Sunday, November 15, 2015

Handsome Stranger vs Butch Blackheart

Handsome Stranger vs Butch Blackheart, Global Wrestling Federation (6 Sept. 1991)

Two great gimmicks in perfect contrast to each other: the masked romantic gentleman versus the caddish Hell's Angel wannabe. Two well built, evenly matched performers, innately hostile to each other. I'm guessing this was the launch of Buff Bagwell's new persona, and it's not bad at all. (Just my opinion, but "Buff Bagwell" and "Butch Blackheart" belong in the Great Alliterative Wrestling Monikers' Hall of Fame.)

Saturday, November 14, 2015


I don't think anybody can possibly look more Southern than wrestler Brad Maddox, 5'11", 207#. What does "Southern" look like? For me it starts with an oval, highly expressive face, full lips and bedroom eyes that easily glaze over under the influence of love or Jack Daniels, skin that flushes bright pink, but low on the cheeks, roundness where we usually expect slimness or angularity. 

Playing off equally dubious stereotypes, Southern gentleman or inbred redneck, Brad, born Tyler Kluttz in South Carolina, can be convincing as a babyface or a villain. One third Brad Pitt, a third Butch from The Little Rascals, and a third early-'90s Buff Bagwell, Maddox can look  dimwitted one second and calculating the next, all aw-shucks modesty then all of a sudden he's rhinestone-encrusted narcissism, clownish hick then savvy as a velvet tuxedo.

I haven't followed his WWE career--as I haven't followed ANY wrestler's WWE career--but in the bits and pieces I catch now and then, he blends the charms of wet-behind-the-ears amateurism and sharp professionalism, without tipping far to either side. I'm not sure he's cut out for any one ring gimmick or style; I imagine he's a "hard to place" talent, but I find Brad Maddox always watchable.

Wednesday, November 11, 2015


Christian Rose vs Danny Cannon

Thursday, February 26, 2015


Effective March 23rd, Blogger is stepping up its censorship* of "blogs that contain sexually explicit or graphic nude images or video." No mention of sexually explicit sentences or photos of boners stretching wrestling trunks, so perhaps this blog does not actually cross the vaguely defined line, but I am taking the recent announcement as the writing on the wall for Ringside at Skull Island. Very soon I will be discontinuing regular posts to this blog. On or around March 23rd, I will shut the blog down completely.

This is my decision. Blogger provides the option of voluntarily turning the blog private, allowing entry to only specifically named visitors whose email addresses I would have to record one at a time, but since this blog is viewed by thousands of individual readers a day from around the world (I have been very grateful for the attention too), I can't see me being ambitious or attentive enough to keep up such an effort. The other option, to self-censor potentially offensive material is too depressing to consider, since, let's face it, pretty much everything is potentially offensive to somebody.

I'm pretty well blogged out anyway. I still have the kink, mind you, just no drive to write about it any more. I'm repeating myself and have been for a couple of years. I've even written this good-bye before. That said, I thank all the readers, visitors, commenters, wrestlers, promoters, photographers, and fellow fantasists who have supported Ringside over the past six years (plus a few months in change). It's been rewarding hearing from you, in some few cases meeting you, and in other cases working with you. There are still plenty of other sources of opinion and reverie on the homoeroticism of wrestling in all its varieties. Great ones. This one, however, is about tuckered out.

*NOTE: Google reversed its decision on Friday, February 27th. Good news. I will still be closing the blog on or around Monday, March 23rd.

Wednesday, February 25, 2015

Best of Three

In their fourth showdown (their third in the past year), Krush and Johnny O fight a two-out-of-three-submissions contest. Technically the match is a showcase for Krushco's new style: high key natural lighting, a camera that moves with the action, sharp hi-res video, and professional-strength graphics. Scrap-wise, this is one of Krush's most dynamic and dramatically intense battles. Johnny O is physically Krush's best match as an opponent, and he expresses more "character" than most previous adversaries--and doesn't mind playing the bad guy when he's cornered.

The match goes for three falls, which means that the last seven minutes is amazingly robust and aggressive. There's no disqualification, draw, or loose ends. Both are totally exhausted at the end of the 18-minute ordeal. Both wrestlers can be sore losers, adding fuel to the fire as the two struggle to break the climactic tie. Krush may have been way too much for Johnny when they first clashed almost four years ago, but things are different now: Johnny's wised up, manned up, revved up. For once it's Krush we're worried about--though, to be honest, Johnny is not putting out anything that Krush can't handle.

Lots o' punches, chokes, scissors, tendon-busters, and grunts. This one is classic 40-carat Krush.

Tuesday, February 24, 2015


Well-scrubbed and clean-cut heartthrob Kip Sabian (formerly "Sabin"), 5'9", 172#, goes after snobby blue-blood Richard Parliament, 5'9", 182#,  in this match (see screen grabs below) from Falling Starr Wrestling last October. Both are irresistibly lovable in their own ways. I'm drawn to Kip's bouncy pugnacity, but also have a warm spot for Parliament's desperate egoism and clownish bid for the fans' adoration. The camera seems to be in the wrong place for the best moments of a too-short contest, but there's no getting past the energy the two wrestlers spark in each other. No surprises here. The match is textbook babyface versus heel, as slight yet reliable as an after-dinner mint. Worth enjoying for what it is. 

Monday, February 23, 2015


I think of Kid Vicious, in all his later work, as a performance artist whose art consists of digging into rather important, though typically taken-for-granted questions, such as
  • What is and is not sex?
  • Is love a power, a survival instinct, or a romantic sentiment?
  • What does it mean to be a man? or, for that matter, a human being?
Words and logic are inadequate in conveying these kinds of truth. Perhaps such questions have no answers beyond personal experience. I am talking about the notion of eros (particularly m4m eros), the idea that erotism involves power, submission, creativity, nature, instinct, friction, frenzy, and the abhorrence (but not fear) of death. This notion originally shaped Western civilization, by way of the ancient Greeks who viewed Eros (lust) as a life force in constant opposition to Thanatos (death).

Instead of words, Vicious and his cohorts use partly choreographed gestures and emblematic props (including their own bodies) to explore and dramatize the dynamic interactions between men, in a word, "ritual," perhaps a ritual that's at the extreme of "male bonding." Wrestling, likely the first game in human history, has its roots in pagan ritual. Brutal and high risk, wrestling was originally about hierarchy, patriarchy, heroism, and justice, attributes of the god Zeus. Greek religion begins with a wrestling match between Zeus and his father, the Titan Cronus. Wrestling was later refined in the ancient Greek gymnasium, a facility for combat training, in the nude, also used for socializing, cruising, and the debating of new ideas (all considered manly, back in the day).

Wrestle X (BG East, 2005) begins with a closeup of Rick Hunter's boner vividly outlined against his pink and black bicycle shorts. He is stretching his limbs in a motel room, ostensibly to loosen up for the upcoming fight, but also doing everything in his power to keep himself firm and erect. Vicious enters, mutters, "What have we here?" and strips off his black shirt. Without prelude or fanfare, Vicious throws Rick down on the mattress and applies a series of wrestling holds, sexy ones that maximize body contact: body scissors, thigh stretches, face locks, full nelsons--forcibly applied as Vicious controls the jobber by chicken-winging the right arm. Rick's moans are as ecstatic as they are agonized. KV mixes wet lip-locks and crotch-fondling with the wrestling moves and calls for the boy to submit, to which Rick responds, when he's good and ready, "Yes, sir."

After a number of submissions, already too many to count (as if I would even think to count), Hunter dares to fight back, wrapping his legs around Vicious's waist and squeezing tight. The gesture is feeble, intentionally so, a sign of the boy's swooning weakness, overcome with lust. The attack barely fazes Kid Vicious, who snarls "you fucking bitch" before landing a series of forearm chops to the jobber's smooth chest. KV lifts Rick off the mattress, daring him to "give it your best shot," before dropping himself on top of the boy, landing (no accident) in the missionary position. Pelvic thrusting ensues and more juicy kisses, just in case the viewers have forgotten that this is something more than an athletic contest.

Hunter's mouth tries to envelop the nightstick now stretching the front of Vicious's yellow trunks. "You think you've earned that, do you?" Hunter says yes, but Vicious doesn't buy it. He teasingly pushes Rick's head away and traps him in a reverse bear hug, forearms to the ribs, cock to the butt, as he backs to the wall. Hunter squirms like a worm on a hook. Released, he drops on his back and Vicious rests the sole of his boot on his cock--a sign of absolute mastery as easy to read as a boot on the head or the heart. He pulls Hunter up to his knees, face to Vicious's crotch, both arms cinched behind him. Rick's mouth lunges for the bulge again, but Vicious tantalizes him, keeping the rookie's face a few unbridgeable inches from the goal.

Later, Hunter submits as Kid Vicious bends him backwards in a Boston crab hold. The heel releases only one of the legs, using his free hand to grope between the jobber's thighs. Touch signifies authority and command. In undemocratic times, underlings could not touch (often, could not even gaze upon) their superiors, though respected superiors could touch them freely--a friendly hand upon the shoulder or, despicably, rape. It's worth noting that this passionate game is BY NO MEANS a so-called "rape fantasy." Hunter is vocally consenting every step of the way, even pushing for more body contact than Vicious will condescend to give ... not just yet anyway.

Vicious peels off Rick's shorts but lets the purple briefs remain (for now). The deepening of color from pink to dark purple signifies a surrender to darker, more primal urges. He grips and massages the jobber's cock, pulling it up over the waistband, while resting his own crotch on Rick's mouth, which meditatively laps at the lycra covering the master's balls. Vicious's cock remains covered as he strokes it over the boy's face. After the jobber says "I submit" enough times, KV pulls his cock out and feeds it to the boy. Meanwhile, the master heel clenches his fist and studies his biceps, as if disinterested in the rookie's insatiable lust. 

We are a third of the way into this feature-length "match" when Vicious puts on a leather glove. He announces the glove, the way a physician tells the patient what is about to happen next, or the way a narrator leads the reader to the next scene.  KV punches the rookie on the navel as the brimming boner wobbles just out of striking distance. "You're in trouble, boy," Vicious murmurs, "big ... fucking ... trouble." Hunter breathes a deep sigh that seems to rise up from his nuts. Vicious backs the jobber to the wall, holding his fist to the kid's jaw as he kisses him wetly. He holds the cock with his bare hand, protectively, as his gloved fist slams the abs. Then the glove covers Rick's mouth as if to silence the boy's screams. Vicious kisses the back of his own hand, and, presumably, Hunter licks its palm. Vicious lays Hunter back on the mattress, straddling his neck. "Yeah," he coos. "That's what you want, boy. You know what's good for you. I could have knocked you out an hour ago, but instead I took you for a ride, yeaah." Sure, this is smut talk, but what's amazing is how classy and passionate KV makes it sound.

So far most of the sexual pleasures have been oral (and manual). Halfway through, though, Vicious mounts the rookie from behind, his cock pressing the seat of the boy's purple briefs, a ritualized dry hump thinly disguised as wrestling at this point. Though the motions of combat persist to the end, the fight is over. The victor of this match has already been identified. Every sexual advance from now on is stylized as a coercion of the (voluntarily) disempowered by the super-empowered master, who wants to give pleasure no less than to receive it.

Only in the final act are the wrestlers stripped entirely bare, the jobber first, of course, forcibly by the heel, who states literally, without exaggeration, unlike in pro wrestling, "Your ass is mine." The gloved hand applies the iron claw hold to Hunter's face as the jobber falls in slow motion to the mattress. The two veiny cocks coast against each other, thrusting together like the horns of rutting rams. Kid Vicious commands the boy to undress him, which the boy does willingly, sliding KV's yellow trunks down thighs, knees, calves, pausing briefly to stroke his cock against the side of the master's boot.

The buttfucking, when it happens, is surprisingly tender and sweet, in contrast to the practiced tone of menace up to this point. For gay men, the tenderness of a buttfuck is no surprise. Porn tends to depict the act more aggressively and noisily. I like the slappy, punishing fuck as much as anybody. Perhaps this is the way some porn stars signify their macho virility. But after an hour of sweaty wrestling, Kid Vicious has nothing left to prove. He slides into the boy the way he previously slid into his leather glove, confidently and a little in awe of the power he wields. He is the conqueror and a life force. He is taking a prize not only that he has justly won but also that Hunter willingly surrenders to him.

Sunday, February 22, 2015


Setting a goal for 40 new and original matches in 2015, Movimus has not only sped up its output of no-holds-barred submission matches but also introduced exciting new talent. This weekend Salvatore Landow, 5'3", 153#, hit the mat against Dave Markus, 5'9", 172#, already, after seven months and eight matches, the company's star attraction. Movimus must also keep him busy scouting for new wrestlers, as he hauled in its latest recruits, Landow and (last weekend) Julio Vargas.

Given Markus's rep for wiping the floor with his opponents, Salvatore better have more than a pretty face and a hot body. He does. With high-school wrestling experience in his pocket and sharknado speed on the mat, Sal is two handfuls for Dave, who no sooner muscles his way out of one hold than Landow snares him in another. Reportedly, little Salvatore demanded this match, so the new guy also has balls the size of melons going in his favor. 

As expected, Dave takes command from the start but soon finds Salvatore's low center of gravity a major obstacle. Landow gives him almost nothing to hang on to, and when he's on his feet, the newcomer swoops in from below and topples him, clasping his long limbs like a wheel clamp. Still, experience and conditioning count for a lot, and Dave claims the first fall with his infamously cutting body scissors, to which Salvatore submits in less than a second. Also, Marcus is a severe challenge to most wrestlers' endurance, sticking on his opponent and letting the guy wear himself weak in the long struggle to escape.

It's great to see two fighters this in-touch with their strengths employ them with such apparent ease and grace. Movimus did itself and us fans a great service with the hiring of Markus, a capable submission wrestler with star appeal and a magnet for other promising talents too. Tense, close matches like this one are the keystone to the company's future and the reason my interest in Movimus continues to rise. 


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