I’ve transferred another story from my old archive to the new one, Sidelineland Stories. Re-reading this match makes me chuckle. It also turns me on, again, which is fun to rediscover. There was a period of time when I was, absolutely ignorantly, fueling the rumor mill regarding corporate competition between rival gay-oriented wrestling companies. At the time, I was just noticing that wrestlers were migrating from one company to another, and I was totally providing the back-story that the hot hunks were being nefariously poached. I had no actual insider info about the politics of it all, but that didn’t prevent me from speculating (talking out-my-ass). And we all know the lengths my imagination will take me.
Chasing Rio is a story about corporate espionage and cut-throat headhunting (hunk-hunting, really) among the wresting companies that cater to gay fans. When this was originally written, there were 3 or 4 serious producers on the scene, at least my take on the scene. Rio Garza had just recently begun wrestling for Rock Hard Wrestling under a different name, and it was all sorts of drama going off in my head. These days, it feels like the field has exploded with producers putting content out of their garage, and in the past few years, individual wrestlers marketing their own self-produced materials directly through OnlyFans pages. I’ve got so many opinions about the state of the scene, but I’m going to resist the temptation to go there. Today, at least.
Instead, feel free to tuck in with Chasing Rio, a tag team competition featuring long-standing favorite wrestling crushes Rio Garza, Mitch Colby, Derek da Silva, and Zack Jonathan (Vazquez Z-Man). If you know my opinions well, you probably just chuckled when I listed Z-Man as a favorite. At the time that I wrote Chasing Rio, Z-Man had not ventured onto the BG East roster, and the companies for which he worked did not push him hard enough to really learn the craft of wrestling, in my opinion. A few outings with BG East, which I have on very good authority (you know I’ve got a man inside the operation who feeds me intel) included direct tutelage from The Boss himself, and Z-Man won me over. I still mostly just want to see him get crushed like a pop can, but I readily admit that he can reliably turn me on when he does it these days. I had my gripes about Rio, at times, as well, so consider my tastes carefully.
A couple of years after I first published this story and stoked the rumor mill about corporate competition and talent poaching, I actually enjoyed (a lot) the opportunity to meet the back office boys at BG East, in real life. The conversation about wrestlers working for competing companies came up, and the powers that be at BG East were adamant that they never imply a non-compete clause when they work with their wrestlers, and that they wish them only the best. Which, frankly, was really cool to hear, from the perspective of a fan. Of course, the BG East boys quickly followed up with the (persuasive) argument that they recruit, train, feature, and promote their wrestlers in ways far superior than anyone else.
All my best to the fierce hunks who strip down, oil up, and pound their bodies into each other for the carnal pleasure of gay wrestling fans like you and me. I’m just thrilled for the way that they fuel my wrestling fantasies, and I hope that they enjoy long careers and happy lives. Interestingly, I believe that Z-Man may be the only star of Chasing Rio still on the scene, and I’m not entirely sure even he is. I’d love to hear what life is like for fantasymen like these hunks, after the cameras are off, and they’re looking back (hopefully proudly) at their wrestling careers.
Another Wasted Wednesday has me catching my second wind to get through the week by soaking in the sight of cocky, confident muscle men taken out. This time, I’m contrasting side-by-side images of said hunks, first at the beginning of a match, with fire in their eyes and the wind at their backs, and then about 20 – 30 minutes later after they’ve been laid waste. It’s a big part of what turns me on about wrestling. The psychological drama of getting face-to-face with your vulnerability at high speed is honestly at least as titillating as the sight of gorgeous bodies barely in tight briefs or less. It’s also why I love re-watching matches, to turn back time and watch the strut and bluster, witness the absolute certainty in their superiority. Would they take it back if they knew they’d be flat out, completely defenseless, and totally humiliated in mere minutes? But they don’t know, so they slap their dicks down and reveal a soft underside that only pride, a rocking bod, and a supersized ego can leave you with.
Here are a few choice wrestling hunks who showed up pumped and beautiful and convinced of their invincibility, who ended up crushed just right.
One of my hardest wrestling crushes thoroughly documented in the pages of this blog is Lon Dumont. I was instantly smitten at first sight when this stunningly beautiful competition bodybuilder didn’t just look the part in his debut match in Fantasymen 22, he absolutely owned the ring and his opponent. Now, I never tire of watching Lon (full-stop, but also let me continue) work his top shelf heel magic, particularly when he rocks muscle heads significantly bigger than he is. But I’ve got to admit that seeing him bested and brutalized at the end of Last Man Standing makes me swoon, all the more for the rarity it is.
I have a very different relationship with Damien Rush. He possesses one of the most outrageously over-sized egos in homoerotic wrestling, if not anywhere outside of Washington, DC. The daddy’s little rich boy backstory makes me love, love, love to hate him, and the bigger and beefier he gets, the more extravagantly puffed he becomes, and the more desperate I am to see him humbled hard. Since his early “swimmer’s build,” he’s been getting a lot of mileage out of his gorgeously thick muscles and comic book proportions. When he stomps into the ring, flexing, and his simpering, contemptuous baritone starts chugging away with silver spoon-fed self-praise and blue blood destiny for greatness, my orgasm is just a tad fiercer for it when I see him plowed under and laid waste, as in Hunkbash 17 when smooth muscle giant Vasily Volkov bashes the snot right out of him.
I haven’t quite decided what my fan-relationship is with hot bodied bro Kenny Starr yet. I mean, fuck, that body, of course. But honestly, I don’t know if my crotch aches more to see him ground into putty or doing the grinding. Ty Alexander makes a strong case for the former in Jobberpaloozer 17. Kenny’s glorious, wedgied ass exposed, nearly drowning in a pool of his own sweat, and unable to muster enough energy to lift his head off the mat is certainly a sensational use of that smoking hot body of his.
Seeing Joshua Goodman (that’s Mr. Joshua to you!) take a turn on the losing end of the stick is another rare treat that leaves me just a little frustrated, honestly. Don’t get me wrong, watching a notorious badass heel undone is that much more pleasurable when said badass is a musclebound physique star with a multi-award winning bulge. The hit Mr. Joshua’s ego takes in a match like his Ring Hunks 1 battle with Aryx Quinn gets me way, way hot and bothered. But fuck it all to hell, seeing him wasted, out cold, and humiliated, and never seeing an opponent unleashing Mr. J’s not-so-secret weapon when he can’t lift a finger to defend himself makes me blow blood vessels. Come ON, Aryx! WTF?!
I’ve been starting to dabble in Thunder’s Arena again, for a change of pace, and there are just so many mouthwatering muscles to sink my teeth into! For example, Battlespace 112 grabs me hard, initially because I can’t decide if it’s silky smooth, mocha skinned surf bro Jack Beaver or mop-headed, smoldering alabaster boy Kid Thing who’s hotter. Perhaps paradoxically (or not), it’s seeing Kid Thing worked to a nub and literally out cold still standing that tips the scales his way for me. Fu-uck, we need a Kid tournament some day [makes note to self for future fantasy match].
Rio Garza. Let me just say his name and step back and watch the ages old fault lines pop open in homoerotic wrestling fandom. I’ve long been on the record that I love to hate the Mexican muscle boy precisely because he never quite managed to go from go-go boy to wrestler. I mean, he wrestled. A lot, to say the least. But I never thought he brought a whole lot more than a dizzyingly sexy body to the table. I know for a fact that at least a couple of his opponents felt the same way as I do, which explains the ferocity behind the brutal beatdowns lovely Rio took in the ring. If you’re going to be a dazzlingly sexy muscle jobber, you deserve the credit for making wasted be so deeply satisfying for fans, as he does in Hunkbash 11.
I should probably quit, but I couldn’t help myself but track down one more stunning fantasyman who comes to mind when I think of pathos in defeat. Kid Brock wrestled in a total of just 4 BG East releases, and still I obsess about him these many years later. It was the angelic babyface somehow misplaced atop his gargantuan, fierce physique. It was a whiff of greatness, like this Kid could legitimately deserve his place in the extremely exclusive ranks of Kid greats at BGE. It was that porn-ready muscle ass and those sensationally thick thighs. But, in the end, it was all that wasted promise, plowed under, destroyed, humiliated, and him leaving an epic career of homoerotic wrestling greatness just lying their on the table, just like he was just left splayed out and destroyed by the likes of Structure in Ring Wars 9. Like seriously, I think this Kid could have owned us ALL if he’d stuck around!
Such a sensationally sweet, sexy, satisfying waste to see hot bodied hunks like these laid out!
If you’re new around here, you may not have heard that pretty much everything inspires my homoerotic wrestling imagination. One of my longest-standing, relatively random inspirations has been hot guys on television news. For a while, I thought it was just my imagination, prompting me to fantasize about hard, hot bodies underneath the suits of the handsome faces hired to look trustworthy. But no one can ignore the flagrant display of hot journalist beef all over the airwaves these days. It’s not just me combing through the minutiae and piecing together Chris Cuomo’s bulging biceps and Gio Benitez’ mouthwatering pecs out of nothing more than public social media accounts and confirmation bias. These days, the news hunks are quite obviously getting hunkier, unbuttoning their shirts, posting workout videos, and finding excuses to show off their hard toned gym bodies. Thus was born The News Division series of homoerotic wrestling fiction that I’m slowly transcribing from an old private site to the pages of this blog. I’ll post an updated version of a new chapter tomorrow.
If you aren’t new around here, this is all old news. So let me move on to the new addition to my newsmen crush lexicon. My local weatherman is a nerd stud. He’s skinny. Literally, a marathoner. He’s no Hollywood heartthrob, but he’s got a seriously cute, boyish face. Quick wit. I’d schoolboy pin him in a second. But the real star of the show is that ass of his when he takes of his suit coat and steps up to the map. Specifically, he makes me gasp every time he turns to point to the weather map and shows off his remarkably perky, round ass in profile. Solid, sculpted muscle, made all that more stunning by his skinny, little waist. Not everyone has the genetics and laboriously-built muscle to be able to show off such lovely side butt. There are huge, bulging bodybuilders who do squats for years and never pull off the perfectly round globes that my skinny weatherman has. From behind, you can’t always measure the perkiness-factor like you can with side butt.
So, in honor of my weatherman and the provocative gift of a tiny waist and gorgeous, round glutes, I’ve spent more time than I should have curating this annotated collection of homoerotic wrestling hunks showing off sensational side butt.
BGE’s classic baby face muscle boy Troy Baker gave pin-up boy quality side butt. I’m also a fan of Troy’s tan lines, which serve as a highlighter spotlighting his beautifully round, alabaster cheeks.
My longest-reigning favorite homoerotic wrestler and multi-Best Butt and Body winner Kid Karisma possesses one of the perkiest, most muscular ass cheeks on the planet. He’s a study in physical perfection from every angle, but he gives choice side butt.
Tyrell Tomsen is an adonis, with extravagant, luscious meat draped from every joint. You have not lived if you have yet to see every awesome inch of Tyrell in Strip Stakes 1, which, frankly, has sort of spoiled me for every other strip stakes match I’ve seen. It’s hard not to let your eyes roam over him, but if you’ve got the self-discipline, you’ll see that his thick, solidly muscled glutes are perfect in profile.
Epitomizing the tapered-V, Scrappy (Thunders, W4H, Muscleboy) possesses perfect proportions. The way his tiny waist perches on top of his lush, thickly muscled ass makes him a side butt poster boy.
One of the more controversial figures in the annals of homoerotic wrestling history, Rio Garza had a remarkable gift for dividing fans and wrestlers alike. But can we all agree to the self-evident fact that the Mexican muscleboy sports practically perfectly round glutes that make for sensational side butt?
This photo demonstrates the extremely rare (IMO) phenomenally hot double side butt perfection of last year’s Best Body winner Van Skyler on the left bearhugging Payton Meadows on the right. Their Undagear 26 face off really deserves to be cross-listed as a Fantasymen product, because they are both ripped from the pages of an erotic fantasy. But for butt watching, it’s out of this world, and for two pairs of the sweetest, roundest ass profiles to appear in one match, it cannot be beat.
I should’ve quit a while back, but I couldn’t stop myself from digging into the archives just a bit more for choice side butt. Blond, blue eyed bombshell Jeff Phoenix had all too brief a stint in the ring for BG East, but that all-over tan and magnificent physique surely ought to arise from the ashes for a comeback, don’t you think? And side butt that juicy needs a severe tongue lashing, if you ask me.
It’s probably criminal to have any discussion of phenomenal asses without extensive homage paid to Mike Columbo’s legendary glutes. In my hiatus from following the scene, I’ve lost track of whether the Mike Columbo fanatics are still actively worshiping at his altar, but I still keep a candle light for two of the thickest thighs and the superhumanly proportioned profile of his most famous assets.
But honestly, I was always more of a classic Mikey Vee fanatic than a Mike Columbo devotee. In Mikey’s early days at BG East, he was a devastatingly adorably bad ass in a baby face disguise.
I’ve got half a dozen other hot hunks for whom, I bet, I’d find scintillating shots of side butt, but I’m going to draw a line there rather than work on this post for days on end. You, however, can tell me who I missed in the comments!
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.
Taking a brief break from the heavy diet of reviews I’ve been dishing out, today I’m lingering a bit on that supremely homoerotic wrestling hold, face-to-crotch headscissors.
I’m sure I’ve mused about this hold before, but I’m too lazy to look it up. So I’ll probably repeat myself when I say that my heart pumps harder in my chest when a straight forward pro wrestling story suddenly introduces face-to-crotch scissors. If you buy that all of pro wrestling can easily be read as an extended homoerotic innuendo, face-to-crotch sort of slaps down the implied erotic subtext and steps at least one toe over the line into straight up homoerotic text.
How wrestlers carry it off, of course, can significantly add to eroticism. I suppose it’s possible to snap your thighs around another man’s head with that up close look at your balls in his face and it be solely about punishment and wrestling victory. But I love watching a wrestler snap shut that bear trap and then enjoy it, openly, luxuriantly, expansively. When someone on the delivery side of this hold pumps his glutes and shoves his hips forward with a little enthusiasm, when he milks the moment with pulsing flexed muscles beating out a morse code of agony from the gasping grunts of his opponent, when he stares down his own hot body and smiles at the sight of his opponent owned and getting primed for sucking cock, when he closes his eyes and leans his head way, way back and that look of an impending orgasm washes across his face, there’s nothing coded about this. This is hot, homoerotic wrestling gold.
The catcher can certainly connect the dots as well. Regardless of who ends up on top after all is said and done, I love it when a captured hunk’s eyes roam hungrily up and down his captors body above him. He doesn’t need to, but if he stretches his hands up and strokes those crushing thighs, the rippling abs, stretching so far as to palm the bulging pecs of his tormentor, it conveys what I’m silently thinking deep inside at that moment. A smothered grappler doesn’t have to, but if he’s man enough to nuzzle the balls bearing down on his face, fuck, maybe even open wide and give the trickster’s treats a hearty lick, it just puts the exclamation point on what this hold conveys from the start: wrestling persistently implies homoerotic intimacy.
When the camera angles and storytelling are just right, face-to-crotch headscissors shine a spotlight on one man’s bulging package, bringing his entire, tasty physique into the mix, making even that swelling muscle of passion a part of the corporal domination of another man. For me, it isn’t even so much about the oral sexual implications, as much as it signals that every magnificent inch of a wrestler’s hot body is engaged in dominating his opponent. Hell, when wrestling companies choose to transition from explicit wrestling to explicit sex, I typically push rewind. Because what’s getting me off is the homoeroticism of the wrestling, not the wrestling as foreplay for sex.
I suppose it isn’t such a far distance between why I’m such a fan of face-to-crotch headscissors as I am a fanatic for my favorite pro wrestling hold, the over-the-knee backbreaker. Both draw my eye to one wrestler’s bulging package. Both center the frame on the outline of a bulging cock and the ballast of balls. Both seem ripe with the erotic potential marrying gay sensibilities and a pro wrestling kink. Both make my pulse pound in anticipation of what happens next to, or with, or on behalf of one wrestler’s swollen pipe.
I sometimes find it ironic that this blog attracts so many visitors thanks to the still frames I include, because it’s the story in and around any one captured slice of time in a wrestling match that tantalizes and titillates me. It’s not any one frozen image that becomes the perfect muse to my erotic imagination, but the drama played out in motion, the slow contraction of muscles, the arching agony in a lower back, the quivering pouch, the writhing feet futilely kicking the mat. I’ve lately talked in terms of “the moneyshot,” meaning that moment in a match at which point I’m likely to climax, but that moment is about the 1,600 seconds before that led up to that moment, the deepening jeopardy of one man, the swelling confidence of another, the bodies growing wet with sweat over time, the veins swelling and pumping harder with blood from the effort and the adrenaline of competition. I get off plenty to face-to-crotch headscissors, but I’m never just getting off to face-to-crotch headscissors.
If there is one valuable analog of face-to-crotch headscissors, I think its the comfort a wrestling company has with the homoerotic eye of their gay audience. In scanning for face-to-crotch headscissors images across several platforms for this post, I found them concentrated in just a couple producers’ catalogs. And I think they play a part in direct proportion to how explicitly companies market to those of us in the audience tuning in and ponying up because we are sexually turned on by wrestling. Of course, face-to-crotch headscissors aren’t the only way of crossing the line from homoerotic subtext to homoerotic text. Hell, they probably aren’t even the best way. But from a strictly correlational perspective, I think they show up in proportion to how much I (at least) perceive of a producer as appreciative of and comfortable with me, as a gay man, watching their wrestling products as a means of sexual gratification.
So probably a close second as my favorite wrestling hold is face-to-crotch headscissors, because when they’re done wrong, they can reveal a whole host of troubled self-hatred bubbling beneath a veneer of nohomo bravado, but when they’re done right, I feel respected as a gay wrestling fan, drawn into the intimacy of homoerotic combat, and turned on hard.
Despite my explicit preference for homoerotic wrestling fare with an element of competitive suspense about it, I’ve been finding myself watching, and enjoying, quite a number of one-sided matches lately. The “squash” is a particular subgenre that I can enjoy, but, like I’ve said, I tend to prefer to see more give and take, more narrative suspense. So it’s interesting to find myself sitting in front of a whole lot of lopsided squashes. Sampling more than my typical diet of them, I’ve been reflecting on what almost always does work for me in a squash, what can but doesn’t always work, and what almost never works for me in a squash.
First, what almost always works for me is seeing a dominant pitcher deeply delighted by the feel of mastering his opponent. This is what I’m talking about when I prattle on about “owning,” when one wrestler doesn’t just beat the other, doesn’t just make him tap out or submit, but takes visceral pleasure in controlling an outmatched contender. Obviously, the absence of this element can make a squash a bore for me. The squash where the dominant stud seems thoroughly dismissive, so out of his opponent’s league that he can barely be bothered to pay attention to the suffering he’s causing, tends to disappoint me. I’ll feast for days off of a viscious, dominant heel who obliterates an opponent in a landslide and convinces me, one way or another, that he could very well need to rub one out soon before or soon after the camera’s are turned off, because he’s just too damned turned on. Frankly, this doesn’t even need to be entirely about sexual tension. I’m less interested in whether the winner wants to fuck his opponent’s ass in victory than I am in whether the experience of conquering, controlling, and possessing an outmatched opponent in and of itself seems capable of giving the winner erotic pleasure. Whether he cums all over the catcher’s face on camera, or just leaves me believing that he needs a little “alone time” in the locker room to pound one out on his own, I’m buying it, if he’s selling it.
A lot of examples come to mind. Most of Kid Vicious’ catalog falls neatly into this category. If KV doesn’t bust a load all over a lamb-to-the-slaughter opponent, I feel 99% certainty that he took care of it soon afterward. He always looks to me like he’s mentally getting off on destroying an opponent (the prettier, the harder). Kid Karisma taps this consistently as well. His recent Undagear 23 match with reigning homoerotic wrestler of the month Marco Carlow is a perfect example. Kid K looks like he’s eating this squash up with a spoon, and when he rips Marco’s gear off, poses overtop of his fallen prey, and beats a hasty retreat from the mat room, I’m convinced it’s not just a hasty retreat he’s about to beat. Jake Jenkins muscle mauling of it-boy Kip Sorrell in Backyard Brawls 8 is another specific example. I think of JJ as one of the most G-rated wrestlers on the scene, but his laughter, his luxuriating in Kip’s total destruction beneath him leads me to write the off camera script that has JJ needing a moment to himself to celebrate beating the living fuck out of that ridiculously pretty pin-up boy.
There are other elements of a squash that can, but don’t always, work for me. A predator who plays with his food, for example, can sometimes turn me on, other times no. I’ve written my appreciation for trash talking taunts in the wrestling ring for ages, but in a squash, withering derision can seem more like dickishness than homoerotic tension. Personally, I find taunts more erotically provocative when the battle is close, when there’s suspense as to whose brash boasts will be born out as true, and who will be humiliated in regrets for winding up his betters with checks he couldn’t cash. In a squash, taunting trash talk and verbal humiliation are tricky for me. Sometimes I’m stoked hotter. Somtimes not. Cathweight squash scenarios also can go either way for me. When the opponents are so clearly, ridiculously mismatched in size, a big-beats-little squash can sometimes work for me in a big way, but at other times leave me a little bored with what turns out to be the forgone conclusion. Competitive catchweight matches or, even, little-beats-big squashes typically float my boat big time, all else considered, but it’s a touchy thing if it’s a big-beats-little squash from the start.
Guido Genatto’s matches teeter back and forth with me around some of these coin toss elements. He won’t relent in physical or emotional abuse until an opponent is a pool of sweat and tears, sometimes just this side of the line for turning me on, sometimes just the other. For the big beats little squash dilemma, big Joe Robbins similarly sometimes comes up heads, sometimes tails.
Finally, it’s a little hard to put my finger on precisely the element that almost never works for me in a squash. I know it by how I feel, rather than by the specific content of the wrestling. When I’m left genuinely feeling sorry for the loser, when I have this impulse to call the principal’s office and report an incident of homophobic bullying in the halls, then I’m totally not on board. When it’s so one sided and the dominant stud is heaping on misogynistic insults, questioning the battered boy’s masculinity, then it touches a nerve that makes it hard to stay in the mood for. There’s a particular stripe of sadism that’s more sociopathic than homoerotic, that delights in inflicting suffering but seems more likely to end in the winner pissing on the loser than cumming across him. That schtick is not in my wheelhouse (no judgment implied, though if it is in yours).
My most recent experience with this is the third match in Undagear 23, in which Ethan Axel Andrews fucking brutalizes delicately gorgeous Jayden Mayne. I’m not just saying this because Jayden charmed the pants off me in his interview here late last year, selling the living fuck out of being an earnest, ambitious babyface on the rise (though that, he did). And fuck, Ethan’s turned my crank more times than I can count. But then there’s this crime scene that unfolds in Undagear 23. Ethan mauls Mr. Hollywood in such a way that I’m sort of hoping for someone on the camera crew to break this shit up. I’ve seen Ethan sell me over and over on his erotic delight in owning an opponent, but here, he just strikes me as a bully. He’s just mean, not because he’s getting off on it, or he cares if you’re getting off on it, or he secretely intends on stripping Jayden’s fine, fine ass bare and taking the spoils of victory with a Trojan on. He just comes across as enjoying hurting defenseless creatures, just because he can. Call PETA. There’s a sicko who enjoys torturing puppies!
Now, I’m 100% certain that there are plenty of homoerotic wrestling fans for whom Ethan’s mugging of Jayden is pure gold. Jayden is genuinely outmatched and outclassed from start to finish, and there’s an undeniable beauty in his spoiled masculine innocence. I’m not suggesting that anyone else does or should feel about it the way I do. I’m just musing, in my own little corner of the internet, about this thing that can take me a little by surprise: a homoerotic wrestling match that simply, essentially, fails to push my buttons. Squashes are just like that for me.
Summer ushers in many things I enjoy. Warm, sunny skies, outdoor events, fireflies, long awaited SCOTUS decisions. But the one thing I anticipate with the most eagerness each thaw is that tipping point when hunks drop trou and start showing off their legs. Too little attention is paid to thick, powerful, beautiful legs on men. Even in homoerotic wrestling photography, the convention of cropping wrestler images off at the waist or mid-thigh is such a waste! So here are a few luscious wrestlers showing off most of their best angles below the waist.
Spring has arrived (then left, then came back again), bringing with it warm sunshine and hot studs wearing shorts. Honestly, it’s still too cold for shorts, but I’ll slap you silly if you tell that to the well-muscled men in my neighborhood who have been dying all winter to show off their marvelously meaty thighs. Now another 10 degrees warmer and I’m certain they’ll also go shirtless. In the meantime, I’m thanking the homoerotic wrestling gods for the fantasy-fueling glimpses of strong, thick, hunky legs.
In their honor, I lift him an extremely long-time obsession of mine, Joshua Goodman (that’s Mr. Joshua to you!). I’ve mentioned before that pretty much everything about Joshua is underrated due to the extremely attention-grabbing cantaloupes he smuggles in the pouch of his trunks. I’ve spilt gallons of virtual ink marveling at the package that has won the Best Bulge at BG East award 2 years running, but when I can manage to tear my eyes away from the hypnotically swaying ballast he’s packing, I’m captured by how gorgeous his legs are.
Gorgeous is a word that has to appear a dozen or more times in a review of Mr. Joshua’s appearance in Hunkbash 15 because his opponent is possibly the most gorgeous creature on the planet, devastatingly lovely Rio Garza. Typically I think of the adjective “pretty” to correlate highly with “breakable,” “vulnerable,” and “doomed” when it comes to homoerotic wrestling chatter, but Rio is both supremely pretty and possessing astonishing tenacity and endurance, because he’s had that award winning ass of his beat senseless so many times that no one could begrudge him if he were to never set foot in a wrestling ring again.
But Rio does, again and again, and once again he climbs into BG East’s ring with one of the most notorious narcissist heels in competition, Mr. Joshua. I’m enthralled with the contrasts as the two check each other out. Skin tone, proportion, features, weightiness… these two men are a bundle of contradictions appearing in the same ring together. I’m incredibly turned on by both, which makes it that much more astounding to me to recognize how different they are in personality and proficiency in the ring.
And when Rio strikes early, spladling Mr. Joshua wide and showing off the prize that Joshua fans worship above all else (that mountainous package), I’m struck by the perspective of seeing Mr. J made so vulnerable by a notorious jobber like Rio. Joshua is perennially dangerous. Even when he loses, he dominates. Even when he’s humiliated, there’s a presence about him that holds the momentum like he holds my gaze. But when Rio rips apart his gargantuan thighs and rolls Mr. J up, asshole toward the ceiling and that legendary bulge bulging and quivering, the drama grabs me hard.
Then, of course, Mr. J grabs Rio. Hard. Holy shit, in the long, long line of brutal beatings Rio has suffered, this is one of the sexiest. There’s no time to worry about whether Rio is going to sell it (a question I’ve raised in the past regarding his work), because Mr. J maintains such a commanding, persistent pace that Rio’s got nowhere to go but down, down, down.
And here’s where I circle back to the beginning of this post to say that in the bedazzling spectacle of gorgeousness, where my eyes just soak in helplessly one astonishingly sexy sight after another (Joshua’s bulge, Rio’s abs, Joshua’s bulge, Rio’s anguished face, Joshua’s bulge, Rio’s stunning ass, Joshua’s bulge, Rio’s obediently flexed bicep), I can’t help but let out a little gasp of appreciation for Mr. J’s cabled, thick, damn sexy quads. They aren’t in the leading role in this incredibly talented ensemble cast. Fuck, they wouldn’t even get nominated for a supporting role award. But they are essential and breathtaking nonetheless.
I once posted about my unrequited lust for precisely two wrestlers who tease and taunt the fans cruelly, dishing out insane quantities of sexiness but always falling just shy of showing off every gorgeous thing about them in a wrestling match: Rio Garza and Joshua Goodman. In Hunkbash 15, they continue their vicious ways, stripping down everything but everything and leaving me shedding a tear of unfulfilled anticipation for seeing either of them (just imagine the novel I’d have written here if they’d both done it!) getting stripped naked and brutalized, finally baring it all. But the bastards still have me wiggling on the hook, as I find still more to drive me crazy with lust. Well played, you horrible, horrible (insanely sexy) hunks.
Out of 128 votes cast, Rio Garza pulled just over 45% of the ballots to slap down perennial poll powerhouse Aryx Quinn (37%) and luscious one-hit wonder Brian Bodine (18%). As a rule, I generally never count out Rio or Aryx when it comes to fan support, so this was a fascinating head-to-head, making me wonder whether Brian’s respectable 18% threw the balloting one direction or the other. We’ve seen Aryx crushing Rio, and we’ve seen Aryx crushing Brian. If there are homoerotic wrestling gods, I pray that they will throw the three of these hot hunk into the same arena with one pair of trunks to fight over between the three of them. Congratulations to Rio, who never fails to look stunningly gorgeous in absolutely anything!
Today’s Friday Fashion poll was another tip to me from eagle-eyed fashionista Dan. Trent Blayze wore, appropriately enough, blazingly hot indigo trunks with silver flames when he ran headlong into the steamroller we know as big Joe Robbins in Pec Bash 2. Fast forward to catalog 101, and we find Aryx Quinn, yet again, daring to don the same gear and begging for a fashion comparison in his Masked Mayhem massacre over Muscle Mask. Handsome hunks. Hot bodies. Beautiful bulges. Awesome attitudes. Both have scored homoerotic wrestler of the month trophies here at neverland, but when it comes to that particular pair of trunks, who wore it best?
In the wrestling ring, stunningly pretty Troy Baker very seldom tallied victories. In fact, in most cases that adonis body of his took a brutal thrashing that made him many him the #1 muscle jobber of many fans. But when it comes to fashion, and in particular, when it comes to those metallic gold, barely there posing trunks, Troy put unlucky Kieran Dunne on his back and shoved poor Kieran’s face in that shiny golden pouch. The carnage was absolute. By a vote of 93 to 30 (as of this posting), the beautiful blond beauty Baker boy pounded the living shit out of Kieran when it comes to which hunk fans think wore it best. When Troy makes his (never even rumored) hypothetical comeback, I think it should be an in the ring, against Kieran, battle for the briefs as both hot hunks wrestle naked to see which dazzling stud gets to wear this dazzling gear again.
Today’s Friday Fashion poll draws from the Can-Am crew. Specifically, Can-Am printed its name across the asses of their wrestlers on a few occasions, including their dotcom buttercup trunks worn in two of the Arena series DVDs. I believe first to wear them was a one-hit wonder I’d love to see hit up again (and again), gorgeously muscled Brian Bodine in Arena 1. Talk about a party foul, when dangerous hunk Aryx Quinn showed up to take on Brian as Rusty Stevens’ sloppy seconds, Aryx was wearing the same gear. Then, to irk Aryx I’m sure, Rio Garza slipped his underwear model body inside the same buttercup trunks with Can-Am’s name and logo stitched across his fine, fine ass in Arena 3. I’m unilaterally declaring that all three of these beautiful bodies could never go wrong in absolutely anything/nothing, but the difficult question you have to ask yourself is “who wore it best?”.