Memory Lane

Re-reading yesterday’s post, I’m struck by my near hysterics. I’m actually not feeling nearly as desperately uncomfortable today as yesterday. It may be that the temperature has actually changed, or possibly my body has adjusted a bit to this climate (or both). You can still call me a pussy if you like, but I may just feel well enough to hip toss you to your ass and sit on your face for the trouble. Your call.

My work is making me cross paths frequently with college-age hunks these days. Like I mentioned yesterday, the heat is also inspiring the aforementioned barely legal muscleboys to display generous quantities of skin. Yes, indeed, there could be worse ways to spend a summer, even with the sweat trickling down the back of my neck at this very moment.

These shots of Seth Kuhlmann from DNA are making me feel all nostalgic for my own undergraduate days. True story: I was a frat boy in college. Have I mentioned that? All four years, with the secret handshake and the pseudo-religious ritual and the copious quantities of alcohol always nearby… Somehow, my memories of those years don’t quite match up with the gay porn fantasies of frat house romps. I don’t quite remember my frat brothers dropping trou like butt-beautiful Seth here. All that said, however, I have to also say, there were some fantastic wrestling kink moments strongly associated with frat house living, that stoke my fantasies still today.

I had a few rockin’ gorgeous frat brothers, one in particular who particularly enjoyed to wrestle. He was blond, a football player with incredibly long legs and a fantastic hard, round ass. I don’t think I’m overstating it to say that he had some of the aesthetics of a Seth Kuhlman. And for some reason, he loved wrestling with me, in particular.

The scenario was repeated often my last two years in the frat (I was a junior his freshman year). He’d walk in the room where I was (the “chapter room,” my bedroom, the bathroom…), and he’d say something intentionally provocative. He’d make a short joke (I was about half a foot shorter than he). He’d walk up and knock my cap off for no good reason. Whatever, he’d create a pretense in which I was required by the intricate homo-charged bonding rituals of young men to stand up, puff out my chest, and indicate that I was prepared to defend my honor with physical force. Two seconds later, we’d be locked up, him with a height and weight advantage, me with a lower center of gravity and, let’s face it, superior smarts. Two times out of three, the situation would end with me submitting. At least one of those times out of three, I’d submit because my erection was raging so hard that it couldn’t be disguised and, frankly, was posing an injury hazard. One time out of three, the gorgeous blond stud would power me to my back, hook a leg, and just let gravity keep me pinned to my back until I gave up.

And that last one time out of three, I’d take him down, typically sweeping one of those long, strong, smooth legs of his. 19 years old and still growing, he’d be all awkward arms and legs and unchecked balance. I actually pinned the pretty little bastard just handful of times, but much more often, I’d make him cry uncle by locking one of his arms behind his back while I straddled his narrow waist, cranking his wrist higher and higher up between his shoulder blades… or I’d snap my albeit shorter but surprisingly strong legs around his midsection, lace my ankles together, and grind my knees into his gut and lower back. That would always make him laugh at first, as if it was no big thing to be scissored between my thighs. But his laughter would evolve into choked coughing, punctuated by sharp inhalations as he attempted to disguise his pain. Eventually (preferably only after a long time), he’d groan, no longer with any pretense that he wasn’t suffering. Finally, he’s repeat quickly, with more than a note of desperation, “Okayokayokay!!!”
There’s no chance in hell that this guy was unaware of the hard-ons that our wrestling bouts inevitably gave me. I don’t know what it meant for him, whether it was just relatively socially acceptable homoeroticism for him as it was for me. But he kept coming back for more, and despite the odds against me (and perhaps even more so because of them), I kept puffing out my chest, locking up, and wrestling long and hard fueled by an overabundance of testosterone and a passionate lust for intimate physical contact in the form of wrestling domination.

Heroes and Men

I don’t own a pair of superman underwear, but I think I want to. I’ve seen these briefs on many gorgeous bodies on the internet, and they always inspire two simultaneous, somewhat paradoxical responses in me: laughter and arousal.

The arousal of seeing just about any exposed flesh on Seth Kuhlmann likely requires no further explanation. “Hot body” and “nothing but underwear” is sufficient to catch my eye and hold my attention. But Superman’s “S” printed across the crotch of a gorgeous hunk’s underoos is somehow even sexier, and not in small part because of the sense of humor it implies.

Of course, there are likely some muscle studs who’d don superman underwear without a sense of irony or humor. While these fine gentleman are likely delightful to watch in still frame, a man without a sense of humor (or anyone who takes himself too seriously), drops in sex appeal by a factor of 10 in my reckoning. Superman underwear as a means of promoting literal and sincere comparisons to the literary man-of-steel miss the full potential of this gear, as far as I’m concerned.

Superman underwear is silly. Sexy, yes, but also silly. Wearing them suggests that those who sport them can embrace silliness. They can stick their tongue in their cheek. They understand the provocative allure of a little self-deprecation that only heightens by contrast the hardcore sexiness of a witty, smart hunk who loves his body.
While I don’t own a pair of superman underwear, I aspire to be the type of man who could pull them off. I aspire to love my body (daily work, but mostly there), and to wield both wit and smarts enough to recognize how sexy a little self-deprecation and a lot of humor can go.

A Surly Story

My recent post about Illinois Congressman Aaron Shock has made me think more about self-hating gays (for some reason). Our history is littered with internalized homophobes fighting against the “creeping gay” in society as mere metaphor for their inability to accept themselves for the cock-loving homos that they, themselves, are. The congressman’s pics from Men’s Health, I noted, give him a pouty, belligerent look as he stares at the camera with a little twist of disgust mingled with loathing. I’m sure I project too far when I say that it seems like he’s just daring the (let’s face it) strongly gay audience for men’s “fitness” magazines to lust after him.
This got me thinking about the male model more generally. It’s certainly not the case that the congressman is the first coverboy to be published looking pouty and put-out.
The slightly raised upper lip, the furrowed brow, even as beautiful model Seth Kuhlmann tugs at his muscle-t shoulder straps to show off his smooth pecs and dessert-like nipple tells a similar story. And I suppose, that’s the mark of a skilled model, in that he tells a story. Delectable sexy skin and an irritated, contemptuous snarl provoke both a closer look and a wonder to know more about what’s going in that beautiful, beautiful head of his.
Tattooed hunks recently featured this astonishingly beautiful muscle boy under the title, “Surly Hunk.” Indeed, perhaps it’s surliness that’s the backstory. Perhaps with a worship-worthy body like that, this fine specimen of gorgeous male beauty spends morning, noon and night fucking anything at all that he wants, leading to late nights that make early morning photoshoots a bit of a chore. Maybe the story here is, sure, he’ll take the paycheck, but he’s not happy with his agent for negotiating a 6:30 am shoot after he’s been the star player in a muscle hunk three way romp all night long.

I think the body-beautiful male model who looks put-out has something to say to my own kink for hot, hunky wrestling. One possible backstory is the “dare” part of that scenario I’m imagining for the congressman. The look could speak to the pre-match stare down, the all-business “just take a look at the physique that’s going to own your ass before we’re done here” posturing. An icy, unflinching, nearly zero affect (with just traces of something unnamed boiling underneath the surface) gaze is classic for homoerotic wrestling. Perhaps what catches my eye in the “surly” fitness boy pose is an echo of the nose-to-nose stare down before two barely clad gladiators proceed to use only their bodies to pry, pound, crunch and crush one another until one man concedes that despite all of his earlier bluster, he is undeniably inferior to the studly victor flexing overtop of him.

It’s art, at it’s core, though, so an equally powerful read of the scowling muscle hunk model emerges from a self-hating motif. “I know you lust for me, and I despise you for it” could just as easily be evoked. I strongly suspect that male models have to make some peace (of some sort) with the inescapable fact that they will be orgasm-fuel for gay boys across the globe. Indeed, some of the same boys who do “surly” so well also model in clearly gay-themed campaigns for designer underwear (and there’s no self-respecting straight boy who’s combing through magazines looking for a hot guy tugging at his designer underwear in order to get inspiration for what he should wear…. expect for, perhaps, the aforementioned congressman). But speaking of the congressman, when you put out an explicitly gay-unfriendly political platform and pander to moneybags with a penchant for demonizing the gays, AND you oil up your pecs and pose shirtless in “Men’s Health,” then I’m feeling a little more confident about the backstory I’m going to read into that work of art.