By the Numbers

I feel like I’m just about to lose my shit in anticipation of BG East’s release of catalog 100. 100 catalogs packed with some of the sexiest, most iconic moments in homoerotic wrestling history!? You’ve got to expect that reaching the centennial mark will mean something big. The Arena preview pics so far are dizzyingly hot. Just check out Joe’s assessment of just one of the matches from the upcoming Fantasymen 35. This match features perpetual top tier fantasyman Kid Karisma getting his hands all over unbelievably pretty newbie, Kip Sorrell,, and in Joe’s words, “Karisma does a genius job of showing off Sorell’s fine points while breaking the picture-perfect physique down for spare parts.” Prepare yourself to be dazzled before you click over to Joe’s, though.  Sweet Gaia, the vascularity on Kip (who is, I predict, an immediate frontrunner for both babyface and rookie of the year awards) is blowing my mind! So far the boys at BG East have released preview shots for 4 new collections (Fantasymen 35, Matmen 24, Undagear 20, and Wrestlefest 3), but a typical catalog could have as many as 2 or 3 more products, so I’m holding my breath for what more mind/wad-blowing treasure they may still unveil for the 100th (what is that, like, the platinum-plated-gold anniversary?) Since I’m obsessing about this anyway, I thought I’d take time today to handicap one of the matches that’s previewed in the Arena and already haunting my dreams, Undagear 20’s yet-to-be-released match pitting Jake Jenkins against Marco Carlow.

Jake Jenkins: 5’7″, 155 lbs
Marco Carlow: 5’6″, 170 lbs

The tale of the tape is already compelling. Jake consistently weighs in at 155 lbs on his 5’7″ frame. Marco is an inch shorter and weighed in 15 pounds heavier in his one released BG East match. In other words, beautiful little muscle stud Jake is faced with, potentially, his biggest (pound-per-inch) competitor so far in his BG East tenure. Taking a look at Marco’s pics, it’s hard to ignore that the boy has slabs of beef hanging off of his ridiculously conditioned frame. I’d be willing to make a side bet that his right upper arm is measurably thicker than Jake’s neck (but I won’t pay up unless I’m the one holding the measuring tape to them!). In a side-by-side, the lusciously beautiful, proven powerful Jake Jenkins is instantly giving away serious advantage to the unquestionably superior size and, almost certainly, strength of muscle man Marco. On a scale of 0 to 10, with 0 being “absolutely impossible” and 10 being “a complete certainty,” I give the likelihood that Marco will repeatedly outmuscle Jake (tests-of-strength, powering out of full nelsons, squeezing submissions out of rib crushing bearhugs) at an 8.

Marco nearly tamed muscle beast Dev Michaels in Motel Madness 11.

Experience, on the other hand, is an entirely different story. Marco Carlow has exactly one prior appearance in a BG East release, in which he faced the muscle beast Dev Michaels in a New Orleans motel room for Motel Madness 11. Marco made a surprisingly good showing, as far as I was concerned, despite a good deal of flat-footedness, lack of speed, and limited repertoire. In this case, he was giving away 30 pounds to the mountain of muscle Michaels, and still Marco successfully put the hurt on the giant and quite nearly secured the final fall submission.

Marco got buried beneath raging bull Dev!

However impressive was Marco’s rookie debut, however, being flat-footed, slow, and technically limited in wrestling skill does not bode well for facing Jake Jenkins. Jake has wrestled 9 times for BG East and 12 times for Rock Hard Wrestling. Match descriptions indicate that Jake is both a highly accomplished amateur wrestler as well as a novice MMA boy, and he’s certainly taken to the special demands of homoerotic wrestling like white on rice. At RHW, Jake tends to be more of a bad ass than he is at BG East, where he generally wrestles clean, at least starts out amiable, and has a healthy (but not overinflated) sense of his extensive assets, especially on the mats.

Jake breaks Christian Taylor in half in Wet ‘n’ Wild 6

The heaviest opponent Jake has faced at BGE was Christian Taylor in Wet ‘n’ Wild 6, but that seems a poor comparison to judge his promise against the likes of Marco Carlow. Christian’s 175 lbs are stretched across 6’2″ of height, which averages out to about 2.36 pounds per inch of height. In other words, Christian is one stunningly beautiful, long, tall drink of water, but he’s no muscle man. Inch-for-pound, although over half a foot shorter, Jake was almost exactly the same proportionally (2.35 pounds per inch), and with a boatload more mat experience, it’s not surprisingly he tied the tallboy into knots and left him whimpering in a pile. Rating the likelihood that Jake will spin his nearly naked, sweat-lubricated body all over a stunned Marco and lock the muscle boy up tight repeatedly like a twist-tie, I give it another 8 out of 10. The likelihood that Marco will be knocked on his ass when he pushes amiable Jake one step too far: 9 out of 10. The likelihood that Marco will, like half of Jake’s opponents before him, comment on Jake’s ferocious intensity that makes pit bulls cower: 4 out of 10.The likelihood that Marco squashes Jake and gets out without suffering multiple, expertly administered, joint-snapping submission holds that Marco’s never even heard of, much less suffered in: 1 out of 10.

Sweat-soaked buddy Austin Cooper proved too much for “little” Jake to handle!

Perhaps a more realistic comp would be to look at a couple other of Jake’s opponents who, although technically not as heavy as Christian, are closer to the weight/power ratio of Marco. First, Jake’s long-time tag partner Austin Cooper faced Jake in their simultaneous BGE debut in Ripped Rookie’s 1. Austin’s weight-height ratio is 2.39 pounds per inch of height, which makes for a pretty noticeable size advantage over little Jake (4/100ths in this case is not a negligible difference).  Also, the two are pretty damn equally matched in mat experience, and they’ve wrestled each other and together as a tag team multiple times, essentially zeroing out any experience advantage. Against equal experience and a not-insignificant size disadvantage, how did Jake do? It was incredibly competitive (as in, please bottle those gallons of sweat, because I’m buying!), but slowly, but surely, goldenboy Austin absolutely owned Jake’s lovely ass! I believe Ripped Rookies was filmed in the very same mat room as Jake’s match with Marco Carlow, and in both matches, the boys start in singlets and end in jock straps. So if Jake’s performance against the dominating power of Coop is any measure, he could be in for a world of hurt against Marco whose weight-height ratio is a jaw-dropping 2.58 pounds per inch of height. I put the likelihood that Jake is hoisted off his feet and completely at Marco’s mercy at one point or another at around a 7 out of 10.

Kid Karisma owned “monkey boy’s” smoking hot ass!

One other comp I think needs to be addressed, and that’s Jake’s ring match against 165 pound Kid Karisma in Hunkbash 12. Kid K’s weight-height ratio is, before now, the most dominating that Jake has faced, with a 2.42 pounds per inch of height measured. Again, Kid K has a boatload more experience than Marco Carlow, and for my tastes, Kid Karisma is never more dangerous than he is in the ring, which is arguably Jake’s weakest genre. So how did Jake, 2012’s top babyface, do against 2012’s best ass winner? Holy fuck, it was a massacre! Karisma trounced the babyface before Jake even left the locker room! JJ battled back to claim one submission, but that was his one bright spot in an unremitting train wreck of a match for poor Jake. Kid K destroys him, tying his spine in knots around the ring post, crushing his face into the apron, trampling, pounding, squeezing, and delectably dominating Jake into yet another quivering pool of sweat and humiliation. So again, although he’s been highly competitive and dominant even, against boys his size, including extremely pedigreed mat wrestlers and MMA fighters, when Jake’s been faced with serious muscle boys not even close to Marco’s concentrated muscle mass, he’s gone down brutally hard. The likelihood that still-green muscle man Marco will enjoy serious riding time on Jake’s ass, bullying the babyface and rendering Jake’s hot bod a limp rag at various points in this match: 6 out of 10.  The likelihood he’ll make Jake cry: 4 out of 10. The likelihood he’ll make Jake beg like a bitch for mercy: 3 out of 10.

A few more numbers that I’m estimating based on nothing more than my personal tastes and adoring study of countless hours of homoerotic wrestling (remember, 0 means “absolutely impossible” and 10 means “a complete certainty”):

Likelihood that either of these boys loose their jockstraps: 2.

Likelihood that they both lose their jock straps: 1 (I’m an eternal optimist).

Likelihood that we catch a glimpse of either of their balls spilling out of their jockstraps: 4.

Likelihood that we catch a glimpse of either of their assholes: 6.

Likelihood that I decide before this match is over that I’d tap Jake’s ass over Marco’s: 3.

Likelihood that Marco’s mountainous pecs get clawed: 7 (though that doesn’t seem to be Jake’s style).

Likelihood that Jake gets stretched over Marco’s knee and spanked like a naughty boy: 3.

Likelihood that Marco shoves Jake’s face in his crotch and makes him smell his sweaty crotch: 3.

Likelihood that both boys give a bare-assed muscle posing session towering over top of their prone opponent: 10 (because the Arena documents both!).

Likelihood that Jake takes the final fall: 8.

Likelihood that one of these boys claims my homoerotic wrestler of the month title off this match: 3.

Likelihood that have to push pause and clean up a bit within the first 5 minutes: 6.

Likelihood I’ll be obsessing about catalog 100 all day long: 10.

marco jake

Daddy’s Boy is Back

“I’ve got everything!” Damien Rush boasts. “And I’ll always have everything!”

Daddy’s little rich boy, Damien Rush is back at Muscle Domination Wrestling after taking some time off to build his beautiful muscles bigger (and presumably accounting for some moonlighting for Kid Leopard). In Muscle Domination Wrestling’s Season 5, Damien shows up for Meaty Muscle Massacre 3, sporting sparkling royal purple trunks, purple armbands/garters, and a brand new pair of boots. Damien loves his hot bod nearly as much as I do, which is saying a lot. And he’s never shy about saying so to the random newbies that dare to climb into the ring with him, in this case, hot stud Rodriguez Cortez.

“Feel that fucking bicep, huh!?”

Like always, Damien is a little flabbergasted that anyone, much less fresh meat like newbie Rodriguez, would have the nerve to stand face to face with Mr. Rush’s hotbodied baby boy. He flexes his biceps and demands that the newbie feel the steel, giving Rodriguez and opportunity to simply admit his inferiority and run from the ring in fear. “I’ve defeated everything Muscle Domination Wrestling has to offer!” Damien boasts to the rook. Rich white guys always get to re-write history, so this blatant misrepresentation of Damien’s ring record at MDW shouldn’t surprise anyone. “I’ve defeated the biggest, the baddest, the best!”

Rodriguez Cortez is not impressed.

Damien’s love affair with his own physique appears to have completely distracted him from noticing the newbie’s bod, but I, however, have most definitely noticed. Holy shit, the kid his stunningly beautiful! True enough, I’m guessing he’s not quite as hard as Damien. It’s entirely possible he is not as fiercely conditioned, probably owing to the fact he may not be able to afford a beck-and-call personal trainer like Damien can. But damn, damn, damn, his smooth, brown body is nothing if not lickable, and I’d give an appendage to get my mouth on those sexy lips of his! Little wonder he’s not rolling over and letting the blue blood climb on top, because I have a strong feeling Mr. Cortez gets plenty of panting adoration of his gorgeous body to keep his ego strength up.

“Collared and owned… by me!”

The wrestling trends toward a tit-for-tat motif, as the beautiful boys work each other over in turn, trading holds, shoveling on mountains of trash talk, comparing how devastatingly they can milk a maneuver. Honestly, Damien’s experience advantage is clearly evident. He works the tough kid hard, and while Rodriguez keeps battling back, the question appears to be whether he can keep catching up from behind. “Some newbie steps into my ring?!” Damien snarls when he’s got the rook rocking. “MY RING!!?” he asks, incredulous. Using one of his purple armbands to choke the fight out of Rodriguez, sweat glistens off of the hairy blue blood’s bod, dripping off his nose. “Collared and owned… by me!” he snarls in the kid’s ear. I have no idea if the daddy’s-little-richboy is just a gimmick, but Damien sure sells the story of privileged fucker accustomed to owning anything and everything quite convincingly!

“Climb these tree trunks!”

More than one he puts the gorgeous rookie on his ass and then demands that the kid climb his tree trunk thighs back to this feet again. Holy shit, that device moves me down deep! A little dazed, a lot furious, and just a tad obedient, Rodriguez puts his paws on Damien’s hairy legs and claws his way back up for another round of rookie-bashing.

“There’s nothing you can do to beat this glorious statue of a body!”

Damien just gets more insanely hot the harder he works, the sweatier he gets, and the more exhaustion and pain contorts his face. “There’s nothing you can do to beat this glorious statue of a body!” he taunts, having just beaten back a renewed flurry of offense from the stubborn newbie.

The newbie takes matters into his own hands.

“Newbie,” however, does not mean dummy in this case. Having ordered Rodriguez to climb his tree trunk thighs once too often, the rook’s eyes lock onto that pretty purple bulge and fire a gorgeous shot into those crown jewels. Rodriguez dishes out plenty of trash talk when he’s got a hold of the rich boy by a fistful of hair, but his message is loudest and clearest when he just keeps barreling down on the breathless beauty, dragging Damien up, crying like a baby, only to beat him back down again. The sheen of sweat on his lickable body is hypnotic, but again, it’s those sneering, curled-in-rage lips that make my knees buckle.

“You better stay down… it’ll be over soon!”

Rodriguez puts Damien’s personally trained body through the ringer when he’s got momentum going his way. Like the whiny bitch he is (particularly at MDW), Damien screams and squirms and fires off a dozen excuses for how humbled he is in the newbie’s control. “You better stay down. Stay down!” Rodriguez warns Damien when the richboy keeps coming back for more. “It’ll be over soon!”

Sneering, sweaty, sexy newbie!

Damien’s got his hands full, and Rodriguez has no qualms about beating the fight right out of the richboy, starting (again and again) with Damien’s balls. While Damien hasn’t quite beaten everything MDW has thrown at him, it is true he’s tallied an impressive resume of hard knocks given as well as received. He had been on quite a roll of a dominating heel turn, as the cocky narcissist richboy made inroads in putting his bod and training to good use. But sexy as hell Rodriguez is a blank slate, and putting Damien right back into the Jobber category would be quite a debut coup.

Damien needs a helping hand.

Meaty Muscle Massacre 3 is a sweet example of MDW doing straightforward pro wrestling as promised with intensity and erotic undertones. The bodies are stunning. The characters are compelling. The wrestling is hard, slow, and all about muscles. I can’t wait to get my eyes on more of Rodriguez Cortez (not to mention my tongue). And I’m just saying, if there’s one thing a daddy’s-little-richboy-pro-wrestler needs is a personal valet to accompany him to the ring, peel him off the mat when he’s trashed, carry him back to the locker room, slip him out of his gear, give him a full body, recuperative massage, shower him down, and put him to bed. I have my resume ready, Damien.

Hello Vada

Vada Magazine calls itself “A new queer perspective. Fresh takes, hot opinions, news and reviews. The Young Gay Pretender.” I’m not entirely clear on what that means, but the editorial team looks like a gaggle of young, pretty, gay-hipster geek hotties. Their profile pics make me think of countless skinny, twink-come-nerd boys I’ve known with jobs attached in one form or another to corporate IT departments. This genus nearly universally includes an embarrassing fluency in sci-fi, comic books, and/or Coen Brothers films. They tend to be both oddly anti-sport and, not infrequently but paradoxically, involved in organized soccer, ultimate frisbee, and/or hacky-sack (because it’s so retro). Do I sound contemptuous? I don’t mean to, because I’ve had many a crush on a specimen precisely from this fraternity. In fact, I had an profoundly satisfying month or so of dating a manager of a tech store (for a company that shall remain nameless, but just turn on the news today and try to avoid it), who momentarily had me obsessed with Sims and worshipping his thick, hairy, sculpted legs (curiously attached to a hairless, skinny, flat-chested torso). Yeah, scanning the editorial team of Vada takes me back to good times, and I’d take a stab at knocking the fedoras off pretty much any of their heads, scooping them up in my arms and powerslamming them in the middle of a wrestling ring.


First on my list, though, is adorkable Editor-in-Chief Stuart Forward, who grabbed my attention yesterday by penning the piece entitled “11 Reasons Why Wrestling is Pretty Damn Gay.” Sweet prose! In laid back language with a subtly structured free-formish style, Stuart catalogs his 11 reasons for questioning how professional wrestling can be associated with hyper-masculinity while, at the same time, being so damn gay. The piece is part autobiography, part testimonial, part confession, along with a heavy dose of queer critique for both the pro wrestling industry and the social construction of masculinity itself. My favorite of the 11 reasons why wrestling is pretty damn gay is #9: pro wrestling’s obsession with men’s asses. Write’s Mr. Forward:

Whether this, Mr. Ass, the Fameasser, Vince McMahon’s Kiss My Ass club, Rikishi’s ass, repeated use of asshole, or just kicking that sonbitch’s ass, it’s fair to say that wrestling masculinity became a bit fixated on ass and doing things to each other’s asses. Just saying. In this bizarre, skewed power game played out in the ring, this generation put ass firmly on centre stage. All totally above board of course. After all, what could be more manly than getting a man to kiss your ass?


It’s a nice piece that gathers several strands that I’ve heard from many of you homoerotic wrestling kinksters who still keep up with or give a damn about straight-up pro wrestling. But there’s something about the piece that keeps echoing in the back of my mind. Something’s tickling a sensitive spot on my hippocampus. I think it’s this line:

Whilst wrestling evidently did not turn me gay, here are 10 reasons why it may have made my destined path to wooftery a little clearer at the time…

Okay, it’s 11 reasons, but counting is such a modernist construct, so ignore that bit. It’s the phrase, “Whilst wrestling evidently did not turn me gay….”  Honestly, I would not try to claim copyright on any part of my series “What turned me gay… not really,” (though the text is genuinely entirely my own), the device of positing the relationship between mainstream homoerotic subtext and what did (not really) turn me gay is a trope that I feel I have some squatting rights for. Specifically in reference to exposure to straight-up wrestling as foundational exposure to homoeroticism, that was bread and butter around here at neverland for about a year and a half.  The writing style, the social critique, the snarky contempt for masculine pretense, along with a “what turned me gay… not really” twist, and I have to ask… am I Stuart Forward!!?  The fact that Vada Magazine “favorited” my post yesterday on my infatuation with standing headscissors only confuses me more…

Hello, Jonathan.
~ Bard at neverland

Then there’s Jonathan Pizzaro’s recurring column entitled “Hello Neverland.” Hello, Jonathan. Again, sweet prose and thoughtful writing (though, as far as I’ve found, nothing on wrestling… yet).  Jonathan’s two-part piece on body image, his body, and his learning to love himself has a strong hit of beautiful authenticity about it. I haven’t seen what he looked like when he was cringing at the sight of himself in the mirror, but he looks gorgeous today. In fact, he looks quite a lot like that tech store manager with epic soccer legs! Wait…

Anyway, check out Vada. If they hold onto that slightly self-depracating tone sprinkled on top of clear voices and an undisguised delight in shrugging off homonormativity and the pursuit of acceptability, I’m hooked. And if Jonathan and Stuart are interested in a 3-way no-holds-barred homoerotic wrestling rumble, send them my way. 

Stand and Deliver

There are some holds, some moves, some moments in homoerotic wrestling that are a sure bet to make me gasp a little and set off fireworks in my brain. I frequently mention my adoration of a beautifully executed OTK, for example. The position of the bodies, the contrast of powerful control and total vulnerability… hot, hot, hot every time. Another hold that regularly strokes my lusts with extra friction and speed is the standing headscissors.

Bulldog Barzini crushes Jeremy Burk’s skull between his thighs in BG East’s Catch-Weight 1.

There’s a lot to enjoy about a standing headscissors. The hold gives the hunk in charge the opportunity to display his upper body for adoration while his lower body bears down on the noggin trapped between his thighs. A dominating, powerful, beautiful body on display, as if he’s not in the ring but shooting a double bi for the bodybuilding competition judges, turns my crank hard.

Kid Karisma owns, OWNS Skip Vance in BG East’s Matmen 23!

Unquestionably value added from this hold is the narrative. There’s a strong can’t-be-bothered subtext about a sweet standing headscissors that absolutely electrifies me. It’s as if the upright stud is saying (and sometimes, he actually does say) I’m so in control of you that I can make you suffer helplessly by just standing here.  Just a flex of those quads, a shift of muscle barely noticeable from a distance, and the boy in charge captures his prey and makes him wail. The hold communicates that cocky, told-you-so, you-should-be-humiliated-by-how-helpless-you-are story that, little wonder, speaks to the very heart of my homoerotic wrestling kink.

BBW applies a faceclaw to a totally crushed Dino Serra in Squared Circle IV, not because he needs to, but just because it’s so fucking hot!

Of course, I enjoy it when the hunk bearing down does bother enough to tear himself away from gloating and flexing and preening to rub in the total control and humiliation he owns in this moment. A completely unnecessary claw to the face, for example. Yanking on the poor fucker’s ears or hair, cinching his head up nice and tight, pressed against his new owner’s balls… that’s the ticket!

Look, Ma, no hands! Jonny Firestorm crushes Andy Hammer in body and soul in BG East’s Jobberpaloozer 8.

The standing headscissors seems to me to never be about what it takes to best an opponent. Guys don’t pull this one out of their quiver in a flurry of moves and counter-moves, for the most part. This isn’t a competitive hold that brings an opponent to submission or pins his shoulders to the mat or even efficiently wears him down, nearly as much as it is a gloating, sadistic, exploitation of a groveling challenger who’s already been beaten down to size.  The standing headscissors seems to me to logically appear in the chain of the well-told homoerotic wrestling story right after the tide-turning offensive maneuver, but a few moves before the stick-a-fork-in-it-you’re-done-mother-fucker finisher.

Dante Rosetti’s gargantuan thighs say, “Welcome to your new home,” to Barry Longshaw’s skull in BG East’s Fantasymen 9.

My personal infatuation with the standing headscissors was featured in one of my favorite pieces of celebrity homoerotic  wrestling fiction from my collection, the Producer’s Ring. The match pits Scottish bull Gerard Butler out to wipe the smirk off the face of English beefcake, Sean Maguire, after Sean’s sweetly humiliating parody of Gerard’s muscle-fantasy performance in the movie 300.

Which naked hunk grinds out a standing headscissors? Gerard Butler on the left (scene from “300”), or Sean Maguire on the right (scene from 300 parody “Meet the Spartans”)?

Again, the scenario is precisely after the tide-turner, before the official end of the match. Spectacularly muscled Gerard (damn, I love his body!) has been crushed (starting with his scrotum), and terrorized into total submission. Smart-ass hottie Sean verbally commands the groveling Scot to willingly shove his head in between Sean’s thighs. There’s a moment’s pause, but Gerard has been laid waste by this point. In a moment of complete submission, on his knees, he slides his head in, and Sean proceeds to crush, nearly rips Gerard’s massive shoulders out of their sockets, and then pumps out a two-fisted orgasm, slathering the Scot’s wide, rippled back in cum. Yeah, that’s pretty much how that fantasy rolls…

Muscle fantasyman Wade Cutler gets milked dry trapped in an exquisitely beautiful standing headscissors by Nick Caruso in BG East’s Hard Pros 6.

Not long ago, in one of those nervous, self-concious, try-not-to-appear-criminally-obsessed moments, I wrote a personal note to encourage one of my top currently competing homoerotic wrestling infatuations to keep a standing headscissors in mind when he’s called up for another match.  He promised me he’d take it under advisement.  For my tastes, it’s underused, and some wrestlers can tell that story of total domination and barely-need-to-lift-my-finger-to-fuck-you-over narrative so, so well. My eyes are peeled, because just thinking about a standing headscissors is making me sweat!

Bard’s Cultural Exile

It’s that time of year again. Once again, football fever has struck. This is my second autumn living somewhere that’s truly fanatical about football. I mean, some people should really be embarrassed (but they aren’t). I’m reminded frequently of the close association between masculinity and this particular sport in American culture, because football leaves me limp. My inability to care to express an opinion about the most recent game in casual conversation with coworkers invariably earns me askance glances and shrugged shoulders, and I never fail to feel like my “manliness” just took a hit.  Honestly, for various reasons I’ve watched plenty of football at the high school, collegiate, and professional levels. I’ve felt the crowd-think as the stands erupt in roars of excitement or nearly rush the field with righteous indignation at a blown call. But it doesn’t move me, and I haven’t watched a game in at least a decade.

Looks like a viking god, but Clay Matthews is a massive Packer.

I can understand why a lot of gay men are fully on board with football. Certain playing positions tend to produce hardbodied hunks who can easily star in erotic fantasies. And, for that matter, other positions that tend to produce less hardbodies certainly have an appeal to those into bellies and something to grab hold of. Of course, the uniforms pretty much guarantee  that football bodies are both covered and their proportions disguised beneath mountains of protective gear. Stunningly hot bodies that we almost never get to see? I can’t say I get so fired up about that scenario.



Jordy Nelson’s ass could almost make me watch a game.

I do admit that there are some sweetly provocative moments in football, mind you. The huddle, as sweaty, fierce gladiators wrap their arms around one another and psych each other up to crush the other side. The pile on tackle, as muscled men make a mountain out of their assembled bodies stacked on top of the other. The moments of ferocity, the expressions of primal rage, bruised egos, taunting trash talk… sure, I get that. But 9 minutes of standing around for every 1 minute of game play!? Puh-lease.

Sans padding, and a football player could definitely hold my attention.

Of course, fans of Can-Am’s “Football Fracas” classic can attest that football doesn’t have to be such a ploddingly ponderous, padded affair. More skin alone would instantly make me give a shit.

Quarterbacks taking the time to admire the view before the snap… that’s football that I could get into.

The explicit acknowledgement that pounding muscled bodies into one another possesses inherently erotic subtext would get my ass on the couch on a Sunday afternoon from time to time. Put on a little boom-chicka-boom soundtrack and slow it down to half-speed, and there’s no sane person on the planet who could deny that football is punctuated by tons of incredibly intimate moments.

Scoring the kind of points I want to see!

Add a rip-n-strip angle here, and I wouldn’t resent the hardbodied athletes showing up all covered in outsized jerseys and plastic pads. Because assigning points for ripping that shit off would make this more of a full-contact male-revue, and, sure, I’d buy that morning, noon and night!

Now that’s a tackle he’ll remember!

But honestly, tinkering with the gear won’t stroke me the right way until all of that muscle pounding, head-to-head aggression is unleashed, and tackles turn into submission wrestling. The restrained chaos, the constrained primal man who releases his foe at the sound of a whistle like a trained dog… what the fuck is that!? They want to pound muscles and crush one another, let them go at it, for god’s sake!

Eat turf, bitch.

Let’s see those muscles flexing, the nostrils flaring, the will to dominate burst the flood gates into full on public humiliation! Stuff his mouth with grass! Slap his flexed ass! Grab his balls to turn the tables!

So in control, he can take a water break.

This isn’t real, channeled physical aggression and man-on-man sport until asses are slapped (in domination), faces are sat on, and losers are wailing and weeping and begging for mercy.

Football done right.

Unleash the beasts and let this shit get real, or stop giving me those looks like I’m so nelly because I don’t care about whether some completely covered, indistinguishable hunk-or-chunk-I-can’t-tell touched his knee ever so slightly to the ground so that even on instant replay (viewed for another 10 minutes), it’s hard to tell for certain.

ImageYeah. I could be a football fanatic, but truth be told, only if it was a whole lot more like homoerotic wrestling.


It’s been a couple months now, but I’m just now finding some time to talk about a Rock Hard Wrestling match from this summer that got my engine revving.  Billed as “Picture Perfect Muscle Match,” the foursome squeezed into the RHW ring epitomize the founding charter of RHW, featuring “rock hard bodies, fitness model looks, and skilled athletic abilities.” The formula is pristine, the messaging crystal clear, and the execution perfectly on mark. But the little moments of added value are what make me take the most delight in this tag team melee.

Brian Baker goes for a ride in Brodie Fisher’s arms, as constant trash talker Josh Steel mouths off to Alex Waters in the opposite corner.

First, the explicit heel-team of this confrontation: Josh Steel and Brian Baker. They’re contemptuous, smirking, sneering muscleboys with badboy ink and dominating size. Josh’s ass is as mouthwatering as ever, suction-packed beautifully in his white trunks. Brian, the “jolly green giant” as their opponents call him, is stunningly beautiful at 6’4″ and 205 pounds. They perch in their corner making fun of their shorter opponents before the match begins, clearly not impressed with the show of muscle and strength the babyfaces across the ring demonstrate as they warm up. “It’s not just show!” Brodie shouts angrily. “We got a lot of go, too!”  Smart ass Josh puts his hand to his ear and looks confused. “Sorry, I can’t hear you with all that Canada in your mouth,” he taunts, making fun of the Canuck’s accent.

Alex Waters takes a moment to savor his opponent’s suffering as Brodie Fisher eggs Alex on from the ring apron.

Their opponents are a vision of earnestness, muscles pumped, bodies bronzed, matching singlets with straps pulled down to show off the rippling torsos. Two classic babyface beauties so similar in size and build they could easily pass for a brother act. Brodie Fisher is the anchor, clearly in charge, calling the shots, and setting the pace. Alex Waters isn’t far behind, however. Not quite as profuse a trash talker as Brodie, he is nevertheless quite a nice bookend for this fratboy, babyface tag team pairing. They are full of mutual appreciation for each other, as evidenced by their insistence on using their iphones to snap shots of each other posing before the match, showing off their beautifully pumped muscles in preparation for victory. The fact that they snap each other’s photos with their own phones (Brodie capturing Alex’ flexing muscles in his photo gallery, and vice versa) tweaks my kink a bit, with the suggestion that they each want a souvenir shot of the other.

Heels do what heels do best.

Again, the formula is incredibly sweet. The bodies are simply stunning to watch, everyone getting his turn suffering a double team, beautiful bodies brutalized, muscles dominated. Sneering Josh and Brian prove early that they’re more than ready to take short cuts and exploit “the rules,” with giant Brian trapping Alex in the ropes for Josh to pound the shit out of his abs with fists, stomps, and a head butt. The babyface heroes call them “cheaters,” but we didn’t need the scripting there. They’re both bigger and more lowdown than the fratboys, meaning the babyface heroes are going to be faced with a moment of truth. Climb down in the muck with them, or get seriously fucked up.

Babyface fratboys aren’t afraid to cut corners to level the playing field.

The babyface beauties don’t really require a lot of coaxing really. They restrain themselves from double teaming very early on, but once the heels open the door, the fratboys rush into rule bending territory quickly. Consummate trashtalker Josh gets most of the double teaming, because that smart mouth (and luscious ass) demand the focused attention from the wonder twins. Gorgeous giant Brian, on the other hand, just gets brutalized straight up, little double-teaming required. He’s fucking slow on his feet, and both Brodie and Alex make mincemeat out of this side of beef. He’s slammed to his back about 3 dozens times, but it’s the scoop up in the arms that makes me gasp most. Seeing a 6’4″ hunk hoisted helplessly in the air and paraded about the ring by guys literally half a foot shorter is an incredible display of musclehunk domination. Flop-haired towering beauty Brian is fucking lucky to have vicious little viper Josh in his corner, because Brian gets singlehandedly (then a double team, just to rub it in) owned by the wonder twins.

Collecting trophies.

When Brodie buttons up big Brian in a kneeling surfboard for the first fall submission, here’s where the value added components start to add up quickly for me.  In their respective corners, Alex taunts notorious trashtalker Josh. “You like that shit!?” he asks Josh. “You like your partner getting his ass kicked?!”  Josh is incensed, barking back, “Why don’t you come over here and talk to me!?” Brodie clearly likes that shit, because he barks at his Alex to grab an iphone and capture Brian’s moment of humiliation on camera. Brian gives, but it won’t count until Alex has snapped the moment the words are spoken. All that mighty muscle is stretched out, locked up, and forced to suffer, and Brodie wants to capture forever his handiwork.  He clearly wants to come back to this moment later, and soak in the sight of what he’s done to the once smirking skyscraper. Brutalized and humiliated, Brian has no choice. He gives on command, with the camera snapping it up for Brodie to savor later.

Smile for the camera, bitch!

This is not a squash, by any means. There’s just too much muscle and athleticism for this to lean just one way. Big Brian is still learning how to capitalize on this insanely long limbs, but he gets in a few hot moments of fratboy beatdown. Josh is the steam engine on the heel side of things, though, instantly grabbing momentum with both hands every time he’s tagged in. But the collegiate standouts from Wrestle U. have got the taste for short cuts on the way to muscle domination, and slowly but surely the tide turns their way. Josh takes a dump truck full of abuse for all that trash talk, all those sneers, all the insults and slights and laughter. Alex ties him up in a crucifix across his back, leaving Josh’s pornstar quality muscled torso stretched out like a turkey ready for carving. Brodie is clearly so turned on by the sight that he, once again, insists on capturing the moment on his iphone. The once smirking muscle stud badass wails out his submission, and all Brodie can think is to capture precisely that moment on camera to be able to come back again and again and roll around the taste of total victory in his mouth.


That’s right, heels crushed in two straight totally humiliating submissions with the handsome fratboys snagging trophies of their victory to take home with them. Holy fuck! Babyface retribution, heroes dabbling on the dark side, the insistence on claiming personal momentos to savor their muscle domination over smart ass bullies… damn, yes!  Wonder twin powers, activate!

Homoerotic Wrestler of the Month

I’m still catching up from life outside of neverland, so excuse me for being a half a month late in anointing a new slice of beef as my reigning homoerotic wrestler of the month. Being out of the country for half of August made it a stretch for me to do my due diligence in sampling the latest fare of homoerotic wrestling dished up during that month. But squeezed in nice and tight between a couple of major project deadlines, I managed to get a good taste of the fine new harvest of late summer 2013 homoerotic wrestling releases.  There’s an avalanche of muscle mass barreling down hill and crushing another massive muscle beast would-be rival, and that avalanche is my August 2013 homoerotic wrestler of the month…








…Naked Kombat’s Marcus “Titan” Ruhl – 5’10”, 210 lbs.

Naked Kombat’s August 21, 2013 New Release:
Jessie “Cut-Throat” Colter v Marcus “Titan” Ruhl

Marcus has grabbed my attention with both hands and shoved his mountainous muscles in my face before, but he had his massive, burly body shoved into the back seat in past competitions for HWOTM. Not this time, my friends. No fucking way. His appearance in the NK summer tournament on August 21 had me toweling off before I could manage to log-in. His opponent, “Cut-Throat,” looks damn fine as well. On any other day, he’d be a top contender himself with that mouth and those shoulders alone. But the fates cursed Jessie to show up to battle his way to the next round of competition against a truly phenomenal force of nature, aptly named “Titan.”

Suck on that, Titan!

Jessie’s a massive hunk of muscle himself, which helps explain some fantastic offense he manages against the superhuman proportions and strength of Marcus. 6’2″, 200 pounds… no wonder he put the undefeated gladiator of my fantasies to his back and look damn fine doing it!  Holy fuck, what it must feel like to even momentarily humble a mountain of a man like Marcus!  “Yeah!” Jessie growls, pinning Titan’s head to the mat and grinding his crotch in Marcus’ face, “Come on big guy, huh!?” Jessie taunts. There’a break in the action not five minutes in because Jessie gives Marcus a dizzying elbow to the face.

Shooting daggers! Look at that intensity!

I pop my cork anytime a couple of big, powerful muscleboys tell the story of rock-meeting-hard-place, convincing me that they’re just too fucking big to ever have really been tested before, so they’re seriously fired up to be tested now. When big Marcus is letting his weight advantage tire his opponent out squirming underneath him, Jessie’s upper lip curls in rage and he kicks Marcus away, growing, “Get off me, you big son of a bitch!” The intensity is erotic gold. Psyching up, psyching out, staring down… there’s some seriously primal stuff here with two alpha boys lighting it up when nobody is about to roll over and take it easy.

Titan humbled!? That’s a lot of man pinning the back of Marcus’ throat to the mat!

Overwhelming power humbled is an intoxicating sight to see, and the moments that big Jessie is owning the Titan’s body, I’m drunk off my ass! Even for powerhouses like these two are, there are moments when hauling each other across the mat absolutely wipes them out, neither side of beef able to pry his gorgeous ass up to keep battling.  In the post-match testimonial, Jessie cannot emphasize the point enough that, despite the fact that he knew Marcus before hand, that he understood exactly how huge Marcus is, he was simply unprepared for the physical demands of trying to climb on top and ride the Titan for 3 whole rounds.

Jessie Coulter senses the reckoning on its way, as Marcus starts to bear down on the would be Titan-topper.

As with every match that Marcus has captivated me in, there are just so many “Oh shit!” moments in the match, where all that muscle flexes and bodies fly.  Watch Marcus in the post-match testimonials, and you’d think this kid was the easiest going teddy bear on the planet. Watch him latch those gargantuan arms around Jessie and throw a 6’2″, 200 pound man around like a rag doll, and you might still be thinking “bear,” but there’s nothing soft and cuddly that comes to mind.


There’s so much about Marcus that moves me in the match, but I’ll say again what I’ve said before: his thighs are unbelievably huge and insanely powerful. Part of the spell I fall under watching Marcus completely crush Jessie like a fucking grape is the contrast. On the one hand, Marcus Ruhl is unquestionably pretty. I mean, think disarmingly handsome Clark Kent. Neck up, and I’ll say it to his face: Mr. Ruhl you are a prettyboy!  But that prettypretty face sits atop a telephone pole of a neck and one of the most beastly hot bodies I’ve seen in homoerotic wrestling. Calling that body “pretty” would be insane. Like, I’d beat Marcus to the punch to slap the stupid out of whatever dumbass thought to classify his physique as pretty. The hairy chest, the meaty, convex gut/belly, the dimpled ass cheeks, each thigh about double the combined circumference of Skip Vance and Christian Taylor’s waists. When he walks, flesh jiggles a moment before he flexes and everything flashes hard as a rock. This is not the typical pornboy body, not a common homoerotic wrestling physique (though I think it ought to be). The man is a series of contradictions, each one turning me on harder and making him completely captivate me when he does what he does best, crush an opponent.

Round 4: Titan’s Rules

Marcus Ruhl pounds out a hard fought victory over stunned beefcake Jessie Coulter. Here’s where NK typically travels down less than a handful of well-worn paths, as the fuck-stakes wrestling reaches the stakes-stage. Always, there’s forced cock-sucking as the winner taunts and humiliates his trophy, before plowing his ass. There is almost always one, rarely two gratuitous expressions of dominating humiliation thrown in at some point, typically sandwiched right in between the cock sucking and ass fucking. Said expressions typically come in just a few flavors: over-the-knee ass slapping, pony riding, the occasional forced muscle worship. But a few NK boys distinguish themselves by doing something that no one else really pulls off. For example, Rusty Stevens arm bar/leg scissors choke toying with Tommy Defendi, commanding him to stroke himself to the edge of orgasm and then denying it, while Rusty beats his own out with the thrill of it.  Marcus immediately hoists Jessie up over one shoulder and walks around the mat, slapping that completely vulnerable and gorgeous ass beet red in a show of total ownership. A hardbodied 200 pound beefcake like Jessie so totally controlled and humiliated is so incredibly awesome!


A regular reader pointed out to me a couple of days ago that there’s an industry-wide crisis that’s hit Naked Kombat along with everyone else in porn, as taping has stopped after the disclosure of at least 2 or 3 porn stars (across the whole industry, including Rod Daily from an earlier NK tournament bout) have tested HIV positive. Fuck! Safe sex is, of course, not 100%, but I do believe that everyone in the sex industry should be absolute masters at protecting themselves (no judgment here, just a hope that there’s a path for porn to stay safe). I hope there’s a future for NK to finish this tournament, talented stars to make their living, and everyone to stay safe and healthy. In the mean time, I want to go on record that no one in homoerotic wrestling worked me harder than a hardbodied pornboy named Marcus Ruhl, plowing his way through the competition to deserve an appearance in the semi-finals and absolutely earning my unofficial title as Homoerotic Wrestler of the Month.

The thrill of victory; the agony of defeat…

Perhaps the defining difference between homoerotic wrestling and straightforward porn is the context (or pretense) of competition. I own exactly 3 porn products that contain no wrestling. I own about 180 homoerotic wrestling products, some of which contain fucking and some of which don’t. That pretty much paints by numbers where I stand with regard to what turns me on hardest. The one criticism I would level at most of the porn companies that have dabbled in wrestling themed products is precisely the same thing: they appreciate and spotlight far too little the element of competition in their race to get to the fucking. Domination, humiliation, control, ownership… these words densely populate the pages of neverland because I key off of that aspect of homoerotic wrestling that sucks me in with the drama of sport, the suspense of competition, and the explicit reference to the struggle for carnal domination.  Without it, or for whatever reason without enough of it, and I’ll hit that maybe two or three times in the average year.  With it, and I’m grabbing hold with both hands, oh, let’s say 3 times a day.

Naked Kombat’s Rod Daily puts his would-be rival in his place!

So when I noticed that Naked Kombat was advertising new matches starting in mid-August as elimination matches in a 10-man pornboy tournament, I was immediately extra-attentive! Neverland readers know full well the extensive role that a single-elimination wrestling tournament can have on my homoerotic imagination.  Competition, domination, control, winners becoming losers, beasts humbled… fuck, yes. With that in mind, I want to catch us all up on exactly what we know so far in the NK 10-man “Kombatant Tournment.”

Rod “the Real Deal” Daily mounts Tyler “the Assassin” Alexander – Naked Kombat August 14, 2013.

First of all, the brackets make no sense to me whatsoever, so we’re just going to roll with it and see if NK can see the through-story to the end. The first match pitted triathlon lean-meat Tyler “the Assassin” Alexander against raging bull beefcake Rod “the Real Deal” Daily. On face validity, I’d have said there’s no way that the Real Deal wasn’t going to carve up the Assassin for lunch and eat him raw. The bouncing pecs, the massive thighs, those tats, that Mohawk… I’ve most definitely pulled for a catchweight upender, with a little guy humbling his bigger opponent, but this time, I have to say I was pulling really hard for (on my) Rod. The final score was much closer than I’d have guessed it would turn out, but after 3 rounds and 30 minutes of kombat, it was a Blue: 31, Red: 24 spread, with Rod winning the day. The fact that this was not the squash I expected pleases me immensely.

Marcus “Titan” Rule drives home his domination of Jessie “Cut-Throat” Colter.

A week later, the second match in the tourney featured a huge, huge, huge infatuation that I’ve talked about before, 5’11”, 210 pound Marcus “Titan” Ruhl. That’s all you needed to say for me to do two things. 1) Drop down a wager on the telephone poles that Titan calls his thighs and cock, and 2) pound one out in nothing but anticipation.  Jessie’s a big, strong motherfucker, mind you, and I love his look, but there was more than a sense of “of course” about it when the final score was Blue:23, Red:37, with Marcus Ruhl yet again on top, in charge, and riding that train to victory.

Randall “the Rock” O’Reilly has Bryan “the Constrictor” Cole precisely where he wants him.

Week 3 of the tourney introduced me to two new lean pornboys, Randall “the Rock” O’Reilly and Bryan “the Constrictor” Cole. First blush, the Constrictor looks a little terrified and the Rock strikes me as a once-nelly-boy turned still-nelly-but-will-kick-your-ass wrestler. My knee jerk conclusion, go Rock!!! Tale of the tape after 3 rounds of elimination tournament competition? Blue: 20 points, Red: 29 points. Nelly-boy-goes-bully Randall delivers my satisfaction with my guilty pleasure: the cock-tuck pony ride!

Doug “the Destroyer” Acre knows how to keep a big man (Alex “the Axe” Axel) down!

OKay, that’s 6 of that 10-man elimination tourney accounted for. However, week 4 of the tourney and suddenly NK says this is the final elimination round. The aforementioned bewildering brackets show two beats mentioned here before, Hayden Richards and Landon Conrad, seemingly waiting like spiders for the semi-finals, which I have no idea how that makes sense. An 8-man tournament has better mathematical properties anyway, so either way, I’m not worried. Worried, however, is the look on 5’10”, 180 lbs. Alex “the Axe” Adams’ face as he stares down at little 5’6″, 150 lbs. Doug “the Destroyer” Acre. Perhaps it’s little wonder, since Alex has tasted defeat three times in a row at NK, and little Doug is undefeated. Blue: 36, Red: 25, Doug extends his undefeated streak by easily crushing a much bigger opponent!

So if the brackets are indicative of what actually unfolds, I’m guessing that Randy “the Rock” O’Reilly and Rod “Real Deal” Daily will go cock-to-cock in the next round, leaving Marcus “Titan” Ruhl and Doug “Giant Killer” Acre (yeah, I’ve redubbed him) to square off. I’m predicting Rod comes out way on top, with 30 pounds of low-slung beef advantage being far too much for nelly-boy-bully Randall to overcome. I also predict Randall loves every second of it.  The real match of this tourney, by far, I think, is the giant killer versus the giant. Doug Acre is a fucking mat master! Holy shit, he can work a big man hard, and there’s just about none bigger than Titan. I’m seriously torn here, because I can easily see either of these men plowing the other by the end of the day. But a 60 pound differential!? Holy shit, that sounds completely impossible, and just to put myself way out there on a limb, I’m still going to call it. 150 pound Doug Acre beats 210 Marcus Ruhl. That’s my prediction. And should that happen, a still of Doug fucking previously undefeated Titan into a dripping pool of sweat and cum will be guaranteed to be my next screensaver!

Whoever makes it that far, Hayden Richards is going to fuck. You. Up.

The brackets suggest that the winner of the Daily/O’Reilly match will face Hayden Richards, to which I say good-fucking-luck Rod. Hayden is a fucking badger, and you’re going to be little more than an appetizer.

Put Doug Acre underneath Landon Conrad, and let’s see what the giant killer can do with that staring him in the face!

And, if I’m reading this correctly, the winner of Ruhl v Acre will go against golden god Landon Conrad. In which case, having predicted that Conrad’s two-time nemesis Titan is knocked out before this point, I think Doug Acre could have run his luck to it’s natural end right around the time that Landon is oiling up that jackhammer and pounding the would-be giant killer’s hole, with every humiliated big man Doug’s owned on the sideline cheering him on.

Finally, the brackets may be suggesting that the tourney final match is not a singles competition at all, which seems a little silly to me. However, the promise of Hayden Richards having owned, then tag teaming with Rod Daily and competing against the team of Conrad and Acre is an incredibly sweet possibility. If I were batting 1000 by this point, then I’m giving the tag team climax without a doubt to Conrad/Acre, hands down. Rod’s the weak link, and Doug would tip the scales between Hayden and Landon their way.

I am a little dehydrated, just discussing the brackets. Homoerotic wrestling needs more of this!

Smoking Hot Swede!

alexander skarsgard shirtless true blood

I just turned in a project that was on a deadline, so I’m back to add to my collection of thoughts about what’s turned me on lately. The truly epic moment of seeing Michael C. Hall’s naked ass in Dexter this season has been a recurring fantasy image that wakes me up at night (needing to pound one out before I can possibly go back to sleep). The other, less freakishly rare, but nearly as thrilling subscription eye candy that’s fueled my homoerotic wrestling imagination was from the final episode of True Blood just a few weeks ago, featuring none other than my #1 Swedish infatuation (believe me, there are many lined up behind him), Alexander Skarsgård, capping off the season with not only his beautiful, long body completely naked, but some honest to god full frontal Swedish sausage!

alexander skarsgard nude true blood

I won’t bother you with the details of why Alexander’s character is sunning naked on a lounge chair in the middle of a glacier in Åre, Sverige.  You either care enough about that sort of back story to have watched, or you’re still reading this for the sole reason that I mentioned full frontal Alexander Skarsgård. There are even a few of you, I know, who are only familiar with this gorgeous descendant of vikings from his appearances in my celebrity homoerotic wrestling fiction, where, by the way, he’s undefeated and continuing to strike stark terror in potential celebrity wrestling opponents after nearly castrating Ashton Kutcher in the ring. Good times!

alexander skarsgard nude true blood

Alexander also completely dominated in a private mat-match first authored by another reader/writer who joined me in co-authoring a couple of my favorite Producer’s Ring matches, Swito. Swito brought the heat, as well as the svenska-cred to that match, in which Alexander used those long, luscious, alabaster limbs to squeeze, pummel, and corporally terrorize that fucking cocky Australian it-boy, Chris Hemsworth, for daring to try out for, much less accept the role of Viking god/superhero Thor for the big screen. You’d think the Aussie beefcake would have toned down his shit after that humiliation, but Producer’s Ring readers know that wasn’t the case.

alexander skarsgard nude true blood

I never really doubted it, but apparently the producer of True Blood had to issue a statement after this cliffhanger shot of Alexander’s naked cock bursting into flames (I’ve got a lotion for that, Alex!) to assure fans that his character is, indeed, returning as a regular in the next and final season of the series’ next go-round. Like teasing us with that cock and then ripping him away from us was an option.  TB producers clearly know better. And so do I, because one of these days I’m getting my ass back to the keyboard for more Producer’s Ring matches, and I guaran-fucking-tee you that a certain juggernaut expert in cock torture and merciless ring destruction will also be returning to my homoerotic wrestling imagination.


alexander skarsgard nude true blood

I’ve said it before many times.  I’ll say it again. Best god damned casting director in the history of television. And I’ve got so, so much love for a blond, Swedish beefcake who shows his cock for the rabid TB fans who are fanatical for the show for precisely this Dark-Shadows-meets-softcore-porn element.

Moving On

This is the only point of reference I care to have for Miley Cyrus.

I did not watch the MTV Awards, so somehow I feel like I should be entitled not to be subjected to the constant bombardment of commentary and judgment of them that I see from every news outlet that I visit. My only, and I mean ONLY point of reference for giving the smallest shit possible about Miley Cyrus is that she is/was/pretended to be at some point engaged to Aussie body beautiful Liam Hemsworth, who appeared in the most recent addition to my celebrity homoerotic wrestling fiction universe, Producer’s Ring, in which Liam battled nasty and naked against big (BIG!) brother Chris. Way, way, way back there in the chain of associations there’s someone I seriously could not pick out of a lineup who goes by the name Miley Cyrus. That’s all I want to know about her. She has zero further importance to me, other than that I must cut her out of my Aussie brother fuck-fantasies and insert myself, pasted directly between the embattled muscle bodies of Liam and Chris. Period. Seriously people. Move on.

Now if JT strips and dirty dances, that should be televised non-stop for weeks.

Speaking of moving on, I give a slightly bigger shit to the news I saw that the MTV Awards provided the setting for NSync to get back for about two blinks of an eye. Sure, I got hot and sweaty over them when they were barely legal, but more importantly in my erotic fantasy life, Justin Timberlake starred in an all-star, three-way erotic combat fantasy match in the Producer’s Ring against both Ryan Reynolds and Bradley Cooper. For those familiar with Producer’s Ring, it was a Focus Group match (as was the Hemsworth v Hemsworth beatdown), which means the boys battled it out in a gay bathhouse fight-pit wearing, at least to start, nothing but terrycloth.  Yeah, somehow I feel a little dirty and a little shallow admitting that Timberlake was polishing me off long before he and his personal trainer carved that hardbodied torso he likes to show off when he’s moonlighting as an actor. I’m okay with it, though.

JC Chasez may not be dating Chace Crawford, but he is wrestling down and dirty in my homoerotic wrestling imagination.

But Justin is not the only NSync boy to make a satisfying appearance in my celebrity homoerotic wrestling fantasy fiction. JC Chasez sorted me out quite nicely when they were actually a boyband, and then he turned up just a couple of years ago climbing into the pro wrestling ring in my imagination for a battle of the boyander resurrectionists, fighting for a second set of 15 minutes of fame against 98 Degrees pec-master, Jeff Timmons. I swear to Neptune that then and now I’d kick Nick Lachey to the curb in an instant for a naked romp with Timmons. The Chasez v Timmons ring match was seriously ugly, permitting me to sort out seriously guilty vices from a decade earlier when I crushed, in shameful silence, on boybanders-who-should-wrestle.

This is precisely how I imagine Jeff Timmons looks after a seriously brutal, no-holds-barred homoerotic wrestling beatdown in the ring.

I saw the news today that Timmons is back to tempt me into further flights of erotic fantasy, hosting a new stage show called the Men of the Strip, putting his Chippendales stint to good use by stripping down alongside eight other hardbodied hotties and teasing audiences to as much sexual arousal as they can legally experience in public (it is Nevada, after all).

Jeff Timmons is screaming for a face-sitting pec claw!

I’m lighting some sage and placing a shot of JD at an altar to the gods of homoerotic wrestling, praying for Men of the Strip to morph into a reality television series in which the strippers compete in a single elimination tournament of professional style homoerotic rip n’ strip wrestling in front of a live audience of unbuttoned gay men (I’ve got my seat reserved in the front row).  It’s my wrestling fantasy, so I get to make the rules, and they’re simple. Single elimination, pinfall or submission, the eight d-listers pound it out in quarter finals, semis, and then finals to decide which hardbodied fantasyman gets to face Timmon’s nipples for the grand prize of being a backup dancer for a Timberlake music video.  Please, oh please gods of homoerotic wrestling, hear my plea…

Which also-ran do you think would pound his way to the top of the heap, and could he take Sweet as Sugar Timmons for his shot working Timberlake from behind?  Here are the Men of the Strip that caught my eye as contenders…

Joel Sajion is said to be a Latin soap star… I say he’s got the ammo for a fantastically brutal side headlock.
Nate Estimada is billed as a pro wrestler wannabe, meaning he’s got the inside track on a potential pec-to-pec bearhug contest with Timmons.
Chris Boudreaux is said to be a former football star (don’t ask me) who looks so, so pretty… but I think he’d have strong potential for a nasty, narcissistic heel.
Dwayne Baldwin is apparently a fitness trainer, but those bedroom eyes convince me he’d be a serious contender for distracting an opponent with a come-and-fuck-me gaze.
UFC fighter Charles Dera could easily bring the goods to blow the competition clean out of the ring with high impact strikes and stomps.
Kyle Efthemes is described simply as a veteran Vegas stage performer, but I’m having a hard time picturing any homoerotic opponent not popping his cork the moment he gets his hands on Kyle’s insanely proportioned fantasy physique!