Living through a pandemic has done a number on a lot of us. It’s been a long stretch and a heavy load on my outlook on life. I’m normally pretty chill, and things don’t get to me (or at least, stick around for long). But the refreeze on the cold war, global economic instability, and ideological hijacking of the U.S. Supreme Court, on top of coping locally with the implications of a global pandemic, have interrupted even my legendarily sound sleep. So, I took it as a sign from the homoerotic wrestling gods when, one late autumn morning, I was watching my local news, and Scott Williams’ face appeared on my screen.
Right? I mean, any time I lay my eyes on Scott, I thank the ether that this gorgeously handsome hunk stars in some of my favorite wrestling fantasies. But the sheer randomness of seeing him show up, completely out of the blue, on my local broadcast, sort of shook me just a little more than usual.
Of course, it had absolutely nothing to do with Scott’s incredibly sexy body of wrestling work, or even his incredibly sexy body. It was one of those “feel good” fluffy news pieces that local stations shop around to each other, to try to help us all avoid collapsing into paralyzing depression from watching the actual news. A Boston news outlet was set up near where a major motion picture was, reportedly, being filmed. Boston had closed down some city streets for the production, and locals were showing up along the sidelines to catch a glimpse of U.S. royalty (i.e., our entertainment stars). The poor local reporter who drew the short straw, and had to stand outside and make something that is, fundamentally, not news, appear to look like a news story, was interviewing the looky-loos.
And like a thunderbolt from the homoerotic wrestling heavens, Scott Williams is standing there with a microphone in his face! No. Fucking. Way! But yes. Way! I don’t know that I actually heard what Scott said when being interviewed, because I was yelling at the television screen, “NO FUCKING WAY!”
There’s some major meta mind-fuck happening here, when I’m tripping on catching a glimpse of a homoerotic wrestling star that I have crushed on since first laying eyes on him, who is, himself, hanging out in the hopes of tripping on catching a glimpse of a Hollywood star that, presumably, he is passionate enough about to stand around outside in Boston’s brisk late-autumn weather. If I didn’t already believe in the homoerotic wrestling gods, this adrenaline shot to my mid-pandemic morning would have totally converted me into one of the devout.
And because I KNOW that Scott reads the pages of this blog (because he occasionally comments, prompting me to immediately dig out one of his matches and rifle off some shuddering pleasure), I just want to thank him, personally, for brightening my day, yet again. Did you see any Hollywood stars that day, Scott? Did the reporter comment on your superhero-proportioned square jaw and devastating good looks? Have you kept the peaks on those mouthwatering biceps of yours sharpened while the gyms were closed during the pandemic? And, since the homoerotic wrestling pantheon is clearly set on putting you in my path, when am I likely to see you (preferably stripped down and in a wrestling ring) next?
First of all, a quick word about my housekeeping here around the blog. I redecorated just a tad, to keep things slightly fresher. I’ve also changed up some standard features to reflect my focus these days. Rather than crown a homoerotic wrestler of the month, which I haven’t had time to keep up with in years, I’m just naming whoever my latest obsession is (regardless if they’ve appeared in recent new releases). I’ve also crowned a new reigning homoerotic wrestler, which I deliberated about long and hard, because I fucking LOVE the longest reigning champ in that category, Kid Karisma, with a passion reserved for very few. However, I have to say, my longstanding wrestling crush on Scott Williams has been dominating my thoughts and posts in recent months, and I am awed at how he can just comment on the pages of this blog with two sentences and I’m fully aroused and savoring an endorphin hit. So Scott has officially, forcibly removed the crown from Kid K’s freckled forehead and planted it on top of his own gorgeous pate. If ever Kid K wants to settle this in person, in what would be the most spectacularly sexy old-school-meets-new pairing in homoerotic wrestling history, I will beat anyone else who wants the privilege of reffing away with a stick.
In honor of the newly reigning champ of these pages, I’ve done an extra leg workout today and savored BG East’s recent release of Science of Scissors 2. As far as I’m concerned, Scott is the final word in all things scissors, because he has demonstrated repeatedly, in action and word, that he knows exactly what I like most about them. So I’m hoping the new champ will weigh in on my quick review of this new entry in the annals of the homoerotic wrestling obsession with scissors.
The combatants are Kip Sorell and Brad Barnes, which frankly, is a little bit of a surprise to me. Brad I get, because, fuck, look at the quads on that beast of a man! Kip, though? I mean, he’s fuckable from every angle. But while his legs are sensationally lean and cut, with a topographical map of his circulatory system clearly visible across the surface of his quads and calves, his legs are not particularly big. Again, let me be clear, I would worship Kip’s body from head to toe for days on end, but I do not think of him in the top 10 of “legs most likely to punish.”
Brad clearly agrees with me. “I don’t know what you’re going to do against these bad boys,” Brad boasts, squeezing an almost audibly crunching flex out of his massive quads. “Yeah, you may have some size on me,” Kip counters, flexing his darkly tanned thighs in reply, “but I think I have a leaner, more aesthetic look.”
Reading my mind, Brad calmly asks, “Oh yeah? I don’t know if that’s going to compete with this power. I’ve been doing all those squats and deadlifts; been going up in weight, too.” Kip refuses to tear his eyes away from his own dazzlingly sexy image in the mirror as he mutters back, “Deadlifts and squats aren’t that important.” “It is when it’s about to end your wrestling career,” Brad deadpans back. Fuck, that is choice trash talk. I haven’t always been on the Brad Barnes bandwagon, but he is serious as a heart attack and sexy as hell, slapping down his smack and starting to crowd lovely Kip out of the center of the ring with his huge, round pecs and magnum-sized ego. “Let me see what these little chicken legs of yours have got.”
They take turns testing each other, which is curiously super-erotic to watch for me. They agree to let Kip go first, and they both ease their hunky, hot bodies down to the mat. Kip spreads his golden thighs open wide, and Brad willingly, compliantly, slowly leans back to rest his head on Kip’s crotch. Fuck. Their mutual consent in just getting right down to business like that is almost as much a turn on as it is when Kip deliberately positions his legs around Brad’s head in then suddenly clamps down the crotch-pillow headscissors. Brad instantly winces. He screws up his superhero square face in pain and grunts, breathlessly, “Okay… not bad.”
Kip milks it beautifully, twisting his lean torso to pry at Brad’s neck like he’s working on removing a stubborn wine cork from the bottle. “How’s that,” he asks, knowing full well he’s making the muscle hunk eat his own words. “Not bad for chicken legs, huh,” he demands to know. He barrel rolls Brad in those headscissors tauntingly, which always turns me on hard. Finally, they roll close enough to the edge of the ring for Brad to grab a rope at get the break. “I guess I’ll let you have a turn,” Kip chuckles, letting him go. “Though, I don’t think you’re going to do much with those stubby little things, anyway.”
They switch positions, and again, there’s something supercharged about the intimacy of Kip gently and willingly lowering his head in between Brad’s waiting thighs. When Brad bears down, Kip squirms and whimpers immediately. His head is nearly swallowed between those huge, lightly hairy, epic tree trunks on Brad. “Oh, shit,” Kip gasps in shock as he feels his skull compressing. Brad does this sensationally sadistic little trick of relaxing, even opening his legs apart an inch or two, which instinctively makes Kip gasp in relief. But then Brad snaps his thighs back together again that much harder, which causes Kip to cry out in shock. Brad works in his own sexy barrel rolls, though he delights in stopping part way and slamming Kip’s adorable face into the mat. Flex. Release. Flex. Release. Edging closer and closer to submission. Kip tries to pry Brad’s knees apart, but Brad just laughs at him. “Oh, you can forget that idea. You’re not spreading those bad boys!” Kip wriggles and squirms, his face flushed dark red. “Shit, shit, SHIT!” he screams out. It’s his turn to grab the ropes and get the break.
The rest of the action isn’t so willing or compliant, so this kicks back into the center aisle of my main turn on. “How about you try this on for size,” Kip suddenly pounces before Brad has peeled himself up off the mat. Kip lands on top of him, crotch slapping down into Brad’s face, and instantly snaps together his legs. “I hope you’re enjoying the view,” Kip crows, grinding his pink bulge into Brad’s gasping face. Kip’s go-to move to double down on the punishment is swiveling his hips. Not only does it highlight his infinitely munchable ass, it also cranks viciously at Brad’s neck, with his head locked up so nice and tight in the face-to-crotch headscissors. Kip does tricep dips, hangs from the ropes, mostly just showboats, rolling Brad around the ring at will and making the powerhouse hunk scream.
Brad drives a double-fisted axe handle into Kip’s gut to get the break, and then seriously starts to dominate. He forces Kip’s head high up between his thighs, and when the position isn’t quite to his liking, he reaches behind him and drags Kip by the hair so that he’s nice and snug, smothered deep up Brad’s meaty glutes. Flex and release. Flex and release. Fuck, Brad is playing Kip’s screams of panicked pain like a player piano. Kip gives. What the fuck ever. Brad is on a role now.
The money shot for me is when Brad drags Kip to the edge of the ring and climbs out onto the ring apron. He delivers standing scissors, first crushing Kip’s skull between his huge calves. Then he drags him up to his knees and drapes the boy across the middle rope, trapping his head between his monster quads. Brad flexes… everything at once, and it’s so fucking beautiful, and it makes Kip scream, “O, God, nooooooo!”
Then Brad spins around, to crank on a slightly different pressure point with Kip’s head now sticking partway out between the front of Brad’s flexing quads. Kip screams, and Brad just leans back and punches the wriggling fucker in the back. Total ownership.
When he lets him go, Kip is gasping and clutching his head, and Brad just leisurely muscles his opponent around, to bend him backward now across the middle rope. He steps across Kip’s neck like he’s mounting a pony, and then reaches behind him again and grabs Kip by the hair. “Let me see this pretty little head,” Brad chuckles, yanking on Kip’s hair until he’s positioned the kid’s face high up against his spectacular cheeks to cinch down the pressure to perfection. Kip arches and wails, and Brad just punches him in the gut. Fuck, yes, complete domination.
It’s not over. There are a couple more reversals of fortune. There’s a 69 scissor-off that is pretty climactic, as both battlers squeeze their hearts out to be the one whose scissors put him on top. It’s Brad that wins. It was Brad that was always going to win, as far as I’m concerned. I love luscious little Kip for believing otherwise, but sweet-fucking-god, Brad is in his element here. It’s all about power and punishment. And I had no idea that Brad, with his unbelievably perfect, round, huge pecs and unbelievably square jaw, was such a little sadist at heart! I’m totally reexamining my viewing history of his matches to figure out how I missed what a fucking beast he is.
The final scissors are a figure-4 choke out. “Good thing about having all this power,” Brad smirks, “is I don’t even have to try.” Credit where due, Brad makes this look easy, but I don’t believe for a second that he isn’t trying, because his performance here is inspired. Kip wheezes out a feint submission, struggling for air. “That’s not good enough for me,” Brad barks dismissively. “Say, ‘I can’t handle the power!'” Kip whispers, wheezing, “I can’t handle… the power.” Brad smiles brightly, but continues. “Say, ‘You’re too strong for me!'” Kip is groggy, slurring the words hissing out of his constricted airway: “You’re… you’re too strong… for…me.”
So yeah. Some nice surprises in this match for me. The scissors are awfully delightful, and I’m not nearly as into them a I know some fans are. The little bits of color and character that Kip and Brad bring to their scissors are sweet and nuanced. Frankly, if you combine Kip’s penchant for twisting his torso as he applies his headscissors, with Brad’s pulsing, pumping, flex-and-relax action, you get Scott Williams’ sensationally punishing scissors. I’m dying to hear Scott’s take on some of the key plot points. For example, Scott has mentioned that the thickest quads don’t always translate into the most punishing scissors. I think that’s the territory Kip is trying to lay out to start this match, but shit, he does NOT deliver there. With the wide variety of scissors applied in this match, I’m wondering which catches Scott’s attention (for good or bad), and why. And if Scott could test his scissors against just one of these hunks, who would it be, and upon which crotch pillow would he prefer to rest his head when he feels the power? And finally, can I be Scott’s corner man when this Science of Scissors: Old School Meets New School piece of brilliance goes down?
I’ve often written about just how titillating I find it to see behind-the-scenes images of my favorite homoerotic wrestlers. It’s like how I get off more on Clark Kent than Superman (true story, also related to why I get off on hunks in glasses). Several years ago, I received the first of several batches of candid photos of BG East wrestlers, clearly taken before, sometimes during, or occasionally after since-published matches. These photos come to me anonymously and shrouded in mystery, much to the annoyance of powers that be at BG East, as well as some of the wrestlers. I know for a fact that at least one wrestler, accused of being the mole, was threatened with bodily harm if he were discovered to be the one smuggling BGE intellectual property off site and leaking it to the media (I love being considered “the media”!). But thus far, Our Man Inside (or OMI, as I affectionately refer to him) has remained unmasked, and the plucky mother fucker has continued to sneak shots my way, risking life and limb, just to get me (and you) hard. Fuck, I love that guy!
I am thrilled to announce that OMI apparently continues to work among the crew at BG East, because he just dropped me a bunch of new contraband. As always, there’s absolutely no context given for any of these shots. Some of the look like they came from recent releases, and some of them look like they may foreshadow yet-unreleased match-ups. The men are all gorgeous, of course, but it’s the unguarded, half-shy smiles, that turn me on so hard. There are real life, beautiful young men behind the larger-than-life wrestling personas they put on to compete at the elite level of homoerotic wrestling. I love catching that glimpse of the wrestlers just being guys, playful, shy, quirky, and effortlessly themselves.
Thanks, OMI. You are truly my hero, and your courage and commitment to feeding my libido leave me owing you a debt I fear I will never have the pleasure to repay!
Am I the only one who doubled down on leg day after reading Scott Williams’ response to my recent post about scissors? Of course, I’d get insta-hard just listening to Scott reading from the phone book (do they still make those?). So just imagine what it does to me when he waxes poetic about the raw details of a recent “session” he had with a guy who was particularly passionate and adept at applying punishing head scissors. Read between the lines, and it’s apparent that it was Scott’s head that got punished relentlessly until his opponent was sure Scott was wrecked. Scott concludes the account by simply exclaiming, “Ahhhhhhh.” That’s seven “h’s.” I counted them. And I think that they mean that Scott found getting his cranium crushed in his own signature hold a turn on. And now, I’ve never had quite this much motivation to not skip leg day. Honestly, I’ve been furiously blitzing my legs with squats and lunges, and biking around 20 miles on the other days. I’ve said it before, and I’m sure I’ll say it again: all Scott has to do is ask, and I’m ready to deliver. And if there’s ever a chance that someday I can slide his head between my quads, I’m determined to be ready to pack on enough pounds per square inch to make the man of my dreams gasp out at least 10 h’s.
In the mean time, all of this attention on crushing quads has sent me hunting for homoerotic wrestlers paying homage to sensationally sexy, dangerously powerful legs. Who knows, maybe one day when social distancing is a bad memory, my quads can earn Scott’s respect like this. If getting wrung out to dry can get Scott off, I feel certain we can come to a mutually beneficial arrangement!
At any one time, I’m typically nursing a throbbing crush on around half a dozen wrestlers. All it takes is a glimpse of one of them, and my heart pounds and my cock grows hard. It’s a rotating stock of sexy studs commanding my infatuation, but there are just a few wrestlers who show up on my shortlist and stick around long and hard.
One of the first homoerotic wrestlers to instantly be elevated to crush status is BG East’s Scott Williams. I’ve written about my infatuation with Scott in the past, so I’ll just point out that if I were stranded on desert island and could only have 3 hunks with me for an endless round-robin of homoerotic wrestling, Scott is now, and almost always is, on that island.
My homoerotic wrestling imagination has really been the theme of this blog for over 10 years. My musings have flitted from pro wrestlers, to wrestling-for-gay, to Hollywood hunks and beefcake journalists I’d like to see wrestle. But the real subject is always how my erotic imagination possesses my thoughts and inspires my cock. It’s just a thought-exercise that you’re invited to join me along, exploring my homoerotic wrestling fantasies that, for the most part, are solely playing out in my mind’s eye. But then again, there was that time I obsessed relentlessly for months about my fierce ambivalence between settling on Mitch Colby or Rusty Stevens as my reigning favorite wrestler, only to discover Kid Leopard had made my fantasy come true by pitting them against one another in The Breaking Point: The Sexiest.
I’ll keep nursing my regression to magical thinking and silently hope that I, just wishing it and naming it out loud, can make a fantasy match-up come true. I have some fantasy matches in mind, but I want to carve out what I intend to be a recurring series here, namely picturing tasty twinks for man-of-my-dreams Scott Williams to devour.
Scott has commented in the pages of this blog that he likes getting his hands on new crops of young wrestling twinks. That acknowledgment alone sent me pouring through the catalogs of new releases to decide who it is Scott should get his hands on first, at least in my imagination. For the record, Scott has not endorsed this series, nor has he approved any of the opponents I have in mind for him. If Scott wants a rewrite, or even a retraction, of absolutely anything I write about him, I’m his to command. Like, literally, Scott. Anything I can do for you, let me know.
The first twink I’m picturing that Scott should demolish is stunningly pretty, doe-eyed sexy boy, winner of the Debut of the Year of 2018, Kenny Starr. Just sizing the two of them up turns me on, because numbers are sexy. At 6’2″ and 190 pounds, Scott would tower over little Kenny, who stands at 5’9″ and 175 pounds. Kenny wears a playful smirk on his boyish face at the start of every match, like he’s just here for the fun and games and the free drinks and ready sex that come with being a young, ripped, erotic wrestling starr.
So just picture Scott squaring off against Kenny in the BG East matroom, Kenny grinning and chuckling about “beating up grandpa,” and Scott staring back, deadly serious. Fuck, I love Scott’s game face. Glaring almost half a foot down at Kenny, his stone cold, humorless stare would visibly unnerve the cocky twink.
Kenny would take the initiative with a lightning quick lunge, taking a leg with a self-satisfied grin. Kenny’s plan would be to shock and awe the veteran with youthful speed and aggression. Scott would just watch, appraisingly. Even when Kenny sweeps the leg and slams the veteran to his back, I picture Scott just holding his hands out to his side, calmly, cooly studying the ankle biter quickly mounting his lightly hairy chest and sliding into a schoolboy pin. Kenny’s crotch dangling just over Scott’s face, the young stud would break out into that adorably exuberant shit-eating grin, flashing his baseball biceps and basically just waiting for Scott to admit that he’s outmatched.
I think Scott would indulge the moment a while, because he enjoys the view and he knows he’s winding up the kid’s flawed sense of invincibility. But mid-chuckle, little Kenny would get bucked off and tossed across the matroom. Kenny’s certainty in his own superior speed would be shattered when Scott beats him to his feet, and then just flat out beats him. Scott likes long, strength-sucking endurance holds, so he’d start with a vice-like side headlock, dragging the twink around a couple laps of the matroom while crushing Kenny’s skull between a bulging bicep and his ribcage. Dropping to one knee, I can see Scott turning the crank in that magnificent way he has, pumping the headlock like he’s working to pry the stubborn lid off of a jam jar. Kenny would whimper and wilt sagging lower and lower until Scott takes him all the way to the mat, still crushing his skull relentlessly.
Seriously, I can see Kenny tapping out to the patiently tantric headlock in the first 3 minutes of the match. It wouldn’t exactly surprise Scott, but it would sort of piss him off. The veteran relishes a test, and a cocky bro rolling over right out of the gate would inspire some serious punishment. Sure, he’d let go of the “submission” hold, but he’d give the kid exactly 1.5 seconds before sliding him into crotch-pillow headscissors and clamping down with his lovely, long, hairy legs. Little Kenny would writhe and whimper louder, struggling to pry the thighs away from his throbbing head.
Scott would slowly transition to a figure-4 choke, then an armbar, then a tautly strung bow-and-arrow, patiently milking each crush and stretch. The matwork would be masterful, burying the increasingly desperate kid under joint wrenching torture from head to toe. A weak-ass 2nd submission would squeak out of the pretty boy to an incidental half nelson that Scott was using to set up a camel clutch. Scott would throw him down in disgust, exasperated by the would-be tough guy crumbling before him. As little Kenny whimpers petulantly, nursing his battered ego, Scott would call him a crybaby, all talk and no substance. He’d spank the kid’s ass with loud, cracking slaps that would make Kenny spasm and cry out.
Scott’s patience would run out, waiting for his opponent to get up and fight like a man. Dragging him up by the back of his straining trunks, Scott would hook an arm between Kenny’s legs from behind, hoist him off is feet, and pound the gasping kid down in a gutbuster across his knee. You’d hear the air violently rush out of Kenny’s lungs, even as Scott would hoist him back up and slam him back down, again and again. When the kid doesn’t even squirm on the line, folded humiliatingly across Scott’s bent knee, the veteran would peel the back of Kenny’s sweat-soaked trunks down, exposing that lily white, perfectly round ass. I can see Scott squeeze the produce appreciatively for a while. It’s not like Kenny has any fight in him to complain. Until, that is, Scott starts spanking the naughty boy hard. Screams would punctuate the wet slaps, as the veteran hungrily studies the red palm prints he leaves behind. “Cry for me, crybaby,” Scott would growl. Kenny would weep in frustration.
Kenny’s pleading submissions would fall on deaf ears. Hell, I’d bet Scott would crack some senior citizen joke about needing new batteries for his hearing aids, and not being able to hear this wailing twink. Of course, the truth is that the veteran would be tickled by every yelp, savoring every tear. He’d drag the kid up, demanding that the weak-kneed punk leave his ass cheeks hanging out. When petulant Kenny stubbornly pulls his short pants back over his red hot glutes, Scott would violently shove him into the wall face-first, pinning his head to the wall with one hand while using the other to yank his opponent’s trunks halfway down his quivering legs. You could just hear the twink’s impotent sobs grow more frustrated, then more desperate, as Scott pins the kid’s wrists to the wall overhead and grinds his crotch into Kenny’s ass.
Kenny wouldn’t disobey when Scott demands, again, that he leave his trunks where they are. Even as the veteran throws him wall to wall and then body slams the kid to the mat, Kenny would leave his trunks awkwardly hanging mid-thigh. Scott would sit low and mean in the saddle across the kid’s bare butt in a Camel Clutch demanding that the kid cry, which he would. Loudly. Scott’s Boston Crab would be a little more work to cinch in place with Kenny’s trunks sliding most of the way to his knees, but all the easier for the veteran to transition to a single leg and reach down and squeeze the boy’s hanging balls.
Kenny would submit again. And again. And again. With his tormenter’s claws ripping apart his perky lean pecs, Kenny would give. In an abdominal stretch hanging like a cut of tenderized beef on the hook, he’d cry out in submission again. Twisted, tossed, and tortured, the twink’s trunks would slide lower and lower, until he’d be swaying, barely standing unassisted, his pale white beauty marked all over with red welts turning angry purple, and his prettyboy designer trunks mid-calf. Panting, heavy-lidded, half out of it, Kenny would self-conciously start to bend forward when his gear finally drops to his ankles. Scott would just have to “tut-tut,” and the demolished twink would jerk back to attention obediently, swaying on his feet, eyes on the floor in humiliated subjugation.
Scott would take one last stroll around his tamed trophy, offering light praise for the kid’s quick obedience, and promising to make a man out of him. Little Kenny wouldn’t say anything, because, really, what would there be to say? He’d just grunt in resignation when Scott shoves an arm between his thighs from behind and hoists the kid across his gorgeously muscled shoulders. If he pulled down on Kenny’s neck and legs, he’d wring more screams and tears out with a torture rack, but there’d really be no point to that any longer. Scott would just be wearing the kid like a wrap now, taking in the sight of himself in the mirror, soaked in sweat and in full possession of the adorable little muscle bro who’d been so filled with cocky overconfidence 20 minutes ago. With his conquest balanced across his wide shoulders, Scott would flex a little. He’d have earned the right to indulge in the self-congratulations, giving credit where it’s due, namely to his phenomenal physique and mat experience. Finally, he’d stride to the door and side-step through it, carrying his naked prize with him.
At least, that’s how I see it. It’s a lot more lopsided a match than we’ve seen Scott wrestle, but seriously, have you seen those huge, corded arms of his with veins popping out in his recent guest appearances at Wrestling with Pride? With the shape he’s in, and company he keeps, and boatload of experience to draw from, I just see tasty little Kenny demolished by the man-of-my-dreams!
It’s been about 16 months since I last posted, and I want to thank those of you who reached out to make sure I was doing okay. Indeed, I was fine, and am continuing to do fine. Circumstances of life overtook my best intentions to keep musing “aloud” with you here about our shared enjoyment of homoerotic wrestling.
Well, circumstances of life have once again overtaken me, and most of us, I’m sure. The demands of my work life have changed. Not exactly gone away, thank goodness. But changed. I’m following public health guidelines that keep me inside my home for all but essential trips out. While still employed, I suddenly no longer have the killer commute I did just a few weeks ago. Practically no social demands, which truth be told, isn’t so bad when you’re as introverted as I am. With so much time on my hands, you’d better believe I’ve been charging my engine watching homoerotic wrestling in unprecedented concentrations and quantities.
I wasn’t exactly planning a comeback here on the blog, until I received a sweet shout out in the comments from man-of-my-dreams Scott Williams, checking in on me. Just like that, I was fully erect, with my homoerotic wrestling imagination aflame, and my thoughts turned back to the value added to my erotic musings that comes from sharing them here.
Historically, what swamps me with keeping up with the blog is my complete lack of self-restraint when I start diving down the rabbit hole of one wrestling infatuation or another. Seriously, I dare not ever actually clock the time I invest in composing posts and pouring through photos to accompany them, because I think the reality might make me rethink if this is a “healthy” obsession I have. But in the interests of enjoying the ride again, and hopefully enjoying it for some time to come before burning out, I will endeavor to keep posts brief. Relatively speaking. I mean, if you’re new to the blog, you’re already thinking this post has gone on too long, but if you’ve surfed around these pages, you know the over-the-top lengths I can go to in chasing that dragon.
So this announcement of my comeback is illustrated by scenes of some of my favorite homoerotic wrestling comebacks. I pray to the homoerotic wrestling gods that good fortune will shine upon me, and my efforts will be even a fraction as sexually satisfying, as the return to wrestling glory of these magnificent stars.
There was a published gap of 6 years between the last time Joe Mazetti ripped an opponent limb from limb and when he showed up in 2015 to fuck over young buck Biff Farrell in The Comeback 2. Joe had one of the “worst” attitudes in wrestling in his storied career, but he was determined to turn over a new leaf and play it straight in his encore wrestling career. Fortunately for all of us (except Biff), Joe rediscovered his inner muscle heel, and the years did nothing but enable him to amass more mouthwatering muscle, the better to plow young Biff under. I always think of my truest self as a baby face waiting for my heel turn. Maybe this comeback of mine will see me take a brutally nasty turn to the dark side, with Joe as my patron saint.
Sometime around 2005, Christopher Bruce returned to BG East competition after a published hiatus of about 4 years. Sure, he got his ass handed to him HARD by the human buzzsaw of Cole Cassidy in Demolition 10, but what a gloriously magnificent ass it is! Yeah, he was exquisitely humiliated, but that was precisely what saved his seat in the pantheon of homoerotic wrestling gods in the first place. If global pandemics and renewed commutes and completely unreasonable work demands and my own lack of self-control make this comeback to blogging go down in flames, I hope it will be as erotically provocative and earnestly respectful of the sport and art and science that is homoerotic wrestling as Christopher Bruce’s spectacular defeat in his return to competition.
Surely the most anticipated comeback in homoerotic wrestling history was the return of legendary babyface beauty Brad Rochelle. There was a desperate drought after Brad headlined the The Contract series through it’s ninth iteration, until he showed up 7 years later to bring the bitter work stoppage to and end in The Contract 10. And what an end it was, as management and labor renegotiated their perpetually contested terms to the satisfaction of BGE fans. The reversal of fortunes made for such perfect story telling. The puppeteer boss manhandled and humiliated the handsome hunk horrifically, until the gorgeous talent battled back from the brink with, of all things, a kiss of death, using the master’s tools against him. It’s a spectacular climax to a story of epic proportions, tying up loose ends, savoring character development. There’s sweet, jaw dropping revenge as the Boss himself is abased like never before, the ultimate heel brought low by the perpetual underdog.
I can only hope my comeback is as successful at executing the long game as Brad Rochelle’s comeback was. Of course, how can I talk comebacks without extolling that of Shane McCall, or Brendan Byers, or Kieran Dunne, or… But no. I will not burn myself out just one post into my return to blogging. Thanks for reading and commenting.
A few years ago, I mentioned in a post that I have a particular fondness for candid glimpses of homoerotic wrestlers. I love seeing them when they aren’t “on,” when they’re obviously just being the beautiful men they are in those moments between climbing into the ring to rip each other apart. A few wrestlers have openly shared with me their private camera rolls from wrestling shoots, but BG East (the source of most of those), officially embargoed me before that could go on for long. My sources dried up, and rumor had it that some of the wrestlers involved were sorely and corporally punished for sharing the insider information with “the press.” And then, quietly and mysteriously, I received my first batch of smuggled contraband from an anonymous source who I have come to know only as OMI, Our Man Inside.
I always wonder if my latest batch of OMI treasure will be the last, and the Boss will sniff out the mole and squash him like a bug. I take it as testimony to the size of OMI’s balls and the apparent affection he must have for me that he tempts fate by feeding my adoring obsession with peaking behind the curtain.
I’ve posted precious little about the recent live wrestling show BG East produced for the Fort Lauderdale Pride event last month because, 1) I couldn’t get off work to go down and see it in person, and 2) I’m bitter about #1. Somehow, OMI knew how envious I am of all of the social media celebrations of that event, and like manna from heaven, again I’ve been fed some dizzyingly delightful snapshots from something other than the “official” camera.
Clearly, the event was a who’s who of BG East celebrities. I have no problem with acknowledging that even the pics of these gorgeous hunks fully clothed gets me hard. The fraternal camaraderie in their playful smiles and warm embraces highlights one thing I love about BG East: the “esprit de corps” as several wrestlers I’ve talked to have named it. Even when they do their best to rip each other’s balls off in competition, once egos and bodies have been tested and placed in their proper hierarchy, most of these wrestlers clearly enjoy the community formed by what unites them, namely, a passion for wrestling.
To be honest, I can sit on OMI caches way too long because I want to obsess about every single photo in detail. In order not to fall into that trap with this incredibly tasty OMI collection from the Pride event, I’ll post most of them without comment, but not without deep appreciation and arousal. But, of course, I will comment on a few that grab me by the balls just right.
First of all, look at the assembly of hotness! Fuck, so many names, so many muscles, so many immediate associations in my mind with wrestling matches that I’ve written about and gotten off on repeatedly. There are exactly 5 faces I don’t recognize. Identify everyone in this shot and you can be queen for a day here on the blog.
These assembled shots from the Pride event raise so many summary questions. Who is the guy in the front row snapping a photo of Ty’s sweaty ass as Jonny works him over outside the ring? What sadistic, sexy machinations is Kid Vicious working there in the shadows? Where can I get a leopard print suit!?
I have no doubt that OMI knows exactly what he’s doing to me by sending me shots like this of three of the sexiest wrestlers of all time who I have unapologetically fawned over repeatedly in the pages of this blog. Seeing Scott Williams, Shane McCall, and Brad Rochelle embracing and smiling brightly blows my mind. The time since these stunning wrestlers were last seen in the ring has done nothing but make them sexier. How is there not a Daddy Division at BGE, to scratch that itch, that I know for a fact I’m not the only one who has, to see classic wrestling stars like this back in action? Shane has been quite clear in his interview with me a couple of years back, as well as ongoing comments since then, that he’s still nursing an appreciative rivalry with hot daddy Scott. How is this not a thing!? Look at Scott’s bronzed, bulging deltoid muscle there and explain how the the fuck he isn’t starring in a Returning Classics Championship tournament or, at the very least, his own muscle daddy Wrestler Spotlight!?
Refraining from commenting at length on every one of these photos is killing me, but I know this post will never get published if I start. However, the questions that come to mind in this collection include how is there not an UltraFight 2.5 (The Rematch) in production right now? Exactly how did Brad and KL manage to bury the hatchet after Brad was last seen shoving the Boss’ head in a toilet!? And can someone please tell Shane that if he’s going to build pecs like that, he is morally obligated to get his hotness back into the ring, preferably starting by settling that score he has with Scott?
I sort of think that OMI may know me better than anyone I’ve never met. Not only does he satiate my lust for classic homoerotic wrestling stars, he knows how much I also adore catching those first glimpses of hot, young, aspiring beauties. This pic of assembled youthful hunks makes me desperately hopeful that the known wrestling stars there (Kayden, Ash, Noah, Tommy, Kieran) interspersed among ridiculously pretty young faces I’m not familiar with, hints at some fresh, meaty newbies on the horizon. The backward baseball cap duo have GOT to be the most mouthwatering tag team I’ve never seen in action. Blond Ambition there on the left, the one with the lips, looks ripe for a beating. And holy fuck, Kayden , with those arms, wearing those glasses, is making me swoon. I’d like to order up a 2-on-1 battle in which Tommy and Noah team up to take on Kayden, and, for the record, I’m putting all my money on Kayden.
Again, how NOT to comment for the next 3 months about each and everyone of these hot shots? I know from the poster that Elite Eliot was on the card for the Pride event, but fuck me, those lickable legs of his make me ready to beg to see him in the BG East ring for myself (please tell me this is true!). Is it possible that Ace Aarons got his crack at rubbing the shit-eating grin off of Kirk Donahue’s face? Who in the hell are the too achingly pretty young hotties that Kirk has his arm around, and how long did it take for them to get annoyed by Kirk and double-team his better-than-mediocre ass? Why am I NEVER around to be invited to join in the sexy pool parties!?
As always, OMI, I owe you more than I will ever be able to repay. Keep the smiles, and the dimples, and the beautiful men who make homoerotic wrestling what it is, coming!
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.
I know of wrestlers who nearly lost their balls getting caught smuggling behind-the-scenes pics out of BG East shoots, so I continue to applaud Our Man Inside (OMI) who once again has dropped a manilla envelope full of random, unpublished BGE candids on my doorstep. This envelope was huge, so I’ll try to refrain from taking up too much space with my comments or speculations. Though, who am I kidding? I can’t restrain myself from speculating. In any case, OMI, you are my hero!
First up, we’ve got a whole bevy of poolside hotness. I have not appreciated Mad Mykel’s magnificent ass nearly enough until now. On the other hand, Ty Alexander and Richie Douglas’ asses have been on my radar for years. Honestly, who do I need to fuck to get to see more of Richie Douglas incredibly tasty body!? And ever a safety nut, I hope Mykel, Ty and Richie know that I’ve got to hands and a bottle of sunscreen at the ready. Anytime.
Next up, we get a sensationally rare treat of unpublished photos from the BG East ring. I’m instantly titillated by the site of an as-yet-unreleased match pitting papa Shane McCall ripping my long-time infatuation, Drake Marcos, limb from limb. The double team by Kayden Keller and Jonny Firestorm Camel-Crabbing flyweight phenom Charlie Evans is instantly huge drama making my mouth water. But holy fuck, I need to send OMI a gift basket as gratuity for a couple of extremely rare action pics of Kayden working over the stunningly handsome, hot as fuck classic hunk and declared man-of-my-dreams, a contemporary Scott Williams. Please, homoerotic wrestling gods, hear my prayer that this foreshadows new releases starring the Man of My Dreams!!!
So it appears OMI may be a creeper with sensationally good taste, because this next batch has a ton of BGE stars in various states of sleeping, waking, or possibly just cuddling in bed. Such intimate vulnerability. So many slack, supine, defenseless hunks on display. I have an incredibly strong urge to slide under the covers with Kayden and spoon him awake.
This next batch I’ve filed under “letting their hair down.” As I’ve said often, there’s something potently sexy about seeing the ring warriors of my homoerotic fantasies with their guards down, relaxed, happy, and as is evident in these stolen shots, abundantly goofy. And the goof-in-chief most definitely appears to be The Boss himself, who I hope to the homoerotic wrestling gods never finds out who dished me these cutting room floor shots of him hamming it up. This also reminds me, why haven’t we seen more of sensationally hot boybander, Baby Boy Nino Leone?
Finally, this last batch of relatively random shots I’ve compiled under the heading of BGE boys doing what they do best, namely, looking gorgeous. Reigning HWOTMChase Addams eats shirtless, Drake rehydrates after that match with Papa Shane, and KL, Kayden and Charlie prove how devastatingly handsome they look all cleaned up. And then there’s Ty, Kayden and Jonny looking like they’re acting a Shakespearean scene. Shirtless, of course.
Again, OMI, my deepest gratitude and promise of pseudo-journalistic integrity when it comes to never, ever, under any circumstances up to and including corporal torture, will I disclose anything I know about your true identity. Keep the good times and behind the scenes goodies coming. And all of you BGE boys outed for your handsome smiles and adorability in stolen moments of candid life, keep looking gorgeous. Don’t change a thing.
When I started blogging nearly 8 years ago, I had no idea it would come to this. There are a few moving parts to this little melodrama being played out in my life, so bear with me as I write some expository to try to set up the remarkable circumstances within which I find myself. I know that you’re used to me writing homoerotic wrestling fiction, but at the risk of ripping off the Cohen Brothers, let me just assure you that while I have skipped over some of the more trivial points in the story, the rest of what I’m about to tell you is described exactly as it occurred.
First of all, as I say often, I have my favorites. Even casual readers can name the hunks who reliably, predictably, inevitably get me hard every time I watch them in action. From Chris Cuomo to Mitch Colby to Rusty Stevens, there are a few names that recur with such frequency on these pages that I’ve been known to provoke irritation from some readers who tire of my infatuations. However, as I also say often, this blog has always been about me, so suck it up or move on. One of my longstanding fan infatuations that I’ve held for long before I started blogging is for The Classic, Scott Williams.
I swoon every time I watch Scott snap on headscissors, flex his glutes, and press his hips forward, threatening to crush some lucky son of a bitch’s skull. In an interview I did with another classic infatuation, Shane McCall, I referred to Scott as “the man of my dreams.” It’s not an exaggeration. Scott’s devastatingly handsome hotness has always made him fantasyman material for me. Everything about him makes me weak in the knees. The square jaw, the bald head, the ripped muscles, the scorching intensity. His published work for BG East is comprised of merely 4 matches, and yet his presence in my homoerotic wrestling infatuations is so much more huge than that. When I recently learned that Scott still wrestles privately and in custom matches arranged through Jonny Firestorm, I started saving pennies immediately for another chance to crush on Scott’s hotness. I’m still saving (it takes a lot more pennies than I typically have on hand), but in the mean time, I regularly sift through the social media feeds of other wrestlers that I know also do similar work for Jonny, panning for that priceless glimpse of Scott’s gorgeous, hairy pecs.
Now, let me shift my attention just a little, with the promise that, I swear, these various subplots will all collide before this post is done with. Another familiar infatuation that readers know well is my fandom for The Cheshire Cat, Drake Marcos. I was crushing on Drake’s handsome hotness since, literally, before I ever saw him wrestle. About four and a half years ago, Kid Karisma smuggled some behind the scenes snaps out of a BG East shoot. This was before The Boss started requiring non-disclosure agreements and my sources of up and coming BGE gosssip dried up, except for my very deeply embedded, super secret smuggler of back stage pic, known to me only as OMI (our man inside). In any case, I was already groovin’ on a candid, fully clothed shot of Drake at his very first BG East taping, before we even knew his name. My fan relationship with the Cheshire Cat has taken several abrupt and unexpected turns. Drake reached out to me, turning up the charm even before his first match was released. Every time he wrestles, I repeatedly get off on his intensely erotic approach to the genre. I was thrilled to get to do a tandem interview with both Drake and Mason Brooks, soon after Mason crushed the Cheshire Cat like grapes and laid formal claim to his ass in Passion and Punishment 1. In that interview, in my sincerest effort to applaud Drake for looking so delicious getting pounded to pulp, he took umbrage at me suggesting that he’s an outstanding jobber. Words were spoken. Challenges made. And about 10 months later, there I was, getting a tour of BG East’s South Campus from none other than Drake.
The tour was capped off with a settling of that brewing tension between us. Having no pro wrestling experience, I was unceremoniously tossed into the ring by my tour guide and worked over harshly, with that handsome, taunting grin beaming down at me every step of the way. Well, the grin sort of disappeared around the time that this “mere blogger” strung his tasty little meat sandwich up in the ropes, and then exploited his vulnerability in a tree of woe. And then stripped him naked, laid out flat on his back in the middle of the ring, snapping pics to document the priceless moment. There’ve been more words. Accusations of cheating and presenting “alternative facts.” I think Drake has simmered back down and finally acknowledges that in this blogger vs. wrestler battle, he was, in the end, my compliant plaything. I still pop my cork just knowing when there’s a new Drake match out (like now, so watch for my review of X-Fights 42).
And now, for the 3rd tine of this complicated fork, let me just remind you of my ongoing enjoyment when watching the homoerotic wrestling career of Ty Alexander. Like Drake, my fandom for Ty began before we even got to see him wrestle. An OMI snap captured Ty’s hotness when he was all promise and potential and anticipation. In the intervening 3 years, the Trophy Boy has made quite a name for himself, owning social media, selling his sensational brand of fashion-forward wrestling narcissism, and managing to snag the Jobber of the Year title while demonstrating repeatedly that he is no pushover.
And so here’s where all three of these strands of story start to entwine. I had the temerity to let it be known that I did not vote for Ty to win the Best Butt title this year. Regular readers were completely unsurprised that I, once again, threw my full support behind Kid Karisma’s behind. For some reason, this provoked Ty to take aim at making me pay for my “mistake” … corporally. I’ve since received challenges from Ty to face him in the ring, so that he can work out his frustrations all over my body. He’s promised to beat my blogger ass for the perceived slight toward his.
At first, I didn’t take this all that seriously. This is Ty Alexander, we’re talking about. Jobber of the Year. When a notorious jobber tries to pick a fight, it’s just because he’s aching to get owned, right? It’s not like I need to jump when Ty snaps his fingers, because a young stud as gagging to be dominated as Ty is in 90% of his matches is surely going to still be on the line whenever I get around to pick up. Right?
Well, the whole surprising heat from the Trophy Boy took a sudden and unexpected turn for the dark side about a week ago. I got a notice that I had a video from him waiting for me in my inbox. Now, Ty has sent me (and I’m not exaggerating), hundreds of pics and clips of him. He knows I like the look of his body, and he’s every bit the narcissist to get off on knowing it, so he scratches both of our itches. Often. So I clicked on this latest video expecting to see him showing off his 2nd place ass in the tanning both or in the gym locker room again. But no. This was unlike anything I’ve ever received before.
It was Ty, mounted across Scott Williams’ back, wrenching the man of my dreams in a totally fucked up, nasty ass, vile as shit camel clutch. Of course, my dick snapped to attention immediately. I thought, for a brief moment, this was just a little stolen snippet from another Jonny custom bout. But again, no. Ty was shoving Scott’s gorgeous face (mostly covered by Ty’s hands) into the camera and sending a very personal, very specific message, to no one else but me.
“Hey Bard,” Ty says, like we were old chums picking up in the middle of a conversation we’ve had for years. “I just wanted to show you our friend, Mr. Scott in my camel clutch.” Uuuuuuuugh, Scott groans in obvious pain, Fuck you!, he snarls furiously, wailing and choking on the torture. There in a pro ring somewhere. “This is what’s in store when you face me, when you finally man up,” Ty continues, staring at the camera and smiling even as he wrenches that much harder on Scott’s neck, making The Classic whimper.
Fuck you, fuck you, shut the fuck up! Scott shouts, his voice muffled through Ty’s hands clamped around his leading man chin. “Last time I checked,” Ty smirks, “I pretty much fucked him today. Are you going to give now, Scott?” Fuck you, you fucking fuck, God damn it! Scott wails. Ty pulls back on his neck another 3 inches and Scott’s voice rises about 10 decibels and half an octave, God damn it, God damn it! No, fuck off!!!! “Give!” Ty demands cooly, almost quietly, leaning back another 2 inches. I GIVE, YOU FUCKER! Scott screams in exquisite agony.
“Sorry, Bard,” Ty says to me, staring into the camera as he climbs off, revealing he’s been working that vicious camel clutch on Scott’s entirely naked ass. “Just look what’s in store when you finally face me,” Ty concludes, stretching out on top of Scott’s muscled back.
At this point, let me pause the narrative to make a couple of points. First of all, no. I won’t post the video. One reason is that I don’t have permission from all parties involved to publish it further. But an even bigger reason is that I am a greedy fucker, and knowing that this steaming hot 60 second vignette was made for my eyes only has made me get off on it repeatedly in the past week or so, and I’m savoring it as my own, my precious.
But further, can I just say what a mind fuck it is to watch Scott Williams, the man of my dreams, one of my longest standing homoerotic wrestling infatuations, get punished for no other reason than the fact that Ty knows I crush like crazy on Scott!? Scott’s whimpers and wails, his bald head flushing beet red, his bitter, tortured, agonizing profanity and naked humiliation have occurred for one reason only: for Ty to get at me.
So, there’s that. Fuck me sideways, this has got to be the sexiest call out in the history of professional wrestling. Well, it was the sexiest call out until just yesterday when I found a second video in my inbox.
This one is 3 minutes long. As it opens, Ty (completely naked) is climbing onto a hot, naked ass belonging to someone lying face down on a bed in front of the camera. Ty grabs this lucky loser by the hair and wrenches his face up and toward the camera, so that I can see…. that it’s Drake Marcos.
“Hey Bard,” Ty chats with me again through the camera. “I just put Drake through the ringer. I’ve kind of owed him a little bit of a beatdown for a while, because of all the shit he talks about me.” Ty muscles Drake into a camel clutch, again shoving his prey’s agony-contorted face into the camera for me to watch up close. Drake is wailing like a wounded animal. Ty suddenly drops him and flings him to his back, saddling up naked on Drake’s gut and throttling his throat with both hands. The Cheshire Cat is choking and spitting and struggling to shove Ty away, but Ty grabs my boy’s wrists and pins them to the bed.
“I think it’s time to finish up little Drake here,” Ty says, leaning back. Drake immediately lands a cracking punch to Ty’s left pec. A half second later, Ty slaps the fuck out of Drake’s face. I mean, fuck, it hurts just watching it! Then Ty stretches across Drake’s chest and wraps him up in a Kiss of Death, locking down a sleeper while smothering Drake’s mouth and nose to speed things up. Drake flails and bucks in a panic. Ty just keeps riding until his mount goes limp underneath him.
“See Bard, you’re missing out on all of the fun here,” Ty smirks into the camera. “So I hope you’re ready for whatever’s going to come Drake’s way, ’cause I’ll just do the same to you whenever I wrestle you.”
So, I’m both titillated beyond belief to see if a new ransom video shows up in my inbox, and a little worried for all of the favorite wrestlers I’ve gushed about over the years (Mitch, Mason, Brad, Kayden, Rusty… watch your backs!). I had no idea Jobber of the Year Ty had this level of sadistic cunning. He’s picking off my favorites, one by one, and video documenting their humiliation as a means of provoking me to accept his challenge and show up for Blogger vs. Wrestler, The Sequel. There’s something downright diabolical about it. It manages to inspire adolescent rescue fantasies, me the superhero breaking down the door to save the day for these hot slices of beefcake getting stacked like cordwood by this supervillain. And, on the other hand, it piques my curiosity as to just how far the Trophy Boy will take this, and will he dig himself in too deep and bite off more than he can chew before I’ve finally had enough and show up to redeem the heartthrobs whose only offense has been to get me hard and inspire me to write about them?
I’m sure you’ve got advice for me, so let me have it in the comments below. I repeat, no, I won’t share the videos with you. But I will, most certainly, let you know how this twisted plot of suffering and shocking torture continues to play out.