Some of the most fun I’ve had exploring meet-up wrestling these past few months has been just chatting with opponents during breaks in the action. Well, it’s a different kind of fun, but still very fun, and the conversations have really stuck with me. For example, I was just wearing out again our buddy Scott (aka, the Man of My Dreams) a few days ago. He really wanted a chance to redeem himself, I think, after he got a little more blogger-turned-wrestler than he was counting on the first time we wrestled several weeks ago. He seemed undaunted by my warnings that I’d received some excellent coaching at Wrestlefest Toronto (thanks again, guys!), and I was itching to try out some new holds. Long story short, I definitely did get the opportunity to practice some new holds and wrung even more submissions out of Scott than the first time.
I lost count of which submission this was…
During a break, Scott and I were comparing notes about having first explored what turns us on about wrestling before the internet was what it is today. We had this vivid shared memory (experienced separately, but so entirely the same for both of us) of trying to casually cruise the magazine aisles at stores, to catch sight of hot, shirtless guys on covers. Scott echoed exactly my experience of feeling outrageously conspicuous to even be seen looking at the covers of wrestling or fitness magazines, like I’d instantly be spotted for the way they turned me on. To purchase one felt essentially like coming out to the cashier. I must’ve cruised magazine aisles for months before finally plucking up the desperate courage and buying one. My collection grew quickly from there, even though every purchase made my heart pound.
I had a similar conversation during a break in one of my matches with SeattleFight in Toronto. I told with him about this crystal clear memory I have (I can tell you exactly the store I was in, where on the magazine rack it was) of catching sight of Kevin Von Erich on the cover of a wrestling magazine. I’d never seen Kevin before. Instant erection. It was like porn, just sitting out there for everyone to see. Honestly, actual porn has never done for me quite what eye fucking the likes of barefoot Kevin in his yellow trunks in that magazine did for me, much less actually watching Kevin wrestle once I obsessively tracked down where to find World Class Championship Wrestling playing on my TV.
THE cover that stopped me in my closeted teenage tracks
I actually felt more conspicuous buying wrestling magazines than more generic bodybuilding magazines, because of the turn on I got from wrestling. My stash of masturbation inspiration was mostly populated with Muscle & Fitness and Musclemag International, because, in my still-sketchy theory of mind at the time, I felt like there was something less obviously sexual about bodybuilders in posing straps than hot pro wrestlers in classic 80’s trunks. But, of course, what really got me off about the bodybuilders was imagining them wrestling.
I wore this issue of Muscle & Fitness out, especially for Steve Bond’s baby oiled muscles on the cover.
In recent years, I’ve become friends with younger guys into wrestling, who discovered and explored what excites them by just typing some magic words into Google. Hell, I’ve even found out that some of these now-friends were bypassing the age-restrictions to read my homoerotic wrestling fiction 10 or more years ago, discovering the center and the edges of what turns them on about wrestling at least partially with the help of my words… as well as thousands of hours of pro wrestling matches on YouTube… as well as specifically gay wrestling producers connecting the dots between the erotic subtext of wrestling and babyface heroes and heel villains in mainstream pro.
I snapped up this issue of MuscleMag International, after Bob Paris came out, featuring he and his partner
There was a time when I wondered if I was so keyed into wrestling because, when I was coming of age, it was one of the few, regular, publicly consumable sources of hot, athletic guys wearing very little clothing, wrapping their hot bodies around each other (just writing this sentence is turning me on, frankly). Like, I’ve wondered if there is a wrestling kink, if erotic wrestling and erotic fiction and mainstream gay characters in media and, not to mention, ubiquitous porn, are available at the click of a button. Does mainstreaming the gay erotic gaze (or at least making it easier to focus it on a variety of sources) mean that a niche kink like gay erotic wrestling will even exist for long?
Jimmy Snuka’s pecs made watching mainstream pro wrestling in the company of others “hard” for me
I’m shit at predicting the future (I gave up on that after the 2016 US Presidential election), so I certainly don’t have a definitive answer. But my hunch is that wrestling kink is going to endure a while. While I’ve enjoyed so much meeting and wrestling with guys my age and older, I’ve also been pretty fascinated by meeting and wrestling with younger guys, who grew up with entirely different pathways and options for exploring what turns them on, and who found themselves at pretty much the same destination that I did. In an age when there are seemingly infinite sources of material to titillate, there are a lot gay and bisexual young guys powerfully drawn by their dizzying erections to watch mainstream wrestling, consume homoerotic wrestling, and explore what turns them on about it in the context of meet-up wrestling. And I know for a fact that some of them feel super self-conscious about it still, but it’s certainly a different world from when I was stopped dead in my tracks by Kevin Von Erich on the cover of a wrestling magazine, and thought to myself that I had never seen anything that sexy, and wondered if I ever would again.
As I was saying, a whole lot of threads somehow came together just a few days ago, leaving me standing in front of the man of my dreams, BG East hunk Scott Williams. Every morning since, I wake up and immediately ask myself, “Did that really happen?!” Then I pull up my texts with Scott and the pics and videos from our meet up, and breathe a sigh of relief. Fuck, yes, that really happened.
Scott Williams – Hotter than Ever
Scott is just 100% Scott. By that, I mean he’s as scorching hot as always, and he’s all snarl and smirk and trash talk, just like he is in his BG East videos. Like, literally, he is precisely as devastatingly hot as he was when he was wrestling Brad Rochelle in Ultra Fight Two, which was the first thing I ever saw him in. Someone has since asked me if I found his portrait in the attic that keeps him from aging. It’s not quite like that, but close. He’s distractingly handsome. He’s also in incredible shape. I was staring, a little slack jawed, at his sculpted pecs, when I asked him if he has to work at staying in such incredible shape. For just a moment, he dropped his snarky swagger and answered, “Oh, yeah.” And my respect for his mouthwatering fitness somehow grew even bigger, knowing that his physique is a labor of love.
Scott’s first words to me were, “I’m impressed, Bard. You actually showed up.” I get where that comes from, of course, but I also was thinking, fuck if I’d be anywhere else in the world, right now! I’ve got precious little direct experience wrestling, mind you. Of course, I’ve been obsessed with homoerotic wrestling my entire adult life (and more than a bit of my pre-adult life, honestly). But I was seriously in suspense about how this would go, facing down a fierce hunk with such an extensive, well-documented wrestling resume. So, just to break the ice and keep it real, I called attention to that fact. As we were both stripping down to briefs, I just breathed in deeply and named it, honestly admitting that this was a dream come true, and I was already a winner for getting to experience it. “You’re bigger than I am, and you have a boatload more wrestling experience than I do, obviously,” I said. He shrugged, like the it was no big deal. “Which makes me think,” I went on, “that the pressure’s really entirely on you. Like, how fucking humiliating would it be for Scott Williams to submit to a faceless blogger with almost no experience?”
Apparently, my effort to break the ice and express empathy for Scott didn’t land well. “Fuck you, Bard,” he snarled back with just a little heat. “You’re going to see a lot of this,” he flipped me a middle finger salute. “And this, too,” he emphasized, flashing both middle fingers at me, as I belatedly remembered to hit record on my phone. Still, trying to express my empathy for the pressure that must be weighing on him, I asked him again, “When they’re, like, suddenly collapsing, and you’re tapping out, how embarrassing would that be? Damn!”
“You know, Bard,” Scott snarled and snapped, taking a step back and trying to give me a little more perspective. “You made a big mistake, okay? Going right to the top, instead of working your way up. You’re a nice enough guy, but it’s my job to beat you boys down and keep you in your place.” He suggested I should have aimed lower, maybe call out a less threatening BG East wrestler to tackle first. He suggested maybe Jonny Firestorm might have been an easier opponent to start with, for example, which I thought was pretty ballsy of Scott, really. I can’t remember for sure, but I think he told me that he’d prefer I not repeat that directly to Jonny. So, let’s all just keep that between us, okay? No one tell Jonny that Scott thinks of him as less of a challenge, right?
Scott seeing what all those taunts about my legs get him.
I was honestly having a bit of an out of body experience when he suddenly grabbed hold of me and threw me down. It’s hard to focus on defense, offense, or much of anything else, when all I can think is fuck, Scott Williams just climbed on top of me!!! Somewhere, though, instincts that I wasn’t sure that I had kicked in. There I was, flat on my back, with Scott crawling on top of me about to dazzle me with some devastating submission hold. But sort of like time slowing down, I noticed his right leg was in reach of my left arm, and his neck was hovering just over my right arm. And suddenly, I had Scott locked up in a cradle, with his left arm neutralized between my legs. I asked him, “Holy fuck, what just happened there, Scott?” Like, sincerely, it took me by surprise, as the man of my dreams grunted and pried at my arms, futilely attempting to break out of the cradle. He jerked on his left arm, trying to free it from the steel trap of my legs locked around it, and got absolutely no love at all for his efforts. I asked him, “Holy fuck, Scott, did you just get buttoned up already by a lowly blogger?!” He rumbled out a few seconds of profanity and threats, but the direct answer to my question came when he tapped out. Holy. Fuck!
The infamous Scott Williams headscissors
If you’ve ever watched him wrestle, or if you’ve read anything I’ve ever written about him (including part 1), it will come as no surprise when I say that our wrestling match centered extensively on scissor holds. Scott has super long, strong (distractingly sexy) legs, and despite my by best efforts to avoid them, my head and neck kept getting trapped between them from multiple different angles. I remember one point at which he was asking me a question while crushing my skull in face-to-crotch scissors, and I could literally not hear a thing over the roaring buzz of pain in my ears. His crotch shoved in my face was also a huge (HUGE) distraction.
Scott’s native tongue is flipping the bird.
This newbie is a pretty quick study, if I do say so myself, though. Knowing that Scott really only respects blindingly hard headscissors, I made sure to spring that trap repeatedly. I’d prepped by studying hours (and hours and weeks and months) of homoerotic wrestling matches, and I particularly took to a figure-4 choke, reaching back and grabbing my ankle to lock it on like a vise. Scott flew his middle finger salutes a lot, staring up at me while his head turned purple.
Fuck, that camel clutch!!!
Scott warned me ahead of time that I did not want find myself in his camel clutch. I’ve seen that camel clutch in his BG East matches, and, yeah, I get it. And yet, somehow, just when I was recovering from one of his headscissors variations, I lost track of where he was, and damn it all if I didn’t end up flat on my stomach with Scott on my back. I could see what was heading my way, and even still, I admit to strong ambivalence about the situation, because… fuck, Scott Williams was on my back. But he was absolutely merciless, as he yanked my arms up over his knees and wrapped his fingers around my chin, prying my neck way back. He helpfully narrated the entire thing for me, explaining to me why it hurt, and then transitioning from a chin lock to a choke, then to grabbing me by my overbite, to point out how each variation hurt a little different. Fuck it was devastating, and I couldn’t exactly argue with him when he explained that once locked in, there was no escape.
I learned to speak Scott’s language
I learned a lot about myself when I wrestled Scott. For example, I learned that, while watching countless hours of homoerotic wrestling does not a wrestler make (no surprise), there were some transferable bits of knowledge and insight. Like, having watched Scott crank up the pressure on his scissors by leaning back on his hands and thrusting his hips, it turns out I could put that observation to good use. I also learned that I’m too stubborn for my own good. I should have given up sooner than I did on a couple of occasions, where the only purpose served in refusing was to sap my strength that much more. Definitely, stubbornness is the main component there, and something I want to reflect on further (live to fight another day, and all); however, I also credit my desire to savor every fucking moment of this dream match with everything I’ve got. I also learned about myself that, while there’s not a direct equivalence, there’s a clear through-line to being turned on by watching a wrestling hunk getting dominated on video to being turned on by watching a wrestling hunk getting dominated by my own enthusiastic efforts.
Whatever you do, DON’T pat him on the head
I learned a lot about Scott, too. For example, I learned that Scott hates it (fucking HATES it), when he’s trying to remember to flip the bird, trapped hopelessly in headscissors, and his opponent rubs his head condescendingly. “You really hate that, when I’m rubbing your head like that,” I asked him, when he kept swatting my hand away furiously. The middle fingers were his only reply. I also learned it absolutely infuriates him when an opponent, having acknowledged how much he hates getting his head rubbed when he’s helplessly trapped, keeps rubbing his head anyway. Oh, fuck, he hates that! I learned that it pisses him off when he’s getting owned, and his opponent sits back with a smirk and watches his face suffering. I mean, fuck he’s gorgeous and it’s not like I’m not going to soak in the sight of his sweet, sweet struggles, but, yeah, it irritates him. And, happily, I learned that Scott is genuinely a fierce, devoted, supremely accomplished fan and aficionado of homoerotic wrestling. He’s a master of his craft, even if a long-time fan is able to channel all of his enthusiasm into wringing out a little more than a handful of frustrated, whimpering submissions out of him. In a couple of breaks we took, I learned that Scott genuinely loves the homoerotic wrestling world, keeps up with new releases and hot new rookies, checks in with former opponents, and has a passion for the exact same things about wrestling that I have a passion for. At one point as we were chatting about current wrestlers floating both of our boats, it was just so familiar. I thought, fuck, it’s like we chat about this stuff all the time. And then it occurred to me that in our replies back and forth in the comments of this blog, we have been! Those glimpses of Scott in text and his insights and perspectives genuinely belong to a fan of homoerotic wrestling, not just a star.
Scott rethinking his decision to agree to wrestle his #1 fan
I honestly lost count of submissions, so I can’t tell you who had more. I think it was pretty damn close to even, though, and I’m not just saying that because Scott isn’t here to fact check me as I write this post. I do know who earned the final submission of the match, with a smirking, head rubbing, figure-4 choke, but I’ll just leave it at that. Honestly, I’ve got so many fucking words to say about meeting and wrestling Scott, that I’ve been tying myself up in knots trying to figure out how to pare it all down from the multi-volume tome in my head to a couple of modest blog posts. But another thing I learned about myself, is that even if I forget to pause and take pictures, if I forget to keep track of submissions, if I’m clearly a novice squaring off against a hardbodied hunk bigger and stronger than I am, with oceans more experience than I’ll ever be able to catch up with, this really fucking happened, and those memories are mine to treasure.
Scott knows how to hit reply and comment on this blog, so I’ll leave it up to him to fact check anything that I may have misremembered or misrepresented. This whole thing keeps percolating in my mind, as I relive and savor meeting and wrestling the man of my dreams, so it’s possible there might be a part 3 someday down the road when I find I have more I need to say about. In the mean time, that really fucking happened. I met and wrestled Scott fucking Williams, the man of my dreams. Now, I’m hitting gym, because it’s leg day, and if there’s ever a chance this might happen again, I’m going be fucking ready for it.
You know how they say that you should never meet your heroes? Well, whoever it is who says that, fuck them. Because I met mine, and it was spectacular. Meeting Scott Williams has been on my bucket list just about as long as I’ve been watching homoerotic wrestling videos. In order not to bury the lead, I’ll just say here that I can now check that off my list. I’ve been processing this for days now, thinking about what to say about it. I’ve got just SO fucking much running through my head, so this will NOT fit into one blog post. You’ll have to cope with the suspense, or check back in tomorrow to read this and part 2 back-to-back.
Scott Williams – Promotional Image for BG East’s Ultra Fight 2
I can’t be sure, but I believe that the first time I referred to Scott Williams (in print, anyway) as “the man of my dreams” was when I interviewed Shane McCall about 9 years ago. I’d been thinking it, though, from the moment I first caught sight of him in promotional material for Ultra Fight Two, probably at least 10 years prior to that, and then I studiously collected everything I could get my hands on with Scott in it. His body, his face, his attitude, everything about him just rubs me the right way. It’s borderline criminal that his entire BG East catalog contains only 4 matches (not counting that Spartans wrestling club release with Scott and Shane as babies, that I wish I could put my hands on again). I regularly run into wrestling fans similarly fixated on Scott’s hotness from just those 4 matches. When that happens, I promptly remind them that Scott deserves all the accolades, but I’m the undisputed president of his fan club. Don’t even try to test me on that, boys. I will beat you down mercilessly. Just sayin’.
I’m not certain of when Scott first started commenting here on the blog, but I do know that I named it as my favorite blogging moment of 2015 when Scott sent me well-wishes in a comment to a post that year. In response to my lustful musings about whether he still wrestles, Scott assured me that he’s “still keeping in shape and wrestling privately here in Boston and when I travel…always will love it and will always make you proud on the mats or in the ring!” I melted when I read it. And then did again and again, when Scott continued to chime in over the last several years with his perspective on my reviews, sharing his opinions about new wrestlers, and reflecting on the homoerotic wrestling industry in general.
Scott with Shane McCall (center) and Brad Rochelle (right) at Wrestling with Pride 1
My longstanding simmering crush on Scott took an unexpectedly hot turn in 2017. There’s a slightly complex drama that I’ve documented elsewhere that led up to me receiving what might be the hottest surprise gift I never expected, namely a video of Ty Alexander working over Scott in private in a brutally merciless camel clutch, using the man of my dreams to challenge me to face Ty in a wrestling match. In the video, Ty just calmly trash talks me, as Scott whimpers and wails, submitting over and over as the Trophy Boy ignores him. The idea of Scott suffering because Ty knows how infatuated I am with him… fuck, that was fucking hot (sorry Scott/not sorry)!
A still from Ty’s torture of Scott, using the man-of-my-dreams to send me a message
I shamelessly appealed directly to Scott in May of 2020, penning a blog post addressed specifically to him, in which I asked him to weigh in on the hottest headscissors in the business, other than his. Honestly, we all had a lot going on around May of 2020, right? Well, Scott didn’t just reply, he broke down some of the science and aesthetics of punishing headscissors in just such a way that I immediately made a public commitment to never skip leg day again (which, no joke, I’ve pretty much kept!). In a follow up post, I concluded, “…if there’s ever a chance that someday I can slide Scott’s 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 literature, we refer to that as foreshadowing.
Scott demonstrating his punishing headscissors in BG East’s Matmen 15.
Fast forward to my New Year’s Eve post just 6 months ago, when suddenly things heated up super fast. Having long teased me in his comments about the possibility of the two of us squaring off, suddenly Scott declared that 2023 was the year it would happen. Light trash talk ensued, in which I walked the fine line of reiterating how fucking hot I think Scott is, while at the same time speculating about the possibility of adding some of his tears to my treasured homoerotic wrestling souvenirs when he’s tapping out in my headscissors. Yeah, yeah, I know. Big talk from a very inexperienced wrestling fan. But, fuck it all, I love it when a plan comes together, because… holy shit, I’m writing this because it actually happened… I got to wrestle Scott the-man-of-my-dreams Williams!
Me, not skipping leg day
And it was perfection. Not to totally blow his cover, because fans know how much Scott likes to posture and growl and taunt like a tough guy, but he was incredibly considerate as we figured out schedules. Sure, sure, he repeatedly dropped in taunts implying that any scheduling conflicts on my part were just fear-based excuses. And, yeah, he relentlessly predicted that he’d handle me and my quads without breaking a sweat. But seriously, Scott fans back me up here: that’s just par for the course, right? In the meantime, I’ve been working out like a man possessed for the past 6 months in the hopes that this whole thing would actually go down. And, holy shit, just a few days ago… it did.
Not my face, but 100% my expression standing next to Scott.
In case you’re new to the blog or you don’t read the comments, you’re now pretty well caught up with how I found myself standing face-to-face with Scott Williams. Well, face-to-gorgeously-hairy-pecs, considering Scott is significantly taller than I am. Honestly, I’d have donated a kidney just for an autograph, but no, all of that trash talk back and forth sent this careening in the only direction that it possibly could go. I was standing in nothing but briefs and a shit-eating grin in front of the wrestler who makes my heart skip a beat unlike any other.
Holy. Fuck. This is happening!
So that’s part 1 of my story of meeting the man of my dreams. I’ll persist in combing through the jumble of excitement and reflections on the experience of meeting and wrestling him, and continue the narrative tomorrow. Suffice it to say, for now, I keep pausing in the middle of doing other stuff and ask myself, “Holy shit, did that really happen!?” Happily for me, I have photographic evidence that it did, and happily for you, Scott has given me unrestricted permission to share the pics and talk about the whole thing here. Unhappily for me, it just occurred to me that I forgot to actually get an autograph (fuckfuckfuck). But what I got is a thousand times better…
I was chatting with a friend recently about Scott Williams, like we all do. The conversation turned to Scott’s Matmen 15 match against the master of sweat, Bud Orton. It occurred to me that I’ve never reviewed that match, which just isn’t right. Because FUCK, that match.
Like all of Scott’s matches, it’s fucking fierce. The intensity is off the charts from the moment their bodies touch. That first scramble for position is ugly. There’s nothing choreographed or graceful. It’s all gorgeous muscles and raging egos. At 6’2, Scott towers over 5’10 Bud, but he’s suddenly looking a lot smaller when Bud is wrenching on his long neck in a side headlock, muscling Scott to the mat beneath him. “Get it in now, Bud,” Scott snarls, “before I kick your butt.” It would sound a lot more intimidating if his deep baritone voice wasn’t so muffled, with Bud’s big, smooth pec smashed against his face.
The holds are long and mean, every second and every inch its own battle in a long, hard fought war. The escapes and reversals punctuate the marathon that each and every brutal hold is. When Scott earns an escape with a nasty knee thumping hard into Bud’s back, Scott is on top of him in an instant, stretching his sensationally hot body over top of him and yanking on his neck and shoulders viciously with a full nelson. “Nice start,” Scott offers faint praise. “Now, I’ll teach you how to finish, boy.”
There are exactly three submissions in this 35-minute match, though lesser men would have given up about 10 times for every one submission that these hunks wrench out of each other. I believe there’s zero editing here. This is 35 minutes of almost non-stop ripping into each other. Honestly, they give each other less than a minute between falls, all on camera, because they are obviously completely famished and can’t stop themselves from tucking in again as soon as possible. They hold the dramatic tension even when they’re silently sneering at each other, sucking down air in those stolen moments after one stunning hunk just choked out a desperate “IgiveIgiveIgive!”
Speaking of editing, the entire match opens with a dramatic fade-in close up on Scott’s gorgeous, hairy pecs. Personally, I think every match should start that way, whether Scott is in the match or not. Bud’s impressed, too. “Nice pecs,” he offers with a sly grin, while he’s stretching Scott out in a dragon sleeper, pinching his right nipple and clawing at the hairy hunk’s meaty chest. The camera also loves documenting every ounce of sweat that comes streaming off of Bud like a fucking river! Honestly, the stud is raining down sweat like he’s storm cloud. I mean, seriously, where does someone store THAT MUCH sweat?! At one point, he’s got Scott on his back, with Scott’s face between his knees, controlling his arms and just dominating him. “I’m going to drown you,” Bud snarls, and, yeah, I buy it. It’s like a superpower. An incredibly, intensely, provocatively sexy superpower!
I cannot emphasize enough the non-stop pace of these 35 minutes. There are no pauses between escapes and resets. They’re attacking one another and digging in every fucking moment. They’re also pissing each other off, which, again, dials the intensity way, way up. Scott takes three separate attempts to set up a Boston crab, and fuck it if Bud doesn’t thwart him every time. There Scott his, Bud’s ankles locked under his armpits, the Texan’s thick legs lifted off the mat, and Bud grabs hold of Scott’s ankles and deftly refuses to be flipped to his stomach. It’s really impressive, until Scott gives him an evil grin, spreads those captured legs side, and pounds his knee into Bud’s balls. HARD. Like, fuck, I felt that just watching it.
Unlike in his match against Brad Rochelle, Scott’s lock gets picked by tenacious, glistening, slippery Bud. You know I’m taking notes, as Bud takes Scott to the edge over and over, only to be thwarted by the man of my dreams stubbornly ignoring the risk to his own body by snarling “Fuck you,” repeatedly instead of submitting. So when Bud gets that last, decisive submission, and Scott veritably sings “IgiveIgiveIgive” like it’s one word, talk about climactic! Fuck, it’s desperate and fierce and so completely earned.
Seriously, the 2 minutes of denouement, after that last climactic submission, and the boys STILL maintain the dramatic tension that keeps my heart pounding in my chest. “There’s going to be a rematch,” Scott says, because it’s not a question. “Anytime. I’ll come back,” Bud sneers at him, both of them dripping and huffing as they lean exhausted against opposite walls. “Come back,” Scott snarls, “and I’m going to kick your ass, I promise you!” Bud literally, genuinely, delightedly laughs at him. Fuck, the drama is so sensationally intense and sexy.
I hate the comments on almost anything OTHER than this blog. If you’ve skipped the comments, I sympathize, but I also have to tell you may have missed the super steamy heat that ignited after I posted my News Year’s look-back, when I wondered out loud if Scott Williams’ teasing offers to test drive my legs would actually amount to crushing his handsome face between my quads in 2023. Nobody has ever challenged my assertion that I am THE #1 Scott Williams fan… nay, fanatic. I think that’s wise of the rest of you, frankly, because I’ve got years of pent up lust and a reservoir of adrenaline stored up. I have not been coy about my adoration of Scott over the years, and I get a little star struck anytime (any. fucking. time.) Scott posts a comment around these parts. I do my best to keep my fanaticism for Scott’s smoking hot bod, and his fucking sensationally sexy way of milking a hold, just this side of full-on Annie Wilkes. I’ve tried to lure him into making an on-camera BGE comeback, but he just pshaws me. But when he floated the idea of him giving me a shot at the man of my dreams, one on one… holy shit, I’ve been feeding on that almost exclusively for a couple of years now. As the self-appointed and undisputed (?) #1 Scott fan, I can tell you that what Scott respects more than anything is a headscissors bear trap that can make the handsome hunk see stars. Thus, I’ve been doubling down on leg days and wracking up frequent flyer miles on my bicycle for the past couple of years, getting ready to make him beg. In his last reply to that post, after (once again) promising to make this happen, Scott chided me for being “WAYYYY too cocky,” and assured me, “You’re lucky that I find your confidence, like Rochelle’s and others….. VERY entertaining.”
That sent me combing through the archives of this blog for my review of Ultra Fight 2, to check out that chemistry again between Scott and Brad Rochelle again. Which then left me shocked when I realized I’ve never reviewed that match! Holy fuck, how did THAT happen? Honestly, scenes from that match still today suddenly intrude on my waking thoughts, some 15 years or so after I first saw it. I’ve never, ever made it through the entire match in one sitting without needing to towel off and re-hydrate. Fuck, who am I kidding? I’ve never made it through more than 5 minutes at a time of the 40 minute mat marathon without needing to towel off and re-hydrate.
That chemistry between Scott and Brad is lush. The cockiness that Scott finds so entertaining is seriously compelling. It has that feel of the freshly minted young buck on the scene (this was early in Brad’s BGE days, long before the Contract), setting his sights on knocking a seasoned alpha off his throne. “You’re not wasting my time or anything, are you,” Scott demands to know as they’re warming up. “Absolutely not,” Brad chirps back with a smirk. When they start to circle, the tension building for their fucking SENSATIONAL muscled bodies to finally come into contact, Brad slaps him in the face with a taunting sneer. Oh, fuck, you can see the irritation and bitter determination settle on Scott like a winter chill.
The submissions are fast and furious, and I mean genuinely, fucking, furious. Literally in under 15 seconds, Brad swarms him in a rear naked choke and Scott taps out. Slower and more indulgently, Scott roars back to life, locking on a side headlock and hip tossing gorgeous Brad to the mat with authority. He locks Brad’s left arm between his sensationally sexy legs and stretches him out, not really threatening the elbow, but just teasing it, like he wants Brad to know he could snap him, but just wants to milk the moment as the tanned, toned, babyface beefcake writhes and wriggles on the hook. “You just stay there for a while,” Scott taunts. Finally, he cranks on the side headlock like he’s yanking on the pull cord of a stubborn lawnmower, crushing Brad’s pretty, pretty, pretty face against Scott’s gorgeously hairy chest. He flexes his mile long legs, slowly hyperextending the captured elbow, and twists viciously on Brad’s neck. “You’re looking really good down there,” Scott says what every fan who’s watched this video was thinking at that very moment. He wrenches a squealing submission out of the young hunk a few moments later. And… fuck, I think I need to towel off and rehydrate now.
This is peak Brad. He’s got to have just come back from a beach vacation, with a bronze glow and a well-rested pump for getting down to business. At one point, Scott is working figure-4 headscissors, alligator rolling the coverboy across the mat at will. He punches those smooth, never bigger, never more beautiful pecs on Brad, before leaning back on one elbow, crushing his skull, looking like he’s the one enjoying a leisurely day stretched out on a beach towel. When Scott lets the stubborn punk up without wringing out another submission, Brad turns absolutely feral. He snaps on an armbar of his own and threatens to snap Scott’s elbow, making the man of my dreams squeak and tap out in panic. “You shouldn’t have let me up,” Brad snarls, climbing onto his back and wrenching Scott’s right arm so high between his shoulder blades in a hammer that Scott can actually scratch the back of his own head. When Scott gasps another submission out, like he’s sucking on a torment lollipop, Brad lets him go magnanimously and paces around the mat. “I’ll give you some time to glue that arm back on,” Brad taunts.
Okay, so this is a marathon of a match, as I said, and I’ve got SO much to say about every 5 minutes or so of it. But in the interest of not losing myself entirely in this post, let me just speed things along by saying Brad dominates… DOMINATES Scott in the final third of this contest or so. Fuck, Brad’s bronzed, pumped muscles are glistening with sweat as the flexes his most muscular pose over top of Scott, looking like he wants to fuck somebody right then and there, he’s riding that pump of domination so hard. “What’s the matter, boy?” Fuck, when Brad calls him boy, I swear the temperature instantly rises on both sides of the screen. “All that shit you were talking, it amounted to NOTHING!” He’s screaming, as he pumps his fantasyman bod in victory. “Look at this,” he demands that his stunning physique be acknowledged.
But then there are those last 3 minutes. Shit, Brad keeps trash talking. Scott can’t help himself but trash talk back. “I’ll be fucking nastier next time,” Scott promises. “You can be as nasty as you want,” the young hunk snarks right back, getting pissed that the beast he just bested still won’t shut the fuck up. “Please,” he snarls, when Scott is about to charge back to his feet for more, right here and now. “You think you’ve got enough gas in the tank to fuck with me?!” Fuck, that final fall. Fuck! One gorgeous hunk’s voice is an octave and a half higher, whimpering and crying, giving up that last and most humiliating submission of all.
The camera loves these two gorgeous bodies almost as much as I do. This is pre-HD, and I’ve got a young friend who complains about the relatively grainy resolution and low light and dark shadows in matches like this. But I don’t know if I’ve ever seen two wrestlers look better AND deliver authentic, exhausting, dehydrating ego-fueled bitterness and snark.
Apparently, dialing up ego-fueled bitterness and snark is entertaining for Scott. I’m practicing channeling my inner Brad now. If there’s one thing I want to come out of what would be THE fan fantasy face-off of the century, it’s that I want both Scott and me to be entertained!
“All that shit your were talking,” Brad snarled. “It amounted to nothing!”
Good stuff happened for me this year, personally as well as in terms of my creative attention on homoerotic wrestling. In terms of homoerotic wrestling, I started the year thinking that this would be the year of me exploring hot, erotic wrestling in graphic format. And I did, indeed, have a lot of fun doing that. Drawing really took me back to adolescent moments when I sketched out hot muscle men in a secret notebook that I (literally) hid under my mattress as a kid. I saved those old sketches for years as a young adult, but sadly, in one move or another among a whole lot of moves in my adult life, I lost them. I’m (obviously) not a trained visual artist, but there was something sweetly satisfying about drawing my lusts again, older, wiser, and somehow every ounce just as horny as I ever was!
I did NOT plan on this year being a year of returning to writing homoerotic wrestling fiction. But sharing my drawings, as nerve racking as that was, led to connecting up with AR on Deviant Art. Honestly, when he first suggested that we collaborate on something new, with me writing and him illustrating, I groaned just a little inside. I hadn’t really written anything original and new, of my own creation, in years. I’d totally lost steam for it, and, frankly, a lot of that had to do with not getting much feedback from readers about it. Creating for my sake is meaningful, but I discovered years ago that it wasn’t enough to sustain my effort to get back on the keyboard and keep writing. So when I told AR that I was “open” to the idea, I was more than a little skeptical. But then a couple of things happened.
The first thing that happened that turned me on was seeing AR translate an image directly (I mean DIRECTLY) out of my imagination and into 3D rendered art. Holy shit! That is incredible! And his eye is just so fucking nuanced and amazing. I literally keep a shrine of AR artwork now, that I visit every. fucking. day. And it amazes and titillates me endlessly!
The other thing that happened that really sent the second half of 2022 down an entirely different path than I’d expected was getting detailed feedback on my homoerotic wrestling fiction as I’m writing it, and finding AR‘s observations and suggestions incredibly on point. Sometimes, I’ve put myself out there, and I know that there a few hundred viewers seeing a blog post or reading a story, from the page counts. But it can be fucking lonely and discouraging to hear nothing but the echoes of my own voice. I’ve sort of doubted if what I’m writing has much meaning to anyone else, but fuck that no… working with AR has been amazingly validating. I’m writing again because it’s so fucking fun. Some of what we’ve been writing is likely never to be posted or published, and I’m incredibly happy with it because I’m creating and enjoying the act of creation so much!
Not that I won’t post anything, mind you. I posted the first couple of end-products of my collaboration with AR on the new Producer’s Ring Reborn archives, which was another highlight of 2022, beginning to transfer the old library of stories form the defunct Google site platform to a new one. I’m looking forward to sharing more of what we’ve been up to with a broader audience in 2023, so watch here for announcements about new stories, new artwork, and new awesome expressions of passion for homoerotic wrestling that I share with a lot of you.
Oh, and getting comments by man-of-my-dreams Scott Williams has GOT to be the other surprise highlight of the year. Scott continues to tease me that he wants a test drive of the quads I’ve been building especially for crushing his head. Maybe 2023?
I hope 2022 was as enjoyable and creative and validating and titillating for you as it was for me! Oh, and remember to vote in the 2022 BGE fan poll. I was, once again, on the nominating committee, so send me all your hatred and resentment for the field of choices, and then get your ass back over to BGE and vote anyway, like you know want to! If you need any suggestions, just ask. I ALWAYS have opinions, as you know.
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.
I’d recognize Scott Williams anywhere!
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.
This should be the headline: Homoerotic Wrestling Star Spotted!
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.
Disclaimer: This is not an image from the newscast. Scott was, sadly, entirely clothed.
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.
Speaking of worship…
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?
Sweet homoerotic wrestling gods above, put this man back in the wrestling saddle again for us (me)!
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.
No comparison between Brad Barnes’ quads and Kip Sorell’s!
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.
Kip’s got a big task ahead of him, to convince me those legs will dominate.
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 could easily be in my top 5 hunkiest legs!
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.”
Can aesthetics compete with this power?
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.”
“Okay,” Brad gasps, “not bad!”
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.”
“Not bad for ‘chicken legs,’ huh?”
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.”
Flex. Release. Flex. Release.
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.
Enjoying the view
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.
Gut up in there nice and tight!
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.
Welcome to the stockade, mother fucker!
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!”
Ownership
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.
Kip’s turn to enjoy the view.
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.
Brad looks like he wants a taste
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.
Choke on it, Kip!
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.”
“I can’t handle the power. 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!
Diabolical Dr. Cooper with a gorgeously sweet smile, perhaps just before fucking up Calvin Haynes in Undagear 33
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.
Ace Aarons chills in the ring, maybe around the time of Grudge Match IV (judging by the gear)
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!
The Man of My Dreams, Scott Williams, IRL makes Poseidon look pedestrian! Why in the fuck is this gorgeous specimen not still actively wrestling on camera!?Delicious Devil Devitt makes goofy look so, so fucking sexy! Judging by the sensationally tight, sexy gear, I’m guessing he was just about to put the devil eyes on and bash the shit out of Alexi Adamov.Devitt looks just a little (adorably) self-concious showing off his magnificent physique. This look like the gear he wore teaming with Paul Hudson in Tag Team Torture 10.Then he turns on the heat, and flashes those deadly eyes mid-fucking-up Paul Hudson in Pros In Private 13 (nasty divorce!)Paul looks embarrassed of the camera. Fuck, he needs a cuddle.Heartthrob Calvin Haynes first flashes blue steel, hanging out pre-match……then Calvin turns up the goofy factor. Fuuuuuck, I want to lick his thighs!
Trey Dixon tastes the superhuman power of Logan Vaughn’s legs in Florida Fights 5.
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.
Scott must have loved this moment in his match with Brad Rochelle!
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!
Sidelineland 