Tag: Rocko Mortis

Wrestlefest Live – 2025

wrestlebard6 Comments

Like Wrestlefest itself, Wrestlefest Live grew in leaps and bounds this year. I attended WF Live last year, and it was an awesome, fascinating, intense, and immensely entertaining event. Last year, the Live show had the feel of getting smuggled into a speakeasy during prohibition. We were escorted, one elevator-full of wrestling fans at a time, to the undisclosed location. Seating was limited in a sparse, Manhattan loft space on the upper floor of a high rise. It was mat wrestling in front of an intimately small but enthusiastic crowd. The matches were bigger than the setting, really, with some fantastic, high profile wrestlers from the underground scene, stars of both self-published and corporately produced homoerotic wrestling. Seated inches away from match after match of sizzling hot bodies grappling for dominance was unlike anything I’d ever experienced before, and when the box office opened online for the show this year, I eagerly snatched mine up hours after they went on sale, which turned out to be a good thing, since the show sold out in about 12 hours.

Wrestlefest Live this year was billed as more. More matches, a lot more wrestlers (accounting for tag teams, celebrity refs, and unannounced ring takeovers, turned out to be A LOT), but the one element that piqued my interest most was the promise of a full blown pro wrestling show in a ring. I was in suspense, wondering how they’d pull this off, knowing it was set in the same club where the kickoff party had occurred the night before (see my account of drooling over Dio Characi there). I tried to moderate my expectations, frankly. I was picturing the possibility of sort of a backyard wrestling feel, but in this case, in the backroom of Red Eye. Let me be clear, I admire the fuck out of backyard wrestling, with the young wrestling enthusiasts who improvise a pro wrestling setting on the cheap in order to live out (and record and share) their fantasies of being larger than life pro wrestlers like the ones they love watching on TV. Sometimes the “ring” is a trampoline or maybe just a few traffic cones and an unsecured rope marking the imaginary boundaries of a ring. Seriously, I’ve enjoyed watching some backyard wrestling from time to time on YouTube, when I find some hot young men going all in for the raw love of it. However, I wondered if Wrestlefest Live this year might similarly require the audience to imagine more than it literally delivered, sort of like backyard wrestling enthusiasts with the passion, if not the actual equipment and budget, of indy pro wrestling.

But, whoa. Like, WHOA! This was a legit show, the actual incarnation of unapologetic pro wrestling for a homoerotic wrestling audience that I’ve always fantasized about but never quite believed I’d get to witness. Sometime between the end of the kick-off party and the start of the show, an army of elves (who I’ve since learned were primarily made of up many of the wrestlers in the show) literally assembled a pro wrestling ring in the back room of the club. It took up about 80% of the floor space, and they packed in the 70 or 80 of us who purchased tickets into the remaining 20%. You know how eager I was for this, considering I gave up the opportunity to keep chatting up Ben Monaco, Beau Jordan, and Mickey Knoxx at the bar to elbow my way to near the front of the line as soon as the doors opened. I scored a ringside seat near the corner of the ring where the wrestlers made their entrances. I mean, everyone had an up close and incredible view, but fuck, I could literally reach out and touch the ring. When Mickey Knoxx made his ring entrance with Rocko Mortis for their tag team match, he peeled off his top and tossed it out of the ring at my feet (I haven’t asked Mickey, but I prefer to believe it was intentional). Moments later, when their opponents, Beau Jordan and pinch-hitter Seon Cruz took the ring, Beau ripped off his tear-away stripper pants and also tossed them down right in front of me (again, I tell myself it was an intentional bit of titillation especially for me). Like, fuck, I was right fucking there! When Sid Shaw and Zach Reno’s off-the-rails match spilled out of the ring, it was nearly in my lap. For a couple of seconds, Sid had a hold of my shoulder and was trying to climb over me and my buddy next to me because sensationally sexy lightweight Zach was about to thrash the living shit out of him. Fuck, I was right there, and we were ALL right there, and what played out in front of us was incredibly hot, hilarious, and gorgeous pro wrestling action.

Most of the wrestlers on the card have grown up before our eyes, turning their passions for wrestling into entertaining videos on WatchFighters. Quite a few have headlined for companies like BG East, Wrestler4Hire, and Weekend Wrestling. I suspect few of them have done anything quite like this before, pulling off a live match in front of a roaring crowd of guys turned on by wrestling. But honestly, you wouldn’t have known it. The entire show had polish about it. There was an earnestness and unblinking sell about it that was totally un-self-conscious. The slams where hard and loud. Bodies were literally catapulted off the ropes. The face plants into the turnbuckles shook the ring and hurt just to watch. The slaps and stomps popped with this spontaneous authenticity that left bright red hand prints and yellowing bruises behind. I’m mean, sure, I’m certain there were moments that I needed to suspend my disbelief, but as I look back on my memories of the event just over a week ago, I honestly don’t remember them. I just remember the stories playing out in front of us. And the hot bodies. I remember those really well.

There were competitive matches packed with impressive athleticism and wrestling technique. Babyface hero Dash Halley put those meaty pecs of his on the line against massive muscle bruiser Leon Cyrus in a best-of-5 battle that hit hard and kept us guessing to the sweaty end. My buddy Bobby Carter’s match against the institution, Lobo Gris, also started as one of those highly competitive and suspenseful battles, with pounding muscles and long, wrenching submission holds. But all of the matches showcased personalities and drama at least as much as they did stunning athleticism and technical wrestling. Both of the tag team matches were both dripping with melodrama, which is what tag team wrestling demands. When Kid Canuck and Ryan Reilly faced off against MPJ and Bruno the Beast, there was a shocking tag team partner betrayal culminating in a humiliated jobber pile of hot, sexy, demolished pretty boys. In most of the matches there was the teetering back and forth of the balance of power, with wrestlers owning the momentum and taking liberties and threatening to count their chickens before they hatched. Oh, and did I mention there was hot, hunky stripper wrestling? I feel like that deserves to be repeated.

The messiest and the most polished matches were back-to-back. My pick for messiest match was Gabe Steel taking on Drew Harper… and then Gabe taking on Dash Halley… and then Gabe taking on surprise reveal of Jonny Firestorm… and then Gabe taking on both Gabe and Drew. It was all high impact moves, with piledrivers for days. Honestly, there was so much going on I lost the thread of what the hell was exactly happening and who I was rooting for. Entertaining? Absolutely. But way, beautifully messy. The Weekend Wrestling feature of the evening was pretty much the opposite. Sadistic Sid Shaw took on Zach Reno, as I mentioned before, and it was smooth and polished to a glistening shine (just like Zach’s ass, which yes, we saw). Sid and Zach told the story of the underdog little (hot) guy refusing to be intimidated by the big, unhinged muscle brute. There was forced stripping, trunks pulled to show off two sets of hot glutes, and spanking. It was tightly told, with a couple of extensively experienced wrestlers to make every bump and spank feel spontaneous and part of a bigger story, including pulling in some ass whooping on Cole Cassidy (Weekend Wrestling Producer) which was oddly satisfying (not sure why I keyed off on seeing heartthrob hunk heel Cole get his ass kicked as much as I did).

And then there were just these unique moments that speak to the diversity of wrestlers and wrestling that populate this fabulously sexy community. Sir Dark’s match was just entirely off the hook and unlike anything else in the ring that night (in a super fun way). He was feral and bloodthirsty, out to fuck someone up so bad that he impulsively takes out the ref before a pop-up challenger can be identified from the audience. When KC Ryder steps in to be the beautiful blond babyface hero to stand against the forces of chaos uncorked by maniacal Sir Dark, the drama really got intense. Their match was ego-fueled and larger than life. It was sexy as hell and had me holding my breath in suspense and awe. Not sure if I’m conveying it, but it was just a whole different flavor to add to the buffet of Wrestlefest Live. The inaugural championship match between beefy babyface Ben Monaco and take-no-prisoners muscle heel Tarz Lando was (possibly) the the most thoroughly sweet treat for squash fans. The championship belt was decided in a super hot muscle massacre, dripping with cocky swagger and taunting trash talk and gorgeous, huge hairy pecs everywhere. The range throughout the evening was delightful, and the bench was deep.

It wasn’t perfect. There was a 20-minute delay at one point to try to troubleshoot the livestream that stopped working. There were blown moves, an occasional oversell, and even a frew more undersells. I saw Gabe Steel icing a swollen-shut eye after his match, and I’ve seen hints on social media that he may have more story to tell about things that didn’t go to plan. But as a gay fan turned on by wrestling, by sexy wrestlers and the drama and the battle for domination, it was magnificent. It was larger than life. From the rainbow ring to the ball claws and face sitting, it luxuriantly gay. It showed a ton of respect for the art and science and athleticism and beauty of professional wrestling. And it felt deeply respectful to a standing-room-only crowd of homoerotic wrestling fans. Those with credits for this sensational production included KC Ryder, Rocko Mortis, Cole Cassidy, and my cousin Scooter for what had to be a shit ton of upfront organizing and legwork, and there was another small army of guys holding the cameras and running the equipment. A quick shout out to the hot, handsome nerd-hunk ring announcer who should’ve thrown down the mic and ripped off his shirt (but didn’t). All of the celebrity refs (Chase Addams, Ethan Axel Andrews, and new-to-me muscle god Boy Radio) brought the sexy-in-stripes vibe and helped stir the pot of drama inside the ring at every turn. The Red Eye staff were uniformly delightfully hospitable and gorgeous (especially the bearded server with that hot-ass singlet serving drinks at ringside). I look forward to posting more detailed reviews once the matches go up on WatchFighters, but in the meantime, I’m combing through my hundreds of pics and videos I snapped, despite the announcement at the start of the show encouraging us to only take pics and videos “sparingly.” So not sorry!

About Beau

wrestlebard1 Comment

I feel like Beau Jordan is someone I’ve been getting off to for years, but honestly, I only discovered him a few months ago. My favorite frustrated jobber, Drake Marcos, texted me a pic of him getting choked out by this naked, adorably dimple-cheeked, handsome hunk. After admiring how hot it is watching Drake in full-blown panic getting thrashed, I asked him, “Who’s the handsome dude putting you out?” Drake sent me a link to Beau’s social media, and my infatuation with Beau’s gorgeous body, his Glen Powell smirk, and his scimitar monster cock was born.

There’s just something familiar about him, as he flexes in the ring like he owns the place. Before his match with Drake, Beau talks trash in this unhurried, unselfconscious way that’s sexy as fuck. He’s wondering if that “jobber boy Drake is even going to show. I knew he was scared.” And fuck, looking at that bod on Beau, maybe Drake should be.

But this is Drake 2.0, determined to shrug off the mantle of the hottest jobber in the business. So, Drake charges the ring from behind, laughing like a comic book villain as the hot new hunk thrashes in his sleeper. It’s a long, slow milking that drags Beau down, his hot muscled arms flailing uselessly. Seriously, in under 3 minutes, Drake has put the hot jock out cold, stripped Beau naked, and groped the unconscious hunk like sizing up a fresh cut of sirloin.

I know I’ve mentioned before how much I LOVE a heel turn, and there’s no one’s heel turn that I’ve anticipated longer than Drake’s. Watching him own hardbodied Beau is such a vicarious bullied boy’s revenge fantasy, the handsome, skinny kid tormented in the past by the cocky hot jocks, now all grown up and unpacking some seriously hot baggage. Honestly, though, I’m yelling at the screen when Drake is claiming his trophy (Beau’s singlet) and ready to climb out of the ring when this match has literally just gotten started. Failing to take full advantage of that defenseless, rocking bod on Beau and milk that beautifully curved slice of meat hanging from the hot jock’s crotch is fucking criminal. Even I’m over here thinking Drake needs to be punished for this erotic wrestling party foul.

Happily for me (and you… and Beau… and, let’s face it, Drake), Beau rouses just in time to gather his wits and intercept Drake before my buddy has a chance to flee the scene. “Is that what you want, Drake Marcos,” Beau demands, smothering Drake with his singlet. “You want to smell that?” We never hear Drake reply, but as an old friend, let me be so bold as to answer for him: yes, yes, he wants that very much. Just like he’s not exactly hating it when Beau’s mounted in a schoolboy pin and dick whipping his face.

The real magic here is watching Beau’ beast grow before our eyes. There’s no cut scene, no fancy camera work. We just get to watch this gorgeous hunk, who clearly gets off on the same things that you and I do, get hard and hungry. And FUCK, that cock is mouthwatering. There’s some obvious honesty in marketing right there, because there’s just no faking the story Beau’s ferocious beast is telling us.

The remainder of this 32 minute match is all for the other side of that hot fantasy equation. This part of the story is for those are hungry to see a hot, cocky jock humiliate and absolutely own a paper tiger opponent. Beau snorts and rolls his eyes at Drake’s futile attempt to win an arm wrestling diversion mid-thrashing. “This would be funny, if it wasn’t so pathetic, little jobber boy,” he sneers. He challenge Drake to a full nelson contest and let’s the would-be heel go first. And fuck, watching Beau’s naked hotness stretched out and thrown around a bit is intoxicating, but it’s all just to add to the total humiliation when he effortlessly flexes free and makes Drake pass out in his full nelson moments later. What was I saying earlier about dying to see Drake heel? It’s all hazy to me now. All I can remember is Beau’s gorgeously fit naked hotness totally picking Drake apart and then flexing in victory over top of my vanquished Sisyphus of a friend.

But wait, that was just act 1. Act 2 picks up right there, when Rocko Mortis storms into the ring. “Beau FUCKING Jordan, what the fuck did you do to my boyfriend!?” Fuck, Beau’s gotta pitch a double-hitter, and Rocko seriously looks pissed. Rocko shoves an assless singlet at Beau and demands that the hot jock put it on and wrestle him. For the record, let me quickly just state that Beau’s magnificent ass will ALWAYS belong in an assless singlet. Like, FUCK, where in the fuck did that body come from!? But let me do my best to hold onto the thread of this epic story arc and say that whereas act 1 was a squash, act 2 is delightfully back-and forth.

There’s that hot jock bully vibe that continually blows the headwinds in Rocko’s face as he tries to tangle with Beau. Six minutes into their match, Beau has planted that magnificently bare ass of his on Rocko’s face and uses it to smother him into a limp dish rag. With casual, cocky grace, Beau spladles Rocko’s legs apart and helps himself to ring out screaming pain from the bearded avenger. And no shit, Beau’s monster cock will NOT be contained in the low-slung fashion singlet. I’m literally applauding the beast’s entrance to the scene when it comes out to play with a mind of its own.

Trading ball claws leaves Beau rocked by vicious Rocko, and at almost exactly 13 minutes into this 37 minute marathon (not quite 2/3rds of the way through the Beau’s iron man double hitter performance in both matches), Beau loses his singlet again. Fuck, this man should always wrestle naked! Again, it’s a back-and-forth battle, with both vicious low-blowers fighting mean. And speaking of blowing, it’s a fucking work of art when Beau’s got Rocko’s hands pinned over head in another schoolboy and he force-feeds the frustrated BF that curveball beast of his.

Honestly, I don’t blame Rocko one bit for how the tide turns once they’re both naked. It’s really a totally unfair handicap match, with Rocko doing his best to handle both Beau’s gorgeous muscles and that monster cock that, I swear, has a mind of its own. Flat on his back in another schoolboy pin, Rocko dials in Cleveland on Beau’s tasty nips, totally putting the hot jock over the edge and deserving the cum load that ends up painting face.

Fuck, fuck, AND fuck, this is scorching hot. And, again, I have to say I feel like I’ve been watching Beau work this N.E.W.T. level wizardry for years. He’s got an understated charisma that’s just so fucking at home in a full-on erotic wrestling match like this. I’m still stubbornly clinging to the fantasy of a bullied-boy heel-turn getting revenge on the high school quarterback, but no shit, if that all-grown-up hot jock quarterback is Beau, I will be seriously satisfied any way it plays out (as long as his cock slithers free and comes out to play). These days, my morning can’t really start until I’ve watched Beau flex and stroke himself in his daily singlet fashion show at BlueSky, and I am aching (ACHING) to get a ticket to see him at WrestleFestNYC this February, tag teaming with Mason Brooks and taking on Rocko again along with another fiercely hungry infatuation of mine, Mickey Knoxx in tag team match. Check out Beau’s swoonworthy videos on WatchFighters, and if you see me ringside at WrestleFest, I will beat you into the back row if you block my view!

Cry for me, jobber boy!

wrestlebard1 Comment

I started episode 3 of Sidelineland Sounds sampling the exquisite suffering of Drake Marcos at the hands of Shane McCall in BG East’s Demolition 27. In the podcast, I mentioned that I have this running back and forth with Drake that I think he’s way overdue for a heel turn, and I know for a fact he can be a mean, punishing fucker. Well, I heard from a wrestler named Rocko Mortis soon afterward, telling me if I’ve been waiting to see Drake heel, I need to check out Rocko’s recently released match with Drake on Watchfighters.

In The Jobber’s Jobber, Rocko shows up to take on Drake as a stepping stone to Rocko making a name for himself in underground wrestling. “The famous Drake Marcos,” he says with a contemptuous sneer, bumping foreheads with Drake in the middle of the ring and daring the veteran to blink. I had the pleasure of crossing paths with Drake a couple of times at Wrestlefest NYC last February, but this is my first chance seeing him in action since I last saw him wrestling for BGE and W4H several years ago. He’s as handsome as ever, maybe even more so, in the way that some guys just look more and more like a boss the older they get. He’s bigger than I’ve seen him wrestle before, and in a fun script-flip from his early wrestling career, he most definitely owns the size advantage over rookie Rocko. What really grabs me in the opening stare down, though, is the smile on Drake’s face. It’s bright, bordering on delighted, as he stares at his challenger. I’ve seen that full on look of unabashed excitement on Drake’s face before, and it’s the look of someone who’s already picturing how he’s going to fuck up and humiliate an opponent. Sure, sure, Drake’s wrestling record doesn’t have a lot of examples of him actually pulling that off, but it’s clear from the start that Drake’s pretty sure he’s got Rocko’s number.

Rocko is called a “newbie brawler” in the match description on Watchfighters, and it’s apt. He’s all blunt force and shock-and-awe, with a little edge of nearly-unhinged about him. Within seconds of them scrambling at the start, Rocko takes Drake’s back and has the veteran in a full nelson, and suddenly this is feeling so, so familiar (speaking as someone who’s watched Drake’s entire BGE catalog). “Seems like you’re a little rusty after all those years,” Rocko gloats, wringing the big man out. “Yeah, yeah, it’s been a minute,” Drake admits in this flash of authenticity and immediacy that reminds me of a few more reasons I’ve always enjoyed his wrestling. It doesn’t cost him a penny to admit that it’s been a while since he was battling it out in the ring like this, and that flash of honesty is worth twenty other wrestlers who spend their matches trying to convince themselves and their opponents that they’re invincible and unassailable. Drake can lose. He’s lost plenty in the past. So it’s not like he’s giving away ground to let Rocko’s taunt bounce off of him.

But holy fuck, Rocko’s eating his words when “rusty” Drake busts out of the nelson and slams the brawler to his back with authority. Nobody’s lightweight any longer, Drake nails the rookie to the mat in a schoolboy pin and slaps Rocko in the face hard. “Who the fuck do you think you are!?,” Drake demands with sudden passionate rage that grabs everyone’s attention. “I’m sick and tired of people underestimating me and thinking I’m just a stepping stone!” Like I said in Sidelineland Sounds episode 3, Drakes got a ton of technique and skills, and he starts to fucking roll all over the impudent rookie. He wrings Rocko out like laundry in those bodyscissors of his that may, or may not, have cracked one of my ribs many years ago. He manhandles the squirming rookie into a nasty Boston crab, cranking on Rocko’s spine and letting gravity and his new heavyweight status drive the rookie to the edge of panic. At one point, Drake breaks the 4th wall and stares into the camera with that hungry look of sheer delight I mentioned earlier and gloats, “You see? This is how you tame a fucking jobber!”

It’s a back and forth battle, but seriously Rocko’s pushing a boulder uphill against a bigger and badder Drake Marcos with nothing to lose. I’ve been on record many times, in text and now in audio, admiring Drake’s famous suffering sell, but holy fuck, Rocko tells the story in this match! He’s legit getting buried under an avalanche of pent up jobber frustration Drake’s been letting accumulate for years, apparently, and Rocko goes through every stage of grief in rapid succession. “No! NO!,” he screams as if he can deny he’s getting thrashed relentlessly. “Get off me! Get off me!,” he demands in an attempt to bargain with Drake, with this adorable note of command in his voice, like just by sheer force of will he can convince his opponent to obey him. He rages and roars like the Incredible Hulk about to rip off the tattered remains of his clothes and go ape shit on his bully. And as Drake is wearing him down to a raw nub, Rocko starts pleading and begging, “Oh, no, please! Please, no!” Damn, he’s all in so hard I almost start to feel sorry for him. Until he gets a reversal…

Holy fuck, Rocko on the pitching mound, working offense and laying down some hot, hard punishment on Drake is almost as compelling as his suffering sell. He laughs like a Batman villain, with this spontaneity that borders on maniacal. “Is this a pin?,” he snarls down when he’s got Drake flat on his back and unable to dislodge the rookie. It’s a rhetorical question, meant to point out the obvious fact that Drake is in danger of picking up his jobber career where he left off, and newbie Rocko is chomping at the bit to use this rookie victory to climb to the next rung on the ladder of being the sadistic, unhinged brawler bully he aspires to be. Rocko’s got a vicious mean streak that I suspect is attached to nerve endings in his crotch, because he sure seems to be getting off on making Drake hurt.

So, like I mentioned, Rocko gave me a heads up that we’ll see Drake’s heel turn in this match, and it’s sweetly satisfying after I’ve been anticipating it all of these years. He wears the would-be bully brawler out and leaves Rocko in that final stage of grief, bitterly accepting that the most infamous jobber in homoerotic wrestling just pulverized him. “Let’s leave everyone on fucking notice that Drake Marcos is fucking back!” It’ll come as no surprise to regular readers that I strongly endorse Drake’s repetitious use of “fucking” to drive home the point that there’s a whole new Drake Marcos climbing into the ring in 2024. “Clean yourself up bitch,” he snarls at Rocko as he walks away, writing his own script and being is own badass wrestling heel self.

The Jobber’s Jobber is intense and fun and chaotic and spontaneous. There are no washboard abs, so if you need that, this may not be for you. But if you like hard, mean, ego-fueled brawling with heavy doses of shattered dreams and brutal punishment to the point of weeping panic, this is most definitely for you.