Eagle-eyed neverland reader, D.S., wins a Connect-the-Dots Award for spotting one of my current favorite wrestlers under another alias. D.S. tells me that he confirmed the double-identity by checking the tats. Indeed, they match, and indeed, D.S. rocks for giving me the heads up!
I’ve gotten in trouble in the past before for sleuthing out the full-monty versions of homoerotic wrestlers who’ve kept their kit on for the wrestling audience. Well, to be entirely fair, I haven’t exactly gotten “in trouble.” I have, though, been contacted by very gracious wrestlers asking very politely to remove my links and pics of their more risque sidelines for one reason or another. And for the record, I’m happy to do so, particularly when the wrestling hunks in question are such gentlemen about it.
So if the wrestler in question were to find it more advantageous for these truly awesome shots of him to be removed from neverland… well, let’s just say an autographed photo of him with a personal inscription to me, would most likely result in his wish being granted. Is that blackmail? I sincerely don’t intend it to be so. I hold homoerotic wrestlers in the highest regard, and the pages of this blog are intended solely to promote the finest of their work with the best of intentions. So, should this page at some point in the future suddenly display photos of puppy dogs, you’ll know that I got a message from a certain wrestling stud extraordinaire (and, quite possibly, it may mean that I now own an autographed photo).
I’m not sure why I’m strolling down memory lane so much lately. Perhaps it’s a desperate attempt to retreat from the current demands of my life. In any case, I had a completely out of the blue epiphany yesterday. Hands down, undeniably, I’m absolutely convinced of it: Steve Bond turned me gay.
Steve was the flavor of the month right in my most impressionable adolescent years (aren’t they all, really?). I saw him splashed across magazine covers all over the place for a brief moment in time. It was around the time he was on General Hospital. I wasn’t familiar with him from there, though. I knew him as the jaw-dropping adonis showing up everywhere I looked on the newsstand, making me hard as granite and drooling like a Saint Bernard.
Oddly enough, I think the only acting work I ever saw him in was an episode of Matlock. Holy shit, that’s embarrassing to confess. Yes, for a period of time I watched Matlock. No, I’m not old enough to be your grandfather (bite me). But seriously, I have a crystal clear image of the gorgeous coverboy on Matlock, if I’m not mistaken, shirtless. IMDB confirms that this isn’t just a brain fart. He did appear in an episode of Matlock around 1987.
IMDB also tell me that sex-on-a-stick Steve was a Chippendale dancer. Yes. Yes, indeed. And IMDB also gives the fascinating detail that he was born with the name Shlomo Goldberg in Haifa. Sweet God. It’s no wonder this man snatched up my adolescent imagination and made me worship him with mindless abandon. Perhaps the name Shlomo doesn’t do it for you. I realize I may be entirely on my own on this one. But that’s over-the-top, nipple licking, cock massaging, (his) knees across my shoulders, homoerotic to me.
I owe my firstborn (okay, I think I’ve given that one away multiple times… let’s say my fifth born) to the Shrine to the Soap Hunks for cataloging precisely the images that I remember capturing me by the cock as a teenager. Just browsing through these pics makes me feel 14 years old again, discovering that I am immediately weak in the knees and hard in several other places at the sight of a gorgeous, muscled hardbody.
Despite the fact that I totally knew I was gay long before I caught pin-up boy Steve’s stunning, provocatively posed body, I’ll stick to my guns on this one. If there was any chance that I was going to grow out of my Muscle & Fitness collecting, erotic obsession with muscled hunks and instead turn out straight, Steve Bond put a stop to that singlehandedly. Yes, indeed. Steve Bond turned me gay (thanks, Shlomo).
So this could count for any number of regular themed posts on this blog. Bodies over time. Hunks I want to pec claw until they scream. But most genuinely, it has to be said, Steve Guttenberg turned me gay.
Steve’s gorgeous, hairy pecs appeared throughout the late eighties and early nineties in movie after movie. It was seeing him shirtless and wet in Cocoon that turned a certain impressionable adolescent into a hunk-lusting lover of men.
Like so many of my favorite fantasy men, Steve is sexier by a multiple of 20.5 (precisely) as a result of being both a hot, hardbodied hunk and a smart ass class clown. There’s something disarming about a comedian-by-day that leaves me helpless to do anything other than worship him when he’s a pec-tacular body-beautiful by night.
Squarehippies is reposting some pics from Dreamcaps of Steve still working those muscled, hairy pecs even today. This is a body that has held up extremely well over time, and in fact I think Steve at 52 offers some fantasy delights that Steve at 27 didn’t even bring to the table. Now… then… anytime in-between – those fantastic, broad, defined furry pecs are screaming out for some serious punishment-turned-pleasure.
So perhaps Steve Guttenberg didn’t exactly turn me gay. But my moments of pec-fetish even today have got to be traced to the beauty of his recurring bare torso during my adolescence.
This post could qualify for any number of my regular themed series… Bodies Over Time; What Turned Me Gay (again, not really); Guys I Want to Lick. Okay, that last one isn’t actually a series I’ve posted… but we all know it easily could be, don’t we?
What strikes me, though, is Groopii’s assessment that Don, here, looks hot and his body is amazing “at his age.” I’m bad at math, but from Don’s bio at IMDB, it appears to me that he is 47 years old. So… let me see, where do I start? … Okay, so, what do we expect a 47 year old television hunk to look like? Is someone (particularly a television personality) who is 47 years old somehow surprising if he has a fit, hard body that turns us on? 47 years old? Really?
In the interest of full disclosure, I should say that I’m getting closer to 40 than to 30. Hell, I’m getting closer to 40 than I am to 35. So perhaps my reaction here is a bit defensive. But I don’t think so. I think that Don’s body today is one that I’d have jumped on and rode hard at pretty much any point in my adult life (and earlier). Strap on some sparring gloves and let me watch this hunk of a man work up a sweat on that punching bag, and “for his age” is not a phrase that comes to mind as I wipe the drool from the corner of my mouth.
I am old enough to remember lusting after Don back in the dark ages, when he was not yet bold and beautiful, but merely “Young and Restless.” I can remember some fevered moments of adolescence finding myself irresistibly compelled to work myself into a frenzy with the image of his lean, muscular body imprinted on my brain. Yes, indeed, Don has to get a little credit for turning me gay.
And it’s obvious that his body has changed in the past 25 years. He isn’t as lean as he was when I was first firing warning shots over the bow, my eyes shut tightly, picturing his gorgeous form. But at 47 he has a rocking, gorgeous body that isn’t just hot “for his age.” It’s just hot. The “for his age” bit says much more about those of us judging him than it says about him. I think I prefer, and find it much more accurate, to say that he was stunning 25 years ago, and he’s absolutely a worship-worthy muscle stud today. And he will be appearing in an erotic fantasy of mine soon, and I don’t mind telling you that he’ll be showing up beefy, sweat soaked, with sparring gloves and that messed up evil villain, overly-cropped, facial hair.
“At his age,” indeed….
I’d thought that, perhaps, I had plumbed the depths of what turned me gay. I’ve already identified 24 independent variables that clearly contributed to producing the gay wrestling kinkster that you see before you today. Looking over the long list, I have to wonder, how could I have not turned out gay!? Surely I’ve exhausted the chain of cause and effect that inevitably turned a young, eagerly impressionable boy gay.
But when capped posted captures of Jeff Bridges from Against All Odds earlier this week, I had a flood of warm, hard, breathless memories wash over me. I didn’t actually see the movie Against All Odds (I wasn’t the target audience at the time). But it came out right there in the middle of my teenage years, when I was frequently surfing through MTV to try to stay hip on pop culture. When Phil Collins’ title song from the movie came out on MTV, I distinctly and clearly remember the brief clips from the film included in the video featuring Jeff Bridges‘ tanned, sexy torso. Like a light-switch being turned on, I was gay.
Much more targeting my demographic, Starman came out around the same time, and I did see it. There wasn’t a ton of Jeff’s beautiful body on display in Starman, but enough to get my motor running. So when he showed up in Phil Collins’ music video soon afterward, I was already primed for lust.
What was Against All Odds about, exactly? I still don’t know. In my mind, it was a gay sexual awakening film that included lots of scenes of some studly sadist-master ripping Jeff’s clothes off him and throwing him around by fists full of his long, bleach-blond hair. That wasn’t the plot of the movie? Don’t tell me. I’m 100% certain I like my version better.
Bridges has been a skilled and prolific actor, and I always enjoy seeing is work. That said, he hasn’t actually done anything “for me” since the 80’s. From seeing him squeezed into a skin tight body suit in Tron (holy hell, the fantasies of Bruce Boxleitner and Jeff Bridges in a NHB smackdown still make me swoon), to his childlike, yet hardbody appearance as Starman, to his tanned, glorious shirtlessness in Against All Odds, he had quite a run of making me stand up and take notice. These days he’s all daddy, and that can be entirely hot and heavy. But he just isn’t my daddy. So I remember him more as the older kid down the block, pulling me into the woods to unbotton his shirt, invite my gaze, place my hand on his smooth chest, and teach me that a hot, hard, hunk of a man is a thing of beauty.
With three days left in 2009, I have three more favorite moments in blogging to document as I look back over 2009. Unquestionably, a series of favorite moments for me has been my ongoing series “What Turned Me Gay.” My WTMG posts have generated the most comments, by far. I sort of stumbled into the recurring theme of a retrospective on my youthful development into a Mo with a wrestling kink. Little did I know that what turned me gay turned so, so many of you gay as well.
I’ve lost track of my first entry for What Turned Me Gay… I’ll have to dig around in my archives to see what happened to my fond memories of seeing bodybuilder Bob Paris on the cover of a muscle magazine when I was an adolescent. From Bob to Billy Jack Haynes to Robert Conrad, what I’ve rediscovered about myself is that my past is littered with objects of lust who confirmed and reconfirmed for me that whatever else I was to become, I was, without a doubt, a gay boy who got off on seeing hard bodies hammering on one another.
From the 1984 mens gymnastics Olympic champions to Greg Louganis, the athletes, the actors, the characters and grapplers all enflamed my imagination and engorged my… lust for gorgeous men. And frankly, there’s something liberating about the realization that some of these guys would probably resent being named on a list of things that turned me gay. Just like me being gay, it doesn’t matter what they think or believe or want. It just is.
I realize that text is not the most effective avenue for communicating sarcasm, but I sincerely hope that readers have been able to detect my tongue firmly planted in my cheek. In fact, I don’t believe any of these fine, fine men get credit for turning me gay, because I don’t believe that I ever made a “turn.” I believe I have always been gay, so there was nothing to be changed, and there’s most certainly nothing for me to be changed back into. If “What Turned Me Gay” tells me anything, it’s that I have always lived in a world filled with beautiful men catching my eye, arousing my erotic imagination, and getting me in touch with the joys of passionate lust.
I don’t know how many more objects of lust from my youth I’ll be able to scare up in the coming year. What Turned Me Gay may have to get retired soon. But as I look back at all the studly stars and hardbody wrestlers who “turned me gay,” I lift my glass in a toast: for every moment that they made my pulse quicken, for every flash of muscled beauty that made me light-headed, I’m a better man today for it. Ching, ching…
Melrose Place hottie, Grant Show, turned me gay. In order to explain this fully, I have to share an embarrassing confession. I know, I know. You’re thinking, after all that I’ve shared, I’m only now getting to something that embarrasses me?! Well, it’s true. I don’t embarrass easily.
But admitting that I have been an avid soap opera fan on and off since my early adolescence makes me blush. So in the mid-80’s, I would tape some of my favorite soap operas (i.e., those soap operas with the most handsome hunks most likely to appear shirtless). I was a fierce fanatic for Ryan’s Hope, primarily to follow the shenanigans of handsome hunk, Grant Show. In keeping with the objectification of the hot, male body that was evolving throughout the 80’s, Grant was frequently shirtless. His storyline was always about who was angling to get their hands down his pants. And from the first moment I saw his lightly hairy pecs, I was gay.
When Grant showed up in the evening soap opera known as Melrose Place, I was glued to the tube. Melrose Place had a bevy of pretty boys, but I only had eyes for ridiculously good-looking Grant.
He’s still working, and he’s still gorgeous. Superherofan has some nice caps of Grant from Swingtown. He can still turn my crank, 70’s stash and all. I suspect I’ll always have a soft/hard spot for Grant, since every time I see him, I have this intuitive flashback to seeing him strip out of his shirt on Ryan’s Hope, turning me gay.
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.
Andrew Stevens turned me gay. There was a period of time during which I was OBSESSED with him. He appeared in a few movies (lot’s of pics from “Body Chemistry 3” via capped), but during the 80’s he was all over television. I fondly remember the very brief run of Emerald Point, but perhaps Dallas was Andrew’s biggest exposure. Frequently shirtless, his tight, smooth bod triggered deep lust within this little gay boy’s heart (and crotch).
From Hotel to Murder She Wrote, Andrew walked on shows throughout the 80’s. And he was always the sexy, devilish studpuppy poured into his skin tight jeans. At 5’10, with nice, shapely pecs and thick shoulders, he was my idea of perfection for at least a while in my youth. Discovering that Andrew was a guest star on a show was an instant thrill. If I had some privacy, I’d settle in close to the TV, salivating, making my own jeans grow tighter in anticipation.
He was married to Kate Jackson ever so briefly in the late 70’s. I can’t imagine what could make someone divorce a young, gorgeous, well-muscled (especially for the 80’s) boytoy like Andrew. Capped’s captures from Body Chemistry III offer some fantastic looks at Andrew’s cum-face. If I had the chance to see that orgasmic look of ecstasy in bed with me, I’d chain him up and never let him go.
Now that image could turn any young boy gay!
When Lost Boys hit the big screen, I’d already picked out Jason Patric as my crush-du-jour. Vampires, hot guys, man-on-man seduction… so many seeds sewn in that moment of my adolescence. But early in the movie when the screen was filled with a concert scene on the boardwalk in “Santa Carla,” my jaw dropped.
Yes, the liberally oiled, bodybuilder saxophone player and lead singer from Lost Boys turned me gay. I really only knew him as the liberally oiled, bodybuilder saxophone player and leader singer from Lost Boys until I did my research for this installment of What Turned Me Gay. Fortunately, now I can refer to him by his much more concise name, Timmy Cappello.
Timmy performed with a lot of artists, most notably Tina Turner. There’s just nothing that isn’t overtly sexual about Timmy as an artist, and his appearance in Lost Boys is the epitome of everything that worked for him in the 80’s. It’s not as if he could disguise those huge muscles (look at the thick cut of meat that are his pecs!), but with Timmy shirtless and absolutely lathered in baby oil, there’s nothing but sex that can come to mind. He moves like a go-go boy, and when he sticks the mouthpiece of that sax in his mouth and closes his eyes in ecstatic concentration… holy hell! That’s a magic spell that simply must have turned hundreds of us homo.
The choice to present this musician shirtless and bathed in oil was inspired. I think it represents the turn to overtly objectify and sexualize the male form that was going more and more mainstream throughout the ironically politically conservative 80’s. Timmy’s hardbody was completely extraneous to his musical entertainment, which only proves that it was sex and the unambiguously objectified male body that was on stage at least as much as it was music. The combination of the music, the body, the oil, and Timmy’s mouth blowing on that mouthpiece was guaranteed to turn someone gay. I, at least for one, am that gay someone.