Still Kicking

Does absence make the heart grow fonder? The rest of my life is leaving little room for posting here, but I I wanted to assure folks concerned about my silence that I’m still kicking.

I’m in a major push to complete a project, pack up my life, and move across the country. All great stuff. All crazy-making stuff.

In the interest of full disclosure (and let’s face it, I’ve been known to disclose more than you really wanted to know), in my hierarchy of needs, blogging about my wrestling fetish is a more expendable step on the ladder to my wrestling kink self-actualization than actually watching and enjoying homoerotic wrestling.

In other words, although I don’t always find time to write about it, I somehow never fail to find time to enjoy watching homoerotic wrestling. I’ve even got some exciting things brewing, including one or two interviews in the works as well as at leads a couple of reviews.

It’s all percolating out there. But in the mean time, I’m metaphorically in mid-launch, putting every effort into landing the soles of my boots right on the kisser of my next opponent. I’m taking inspiration from one of the most beautiful high flyers of all time, lovely, levitating Tommy Zenk.

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Short and Sweet

Yesterday was supposed to be about short, so today I’ll spend a brief moment reflecting on sweet, which seems appropriate for those into the “treat” side of trick-or-treating.

Tommy Zenk (the original Z-Man) figured prominently in the development of my wrestling kink in my adolescence. As the inspiring figure across the banner of this blog illustrates, he was gorgeous and athletic, and he could make me deliriously aroused just by jogging up to ringside. He also had a long career with feet firmly planted in the babyface-people’s-hero role, with an unwavering earnestness that was, for the purposes of today’s blog, simply “sweet.” He was an adolescent gay boy’s knight in shining armor, frequently clad in ass-hugging white trunks and boots (and what… an… ass!).  As I look back, I think how naive I was as a kid, lusting and pulling for the Z-Man to conquer the bad guys. There was something almost saccharine about Z-Man’s character that today would make me long just as hard for a completely obliterating humiliation of him.

So, sweet today, like then, is something hot in the wrestling ring, but for entirely different reasons. Still, I like the earnest babyface in my homoerotic wrestling (as in, I like him crushed). In fact, I think the homoerotic wrestling scene could use some more sweet ingredients (to destroy, humiliate, and corrupt). Every so often, I get a little sugar high off of some of the boys here and there. “Tarzan” Tyler Reese was doing this for me bigtime for his brief incarnation in a loincloth. Tyler worked the feral, great white hope like a champion, if you ask me. His character was delightfully over the top. He wasn’t a narcissist. He was no snarling corner-cutter, either. And the peek-a-boo gear was fantastically erotic and completely impractical. He was selling a primal, law of the jungle sense of justice, all-in. It always made me laugh just a little, and it made me crazy to see someone pummel him mercilessly, rip the loincloth off of him, and choke him with it. Now that would’ve been sweet in an entirely different sense of the word.

Watching Tommy Tara was like sucking on a Butterfinger for me. That handsome face FULL of teeth and that smokin’, classic muscleboy body was the perfect container for a naive kid eager to pit his strength and skill against all comers as he charts his course into the chapter of his life where he figures out who he is as a full grown man. Tommy sold me on his bright-eyed, babyface confidence that right will win out. And when he wrestled Justin Pierce both in the ring and in Tommy Hilfiger tighty-whities AND boots… sweet Jesus he owned me hard just about as decisively as he laid out Justin’s playgirl musclebod. Now, if only the exhilaration of dominating Justin could have just gone to his head a little… if he could have just grown a little drunk on the intoxicating buzz of first hurting, then knocking out cold his stunningly gorgeous opponent… if he’d have lost himself gazing down at Justin’s helpless body, and then rolled him over to his stomach, yanked off Justin’s underwear, and enthusiastically owned Justin’s beautiful ass… well, the story of sweetness in the ring would have been entirely and fully consummated for me.

All right, damn it. This was supposed to be short and sweet. And I’m already completely distracted from the rest of my work, fantasizing about some sweet humiliation, sweet destruction, and sweet corruption. I really, really have to get back to work.

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More Sublime Suffering


An enthusiastic reader recently, generously offered to stretch me out across his knee in a backbreaker and work over my gut and pecs. That sweet talker. The offer got me thinking once again about one of my favorite wrestling holds: the over the knee backbreaker.

The promise to work over my gut and pecs sent my mind cataloging a few of the delicious possibilities of what can be done with a relatively flexible hardbody folded backward across your knee. Cliff Conlin (the consummate seller) illustrates nicely how grabbing the ankle of your prey gives you some extra leverage in prying your man backward at a breathtaking angle.

There’s an aesthetic to the OTK backbreaker that can make this moment in the ring an awesome work of art. Dirk Shannon from several Can-Am classics relished the OTK, and he clearly appreciated the beautiful form it could take. In Canadian Musclehunk 8, Dirk finishes off Peter Genilli like Michelangelo carving a block of marble. He presses down on Genilli’s thigh and chin with only the balls of his hands, his fingers extended purposively perpendicular to the mat. Dirk’s taut upper body and the fierce flex of his jaw are gorgeous all by themselves, but his presentation of Genilli’s suffering form belongs in the Louvre (or Le Cordon Bleu, perhaps).

BG East’s Kid Brock (who disappeared far too quickly), opts for the left hand clamped tightly across the throat of Eric Moreira. Kid has his opponent bent so far backward that Eric’s head is being smashed to the mat. The fulcrum here, Kid’s massive thigh, is driving directly into the small of Eric’s back. Note the line of sight in Kid’s gaze, though. The OTK, by definition, shine’s a spotlight on the suffering man’s package. The tormentor and the audience share the vision of the broken man’s most intimately vulnerable moment, with his spine being twisted in a way never intended by the human anatomy, and his cock and balls propped tantalizingly at the apex of his arched agony. The drop of sweat hanging from Kid’s nose here is what makes me feel a little faint, though, I must admit.
Confession time: I’ve caught myself more than once snarling at the screen, thrilled by the sight of an OTK, but frustrated that the sadist with his man broken backward across his thigh is seemingly ignoring the prominent pouch of his punk. To have that vulnerability so exposed and presented, but to do nothing with it, should be a crime punishable by (me) cracking the negligent battler’s head into the nearest turnbuckle. Fortunately, BG East’s Kid Vicious never needs my coaching. The world champion sadist never seems to fail to take stock of all of his opponent’s assets as his disposal in an OTK. With rookie Frank Daly cracked across his knee, KV is like a hungry man with a sampler plate. Daly’s cock is uncovered and suffers a blood-pumping, double fisted squeeze. Eventually his nipple’s and cock find their way into KV’s mouth, all the while maintaining the rookie’s vulnerable position across his knee. The work of a master is a beautiful thing to behold.
No one, but no one bends and suffers like Brad Rochelle. I’ve spilt plenty of ink marveling at Brad’s capture across the knee of Jeff Phoenix in the past, but I simply have to include another OTK capture of Brad, displaying another great option for the hold. I can’t sleuth out what match this pic is from, but I think this heel is Sid O’Reilly. He’s illustrating another great use of an OTK, which is to claw the crap out of a muscleboy’s exposed six pack. The heel’s fingertips look seriously dug in there, and Brad is letting us know what it feels like to have someone’s claws rearrange your internal organs from the outside.
Even the pros clearly take carnal delight in the OTK. Whether you’d like to imagine yourself getting broken by Chris Benoit or breaking bodybuilder face, Tommy Zenk, the combination of the two is fantastic. Chris’ ownership of Tommy is savage and complete.
This old pic captures a grimacing blond in the act of bringing Kerry Von Erich’s stunningly muscled back down across his knee. As Wrestling Arsenal points out, for our purposes, the most notable feature here is the blond’s hand indulgently squeezing the very ample handhold of Kerry’s muscled bubblebutt. His wrist and hand are jammed up so tight, Kerry’s cheeks are spread wide and completely vulnerable. Kerry’s mouth is saying no, no, no, but I suspect his prostate was saying yes, yes, yes!
The possibilities are seemingly infinite. The OTK offers a provocative canvas for the work of the true masters. Whether you’d like to crack me across your knee and pound out my pecs and gut, or whether you’d like to be captured and brutalized in this fantastic means of torture, I’m always and forever a fan of the improbable, unmistakably homoerotic over the knee backbreaker.

What Turned Me Gay (again, not really)


When I was a teenager, I remember
Tommy Zenk coming through the local wrestling operation for a year or two. He was a knight in shining armor. Tommy was over-the-top good guy, rule follower, gracious interview, full of gratitude for his screaming fans desperate to worship him. I saw his confident, innocent smile. Then I saw those freaktastic huge shoulders. Then I saw that broad, sexy chest and the skinny waist. Then I saw his incredibly muscular ass squeezed into those brief trunks, and then… boiing!… I was gay.

I saw him in various incarnations across his career (Tom Zenk, the Z-Man, half of Can-Am Connection). But seared in my personal development as a gay man with a wrestling kink is that early chapter in his career when he blew into town and was unstoppable. In a daring storyline, Tommy was the boyscout face who tore through the bad guys like a buzz saw. He was undefeated week after week as the girls screamed near hysteria when he climbed on top of man after man, pinning them to their backs. When this sweaty, heavily muscled man pumped his fist in the air victoriously, I was ready to pop.
I’m certain that the first moment I noticed a pro-wrestler with shaved armpits was in the middle of lustfully worshipping Tommy as the ref lifted his arm in victory. I certainly don’t mind hairy pits, but for a while there, I wanted nothing but smooth skin stretched across bulging muscles, a la Tommy.
My favorite Tommy match came much later, but it remains a cherished memory. After Flyin’ Brian Pillman finally cracked under the pressure of trying to uphold his end of the saccharine sweet tag team with the Z-Man, he turned heel. Tommy and Brian developed a brutal rivalry. When they met in the ring, it was a tit-for-tat show. The storyline, though, argued that Tommy was the superior wrestler, while Pillman held his own with his new found guile and rule-breaking. The match ended with a draw when the clock ran out, but the boys kept battling as the screen faded to commercial.
Wiki tells us that Tommy is now working for a hedge fund (seriously? people still do that?). Flyin’ Brian has long since died tragically, as have so many pro-wrestler who made me the gay wrestling fetishist I am today. In my memory and imagination, though, they all continue to do battle, strutting and flexing and slamming and squeezing, reminding me why it is two hardbodies in trunks make me so happy to be gay.