It’s been a long time since I composed a post devoted solely to admiring a particular wrestling hold. I’ve been recently obsessing once again over my favorite wrestling hold, the over-the-knee backbreaker.
It’s such a massively dominating move. The pitcher often literally cradles the catcher like a child in his arms, clutching him across his chest, and then drops to one knee, pounding his opponent’s back across his thigh. I love the geography of this hold. The victim splayed out, his vulnerable core stretched wide, legs and upper body pressed backward such that he can’t assume the instinctive duck and cover defensive position to protect his internal organs.
I catch myself gasping in awe at high impact OTKs. There’s a raw, primal, intensely arousing aspect to watching a dominant hunk seriously pound his opponent down with authority, his knee driving viciously into the helpless stud’s spine. It’s magnificent drama when he scoops him directly back up across his chest, standing tall and hoisting the victim high to repeat the move again. And again. Total domination.
I also also love an OTK punisher with big, bulging pecs flexing powerfully, his face hovering so close to his opponent’s muscled torso and quivering crotch. Stretched out on his back, the victim of an OTK is flattened, the topography of his physique stretched out and impotent, in contrast to the flaring shoulders and pumped pecs of his tormentor.
Then there are the subtle variations and innovations that dial up the inherent eroticism of this hold in a homoerotic context. The stolen moments to take advantage of the victim’s helplessness, sadistically brutalizing muscled abs and pecs. Not content to just torture his spine, the man in charge pounds fists, drives in elbows, perhaps digs his finger tips into defenseless muscle and wear him out from every angle.
Ace Aarons handles Richie’s rocks
Richie’s balls demand Mason’s attention as well.
An OTK seems paradigmatically gay (or at least bicurious) when the dominant hunk pays serious attention to that tempting bulge at the apex of his opponent’s bridge. Frankly it doesn’t often go there even in homoerotic wrestling, but every OTK seems like a head nod to those sensational moments when a wrestler leans forward and sucks his opponent’s nipple, seductively slides the palm of his hand possessively across his lower abs, and appreciatively throttles and fondles his arching cock. That’s the heart of homoerotic wrestling for me, with the purpose of the battle to determine who gets to take possession of whose body.
Calvin’s muscle melt
Mitch stiff and in agony
I’m fascinated watching muscled hunks sell this hold. Clearly some wrestlers are built a lot more for strength than flexibility. A stiff, tabletop OTK actually works for me because it looks like it hurts just that much more. When a muscle laden stud doesn’t really have much of a lower back arch to bend across his opponent’s thigh, it also just seems that much more humiliating. But there’s nothing quite as arousing as watching a flexible hunk melt into the hold, bridging dramatically, as if his muscles are draped across a hanger. The submissiveness, the giving himself over blindly to man who’s claimed his body, is golden.
My gratitude to all of the homoerotic wrestlers who have recently fed my craving for OTK hotness. For those moments when you’ve reached through your opponents legs and cupped his beefy ass in the palm of your hand, I salute you. For your graceful bridge and packed, quivering bulge gasping in anticipation of whatever is to come at the mercy of your opponent, I applaud you. I realize this hold is not exactly intuitive to pull off, and for many of you it’s downright awkward as fuck to sell, so I appreciate the gorgeous erotic art of your human sculpture just that much more.
I continue to find Zip Zarella one of the most reliably entertaining and arousing wrestlers turning my crank in new releases these days. I love his body about 85% as enthusiastically as Zip does (which says A LOT). He has that kind of face that makes me unconsciously devoted to doing anything it takes to make him flash his boyish smile (seriously, anything, Zip). I love his combination of playfulness, dangerousness, and his unflinching nod to the gay gaze of a homoerotic wrestling audience.
I was also an early adopter for Zip’s tag team partner Cap Landon as well. Charlie Evans’ new releases are just too far and few between to fully satiate my sexy, skinny boy moods, and Cap fills that empty space nicely. Zip and Cap seem to bring out the best in each other in Zip’s Spotlight. They’re posing their contrasting bodies, flexing their mouthwatering muscles and practically licking their lips with hungry excitement upon learning that they get to sink their teeth into a solo Austin Cooper. “Oh yeah, easy night to night, brother, two on one,” Cap purrs, flashing his compelling, superlean double bicep side-by-side with his partner. Astonishingly, Zip shares the mirror, perhaps seeing what I see, which is some awesome complementary aesthetics, with his pale partner making Zip’s beefy, tanned double-bicep that much more stunningly sexy. “We’re green, and we’re mean, baby!” Zip crows, turning to the side and checking out his meaty ass in the mirror (me too, Zip).
Austin refers to their simpatico as a “bromance” when he struts his legendary physique into the ring and snarls at the earnest twosome determined to pick him apart. “What do we got, a couple of leprechauns here,” Austin asks rhetorically, critiquing their matching, shiny green trunks. “Here are some real muscles come up in here,” Coop smirks, pumping his own fitness model double bicep intending to swipe away all memory of Zip and Cap’s gun show. “Moderate, at best,” Cap spontaneously disparages Coop’s legendarily hot muscles, not because Cap thinks his own muscles measure up, but as an almost intimate compliment to his partner’s heavy artillery. “You’ve got this,” Cap murmurs from the ring apron, with a little hero worship enthusiasm toward Double Z as Austin and Zip start to circle one another. “Your partner is fucking dead,” Austin growls at Zip as they crash their beautifully built physiques into one another.
Coop is a fucking beast in this match. I wouldn’t say he’s full-on channeling his heel master alter ego Dr. Cooper, but the seasoned veteran muscleman gets a solid grip on the initiative and wrings a whole lot of anguish out of aspiring “body guy” Zip. Now, I have more than a passing familiarity with Zip’s work, so I’m not too worried that the ring savvy pro can weather the storm and come back strong. But Cap seems a little worried. When Coop shoves Zip’s lower back violently into a turnbuckle, Cap bitches from the ring apron, “Get him out of the corner!” When Coop scoops Zip up into about the third of an infinite string of near coital rear bearhugs, there’s a twinge of desperation in Cap’s voice as he pleads with his partner, “You’ve got to stop letting him do that to you!” Zip’s jaw hangs open, struggling to endure the crushing embrace. “It’s so hard,” Zip gasps, which is lovely double entendre considering Coop has hoisted him off his feet and Zip’s muscled ass cheeks are pinned against Coop’s crotch. “He’s so strong,” Zip concedes with more than a little bit of awe for his opponent’s power.
If this were a straight up singles competition between Coop and Zip, it would be a great muscleman vs. muscleman contest. The wild card here is Cap, whose cheerleading for his partner and insults flung at their opponent is stirring the pot. “I”m showing him who Austin Cooper is,” Coop narrates his dominating performance for Cap. “Who’s that,” Cap snaps back with a lot of frustrated contempt. In a rage, Coop abruptly hoists Zip’s 205 pounds across his shoulders in a fireman’s carry in a stunning display of power. “Your partner is questioning me,” Coop says to Zip by way of explaining his growing motivation to break Zip hard. The more Cap spouts off from outside the ring, the worse conditions grow for Zip inside the ring. The 2-on-1 advantage suddenly seems to be backfiring.
Coop hobbles Zip like a boss and then sends him scurrying to the corner to tag in his partner. You can tell his vicarious torture of Zip isn’t going to be nearly as satisfying for Coop as it will be to bear down on 140 pound Cap directly. While Zip is licking his wounds outside the ring (I volunteer to help you with that, too, Zip), Coop unleashes a clinic of power moves on the lightweight smart ass. Cap’s feet don’t touch the ground for many minutes at a time. Coop hoists him up across his chest with absolutely zero effort and, with a flourish, pounds him down into a violent OTK. Cap screams and squirms helplessly as his opponent impales his lower abdomen with deep elbow strikes. When Coop scoops him back up off his knee, standing back up with Cap cradled helplessly across his chest, he asks, “You want to see how strong I am?” Now, in the moment, I’m thinking that it’s a rhetorical question. But Zip is so entranced by Coop’s power (perhaps still lingering on the memory of just how “hard” that rear bearhug was a few minutes ago), Double Z can’t help himself but blurt out the answer, “Sure!”
“No, no, don’t say that,” Cap protests in a panic. Coop fulfill’s Zip’s wish by gorilla pressing Cap straight-armed overhead, and then draping the skinny boy’s body around his neck like a scarf. Zip is visibly impressed with the move. Abruptly, Coop flings Cap around his neck and, in one motion, violently drops him into a tailbone-trashing atomic drop. Fuck, it’s such a high impact move I sort of wonder if Cap’s prostrate got a little thrill from Coop’s knee impaling him. “Are you okay,” Zip asks his bromantic partner with sincere concern in his voice. Cap literally can’t answer, clutching his ass and writhing on the mat breathlessly. Coop rolls on relentlessly, yanking the skinny boy into a kneeling surfboard, positioning the hold deliberately for Zip to watch the torture play across his partner’s face. “Oh, this is embarrassing,” Zip confesses.
Look at me, turning myself on just trying to narrate this sexy, sexy bit of this match. Before I get further carried away, let me pan back and just say that I stand up and cheer when Coop basically insists on taking the both of them on at the same time. It’s a great bit of hubris-meets-instant-karma when team leprechaun starts to beat the shit out of him in tandem. Personally, I would have been profoundly satisfied to just watch Zip and Cap rip apart the legendary Austin Cooper and enact a perfectly synchronized muscle mauling. Coop has the elusive power to make me lust to see him dominate as Dr. Cooper, and yet crush like hell on seeing him plowed under as the babyfaced golden boy. “You’ve got nothing, big man,” Zip crows, kicking him to the mat so the two of them can make Coop’s juicy ass jiggle as they stomp him from head to toe and back again. Zip snaps his gargantuan thighs around Coop’s gut, forcing the air out of his lungs, a second before Cap zip ties his legs scissored tight around Coop’s throat, refusing to allow the muscleman any chance of replenishing the oxygen in his lungs. “Come on, tap out, bitch,” Cap snarls in his face.
That, in and of itself, is worth the price of admission. 140 pounder Cap Landon calling 170 pound fitness phenom Austin Cooper a bitch and, successfully, demanding that he tap out is all I need. It is not all we get in this match, though. Hubris-turned-instant-karma strikes again as team leprechaun celebrates a little too much, giving Coop the chance to rally. Coop demonstrates why he’s a legendary fan-favorite, starting to handle the both of them with power and precision. He isolates them in turn, seemingly feeding off of the reserves that he’s siphoning off of each of them.
You know from the DVD menu that Cap and Zip finish off this collection with a grudge match, so it shouldn’t be too much of a spoiler to reveal that all of that tag team partner love and mutual admiration comes crashing down around them as Coop manages to single-handedly dish out heaping helpings of humiliation. Blame rains down on everyone except for the man who rightfully deserves the credit for the undoing of team leprechaun.
This could so have gone a totally different direction. Not that I’m complaining, mind you, but honestly, the chemistry between Cap and Zip was a thing of beauty. I seriously wanted to see their post-victory love fest, Cap leaping into Zip’s big arms, hugging it out, slapping each other’s asses appreciatively. Cap as the Bruce Wayne’s ward and apprentice, hero worshipping the muscleman in this dynamic duo, could have been so right. Fuck, Cap being unable to restrain himself from treating Zip to an enthusiastic muscle massage as thanks for saving his bacon and captaining a successful campaign to fuck over a legend would have made such perfect sense.
But alas, bitter betrayal as a set-up for a mismatched grudge match comes in a close second.
I’m a simple man. I like word play and alliteration. I enjoy well told stories with compelling characters. And I love hotly muscled, mismatched hunks making each other scream.
Zip Zarella’s sensational schooling of Z-Man in Hunkbash 19 has all the required ingredients to make my mouth water. I’m sure I’ve said it before, and I’m sure I’ll say it again, but I am 100% positive that Z-Man has a decrepit portrait of himself aging in a dusty attic somewhere. He’s fucking inhuman! To say that his physique is on point in this match is the least newsworthy statement in history. His physique is ALWAYS on point. My opinions of his wrestling have waxed and waned over the years, but his sexy-as-fuck, luxuriously ripped muscles have remained perpetually and permanently perfect.
Then there’s Zip Zarella. I’m just about ready to offer to throw down with ANYONE who wants to challenge me as his biggest fan. His boyish babyface is cute as a fucking button, which makes his gorgeously inked muscles just that much more breathtaking. I know that his day job is as an indy pro narcissist in the made-for-the-masses variety of wrestling, but that combo of boy-next-door dimples and gay porn-ready body is simply perfect for pro wrestling for a gay audience, as far as I’m concerned.
The narrative device is pristinely simple. Z-Man is, unquestionably, a soft-core physique model who’s made mint moonlighting as a ham sandwich for gay wrestling audiences forever. So his strut and smirk just piss the fuck out of Zip, who perfected his craft night in and night out in front of live fickle indy pro wrestling audiences. But in the BG East universe, let’s face it, Z-Man is the The Man in this match. All he has to do is snap his fingers and clench his ass cheeks and an army of gay wrestling fans would cum drooling all over themselves ourselves. In our corner of the universe, Zip is a newbie still building his brand. Of course, I was an extremely early adopter, but BGE fans are still deciding how to respond to Zip.
Honestly, I’ve seen a lot of indy pro wrestlers dabbling in wrestling for gay audiences who convey, quite clearly, overall apathy for the sexual objectification that is a key ingredient in what we’re talking about. Hell, some of them seem hard pressed to suppress out and out repulsion at the thought that you and I are getting turned on watching them at their craft.
Zip is not a no-homo-bro. When he finds Z-Man posing in the mirror, he insists on a side-by-side comparison. Zip turns his back to his opponent, and us, and gives a juicy flex of his right bicep and tightly packed glutes. “You’re liking this,” Zip chuckles, catching Z-Man’s glance. He’s also talking to you and me when he says, without a hint of reproach, “I see you looking.” Hell, Zip is tickled as fuck that you and I are looking at his phenomenal body.
Permit me to fast forward a half a dozen minutes or so in this match. Zip is beating the living fuck out of Z-Man. It’s gorgeous and completely humiliating. Zip just can’t get over what a pushover this prettyboy is, after having heard about all of the gay wrestling fans who fawn over Z-Man. “All those pretty muscles won’t help you now,” Zip laughs, twisting Z-Man’s ankle viciously in a sick leg lock and making him scream. He manhandles the coverboy like a practice dummy, dragging him up into a bearhug, pounding him into a corner, and then hip tossing him hard to his back in the middle of the ring. Zip flexes his tatted pecs in a most muscular pose, first checking the mirror for the optics, and then turning his gaze directly at the camera. “Is this what you guys want!?”
Ohfuckyes, that is most definitely what THIS guy wants! Zip wants to please some fans. He wants to deliver. He’s holding the gay gaze and looking back, unflinchingly, and demanding to know if he’s stroking us just the way we like it. I have no idea what team Zip plays for on his own time, but when he’s on our dime, he appears enthusiastically committed to delivering in the ring whatever it takes for us to unZip our pants and grab hold of the entertainment he delivers with both hands.
Fuck, I love this guy. Sex and contempt pour off him like a steam shower. “Is this really THE Z-Man they brought me,” he scoffs, choking him with a barehand, bending him backward across the top rope. “I trained for a wrestling competition, for this? This is a joke,” he barks with a half-laugh at how easily he has his way with the coverboy. He face-plants Z-Man’s prettypretty face into one turnbuckle after another. “Oh, I heard about you,” Zip taunts, cranking the fuck out of a figure-4 leglock that makes Z-Man howl like a wounded animal. “And I was expecting so much more than this!”
I know some of you hate spoilers, but then again, you know I spoil matches constantly. But seriously, this is a Hunkbash. It should hardly be a shock when I say Zip plows down Z-Man like a riding lawnmower. But this is so much more than a squash. Zip is out to do a lot more than “win.” He’s hell bent on destroying the body beautiful beefcake who, at least for the moment, possesses more BG East fans than Zip does by a factor of at least 20 to 1. “Come on, boy, flex those pretty muscles now,” Zip taunts, literally (I kid you not) standing on Z-Man’s head crushed into the mat.
He drags him up to his feet, and Z-Man is standing only because Zip his holding him up by a fistful of hair. “I’m about to break you in half, boy!” Zip scoops him up across his chest like a child and parades the battered beefcake around the ring a couple of laps before pounding him down in a sensational OTK backbreaker. And up and down again, cracking him sideways across his thigh. And again.
“That’s right,” Zip crows, his pecs bouncing and his muscled glutes flexing. “I’m the new Z-Man. I’m taking over here. I’m the new body guy!” I’m sorry to have to tell Zip that he almost certainly has not made anyone less a fan of Z-Man, laying waste to Z-Man’s fantasyman body and manhandling him so beautifully. However, I have to believe that Zip’s masterful ownership of both Z-Man’s crushable body and the narrative of this compelling match will do nothing but bring along more fans to the ZZ camp.
Get in line behind me! I’ve been eyefucking this magnificent specimen all along. And more importantly, Zip has been asking for it all along. The Z-Man is vanquished. Long live the Z-Man!
My first thought upon seeing a promotional poster for Wrestling with Pride was how much I was desperate to see Zip Zarella (2017 Debut of the Year winner) and Elite Eliot square off against one another with a crowd of horny gays cheering them on. I knew from social media and the BG East Arena galleries that the homoerotic wrestling gods heard my prayers and pitted these two gorgeous pros against one another at Wilton Manors. Therefore I nearly blew a gasket under the rising pressure in my crotch as I waited for BGE’s insta-release of the Wrestling with Pride matches for catalog 126 to arrive in my mailbox, barely a couple of weeks after the live show.
I’ve got so much to say about all of the matches, but I confess that I started by cuing up Zip and Eliot, so I’ll start my obsession with Wrestling with Pride there. Although this is the first glimpse we’ve had of Eliot wrestling under the BGE banner, this stunningly handsome blond beefcake has made a name for himself among the homoerotic wrestling crowd at W4H. The production quality is higher for the Wrestling with Pride DVD than Eliot’s matches that I’ve streamed on W4H, and I have to say I am just that much more impressed with (aka turn on by) him. He struts out from backstage in dayglow pink trunks and a leather cub black vest.
Eliot’s ass is EPICALLY magnificent. He knows his audience, pausing just as he starts to make a move to remove his vest, playfully building tension as we all hold our breath waiting to see his muscled torso laid bare. There are woots of appreciation, but I am yet again cursing the fates that prevented me from being there for the live show, because Eliot’s physique deserves a whole lot more loving than what the boys at Wilton Manors gave him. I’m crushing hard on his new, colorful tats. His touch o’ honey tan is perfection with his blond head of hair and all of those ripped muscles.
In this match, Zip is transparently the heel. He arrives with his hot body almost entirely covered in a black cape, as the ring announcer explains that Zip is convinced that he’s a vampire from Transylvania. This is homoerotic wrestling, though, so the fans aren’t shy about giving Zip at least his share of the love as he does a Stevie Nicks spin in the middle of the ring before taking off the cape. Obviously, Zip knows his audience, as well. He bounces his gorgeously tatted pecs at his opponent provocatively. The crowd signals their approval. “Hell yeah,” Zip smirks at how being appreciated for being so bad feels so good. “What you got,” he questions his opponent’s aesthetic appeal.
So, of course I’m hard before there’s barely a hint of wrestling. I’ve begged for more openly homoerotic wrestling fare in front of an audience. The gay gaze, the call and response with the crowd, it all kicks a hot match-up like this into overdrive. Unlike in a straight-up pro match, everyone in the room knows that these fans are turned on by what they see. They beg openly for a pose off before things get too serious, because they just want to savor the sight of these young, hot muscles. And they want to interact with these fantasy hunks. They want Zip and Eliot to respond to their hoots and hollers. They want them to acknowledge that they know that they’re being sexually objectified. These two stunning athletes wrestle in indy pro rings all the time in traditionally homophobic contexts, but here and now, this is so sensationally gay.
Heels at BG East tend to always have a home field advantage. And I have extensively documented just how much of a fan I am of Zip Zarella. But even as the ref is checking the combatants for any illicit tricks or cheats, Eliot earns my (and I believe, the crowd’s) status as sentimental favorite. The ref pats Eliot down at the hips. He checks each white boot for any hidden weapons. And as the ref starts to walk away satisfied, Eliot turns his sensational bubble-butt toward him and insists that the ref confirm that he’s not hiding any unfair advantage in the back of his trunks. When the son-of-a-bitch ref balks (what THE FUCK is your problem, ref!?!), Eliot bends over, shoving his ass the ref’s way and demanding that the official put his hands on one of the hottest set of cheeks I’ve ever seen (seriously, KK, watch your back!).
Proving the point that pro wrestling refs are absolutely useless, the ref does not follow Eliot’s instruction to cop a feel. But Eliot’s all-in, unblinking commitment to the homoerotic moment makes me foreswear my longstanding, slack jawed infatuation with Zip and start screaming at my screen significantly louder than any Wilton Manors fans for #TeamEliteEliot.
Eliot further evidences his understanding of his audience by demanding that they decide, “Who’s got the better body?” Zip and he take turns showing off a double bicep pose for applause. It’s hard to tell on the DVD, but the fans seem pretty evenly divided in their enthusiasm. I give the edge to Eliot’s lickable muscles, but that’s just me. Zip suggests an archer pose flex-off to settle the tie, but when it’s Eliot’s turn, Zip delivers a forearm smash to the back of the head. Because he’s a bad ass cheater who likes to suck the bodily fluids (reportedly, blood) from his victims.
The wrestling veers into comic relief at times, which breaks the mood here on my end of the screen, but appears to be thoroughly enjoyed by the cheering fans in the seats at ringside. Zip repeatedly flees the ring and sprints through the audience to escape Eliot’s determined rage pointed his direction. The chase scenes go on a tad too long, with too much ham. At one point, Zip “hides” in a seat next to the luckiest fucker on the planet who happened to plant his ass next to the open chair. Eliot can’t find him for a few seconds. It’s hijinks. It’s silliness. Despite the proximity, STILL no one thinks to check the back of Eliot’s trunks for weapons.
The action in the ring is too brief, but tasty. Zip tries an elbow drop as a sucker shot to Eliot’s back as the babyface starts to follow him back into the ring. Eliot demonstrates that he has both the brains and the brawn, ducking out of the way and letting Zip’s offense backfire on him. The best action sequence for my tastes happens when Eliot grabs a handful of Zip’s long locks and face plants him repeatedly into a turnbuckle to knock the pretty off of his babyboy face. The crowd joins in the count. It’s vicious and humiliating. But what makes this my favorite moment is watching Zip’s beautiful butt shimmy and quiver each time his face makes impact with the turnbuckle. Seriously, this has got to be a leading contender for best camera work of 2018.
My second favorite action sequence involves two series of loud, echoing, cracking slaps that Eliot delivers to Zip’s clenched ass cheeks. The spanking somehow redeems the somewhat juvenile silliness elsewhere in the match. It feels a little like Zip overplayed the suspension of disbelief, and Eliot’s stinging cracks on his ass are the suitable punishment. And, who the fuck am I kidding? I fucking LOVE seeing Eliot repeatedly put his hands on his opponent’s ample, athletic ass cheeks.
Eliot’s straight legged high kick boot to the face when Zip comes sprinting off of the ropes is my third favorite moment in the action. There are a couple of reversals of fortune after that bone crunching impact, but that’s really the move that sells the finisher for me. When Kid Leopard made the ring introductions, he reported that Zip had a 35 pound (or so) weight advantage over Eliot, which I can pretty much believe. But Eliot’s standing boot heel to the chin drives home the point he’s been making all along. On this night, in front of this crowd, competing for the Pride Center, Elite Eliot is the stronger, faster, and smarter hunk in the ring.
I have no idea what either Zip or Eliot’s sexual orientation is, and, to be clear, there’s no explicit sexual heat exchanged between them (well, other than Eliot’s delight and spanking Zip’s ass). But for earnestly insisting that the ref examine his ass, and for that profoundly sexy go-go boy hip swivel and double bicep pose combination, I am hereby issuing Elite Eliot his honorary gay card, which he can redeem for unlimited free drinks at my local Pride festival, and a two-handed ass cheek examination from this blogger anytime (and everytime).
I can respect gay wrestling fans that are turned off by tattoos. I can’t identify, but I can respect. I, on the other hand, often find them value added. It’s not every example of skin art that I find sexy, but the right design, the right placement, the right body, and the right artist can exponentiate the allure of a homoerotic wrestler for me. As for 2017, there were some ink classics and newbies classing up the ring with their artwork. I’d prefer it if the perennial “tattoos suck” constituency would give it a rest for just this post, but do feel free to comment on what ink turns you on and why. As for me, here are my top 3 picks for the best wrestling ink I saw in 2017.
In third place is a regular contender for this and many titles, Carter Alexander. In 2017, I think I only saw him wrestling for BG East, but he’s also wrestled in years past for MDW. Carter is just fucking pretty, so there’s something copacetic about the design of his stylish artwork. The tat down the left side of his torso is particularly choice for me. It sort of demands that he lift his arm behind his head and flex his obliques, which circles me back around to just how fucking pretty he is.
In second place for best ink in wrestling this year is W4H’s Christian Thorn. Like Carter, Christian is dazzlingly pretty, and his ink accentuates this obvious fact. The extensive coverage works for me because his body is so incredibly built, that it’s such a pleasure to explore and discover new art as he moves. The rib cage ink accentuates his wide lat spread, and the peak-a-boo lower abdominal tat screams sex. But it’s the design of his upper right arm, shoulder, and pec that I find absolutely stunning. That artwork is made for glistening with sweat and crushing some lucky opponent’s face in a cranking side headlock for art appreciation class.
My pick for the very best ink in wrestling in 2017 easily goes to Zip Zarella. I’ve got such a massive crush on this indy pro hunk who debuted as a BGE newbie in 2017. His extensive pec tats are balanced, beautiful, and unapologetically in your face, which is precisely the way that Zip wrestles. He’s on the card for BG East’s live show at Wilton Manners on February 22, and I’m sending prayers 7 times a day to the homoerotic wrestling gods that Elite Eliot gets his lips on Zips nips. In the mean time, Zip can do no wrong in my book, and his gorgeous body and magnificent ring skills are perfectly paired with his gorgeous artwork.
It’s a tough category for me to sort through, because I’m such an art lover. So here are some honorable mentions that nearly made the cut: Calvin Haynes (BGE), Ace Aarons (BGE), Eagle (Thunder’s Arena), and Joey Justice (MDW, aka Joey Nux at W4H).
I sat up and took notice when Zip Zarella returned to the BG East ring last month in Ring Kings. Once again, he’s sinking his teeth into a fellow indy pro veteran trying to make that dicey crossover into wrestling for a discerning gay audience. There’s something straightforward and upright about how he stares down the classic beefsteak Joey King. Math rules, as they agree to 30 minutes in the ring to amass as many submissions as possible. When the bell rings at the 30 minute mark, whoever has dragged more taps out of his opponent is winner.
I’m always partial to competitive matches, so the concession that both of these sensationally equipped pros will likely score gets me hard before they lay a hand on each other. Truth be told, their hot bodies play a big role in that growing pressure in my pants, too. Joey’s got the body of a classic brawler from the 80’s. He’s like a young, much more handsome, fitter Arn Anderson. Full beard, a light coat of hair covering his pecs and stretching across his magnificent muscle gut to disappear down the front of his classic trunks. His ass is in serious need of getting grabbed. He’s handsome, with an air of inevitability about him, like a boulder rolling down hill. I like Joey. Quite a lot, actually. But for me he’s second fiddle in this match because he’s such the straight man in the scenario. He’s so upright. He’s so completely indy pro that I could just as easily get worked up watching him on TV doing the same character for the presumptive heterosexual audience. He’s such an 80’s beefcake that I almost feel like I need to keep my raging desire to shoot a load across that powerful, furry muscled gut a secret, like this is some guilty private pleasure that only I’m entertaining back in my adolescence, discovering what a turn on wrestling is.
Thank the homoerotic wrestling gods that Zip Zarella shows up and drags this hot contest into the light of day. In still frame, he’s simply gorgeous. I know some of my fellow fans don’t enjoy pec tats nearly as much as I do, but fu-u-uck, I love every artistic angle of Zip. He’s smooth to Joey’s hairy. He’s harder and tighter than his opponent, with sharper angles and muscle separation. He strikes a leaner profile everywhere except those magnificent legs. Fuck, his thighs are sensational, with thick, shapely quads and that fantastic bulge of powerfully built hamstrings that ebb and flow, muscle transitioning smoothly to muscle as the back of his legs meet his bulging, hard glutes. I’ve got a major crush on the boyish smile that stretches across his face when he’s coasting on top. I’d like to give his lovely, tight nipples a tongue lashing to make that pretty smile shine.
Joe coincidentally just wrote a post reflecting on Zip’s enigmatic character. I like Joe’s assessment of Zip as a sadist’s sadist. He “beams instead of glowers,” Joe argues, noting that Zip is almost too personable and pleasant to really qualify as a heel. I get that. I also think that a lot of what I like about Zip’s spirit is a little extra he brings beyond just a transliteration of straight indy pro to the BGE ring. When he’s wringing Joey out with a reverse bearhug, his hips thrusting forward into Joey’s meaty ass, he snarls, “You’re mine, bitch. Tap!” The tap tallies trade advantage back and forth, but when Zip starts to get a little distance, he targets Joey’s hairy gut with knees and punches, driving him to the mat and standing on the back of his head, choking Joey across the bottom rope. “I’m in control now!” There’s ecstasy in Zip’s voice. When Joey tries to punch his way free from being trapped between Zip’s insanely sexy thighs, Zip dials the big brawler back into being his bitch with sensationally sexy nipple torture.
It’s every bit as competitive a match as promised. Joey is vicious. He repeatedly targets Zip’s balls with flailing place kicks. He leers down at Zip at one point as Zip tries to peel himself off the mat, tries to claw his way up to his hands and knees. Joey straddles his back, hops up and drives his juicy ass down into Zip’s lean, muscled lower back. Zip stubbornly keeps climbing up to his hands and knees, and Joey keeps using that bubble butt to pound him back down. Joey’s brutal and bitter and does a fantastic job of holding up his end of the suspense. But where Zip lays down tauntingly erotic subtext, Joey’s trash talk is flatly straight. He tauntingly calls Zip a geek, a preppy. He promises to twist him like a pretzel. It’s fun and domineering. But it isn’t, on its own merits, sexy.
Zip, on the other hand, is just so fucking sexy. I have no idea whose team he plays for on his own time, but his playful sadism dancing on the edge of homoeroticism makes me think that Zip understands that this audience is getting off on him. Some of the indy pro recruits in our homoerotic wrestling universe seem wooden and vaguely uncomfortable with the implicit nature and interests of the audience. But my intuition tells me that, at the very least, Zip is entirely cool with that. If anything, I’d guess that Zip enjoys being the object of our lusts. I can hope that, perhaps, our adoration might even get Zip hard in return.
When Zip indulgently strikes an aesthetic pose and flexes his gorgeous body in victory, he does it for you and me. For that, I’m a fierce fan. I hope we see Zip swim out into the deep end and take on more than just the brittlely upright indy pros only vaguely at peace with wrestling for a gay audience. Keep looking like you do, Zip. Keeping doing what you do. It’s all good.
You know how my heart beats harder in my chest when I get my first glance at a newbie. It’s all promise and potential at that point. In the opening moments of a debut, there’s as much my imagination of what could be at play as what is. For a little while, I can (and do, I guarantee you) overlay any homoerotic wrestling fantasy character over top of the initial impressions laid down by muscles and proportions and skin tone and hair and eyes and gear and vocal inflection. Not being cocky or anything, but I’d estimate 7 times out of 10 the fantasy I imagine for a brand-spanking newbie is more titillating than the reality. Newbies are typically a little rawer, more awkward, with less ring presence and focus on the combat narrative than they will be if they get promoted to sophomore status. But those 3 times out of 10, newbies wow me. They sell me. Occasionally, they even surprise me, surpassing my expectations and even hopes. So you can just imagine what a unique thrill it is to experience a double debut in which both newbies own it. The sensational final match on BG East’s recently released Ringwars 26 is just that, tossing the most rare combination of two newbies with the looks, the character development, and the ring skills to far surpass my hopes.
Alex already reviewed this match, and he pretty transparently signals that between Zip Zarella and Royce Perry, blond, blue eyed, mocha tanned Royce is his rookie crush. I can totally see it. Fuck, this boy is so ridiculously pretty. Royce’s ass could very well be an early front runner for top contender spot with Kid Karisma by year’s end. And right out of the gate, he’s cocky, with astonishingly deep ring skills to back it up. He instantly crawls under his bro’s skin with a contemptuous smirk at Zip’s purple trunks. I’m not entirely sure what Royce’s hang up is with the purple trunks. Maybe there’s a “purple is for sissies” implication, but it’s blessedly left unspoken. More likely, it’s just one young, ring-savvy pro wrestler getting under the skin of his competition with a bit of random hypercritical capriciousness.
It seems to work for Royce, at least early days. Zip is initially, verbally on the defensive about his choice of trunks. Having been psychologically knocked back on his heels, Royce opens up a magnificently brutal beat down. Damn, this kid looks like a Top Gun fighter pilot, he’s so insanely poised and steady. He latches hold on the advantage with speed and certainty, grinding gorgeous Zip to his knees with a wristlock before smoothly transitioning to a temple grinding side headlock. He yanks Zip around by his hair unselfconsciously and cinches tight a rear naked choke. “I… I can barely breathe!” Zip gasps. “Your arms are so big!” Royce doesn’t skip a beat. “Don’t I know it,” he replies. “The ladies love them.” After this match is over, I guarantee you the gentlemen do as well, Royce.
Royce’s cockiness and viciousness are really, really expertly developed. Brutal bodyscissors. Insulting slaps to the face. He ties Zip’s muscled arms into the ring ropes and reigns down chops and kicks to his tattooed pecs. “You’re a monster!” Zip snarls bitterly, clearly rethinking if what started as a good natured bro-down about the color of his trunks was a fucking seriously wrong turn in his life choices. Royce drives down vicious, pelting elbow drops, one after another drilling into Zip’s sternum. Pausing to flex his dangerously pretty biceps, Royce smirks, “All day. Every day.”
I so get it. Royce dishes up about 5 times the personality and 20 times the expertly sold pro offense of any newbie I can recall at this particular moment. His cornfed Midwestern boy heads to Cali to become a surfer stud look is insanely hot. He’s a headliner with a destiny for greatness, clearly. And yet, if forced to choose which of these delightful newbies I’d want to be cornerman for more, I’ve just got to say, I’m team Zip Zarella.
I’m sure the tats play into the complex formula of why it is I’d kick Royce to the curb for a chance to give Zip a baby oil soaked muscle rub down. Pretty much every time I mention tats, I get comments from guys who categorically hate them. Which I respect the hell out of. And completely disagree with. Zip’s pec tats are ballsy and beautiful. They signal that this kid can fully commit. As dazzlingly pretty as Royce is, he’s white bread next to Zip’s gorgeous, illustrated muscles. It’s most definitely not only the ink that holds my attention on Zip’s body, despite the pretty pin-up boy strutting and smirking his way around the ring next to him. But for me, the tats are definitely value added.
And when Zip finally has enough of getting his sensationally hot ass bullied around the ring by this pretty boy sadist, I discover a couple dozen more reasons to be instantly infatuated with him. All of that pent up frustration from getting owned and humiliated the first five minutes or so power Zip up to absolutely ring Royce out in an exquisitely long bearhug. Royce collapses to the mat, and Zip smoothly goes down with him, maintaining every last ounce of pressure. Sure, he probably wants to even the score. Zip surely wants to defend those purple trunks that got this whole thing started. But suddenly Zip reveals what he really wants most of all. “Scream!” he demands, rearranging Royce’s internal organs. “Fucking SCREAM!”
Just like Royce, Zip is Top Gun cocky and steady on the joystick. He slides seamlessly into a full nelson, mounting Royce’s back, pulling him up off the mat, and then slamming him face first into the canvas. “Right where I want you, you little monkey bitch!” Royce is bitter and furious on the receiving end, but Zip starts to sort of transcend the brawl. This hunk is an artist, people. “I’m going to tear you limb from limb…” he growls, “and look good doing it.” Holy shit. This “newbie” gets the very heart of homoerotic pro wrestling.
Like Alex, I was a little surprised that the obvious talents of these two phenomenal rookies turns on basically just that one plot twist. Royce rides roughshod for the first five minutes, and then Zip fucks him up relentlessly for the rest of the time. These two could easily have told a much more suspenseful tale. Personally, I choose to interpret the simplistic narrative as indication that Zip just fucking would not be denied after sucking on that mouthful of humiliation shoved down his throat for the first 5 minutes of his introduction to BG East fans. I know, I know. I’m sure it’s much less transparent, but as for me, I like to believe that Zip really is just that much meaner, stronger, and more vicious. He just fucking wanted it more, so when he was supposed to pass the baton back, the sensationally handsome devil just left Royce hanging there.
Those repeated face plants into the top turnbuckle drive me nuts. Both hunks sell them like seasoned pros. They hurt just watching them, but at the same time, trying to pound the pretty right off of Royce’s mug is just so sensationally right. Zip has his way with the blond beauty, long after he’s evened the score. He drops his knee repeatedly across Royce’s throat until the smart ass surfer can’t respond when Zip tauntingly asks, “Got anything else to say?” He doesn’t even stop when he’s sleepered the bronzed beefcake out cold. He just slaps him around until Royce rouses again (barely) and then torments and taunts him, pretend arm wrestling, fucking owning his dazed and confused hot self just for kicks.
Honestly, choosing favorites between two instant rock stars like Zip and Royce is next level shit. My recommendation is just to leave these things to the professional bloggers like me and Alex who have nothing better to do with our time than obsess over homoerotic wrestling new releases and catalog and evaluate every last inch of detail. Because the real winner here at the end of Ringwars 26 is BG East fans. These guys are high class, dazzlingly hot, and you can’t really go wrong popping one (or twenty) with your eyes fixed on either one of them. The distinctions between them are superficial and practically (if not statistically) insignificant.
Though BG East did opt to make my favorite, Zip, their Catalog 117.1 coverboy, relegating Royce’s flowing blond locks, perfect skin, square jaw and button nose to get buried under submenus. Team Zip clearly got the best of this magnificent double debut.