrestling text. Naked Kombat plays this up in every match, requiring that wrestlers stand silently, with their backs to the camera, listening as their opponents trash talk and make their predictions about just how much humiliation that they’ve got in store for the poor loser behind them.

“Hi, I’m Rusty Stevens,” Rusty introduced himself before his oil match with Tommy Defendi. “Six foot. 190 pounds. I’m 3-and-0 here on Naked Kombat, soon to be 4-and-0. I’ve called that win out before each fight,” Rusty flexes his left tricep and examines it nonchalantly, “and I’m calling it again.” Rusty has got to be the premiere deliverer of the erotic delights of pre- and post-match trash talk. With his totally smokin’ body, he always bragged that he didn’t bother training for his matches because he knew that his opponent would be a piece of cake. “My strategy,” Rusty explained before his match with Tommy, “is to tire him out so bad that I throw him around like a little doll. When I beat my opponent, first I’ll ride him around like a pony, then I’m going to apply the usual fish hooks, but then I’ve got some new tricks that I’m going to try on him today,” Rusty rubs the palms of his hands together eagerly, “and he’s not going to like. That’s what the loser gets.”

The “here’s-what-I’m-going-to-do” chat feels a whole lot like foreplay between me and the wrestler giving me his blueprint for destroying his opponent. On Top Wrestling had that format, at least for the few OTW matches I saw (almost entirely to obsess over celestial, golden musclegod, Steve Shannon). Each wrestler would take turns with a close-up testimonial, explaining why it is he expected to come out on top. Steve Shannon, as I remember it, was always selling an “aw, shucks” banter that made me putty in his hands. With my eyes hungrily sucking up every twitch and tremor of his incredible body, Steve would point out that his opponent looks big and awfully impressive, but hopefully he’ll manage to out-hustle him into a submission or two. I always feel a little guilty when I find myself sucked into pining for a prettyboy, knight-in-white victory of the good guy.

Of course, I never feel that guilt when enjoying a Rusty Stevens match. And I’m equally as aroused by the “that’s-what-I-just-did”chat, when a sweat soaked victor, his chest still heaving as his lungs suck in recuperative oxygen, snidely delivers the blow-by-blow retrospective on his dominating ways. Unlike many/most Naked Kombat wrestlers, Rusty never breaks character even when all is said and done. “Tell me I didn’t call that one. Tell me I didn’t call that one!” Rusty challenges the off-camera interviewer for the post-mortem of his match with Tommy. “He put up a fight, I’ll give him that. Uh, I think he’s got a little ‘boo-boo’ on his forehead, or something. Pretty much everything I tried worked for me. The only thing I couldn’t do was the grapevine hold in the oil match, because as soon as I’d get him in the hold, he’d slip right out…. My first oil match. It was hot, though. Cause, like, I remember when my stomach was sliding across his, and I was hard and my dick was bent down, it felt like I was fucking, the whole, like 3-feet that I slid across him. It was like, ‘Oh yes, I’m already topping, I’m already topping.” In response to the question of when Rusty realized that he had the match in the bag, Rusty skips no more than half a beat. “When I got on the airplane to come here this morning. Or maybe it was the cinnamon roll, cause that was my carbs for the day.” Advice for your opponent, Rusty? “A word of advice? Uh, yeah, try training with your little sister, cause training by yourself sure as hell ain’t working. And maybe she could teach you something like the nails or the kick to the balls or something you might actually be able to use. Cause all that sliding around shit, what was the score? 50-something to 5? Yeah, this isn’t even sweat, this is still oil from the oil match!” Rusty didn’t need to keep humiliating Tommy. He’d had his way with him in every humiliating possibility for the prior 50 minutes, so this post-match testimonial didn’t amount to anything more. But Rusty reaches right in and grabs hold of my wrestling kink with his relentless, dominating, humiliating trash talk absolutely crushing Tommy Defendi’s ego into dust on that mat.

Thunder’s Arena taps into this banter-angle just a bit in their members-only section, with testimonial mash-ups with some of their headliners. Before his match with BamBam, Cameron Mathews lounges on the couch at Thunder’s Arena wearing only the scant evidence of brief red trunks. “Hey guys, how ya doing?” he asks the camera, all friendly-like. “I’m just relaxing, waiting for my ‘big’ match with BamBam.” Cameron sighs. “Probably the typical Thunder’s Arena jobber.” He flexes his left bicep and admires himself. “Not like me,” he explains, “the champ. Just loungin’ around. I skipped going to the gym today. Figured I didn’t need it. So we’ll see how it goes. Maybe… maybe I’ll let him get a couple of moves in… probably not. Maybe I’ll even let him win. Unlikely. But at least watch it so you get to see me,” Cameron flexes his right bicep, “and me,” he flexes his left, “doing what I do best.”

Rock Hard Wrestling has done just a little of the wrestler testimonial to help set the scene, but not much. BG East and Can-Am don’t seem to work this much at all, as far as I can think of, though I think it’s perfectly pitched for BG East’s pro-style ring matches. I’d love to see some old-school professional wrestling interviews pre- and post-match with the likes of Lon Dumont, Jonny Firestorm, Denny Cartier and Kid Karisma, in order to blow out the confines of the wrestling fantasy moment even more. A little “here’s-what-I’m-going-to-do” strutting from both hopefuls, and the “that’s-what-I-just-did” sweat-soaked gloating victor, would go a long way to cranking my homoerotic wrestling kink with both hands.

“This is Rusty Stevens, and I’m still 4-and-0 on Naked Kombat!”

Brutal Critique

My copy of the much-anticipated (at least by two people I know) new release from Raging Stallions, Brutal, arrived several weeks ago. There are so many quite excellent ingredients going into this recipe. My #1 favorite homoerotic wrestling pornboy, Rusty Stevens AND his #1 contender, working hard to chomp at Rusty’s ass and climb on top of the rankings, Trent Diesel (also reigning homoerotic wrestler of the month), are both star players in Brutal. Additional Naked Kombat alums who’ve tickled my fancy also show up, including Brenn Wyson, Tommy Defendi, Spencer Reed, Phenix Saint and Race Cooper. The story centers on a gym where fierce, hot hunks are in high stakes training to compete for glory in the world of competitive MMA.  The fight and the fuck go back and forth, twisting and turning in on each other in flights of fantasy and more literal interpretations. In other words, Brutal is front-loaded to tweak my kink and keep me aroused and dehydrated for days.

I don’t regret my purchase of Brutal at all. I must say, however, that the recipe doesn’t bake up quite as tastily as I’d hoped. As I feared, the actual combat element is shortchanged for my tastes. The climactic championship competition scene between Rusty and gorgeous golden boy, Angelo Marconi, is far too brief and stylized. This seems like such a waste, considering we know how fiercely and skillfully Rusty can grapple. Given the opportunity, he can work his ass off, quite convincingly beating the ass of just about every opponent he’s faced. Devoting a couple of minutes to Rusty and Angelo in the ring with mostly close-ups of grunts and grimaces disappoints me. On the other hand, I did find the setting highly erotic, with a crowd of hunks cheering on the battlers ringside, heightening the intensity and sense of the stakes. I’d pay for that vantage point at a Rusty Stevens competition (any day…).

I’m also a little mixed on the genre, frankly. By my count, there are 2 (or so) brief scenes of grappling-sparring, 4 scenes of grappling-turns-fucking, and 1 scene of straight-up competition-storyline ring combat. All of that is really what I signed up for. But I’m not as keen on some of the classic porn scenarios that also pop up, including 3 rape scenes and a public bathroom pick up at the urinal (seriously? Rusty needs to visit the public toilet to catch a trick?). I’m probably just a prude, but where I find a loser-gets-fucked competition fantastically erotic, a simulated violent assault-turned rape does nothing to stir my loins. Now, if the scene of Angelo getting raped in the shower by Phenix and Brandon Bangs (can we get anymore literal of a name?) were consensual, it still wouldn’t be wrestling kink in my book, but it would’ve been a thousand times hotter. To put one’s ass on the line in combat is fantastically erotic. To get beaten and raped non-consensually doesn’t quite do it for me. This is particularly a shame because all the moving parts in all three rape scenes speak directly to my cock: Trent (holy hell, looking hot) doubled by Jason Adonis (!?) and Spencer Reed; Draven Torres getting worked over by his astonishingly gorgeous prick boyfriend, hairy beast Alexsander Freitas; and Angel0 getting consecutively doubled by Phenix and Brandon. So much potential left on the table is just a shame.

I have to suspect that Tony Dimarco, who directed Brutal, was not the  director of the photoshoot for the promotional shots for Brutal. I say this, because the promo pics tell an undeniably different story than the flick itself (caveat emptor). And if the flick told the story that’s in the promo pics, I have to think I’d be writing an entirely different review. For example, hairy beast Alexsander never actually “wrestles” with Draven. If these two had an actual jockstrap wrestling scene in the gym with Alexsander slapping on a cobra clutch, Brutal would be significantly improved.

Same goes for the tragically untapped potential captured in the posed promotional pic of Rusty mounting Angelo in the ring, with Angelo’s ankles laced together behind Rusty’s back, Rusty’s tongue down his thraot, and Angelo pinned. This scene isn’t quite from the movie, but in one captured still, it tells a story a hundred times hotter than the miserably brief combat scene between these two gorgeous hunks on film.

Porn is all about imagination, though, isn’t it? And happily for me, I have a very active one. I can rewrite the script in my head to pit Angelo, Phenix and Brandon in a consensual three way rumble (preferably in the ring), with the stakes being that the first man to submit sexually submits to the domination and humiliation of the other two. Suddenly, some replayed snippets of Phenix capturing Angelo in an armbar while surprisingly hot slice of white bread, Brandon, plows Angelo’s absolutely perfect ass from behind… and things are firing on all cylinders for me. In any case, if you’ve been tempted to take a bite out of Brutal to fuel your wrestling kink, be forewarned. It’s a mixed bag, and if you’re like me, the product may take you only halfway down the path, requiring your imagination to drive you the rest of the way home. But if you’re like me, you can probably still manage to be pleased with the purchase of Brutal.