Thursday, December 31, 2009

Thank You, and Now Onward ...

I want to thank everyone who has visited Ringside at Skull Island and contributed to the fun I've had in posting my individual kinks and fantasies online this year, especially to

Ashton Vuitton

Axel at UCW

Bard at neverland

BodySlam at UCW


Brad in Minneapolis


Don in Winston-Salem

g b




Joker at UCW

Kid Leopard at BG East

Klown at UCW

Lawrence at Greccogear




Stoney Hooker



Victor Rook at Wrestlemen

... and everyone else in 2009 who dropped me an e-mail or a comment to encourage me, to tell me off, or to call me out to brawl in cyberspace.

And to you, big cities of the world, all 800+ metropolises, towns, and villages, whose most interesting inhabitants visited Ringside at Skull Island these past twelve months, I thank you too and urge you to come back for more (if you are tough enough to take it) in 2010.

And, for the record, the ten cities with the biggest turnout to these pages in 2009 have been, according to the fine technology at Google Analytics, ...

 1.  London, UK

 2.  New York, New York

 3.  New Bedford, Massachusetts

 4.  Durham, North Carolina (my home base, of course--hey guys, toss off your capes and/or warm-up jackets and drop on by my place for a tussle!)

 5.   Seattle, Washington

 6.   Los Angeles, California

 7.   Chicago, Illinois

 8.   Atlanta, Georgia

 9.   Kansas City, Missouri

10.  San Antonio, Texas

(Special thanks, too, to those 19 of you who have signed on as "Followers" of this blog.)

Tuesday, December 29, 2009

1109118, 1209119, and 1209120 (Review)

This is nuts, but for the past three and a half months I feel like I’ve been cheating on Axel with the two guys who have had the run of UCW-Wrestling these days—top contender and all-around cool-cat Klown and, due to some defect in my moral fiber, all-around bad-ass Joker, who (I can't help it) I think is the shit.

Now Axel’s back in town, no doubt clearing the stage for a title defense in three new video uploads, with numbers not titles, sort of like Emily Dickinson’s poems.  (Look, I’m an arrogant jerk with a PhD, so I don’t care who does or does not get my analogies, OK?)  Still, not titling the vids is kind of genius of BodySlam, UCW’s head honcho; it fits the Milwaukee-based fed’s whole minimalist ethos—the no-frills box arena covered in bodybag-blue plastic and the slender balls-to-the-wall wrestlers who don’t pull their punches.

Axel’s a smart and cool-headed guy, so he probably holds no grudge against me.  (I kind of wish he would, though.  Not much would give me more pleasure than to find him on my doorstep some evening, in his low-slung black Speedo, itching to take me down a notch.)

Anyway, once the vids popped up for download this afternoon, I busted my ass to be first in line for a look-see.

In 1109118. Axel has a rematch with James Never Give Up Kid, one of the first guys Axel fought at UCW when it launched over the summer.  James is a resilient fighter, hence the moniker, but Axel works him over but good.  James gives as good as he gets.  The match has the sort of gut punching we’ve come to expect at UCW, along with some vicious stomach clawing, trunk pulling, ballbashing, backbreakers, bearhugs, and bitch slaps.  The guys noisily express the pain of each and every twist and blow.  And any civility to be found in the bout breaks down as the fighters, sweaty and sick of each other, trade punches to the mouth.  This is a match to savor!

(Crappy captures all my own doing.)

In 1209119, Axel faces down Black Dragon, a masked fighter from “parts unknown.”  Dragon speaks in a heavy accent of no discernable origin, saying stuff, like “Osk heem!” when he wants the fresh-faced ref to see if Axel’s ready to submit.  Fat fuckin chance of that! The title’s on the line for this battle, and Axel fights for it with every ounce of his being.  The mysterious foreigner does not play nice, and in this bout Axel takes about as much raw punishment as I’ve ever seen him take from anybody.  Nobody, but nobody takes a punch to the belly like the champ.  When Dragon crosses the line, though, slashing his fingers cross Axel’s eyes, … well, let’s just say there’s one seriously trounced green-card-holder at the end of this fight.

In 1209120, the card I’ve been awaiting for 82 days and 15 hours now, trash-talking punk Joker gives the champ some ill-advised lip, threatening to “take his punk ass home.”  Now Axel is nothing if not sure of his abilities, even up against a more experienced street-fighter like Joker.  Still, when you ask a disciplined fighter like Axel what he’s got, you can’t expect the upshot to be pain-free.  “You is my bitch,” Joker snarls, “and you will STAY my bitch!”  I won’t give anything away, but this brawl puts it out there for the champ and the out-of-line challenger.  Nothing but pride is on the line in this fight, but to guys like these two, pride can mean as much as a title or a belt.  You’d think somebody would walk out of this plastic arena with a little more humility than he had, and you wouldn’t be off the mark ... but you may just be surprised.  Make no mistake:  this fight is THE test of Axel’s right to the UCW title.

After the licks he takes in these three matches, I wonder if Axel has got the moxie left to face Klown, who, in my opinion, is the number-one contender for his title and deserves a shot as soon as possible. 

And if the reigning champ does bear me a grudge because I all but wrote him off these past few months, I hope he has to go through James, Dragon, and Joker again before he shows up on my doorstep to dust me off.

Knock Outs (DVD Review)

This new DVD from BG East is, at first glance, a collection of squash jobs. These three matches pit fighters with superior knowledge of holds and superior (if that’s the word) sadism against fit, nimble guys who clearly have ability and heart, just not necessarily enough to win against these opponents.  The jobbers are out-flexed and out-maneuvered—but their gift, of course, is selling the pain.

The first match up is blond Caleb Brand versus Velvet Revolver.  Both wrestlers have nice bulges even before the action starts.  Brand wears metallic baby-blue square cuts, a color suggesting an innocence and gentility that Brand clearly lacks.  He bites, twists, and bends his opponent and doesn’t stop even when the bell signals the end of a round. 

His adversary wears his hennaed hair emo style and briefs apparently made of velvet (very hot), the same shade of rust red as an old velvet antimacassar my grandmother left me—and now I will never be able to look at that memento the same way again.

For my money, the first contest is the reason to buy (or just look at) this DVD.

This match squeezed it out of me, just as Brand squeezes Revolver in one slow, agonizing hold after another.  These pros don’t avoid extended body contact by eternally taking fancy dives off top ropes or throwing fake punches that land in the air on the non-camera side of an opponent’s face.  On the other hand, they don’t just loll around on the mat frotting themselves into a frenzy either. 

Brand knows some moves, and he transitions from one to the next with the calm assurance of a circus juggler moving from eggs to melons to knives to flaming torches.  And if this match is pretty much a glorified spotfest, you won’t hear a word of complaint about it from me.

The fighters in the second match, Cameron Mathews and Kirby Stone, are a bit more evenly matched up.  Both are built like farmhands, strong natural bodies with elegant curves, with pinchable areas of fat over hard muscle. 

Mathews is leaner, with more experience and ring savvy.  His bony face, handsomely angular, looks like it should belong to the greenhorn lieutenant in an old Hollywood war movie. It appears obvious from the start, it’s he, in his red and white tights, with his constant banter, who will control the slightly heavier Stone with the milky skin and the pink and black tights. 

From his first takedown, Mathews moves like a wrangler taking down a lassoed calf at the rodeo.  But Stone is not so easily taken, it turns out, and this match has more give and take than the first.  What looks predetermined in the first ten minutes quickly becomes questionable for the rest of the match.  The dramatic continuity hangs on Mathews’ relentless working of Stone’s left leg, and his ability to find a variety of ways to attack it. 

Stone, who shows great resilience here, seems reluctant at times to move the storyline on to its next level and sometimes looks too concerned with how the camera is catching the action.  Mathews, though, is as impressive here as I’ve ever seen him. 

Stone Whitman, in the third match, is the reason my attention was drawn to this DVD.  The setup appears at first to be a classic David-and-Goliath story, with the smaller Whitman up against Donnie Drake, a bodybuilder.  Alone in the ring, Whitman warms up with lithe, fast kicks.  He looks good.  But all bets are off when Drake enters the ring.  Drake’s not only bigger but also meaner.

The title, Knock Outs, refers not just to the endpoints of these matches but also to the fighters’ looks. For me, and I can only speak for me and my tastes, the best of the lot is Caleb Brand, beating the shit out of Velvet Revolver, over and over again, as I already said.  Brand is good looking without being exactly pretty.  He’s the classic suntanned blond heel.  His cruel streak and indefatigable arrogance are the main turn-ons for me. 

Velvet Revolver is a perfect foil, too, cute as a teen pop star and willing and able to take truckloads of punishment.  It’s his suffering, as much as Brand’s knowledge of punishing holds, that sells the match for me.  

Final summation?  Lots of nice butt on display in tight trunks.  Perfect wrestling body types (as opposed to Men’s Fitness perfection).  Lots of abdominal stretches, always nice.  And a couple of exciting slugfests outside the ring.

Thursday, December 24, 2009

Hard Rick and Dante

Hard Rick, local hero, enters the ring.  The fans cheer as he strips off his jacket and tosses it over the turnbuckle.

He is long, lean, and hairy, his subtly muscled chest, belly, forearms, and legs covered in a tangle of burnt sienna curls.  His hair is close cropped to the contour of his skull, and a neatly trimmed beard frames his face. 

His blood-red trunks outline his ample cock and balls and the smooth curve of his compact ass.  He doesn’t cater to his adoring fans, but quietly and methodically limbers up for the fight.

Dante enters next, accompanied by his sidekick Lil Devil.  He snubs the fans stretching their hands to touch him. 

A couple of inches shorter than Rick, Dante has smooth skin and a clean-shaven face.  He wears a black Speedo low on his waist, revealing a Marvin the Martian tattoo midway between his navel and left hip bone. 

His bubble butt stretches the lycra in back, which rides up revealing a quarter moon of white cheek.  He has the boyish intensity of a young Bruce Lee, a shy, bemused smirk perpetually on his lips.

Dante is less of a known quantity to the fans.  All they know about him is that he is from elsewhere, someplace where the language spoken is not the same one they speak. 

He holds onto the top ropes on either side of the turnbuckle as he stares down his opponent. Dante is a man of few words and a sly, unfeeling viciousness.

A fourteen-year-old chemical-blond punk in tight shorts and a wifebeater shirt cut high at his midriff, Lil Devil stalks the outside of the ring with a baseball bat slung over his right shoulder, taunting spectators. 

Heavy metallic eye shadow surrounds his eyes, the only color of any kind in his complexion.

The bell rings, and the two fighters rush to the center of the ring.  Dante gets hold of Hard Rick’s left arm and twists, forcing him down to one knee on the mat. 

The ref hovers close by, looking over every point of contact between the two men’s bodies.  Dante gives Rick’s arm an extra tug and twist, causing the crowd favorite to yelp in pain.

Rick lifts his free arm and tries to relieve the pressure on the one trapped between Dante’s arm and chest.  Dante steps back a few steps, to lean in on Rick, adding pressure on the arm.

“He’s breaking his arm!” somebody shouts at the ref, who turns to the crowd, away from the fighters, trying to assure everybody that he knows what he’s doing.  Lil Devil waves his bat overhead, commanding the onlookers to pipe down.

Dante rakes his fingers cross Hard Rick’s eyes while the ref’s attention is diverted.  Rick cries out.  His body thrashes, breaking into a cold sweat.  His right arm reaches out and clutches a ring rope, and the ref turns back and issues Dante a terse warning.

Rick leans on the bottom rope for support, his knees spread, his stomach heaving as he gasps for air.  Dante presses his throat to the rope and claws at his face with his nails, his right knee jabbing into Rick’s lower back.  Rick’s body trembles against the rope.

Dante clamps his fingers high up on Rick’s shoulder, at the base of the neck.  The hold paralyzes Rick’s left arm, which curls like a withered branch. 

A tingling sensation, thousands of nerves closing up shop, stretches from Rick’s neck to the bottoms of his feet. 

Dante pulls Rick up off the ropes to a standing position and backs him to the turnbuckle.  With his free arm, Rick tries to pull Dante’s clutch away, but Dante retaliates by raising himself up on the tips of his toes and arching his shoulders to apply more pressure. 

A visible shudder passes through the length of Hard Rick’s body.

Dante presses up against his cornered opponent, chest to chest, belly to belly, thigh to thigh.  Rick raises his forearm to the bridge of Dante’s nose and tries to push him off. 

Dante pulls Rick back in and, with a vicious punch to the mouth, hurls Hard Rick over the ropes and onto the cold concrete floor.

Rick rolls to his side, nursing the sore spots on his body and trying to regain full use of his eyes after Dante’s attack.  Dante and Lil Devil badger the ref to start counting Rick out.  The ref pushes Dante away from the ropes and starts the count.

Rick uses the side of the ring to pull himself up to his feet.  When he clambers up to the ring apron, Dante charges, pushing the ref aside and grabbing Hard Rick by the ear. 

Rick falls on his back on the apron, and through the ropes Dante savagely yanks at his ear and jams his thumb up to his adam’s apple.

The ref grabs Dante by the shoulder and pulls him off Rick’s prostrate body.  Rick rolls under the bottom rope and lies on his back inside the ring, his torso gleaming with sweat and his stomach pumping for oxygen. 

While the ref is distracted, Lil Devil pokes his bat through the ropes at Hard Rick’s exposed ribs.  The fans scream out in protest, and the ref turns and sees only Lil Devil backing away from the ring, shrugging his shoulders, all innocence.

Hard Rick curls up in a fetal position, whimpering.

The ref holds Dante back while Rick pulls himself back on his feet.  But Dante won’t be restrained.  He charges ahead, tackling Rick round the waist, hurling the two of them through the ropes to the concrete. 

Dante’s on his feet in a flash, and he mercilessly kicks Rick in the ribs, the same spot Lil Devil had just attacked with his bat.

Dante pulls Rick up off the floor and slings him up against the edge of the ring, which reverberates with the impact.  Rick’s body crumples on the floor, while Dante rolls back into the ring, urging the ref to count his opponent out.

But Rick gets to his feet and staggers to the ring.  Dante smirks and calls his man in, as Rick clumsily limps over to duck in through the ropes, nursing his bruised ribcage. 

Dante charges while Rick is still on his stomach at the edge of the ring, and the ref pushes him back, both hands to Dante’s chest. 

The ref distracted, Lil Devil leaps to the ring apron and starts clobbering the back of Hard Rick’s shoulders with the bat.  The crowd is screaming, but Dante drums up a commotion of his own to keep the ref’s attention on him.

Dante complains that the ref is manhandling him and begins spitting out curses in his native tongue. 

Lil Devil spins the bat around like a baton and then drives the handle straight to Rick’s kidneys.  Rick’s whole body jerks in spasms of agony. 

Rick rolls away from the ropes, and the white-haired punk jumps off the ring to stare down the outraged crowd.

Dante blows past the ref and, grabbing the top rope in his fists, stomps Hard Rick’s gut, chest, and face.  Then he kneels beside him, his knee pressing firm on Rick’s sweaty chest, and starts choking him with his thumbs. 

Rick’s boots drum against the canvas-covered plywood floor.  The ref pulls Dante’s hands away from Rick’s throat after the five-count.

Lil Devil plays the faithful little cheerleader, screaming, throwing his arms up in the air, leaping, and finally plopping his ass up on the ring apron.  The crowd boos him and Dante and shouts out a few choice words for the ref, too.

Dante tugs Rick up to his feet and drives him headfirst to the turnbuckle. 

Rick’s hairy chest and stomach are spotted with pink slapmarks and darkening bruises. 

Hidden from view of the ref by Rick’s and Dante’s bodies, Lil Devil again interferes, sticking the bat up through the ropes to jab Rick’s lower abdomen.  A particularly low blow makes Rick scream in agony and the crowd howl in indignant rage. 

Lil Devil smugly turns his back to the ring and twirls the bat in his fingers.  A fat woman in the front row clobbers Lil Devil up the side of the head with her big purse.  The kid recoils, whimpering, and runs to the other side of the ring.

Meanwhile. Dante rides Hard Rick’s back, slamming his right elbow to the back of Rick’s head.  Dante grabs Rick by the head and whirls him through the ropes like a bale of hay. 

Rick’s crumpled body slams down on the concrete again. 

Dante pushes the ref away and jumps through the ropes after Rick.  He kicks the fallen hero in the nuts.  Then one hand clutching Rick’s beard and the other, an ear, Dante throws Rick back up to the ring, climbing in after him.

Dante kneels on the back of Rick’s legs and pulls the top half of his all-but-unconscious body up to his smooth chest. 

Torso stretched taut, the audience can read every muscle in Hard Rick’s body. 

Dante locks his right arm under Rick’s chin for a rear naked chokehold, his left hand propping Rick’s forehead.  Dante roars as he crushes his fallen adversary in his arms, thumbsize specks of spit flying out over the ring.

Dante’s roar is met with another roar from the back of the house.  Big Zed, Rick’s friend from childhood, lumbers up through the crowd to the ring. 

Zed weighs more than Rick and Dante put together, and his body is matted with thick brown fur.  He leaps up to the ring, and the whole ring quakes.

From behind Zed peels Dante off Rick’s back and sends him over the top rope with a wild roundhouse punch. 

Dante hits the floor, face first, already knocked out cold. 

Lil Devil rushes to the side of his fallen mentor, while the crowd cheers wildly for Zed, who threatens the ref with more of what he just gave Dante if he won’t back up. 

Zed raises Hard Rick’s arm in the air, even though it’s pretty clear that Rick doesn’t even know where he is anymore.

Lil Devil leaps through the ropes, swinging his bat and screaming petulantly at the hairy giant who towers at the center of the ring. 

With one effortless move, Zed scoops up Lil Devil and strips his shorts down to his ankles. 

The crowd is on its feet, not wanting to miss a second of this. 

Dropping down to one knee, Zed flings the punk over his other knee and begins to noisily spank his bare white ass.

Lil Devil screams, his pale face contorted in terror, but his voice is drowned in the clamor of the crowd.

Wednesday, December 23, 2009

Boy Meets Boy

A year ago, a buddy I was writing combat stories with via e-mail said I wrote about fights like they were porn.  Lately, I've noticed a tendency to write about them like they were paperback romances, with the characters, all flawless specimens of physical perfection, ripping singlets and briefs instead of bodices.  What can I say?  Purple prose comes easily to me.  To prove my point, here's what I just sent off to my pal Heath (with some minor changes), the most recent installment of a tale we've been amusing ourselves with over the holidays, the simple tale of boy meets boy, boy challenges boy to a private basement match, and boy strips the cottons off boy in the frenzy of the moment.


Ryan was pissed, but it was a sort of pissed that pumped him up.  His feelings towards Taylor weren’t murderous.  He wanted to hurt him, sure, but only because hurting him would show Taylor who’s still the boss.  Recovering now from Taylor’s ball-smashing hip thrusts, Ryan’s cock firmed up and thickened.  Ryan had a deep need to be the boss of Taylor, now more than ever before, now that Taylor had proved himself a man—and a studly man at that.

His hard cock was practically numb, but his balls ached.  The naked cock weighed heavy in front of him, burning for something to smash into.  The balls throbbed like warning lights flashing on and off.  The pressure was almost painful when he saw the size of Taylor’s fat hard-on slipping through the dark blue shreds of his bikini.  Just the sight of Taylor’s glimmering wet body, sweat rolling over and around the smooth coils of muscle, charged Ryan up with a force that rolled through his sinews like thunder.

Ryan rushed in and grabbed Taylor’s head roughly in his arm and tossed him in a high arch before smashing his back down to the mat.  Taylor’s heels smashed the low basement ceiling, but the real hurt came when, flat on his back, he felt the force of Ryan’s elbow on his ribs.  Ryan then kneeled, one knee on the mat, the other knee on Taylor’s stomach, and shot five right jabs to Taylor’s mouth in rapid succession.

Taylor tasted metal—no, it was blood—on the inside of his lower lip.  His ears were ringing—and the fight had just entered that weird phase where everything happens super fast but feels like slow motion.

“Taking it too easy on you?  Want more?  Want more?”  Ryan’s voice rose to a frenzied pitch.  He was feeling the rhythm of combat in his bones.  Aggression rolled in waves through his veins.  His mind was white-hot with adrenalin.

It took a few seconds for Taylor to realize the tide had turned.  He was on defense now.  He’d taken five hard hits before he got his fists high enough to block another three and land a solid left on Ryan’s nose, which burst like a water balloon, splattering blood on both fighters’ chests.

The pain and loss of blood did not slow Ryan down, though.  He grabbed Taylor by the hair and smashed his head to the mat.  Working on well-trained responses, Taylor wrapped his powerful thighs round Ryan’s waist and squeezed.  The pressure was immediate and intense, full force, and the hold made Ryan gasp.  He tried to punch his way out of this fix, aiming for the sides of Taylor’s head, his temples and his jawline.

Taylor started to roll Ryan over to his side, but the older boy’s knees were widely planted on the mat.  In fact, Ryan had the leverage to lift Taylor’s body entirely off the mat and smash it down, using his body weight as a bludgeon, and he did this several times, effectively weakening Taylor’s hold on his waist, even if only slightly.  Ryan’s soaked naked body, bright orange-pink in the yellow overhead lights, bore down on Taylor like an iron maul.

Monday, December 21, 2009

Russ Francis

Russ Francis, b. 1953 in Seattle, son of a wrestling promoter, made his name first in football, playing for the New England Patriots and the San Francisco 49ers.  After retiring from football in the late 1980s he wrestled briefly with the American Wrestling Association and then with the National Wrestling Alliance in Hawaii, where he had grown up.

Francis embodied the masculine ideal of my generation, rugged good looks that shared equal parts Marlboro Man, Burt Reynolds, and Rock Pamplin (yeah, you're pretty much going to have to be a "certain age" and a certain "sexual orientation" to catch my references here).

He probably got into wrestling too late in the game, cashing in on his fame as a tight end but never quite showing the flair, polish, or showmanship pro wrestling fans were coming to expect.

Based on his football rep and good looks, he nevertheless generated a good bit of pop in the ring.  At six-foot-six and 242 pounds, he was the sort of towering, meaty all-American stud I was gaga for back in the 1970s (still but less gaga for now).

Recently I was searching for pictures and video that would illustrate the man's appeal back in the day.  I did not come up with much, just some trading cards and silent 8mm footage of Francis in the ring (below).  Maybe they're not enough to go on if Russ is new to you, but for me they unlocked some memories and forms of lust I had retired decades ago.

All the following YouTube videos come to us courtesy of MJO2Pro:

Francis vs Scott Irwin

Francis vs Black Jack Lanza

Francis vs Bob Backlund

Francis vs Mr Saito

Saturday, December 19, 2009

This Just About Does It for Me

via downking

Thursday, December 17, 2009

Das Wunderkind

Alex Wright, 6'3", 225#, b. 1975, Nuremberg, Germany, retired in 2003 after wrestling professionally since age 16.

I liked Wright better before he turned heel, while he was still fresh, agile, and fast.  As a heel, he was just garden-variety arrogance, prematurely balding, with an unconvincing sneer, a cruel streak in a nice package.

As a face, though, he was ahead of his time, great looking, bright eyed, overtly sexual, not an ounce of fat on him.  All he needed were lower hanging briefs and some good-natured cockiness and a taste for payback.

Here are episodes from his American career, in his golden years.

versus Arn Anderson, WCW Slamboree, 21 May 1995, via ProWrestlingMind

versus Billy Kidman, WCW, 4 May 1996, via 1000holds

Wednesday, December 16, 2009

Drumbear x 8

I have been intensely and messily in thrall to this guy's drawings for a couple of years now ... and all I know about him is that his real name is Paul (I think) and he's just about as mysterious as Thomas Pynchon and J.D. Salinger (maybe they are all three the same person).

He doesn't seem to have his own web site, and nobody has yet published a monograph of his fantastic drawings (which is a huuuge shame, a crime against art and horny homos alike, as far as I'm concerned).

If anyone out there has more information on this unique talent, please please please drop me a line.

Sunday, December 13, 2009

You're Just the Sort of Guy I'd Like to Sock in the Nose

I would not at all mind losing a hot and sweaty erotic ring match to BK Jordan.  The man is fast, funny, fit, and fuckable.  But more than anything I’d like to rough him up … rip his baby-blue tights down to his knees, string him up on the tree of woe, and smash my knee to his soft round gut a couple thousand times.

It’s his arrogance mostly … all the more enticing to me because he looks like a regular asshole you might know in real life.  The preening salon-tanned, bikini-waxed, and bottle-blond heels of the Gorgeous George and Exotic Adrian Street variety don’t really do it for me, even though my hat’s off to them for showmanship and, frankly, in some of my favorite fight fantasies I pretend I’m one of them. 

Jordan represents some of the heel qualities I most admire … a cheat, a coward, a blowhard, an egoist, an exaggerator of his wrestling prowess, and a bit of a dimwit.  And then there are those thighs.  Yuh-umm.  And the buzzed pud-like pate has so many delicious Freudian overtones I can’t even count them all.  Sumptuous is what he is.

Listen to me, BK, Mister Burger Kid.  I want you so bad I can taste it, man.  I don’t know where you’re hiding, but if I run across you, you better hope and pray you’re in my blind spot, cuz if I EVER get my hands on you, I will thrash you six ways till Sunday.  Nothing I’d like better than to bust that stupid smirk off your face and wear that big mouth of yours for a mitten.  Your ass is mine, Jordan, and don’t you forget it.  Run away if you can, but you’ll have bruises you’ll have to give names to, next time I catch you within even spitting distance of me.

[All pictures the product and property of the ever-reliable Christine J. Coons, accessed on Flickr via my new best friend ddude95.]

Saturday, December 12, 2009

Bass Wallace

Like that?  I always liked the way Bass Wallace, 5'9", 158# (BG East) quietly and stealthily took care of business.

Thursday, December 10, 2009

Justin Pierce

Justin Pierce, 6'0", 190#, is one of the demigods of gay-themed wrestling.  An all-American face with a heel side, he resembles a younger, cuter Eric Roberts.  Not many wrestlers combine both the hotness (he posed for the July 2002 Playgirl) and the wrestling chops as Pierce does.

Monday, December 7, 2009

Dylan Bostic

Hoosier cruiserweight Dylan Bostic, 18, 5'10", 190#, looks cornfed, full of goodness and light, and ready to give some lout a bruisin.

Here he is, versus Donny Idol, 1 August 2009, Hoosier Pro Wrestling, Columbus, Indiana, via Hoosier Pro Wrestling

Vuitton for Victory

Alexi Adamov

This is a story that has been told and retold thousands of times.

Once upon a time there was a 6'2", 183# Russian wrestler named Alexi Adamov, whose beautiful smooth physique caught my eye in a BG East catalog, and I bought a couple of DVDs, only to see this pulchritudinous demigod flounder meekly around the ring and time and time again get his ass owned by guys who actually had their moves down pat.

Soon my attention was drawn away from Adamov, towards another wrestler, Jonny Firestorm, a smaller guy who, however, had twenty times the fight in him.

Full of disappointment, I ignored later reports that Sexy Alexi had stopped jobbing and was showing some grit at last.  Never again would I be victimized by the hype!

Then, just this year, I ordered BG East's newly released Undagear 15 (copyrighted 2009, though the disclaimer states that the matches were shot three years ago), mainly to see Latin muscle stud Rio Garza and find out what all the hoopla is about, only to find myself (like years ago) fast-forwarding through the spectacle of Garza clambering about on a mat, looking delectable, sure, but as agile and focused as a triple-decker Jello mold.

Then, to my surprise, I found myself drawn to an earlier match on the same DVD:  Adamov versus Lou Terassi.  Now, I won't say that the pretty malchick has exactly become the savviest ring fighter I've ever seen, but, damn, he can put on a show now.  He's toughened up, earned some swagger rights, shit talks with the best of them, and puts some serious (OK, rather unconvincing at times, but HOT) dents in Terassi.

Alexi, milyi, all is forgiven come to papa!

Friday, December 4, 2009

Rock Hard

It's official.  Rock Hard Wrestling is online and ready to roll.

Rock Hard features familiar faces with new names Zack Johnathan (aka Zack Vasquez) and Ray Martinez (aka Rio Garza) in pay-per-view matches and, coming soon, compilation DVDs.

In its own words, Rock Hard "features electrifying action like you've never seen before!"  The new fed features homo-friendly erotic match-ups between young wrestlers, who sport "A&F model looks," "hard bodies," and "skilled athletic abilities," and offer "incredibly intense non-stop sizzling excitement."

Definitely worth a look-see.


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