I thought I’d better post something before someone prematurely starts writing my obituary. I’m still adjusting to offline changes in my life, but I’m also happily carving out stolen moments here and there to enjoy watching hot wrestling. My thanks to those who periodically check-in when you notice I’m quiet for a while. It’s always nice to be missed. And a big word of humble gratitude to man-of-my-dreams Scott Williams who not only noticed my absence, not only dropped a comment on the blog asking how I’m doing, but also let me know that he’s thinking about arranging an opportunity for me to see him wrestle in person.
Fuck, that’ll bring me back from death’s doorstep anytime. Honestly, if you ever find me in cardiac arrest, skip the CPR and just get Scott Williams on the line letting me know when and where I can get a live show of him making Ty Alexander cry and beg. I guarantee you that’ll be an instant miracle cure.
If you know me, you know I’ve got opinions piling up about the best and brightest new releases that have come out over the past couple of months. While I’m assembling my thoughts and trying to sort through a backlog of reviews, this post is mostly just to let you know I’m still kicking. And in that spirit, here are some hot, decisive kicks that make my heart beat harder.
June’s new releases in the homoerotic wrestling universe were outstanding. It’s one of those months that makes me question the self-imposed constraints of calling out just one hot hunk to laud, but I’m probably more loyal to my habits than to my sense of fairness, when it comes right down to it. So backing myself into a corner, I still enthusiastically come out swinging with an adamant and definitive name for the newest homoerotic wrestler of the month…
I was just saying a few days ago that Kid Karisma is not only my reigning favorite homoerotic wrestler, he’s also been in the extremely exclusive ranks of 3-time HWOTM winners. With his magnificent showing in Ring Wars 27, Kid K not only retains his grip as my longest running favorite wrestler title holder, he elevates himself to the only wrestler, to date, to claim his 4th HWOTM title.
I honestly pushed play on Ring Wars 27 half expecting Reese Wells to be the one to make a serious run for HWOTM title. I’ve been infatuated with Reese and his peekaboo peaked biceps since the first time I caught sight of him years ago debuting at RHW. He shows up to wrestle Kid Karisma ripped as fuck, somehow prettier and more sexually provocative than I’ve ever noticed before. He’s the perfect babyface. From the neck up, he looks like he’s just barely reached the age of majority. From the neck down, he’s all man, with a body built for nothing else but this hybrid gay porn/pro wrestling universe that you and I call home. Reese has got legitimate skills. He’s been dissected by the most dominating heels at BGE repeatedly, but he still manages to arrive with an air of possibility about him. I like seeing him smile, so I’m always excited to see if the boy wonder can build some momentum to permit him those rare, exquisite moments of joy when his lips curl in sadistic delight and he flashes a double bicep, magically turning his seemingly skinny arms into gorgeously peaked mountains. As testimony to his skill and sell, I can totally entertain the idea that he could back even the likes of Kid Karisma to the very edge of the upset of the decade with that killer bod and boy scout earnestness to grab the ring of wrestling glory.
Then Kid Karisma arrives on the scene. Maybe I’m just projecting, but it seems to me like every last ounce of tasty veal steak Reese Wells inspires Kid K to a fevered passion we don’t always see. Reese’s clenched-jaw earnestness and aspirations bring a grin to Kid K’s face. And this meaty morsel motivates the 2016 Best Body and many-times-over Best Butt winner to make this match one of the sexiest, most brutal foreplay sessions I’ve watched in a while. If I had to guess, I’d say Kid K did his homework and, in particular, studied Reese’s career-defining Ball Bash 2 match against 2016 Best Heel award winner, Jonny Firestorm. Because Kid K turns early and often to working Reese’s package. And by working, I mean an expert concoction of massaging, slapping, coaxing and clawing that turns the boy wonder into a twitching, desperate fallen angel groaning in equal parts sexual arousal and corporal anguish.
There’s little mystery, moments into the match, that it’s Kid Karisma’s to lose. He manhandles the boy wonder magnificently. He can shot put the kid across the ring at will. A few times that Reese digs in to make some offense happen, Kid K seems to go along for the ride, just to see what Reese can do, but most of the time he finally scoffs, slaps him down, and literally laughs in the kid’s face. You can never accuse Kid Karisma of a lack of confidence.
You can, however, document the moment in about half of Kid K’s matches when his cockiness blurs into overconfidence, and he leaves himself open for a skilled, aggressive opponent like Reese to exploit his overreaches. Frankly, I think it’s an absolutely essential ingredient to Kid K’s repertoire, that he repeatedly teeters on the edge of giving away the farm because he believes too completely in the fawning, gushing PR of adoring fans like me. Reese stays alert for precisely those moments. At one point, Kid K is bitching about his hair getting messed up, staring fixedly into the mirror to try to return to the physical perfection that he started with, when Reese tries for a sucker kick. Kid K turns just in time, catching Reese’s boot in mid-air and smirking. The smirk is summarily erased by Reese spinning like a fucking ninja in mid-air, pounding his other boot into the side of Kid K’s handsome face, and knocking the powerhitter to the mat. Those aforementioned moments of my delight when I get to watch Reese smile and flex and smirk with the wind at his back show up a couple of times in this match. He doesn’t just score multiple pin falls on Kid Karisma, he folds him into a small package and pounds out a stunning, totally dominating 10-count pin.
That passion I mentioned from Kid Karisma really kicks in after his humiliating 10-count pin. He is all OVER the boy wonder. Reese is pounded corner to corner and all parts in between. He tweaks and taunts Reese’s taut quarter nipples. About a gallon of sweat (most of it Kid K’s) soaks Reese’s white briefs transparent, and our raging heel can’t take his eyes or hands off of the swollen cock head outlined underneath. Frankly, I imagine Kid K can be a gentle lover under the right conditions. But there’s something about the ferocity with which he takes possession of his audacious opponent that makes me think he’s more than happy with an aggro fuck on the tasty little muscle ass of any fitness freak cherubic wunderkind who dares to humiliate him in his own ring. The bearhugs last for days, with Reese thrashing and writhing in the crushing embrace of Kid K’s gargantuan arms. When Kid K squats low, his award winning ass cheeks squeezed out over the top of his tiny black trunks, Reese leans back and lets loose a primal scream that could equally be sexual ecstasy or mortal agony. The position is the perfect marriage of pro wrestling and sex. Kid K clearly isn’t literally fucking the boy wonder is mid air, but the thrill on his face makes me think he’d like to. And, knowing Reese’s penchant for being aroused by cock and ball teasing and punishment (a la Ball Bash 2), I have a strong suspicion he’d be on board for the ride as well.
You can tell how much Kid Karisma wants the boy wonder’s ass by how determined he is to expose it. Repeatedly, he wedgies Reese’s soaked briefs way high up his ass crack. At one point, Reese has the audacity to reach down and dig them partially out, managing to cover back up one sweet, hairy cheek before Kid K interrupts him. “What are you doing!?” KK demands. It’s an unspoken law of homoerotic wrestling that any hunk who takes the time to dig out a wedgie in order to cover his ass back up deserves not just to lose, but to be viciously, erotically, totally humiliated. Kid K knows the rules, and he’s more than happy to be the enforcer, slapping Reese’s hand away and nearly ripping the kid’s briefs apart by the seams, resecuring the wedgie twice as high.
It’s not so surprising that Kid Karisma’s victory in Ring Wars 27 is absolute and domineering. I think he’s the most underrated dominant heel at BG East, and Reese’s hot fantasy body is just one more trophy in an entire wing of trophy cases at chez Karisma. But what isn’t always a given is that Kid K will take it personally as much as he does in this match. The overtly sexual content laced with fuck stakes implications isn’t always this evident.
“You’re cute,” Kid Karisma mutters as he stares down at his unconscious, entirely vanquished opponent in the end. It’s less like a compliment and more like he’s sizing up what’s on the menu. “I hate fucking bitches,” he snarls angrily, still bitter about getting upended by his own hubris. He leaves the destroyed boy wonder in the middle of the ring, but flips him a “fuck you” middle finger farewell that perfectly sums up the vibe from this match. Aggro fuck foreplay.
Kid Karisma is simply perfection. The Best Body award seems the most contentious one each year, but take a look at his gargantuan shoulders and arms, his meaty, perfectly symmetrical pecs, his incredibly ripped torso narrowing and narrowing to the point that his tiny waist rests on the juiciest, most spectacular shelf of ass muscle ever, all the way down to his huge, Rugby-built legs. I’m still waiting for another muscle worship raffle to get my hands on 2016’s Best Body, because I’ll go bankrupt winning that lottery. In the mean time, pucker up and get ready to kiss the world class ass of the ONLY hunk who has earned his 4th homoerotic wrestler of the month title and is, more than 3 years running, STILL my overall favorite homoerotic wrestler, Kid Karisma.
I’ve got a little crush on whoever is charting the social media course for BG East lately. I have bitched and complained mercilessly for a while about the need for homoerotic wrestling companies to up their social media game. It feels like the industry is solidly migrated to almost entirely a virtual existence online (DVD’s seeming to be going the way of the dinosaur, e.g.), so relying on eyes to reach company home pages on their own seems risky these days. And any failure to engage and titillate and evoke and provoke a virtually networked audience in between catalog releases feels downright old fashioned. So I’ve noticed with pleasure BG East’s increasing social media presence, including the excellent designation of this month as #JobberJune.
I’ve been accused in the past of hating on jobbers. I deny it vehemently, of course. Jobbers are an essential ingredient to the pro wrestling universe, and they populate plenty of my fondest homoerotic wrestling fantasies. I admit to being provoked hardest by heels and babyface heroes, but the doomed jobber is always a strongly compelling character as well. We can, and I’m sure will, debate the essence and the margins of what it means to be a jobber. I think of them as those wrestlers who routinely get their asses kicked, for whom a victory would seem an honest surprise. I don’t think of them as merely squash bait. A jobber can put up a fight, and personally I prefer it that way. But considering the sum total of their careers, when a wrestler seems fated again and again to end up beaten and humiliated, he meets my criteria for jobberhood.
The BG East social media maven has been celebrating #JobberJune with sensational call outs to classic jobbers. Casey Cutler, Wade Cutler, and Tony Consenti completely deserve this walk of shame, and seeing their photos suck me right back to lush, key moments in which watching them wrestle had me rock hard for the potent melodrama of seeing them earnestly throwing their hot bodies into the breach again and again, only to get trashed and tossed to the curb. My nostalgia button is punched hard with seeing this retrospective of hot, doomed hunks from across the decades.
Adorably upright Ken Canada got a richly deserved spot in the #JobberJune rotation. A long-standing friend of this blog, Ken was that upstanding, earnest babyface brand of jobber. His lean muscles, lightly hairy pecs, and button nose were the sensational framework for a jobber. Especially after interviewing him, I think of Ken as this supremely earnest, eager, fully game hunk who had sensational raw material for competitive wrestling, which made his lamb-to-slaughter narrative that much more compelling.
So I’m putting #JobberJune on my recurring calendar notifications for years to come. And I’m excited to see who the social media maven at BGE comes up with next for the #JobberJune walk of shame. I’d most definitely nominate gorgeous little firecracker Reese Wells, who always seemed right on the edge of wrestling glory, only to be literally upended before the final fall.
Then there’s Ricky Martinez. Everything about him in still frame screamed sensationally equipped competitor, but over and over his pristine beauty was ruined by viciousness, cunning, and extravagant dirty tricks.
Surely top contender for the most popular jobber in BGE history has to be Rio Garza. I always longed to see Rio mobilize that fantasy man body to do better in competition. In retrospect, Rio’s capacity to make me call him out as a doormat has been, of course, testimony to what a compelling jobber he’s been. Being literally a winner of fan polls for best body AND possessing one of the most lopsided win-loss records on the books points to some of the most potent elements to why jobbers inhabit our wrestling fantasies. Beauty spoiled. Hot bodies broken down and laid bare. Ambition and promise crushed by an opponent more than willing to go darker, deeper, and nastier. Jobbers tell a story that turns us on.
Tommy Tara, Christopher Bruce, Mr. E, Muscle Mask… we keep watching not because we actually expect to see them pull out a victory. Personally, I want to be held in suspense, even if I know that fates are aligned against a particular hunk in the long run. But we watch because there’s something provocative about watching a man charge into the fray courageously, without a shred of realistic hope of coming out on top. It’s less about how a wrestler stacks up against any particular opponent, but more about a psychic flaw within him that makes the tick in the loser column inevitable, despite his most valiant efforts and magnificent potential. Somebody’s got to lose, and I think it’s a relatively rare wrestler who can do it so compellingly that we’re eager again and again to watch him do it, to see what inadequacy an opponent will discover amid a hot, powerful hunk’s blatantly obvious assets for kicking ass.
Who’s your favorite jobber? Post a #JobberJune reply to BG East’s Facebook page and give the jobbers some well deserved love.
So a summer sangria toast to the jobbers, this #JobberJune. And to the BG East social media maven, the first round is on me.
Never one to fail to jump on a bandwagon, my thoughts this Thursday are turned backward for a “Throwback Thursday” life review. As I approach the 5th anniversary (!!!?) of neverland, it strikes me often how time can be warped in my memory as I reflect on what I’ve posted here over the years. Some things I swear that I’ve harped on over and over, but when I do a systematic search, I discover I’ve perhaps mentioned just once in passing. Some things I think I’ve never, ever said, I discover (not infrequently pointed out by a reader) I’ve most definitely put into print. So today is a trip down memory lane, digging like a geologist into the strata of the years to consider what March 20 has meant in the life of neverland.
My first March 20th post was 4 years ago today, and I was remarking on the still nascent offerings of Rock Hard Wrestling. Specifically, I reviewed RHW’s double match release of Brody Hancock v Cameron Davis as a double-header along with Brody & Shawn Lawson double-teaming (does that make it a quadruple-header?) imminently deserving Zack Johnathan. Back than I was full of critique and advice, probably a little too heavy handed with the wisdom. Time has taught me a little more humility, I think. I hope. In any case, I still say Brody’s double-layered trunks (does that make it an octuple-header?) was a buzz kill and wrestling for gay eyes should use at least 1/3 less fabric in constructing ring gear than straight-up mainstream pro. I haven’t posted on RHW in a while, after covering their releases pretty extensively years ago. Not sure why.
A year leader, in 2011 I was playing Name That Ass, a game that I probably found a lot more fun that readers did. Then again, some of you played along, and even Queer Me Now covered the genre. And seriously now, what’s not to love about studying in exquisite detail finely crafted homoerotic wrestling asses? The asses teased in that March 20th post were, in order, Tyrell Tomsen, multiple best butt award winner Kid Karisma, Mark Wolff, John Magnum, and Coupe. No one posted a perfect score in that round. Perhaps I need to pull Name That Ass out of mothballs to give you more practice.
March 20, 2012 was a Bodies-Over-Time focus on the stunningly evolving body of BG East’s Charlie Panther. I’d just seen his newest release at the time, absolutely defining a squash against Tim Messina in Pros in Private 9 and earning the homoerotic wrestler of the month title around these parts. Homoerotic wrestlers of the month have continued to be a theme since I started handing them out, and Charlie was a most excellent entry into the HWOTM hall of fame. At some point, I should do some soul searching about what subsequent HWOTM say about me and my evolving/stagnating tastes.
Interestingly, last year on this date, I didn’t post at all. This was in the middle of a several-week drought, which happens not too infrequently around these parts. The nearest post was the day before, when I was resurrecting a theme that has possessed these pages since THE VERY BEGINNING, namely, Chris Cuomo and the need for more hotly muscled skin in the news. Specifically, I was extremely excited by the prospect of massively muscled Latino pretty boy Gio Benitez joining the reporting pool at GMA. GMA has yet to truly capitalize on the sheer magnetism of Gio’s mammoth pecs, but I still get a little giddy when I see him on air. I’m quite certain you will continue to read more about my ongoing obsession with new hunks.
It’s an interesting core sampling of what has made neverland hold my attention over the years, looking back at this date in history. Some things change. Some things stay the same (including periods of radio silence as life distracts me from what’s really important, homoerotic wrestling). And, as always, I just follow my fanaticism for the homoeroticism of wrestling where it takes me.
I won’t name names, because that ALWAYS gets me in more trouble than it’s worth. I’ll just say that the same disappointing thought has occurred to me more than once recently as I’ve been sampling homoerotic wrestling new releases. This recurring thought is, Grabbing crotch does not make wrestling homoerotic.
100% homoerotic wrestling featuring (among many other elements) Mitch Colby grabbing Derek da Silva’s crotch in Crotch Crushers 1.
Do you know what I mean? I’ve seen an anecdotal rise in the number of wrestling products marketed to you and me in which the most homo and/or erotic content is almost entirely limited to a crotch grab. Now, I love a nice crotch grab. That goes for all sorts of contexts and purposes, actually. The feel of a pulsing, raging cock in my hand is absolutely intoxicating! Two raging cocks in my hand, and I’m guaranteed to have a hangover the next morning. I do not have anything at all against the homoeroticism of taking another man’s cock firmly in hand, per se.
Jobe Zander looks like he’s searching for his keys at the bottom of his purse in Can-Am’s DeCrotchery 3
But my beef, so to speak, is the over reliance on this device to sell wrestling as gay. I realize that there’s a sub-fetish contingent out there with a particular kink for watching and/or experiencing cock abuse. While I don’t count myself in that particular tribe, I can appreciate and get turned on by some cock control as a tool of soul crushing erotic domination. But if that’s really the only element in a match that might distinguish it from a TBS prime time mainstream episode of plasticized canned wrestling drama, then it’s just got one toe on our side of the fence, as far as I’m concerned.
Gino Liotta and Joshua Goodman engage in mutual crotch crushing as just one element of steamy action in Crotch Crushers 2.
Running across a bevy of barely homoerotic wrestling trying to take a short cut with crotch shots as credentials for checking in with you and me as gay-oriented has started to grate on my nerves. So sure, you squeezed his balls… if you’ve got a disinterested look on your face, it sort of douses the heat. You grabbed a handful of whatever is stuffed down the front of his trunks, okay. But, if neither your hand nor his suffering seem to sell me that you’re about to rip him apart out of a primal lust to own his muscled body, then the stagecraft wears thin.
Friend of neverland, Ben Monaco, convinces me long before he goes for Alex Arias’ crotch that he’s all-in for homoerotic wrestling in Mat Rookies 1!
All this begs the question, of course, what it is that distinguishes some wrestling as homoerotic and others as something else. Of course, mainstream wrestling can turn me on (when it isn’t pissing me off with over-the-top homophobia). Just about any wrestling itself speaks to me as homoerotic almost by definition. But I propose that there’s an ontologically different beast that is homoerotic wrestling. I’ve danced around this topic many times in the past. It’s a know-when-I-see-it sort of concept, in large part. It also overlaps with the cliche of “chemistry” between wrestlers, which is nearly impossible to quantify but, nevertheless, is unmistakable when its absent. I don’t know that I can put a finger on the baseline requirements (for me), but what makes something distinctively homoerotic wrestling always hits me on many levels.
Of course, explicit sexuality never hurts to sell wrestling as homoerotic. A suck, a fuck, a kiss even (especially), and I’m a long way to being sold that this wrestling is all about me and my kink. Hell, just having the boys talk openly about the eroticism hanging in the air between them is plenty to suck me in, and when it’s done right, eroticized banter will rev me up a hundred times hotter than an going-through-the-motions post-match fuck.
Reese Wells works 5 different angles at once in dishing out dominating abuse over Jobe Zander’s package in Ball Busters 1.
It doesn’t require explicitness, though. It can be the fixed gaze of one wrestler and the self-conscious glance at the ground by the other that piques my homoerotic wrestling gaydar. It can be the intimacy of the setting, the gear, the lighting even, that contribute to making me recognize that this is homoerotic wrestling. It can, and often is, one wrestler so narcissistic that he convinces me that, if humanly possible, he’d fuck himself into a stupor if that annoying opponent of his would just get the fuck out of his face.
The best in the business push the homoerotic button from the instant the camera brings them into focus. Homoerotic wrestlers of the month Cage Thunder and (spoiler alert… keep reading at your own risk… oh, wait, too late!) Lightning Rod aka KV are beautiful examples. A half a second after I see their eyes lock onto the body of their opponents like sizing up a juicy filet, I understand without a doubt that the combat that’s about to unfold is first and foremost sexual. They communicate a hunger to grab hold of and consume their opponent that’s instantly arousing. The crotch grab is perfectly homoerotic when they latch on and threaten to rip an opponent out by the roots, because of everything else they’ve done to make it clear that they get off on this!
In Ball Bash 2, Reese Wells gets harder the more vicious Jonny Firestorm attacks his crotch! Now that’s homoerotic and hot!
There are plenty of wrestling products that push me way over the edge without ever veering into crotch grabs, fucking, or nudity even. They’re often completely homoerotic in my eyes for a dozen other elements that signal to me that this isn’t wrestling for 8 year-old boys with g-rated comic book fantasies of heroes and villains. And equally as true, a gratuitous ball claw or tug at a cock is seldom the end-game for landing a wrestling match firmly within the circle of what I consider gay-themed, for gay eyes, wrestling kink, or homoerotic.
Unmasked and unsheathed, Stinger swells with excitement as Homoerotic Wrestlers of the Month Cage Thunder and Lightning Rod batter his stinger mercilessly.
As the photos I’ve attached to this post illustrate, the crotch grab is a delightfully hot tool in the tool belt of the accomplished homoerotic wrestler. When it’s dished out in measured quantity, it’s fantastic! When placed as an integral component of an onslaught of unmistakably homoerotic content, the crotch grab is often precisely the point at which I lose all self-restraint. However, and I’m not naming names, but I just need to say it: solely based on a wrestler grabbing his opponent’s crotch, it doesn’t make it homoerotic wrestling. A one-trick pony gimmick in an otherwise lukewarm bath of run of the mill wrestling does not a homoerotic wrestling match make.
Damn! Did you see the newest muscle stud at Thunder’s Arena? He wrestles as “Python,” which draws attention to the body part that certainly inspires hard-swallowing awe within me: his beautifully peaked biceps. There’s a lot on Python’s gorgeous physique to appreciate. He’s got a hot, broad upper back, beautiful pecs, very nice abs, and one damn adorably goofy grin. But again I say: damn! The peaks on those biceps are a—mazing! I haven’t seen his rookie debut with Angel yet, but I’ve got a deep down craving to see that right bicep of Python’s slowly wrapped around Angel’s neck from behind and then methodically flexed until the pointed peak of that monster crushes Angel’s throat in a name’s-sake rear choke. Follow that up with the rookie shoving that mountainous muscle in his dazed, battered opponent’s face and making him kiss it, and I’d be wasted (for at least a couple of minutes).
Can-Am’s iconic muscle man: Steve Sterling
Arms do not, as a rule, capture my attention first and foremost on most wrestlers. Not that I don’t appreciate hot, strong arms and especially Popeye-bulging forearms (Jonny Firestorm, I’m looking at you), but my eyes tend to instinctively lock onto other geography. Hot, meaty glutes, for example, or luscious, clawable pecs are frequently tops on my list. Armored abs, a hefty package (a-hem, Mr. Joshua), and thick, bear-trap thighs will tend to be higher on my list than arms. But on some wrestlers, and when I’m in the mood, arms light up my homoerotic imagination and make me feel all creative about the best uses for sculpted arm muscles. For example, I can’t help but picture Can-Am classic Steve Sterling cracking walnuts between his bodybuilder biceps and freakishly huge forearms. Then I tend to picture my cock trapped in the same spot, and with a little oil, working up a frot fantasy that only a musclebound arm like that can satisfy.
Thunder’s Arena’s Muscle Phenom: Coupe
Thunder’s resident muscle freak Coupe’s biceps aren’t as massive as Steve Sterling’s, but holy fuck that vascularity and shape makes me gasp every time I see them. Coupe is a phenomenon. I often throw around the hyperbole of wrestlers sporting 0% body fat, but it’s no exaggeration when it comes to muscle freak Coupe. He’s so cut and sculpted that I have to imagine if Coupe just faced the right opponent, he’d bring a man to his knees by just flashing those double biceps and that cocky I-dare-you-not-to-lick-them grin. This man needs to star in a wrestling match-turned full contact body worship feature like nobody’s business! Thunder’s may not be the company to produce it, but I’ll be the first in line to be that opponent!
Reese Wells and his Magic Biceps
I’ve noted on many occasions the particular magic that Reese Wells (aka Brody Hancock) weaves over me. He’s a living paradox. That pubescent face of his is completely diverting from the fact that the boy sports incredibly mature, aesthetically gorgeous muscle! He seems like one of those genetic freaks who’s probably always complaining about how hard it is for him to put on weight (which, in and of itself, is a reason for a beating in my book). I swear, at the right angle, in the wrong light, Reese would be easily mistaken for a skinny kid. Then BOOM!!!!… the boy flashes a double bicep and out of nowhere he’s got astonishing muscle mass squeezed into his upper arms like surgically inserted softballs. Where the fuck does he hide those guns!?! There’s a skinny-kid-opens-a-can-of-whoop-ass-on-his-big-bad-bully fantasy just dying to be taped, culminating in Reese flashing one of his Houdini biceps in his former-tormentor’s face while cranking out a load of cum all over the humiliated bastard’s chest.
BG East Fantasy Man: Tyrell Tomsen
BG East’s Tyrell Tomsen’s arms let loose a flood of lustful fantasies for me frequently. So sure, Tyrell’s got the whole package (that should probably be Package with a capital “P!”). Tyrell’s ass, legs, pecs, tiny little waist, washboard abs… they’ve all been star players in climactic fantasies of mine. But when I watch Tyrell actually wrestling, it’s his gargantuan biceps that frequently have me muttering at the screen. He’s got the raw mass of Steve Sterling and the stunning shape and cut of Coupe. There’s something pristinely paradigmatic about Tyrell wrapping those monsters around his opponent’s back, lifting the lucky fucker off his feet, and squeezing the breath and the will to live out of him while shaking his prey like a rag doll. This scenario has been approximated, mind you, but I’m hard pressed to see how a lucky opponent in that predicament doesn’t cum with his cock getting crushed and dragged up and down across Tyrell’s washboard, so I’m picturing him tossing the loser to the mat with a pint of cum strung between them, and Tyrell forcing the bastard to lick him clean with some special attention paid to his sweaty armpits.
Can-Am’s Thiago Diaz is built to crush!
Can-Am’s Thiago Diaz has 2 equally prominent objects of my lusts: his fireplace poker cock and his incredibly huge arms! Rip Steve Sterling in the prime of his conditioning out of the past and place him side by side with Thiago, and I’d put money on Thiago as having the bigger upper arms. Steve would have the Can-Am newbie beat for overall body proportions, mind you. Thiago’s lower body lags behind his upper body development pretty dramatically, but those shoulders and arms are like a cartoon drawing of a muscleman superhero. And since we’ve already transported Sterling into the present from the prime of his career, I can’t help but get wildly turned on by the image of Thiago nearly ripping Steve’s head off in a dragon sleeper with his veiny, massive bicep pressed perfectly across the classic bodybuilder’s carotid.
BG East’s Magnificent Mitch Colby
So, sure, I’ve spilled more ink on the pages of this blog over every inch of Mitch Colby’s body than just about anything else, but honestly, those biceps! Sweet Jesus-or-whomever-else-you-pray-to! Gorgeous, gorgeous, gorgeous! Strength, beauty, proportion… I can’t remember if I’ve ever seen it in a Mitch match, but in my mind, I’ve often pictured him with those mile-and-a-half-long limbs clamped around an opponent’s lower abdomen in a rear bearhug, lifting the luckyluckylucky loser off his feet and grinding his gorgeous cock into his opponent’s crack. Mitch-the-man squeezes a screaming submission out of him, then simultaneously takes the loser from behind while flexing his guns hypnotically as he generously jacks-off the overwhelmed plaything.
BG East One-Hit Wonder: Gary Myers’ biceps have biceps!
In hunting for which homoerotic wrestling arms send me shooting the farthest, I came across this image of BG East muscleboy, Gary Myers. I haven’t seen this match yet, but this should be the image next to the dictionary entry for “fantasy man.” So much to soak in, I know, but take a close look at those mind-blowing biceps. The peaks on those monsters have peaks of their own! It looks like this muscleboy only wrestled once, but fortunately, it was against the vicious sadist and bodybeautiful heel Jose. I can’t tell from the stills from the match whether Jose captured Gary from behind and locked up all those bulging muscles in a full nelson, but I can hope. And if Jose happened to do a little licking of Gary’s peaked peaks, then all is right with the world. If not, then this fantasy will have to live only in my imagination, though I can always hope to see it born out with one of the bicep-beauties still in the business today.
As I wrap up this small package, I’d just like to make the observation that several of the homoerotic wrestlers who I think of as having massive, gorgeous arms, on closer inspection really don’t. Not that there’s anything wrong with merely mortal muscle arms, of course. It’s the whole package with a sweet dose of attitude and kinetic eroticism that makes homoerotic wrestling my favorite kink and passion. But when I’m in the mood that Thunder’s rookie Python puts me in, there’s something awfully arousing about the top shelf quality beef of musclebound arms in homoerotic wrestling competition.
Christmas came a little early for me this year, and I was treated to some presents directly off of my wish list of matches-to-own. Personally, I would’ve thought I’d have fallen into the “naughty” category. But I’m not asking any questions.
Thumbing through the catalog for things that might show up under my tree, I’ve lately been aching for Ball Bash 2. Truth be told, I’ve got a little crush on Reese Wells aka Brody Hancock. Well, more accurately, I fantasize about crushing him. He’d put up a good fight, mind you, and he’s got some sweet sell. But in the end he’d be screaming a submission wracked across my shoulders, before I rubbed salt in the wound by dropping his back across my knee. When all is said and done and his spirit is broken, I’d walk away with his boots to hang them up as a trophy of good times.
Fortunately for me, Jonny Firestorm has handed Reese precisely the type of treatment I think Reese desperately needs. I wasn’t expecting Ball Bash 2 to be quite so competitive. However, there’s plenty of pretty salesmanship going in all directions for most of this match before it turns into a full-on ball bash squash. Jonny always impresses, and this match is no different. He’s got instincts for delivering exactly the content, pacing, and humiliation that makes ring action my cup of tea.
I have to remind myself that this release came out before anything else that I’ve seen Reese in. This is significant for me because although I’ve seen him flirt with full-on homoeroticism, never since have I seen Reese wrestle naked. And that’s a shame, because he’s got a really beautiful cock, and there’s something about the optical illusion that is Reese’s body that somehow makes perfect sense when he’s in the ring in nothing but those boots (that’d I’d rip off of him and take home with me). I’ve seen the career trajectory that starts out with some stud just translating straight-up wrestling for a homoerotic company, and then eventually evolves into a balls out, naked, full-on homoerotic fantasy fighter. But someone who goes the other direction seems like a novelty (and a little bit of a waste, as far as I’m concerned).
The moment in this match that completely captures me, though, comes when Reese still has his speedos on. Things have been relatively traditional up to this point, with Jonny and Reese taking and giving in approximately equal measure. But when Jonny snaps his legs around Reese’s waist, presses wide the pretty boy’s legs, and grabs hold and squeezes Reese’s balls, this match instantly careens off the straight-up tracks and deep into homoerotic territory. But it’s this moment in particular, and specifically, it’s Reese’s sell of this moment, that captures my imagination. Reese has nowhere to go. Jonny is showing all his cards, including the fantastic revelation that he’s out for nothing short of blood curdling screams. And Reese is writhing in pain, stunningly vulnerable, and totally humiliated. And with his jaws open wide in agony, Reese kisses the mat.
Good god, that kiss just sends me. It’s such an excellent moment of helpless agony. Don’t get me wrong, I’m a BIG fan of Reese’s destruction without trunks, and I’m nearly as enthusiastic about the target-thong that Jonny makes him wear, which is delightfully inadequate to contain Reese’s impressive member that simply can’t be described as entirely flaccid throughout the remainder of the bull busting. All the moving parts to this match line up perfectly, I think. Jonny is impeccable. Reese is astonishing for a “rookie.” The bodies, the wrestling, the setting, the gear (and lack thereof), are all brilliant. But it’s Reese’s lips planted on the floor in agony that makes this match one of my favorites. Thanks, Santa.