Thursday, September 30, 2010


Probably my first genuine all-out BG East crush was Bass Wallace, 5'9", 158#.  He was (back then) an unlikely choice.  He was shorter than I liked my men to be.  My taste, back when he first caught my eye, was strictly for men my height and taller.  His was not the lean tight body I was into then either, though he was certainly muscular, strong, with interesting curves.  His hair looked dyed black, which I found just a little creepy; however, in that creepiness I felt a hard-to-shake-off frisson too.  His face was almost too classically cut.  He could be nelly, a bit.  Just for flashing instances, I could detect louche movements in his eyes and lips and a slackness in his hips that killed the illusion of perfect macho boy-next-door-ness.  But it must have been an illusion I wanted dead, because I ate Bass up.

I was strongly drawn to him in spite (or because?) of the points apparently against him, much more to him than to some of the other wrestlers who seemed better matches to my "type."  I liked the overt sensuality of the way he pressed himself up against his opponents.  I liked the way he tied his challengers up in knots.  I liked the contrast of his straight-edge looks (in my fantasies, he was often a cop or some other sort of enforcer of order) against his sadistic joy in the pain of others.  His soft-spoken taunts and cooed provocations. The square jaw and beetle-black eyes.  The eyes, in particular, seemed to bore through his adversaries--still undressing them even though they were already mostly undressed.  Despite what seemed to me at the time some serious reservations, he turned me on.  I ached for his smooth lily-white skin to rub up on mine, even though it sometimes appeared to lack human warmth, or maybe, there too, because of that appearance.

It has been some time since Wallace has been the focus of my erotic fantasies.  I still have the VHS tapes I bought back then, but I mostly watch DVDs now, rarely pulling out the old VCR to revisit the lusts of yesterday, and, sadly, only one of Wallace's matches has made the transition to digital disk.  (And happily that one is Matchmen 2, in which Wallace wrestles the equally sinister Kurt Eriksen.)  My favorite is the match putting Wallace up against Taz Action, whose fateful first step onto the mat strikes a cold jolt through my body, the same chill I feel when somebody drops a live flailing mouse into the boa constrictor's tank at the pet shop.

Wednesday, September 29, 2010


The average Beyond Wrestling show looks like a John Waters take on pro wrestling, filmed inside your grandmother's tropicalia aquarium by the photographer who shot Bigfoot for the Weekly World News.  If that's not "gay" enough to attract a big gay following, I don't know what would be.

Surely, we have enough old-school gays to maintain a tradition of sick humor and bad taste.  Or have we dropped the ball on frightening the horses and epating the bourgeoisie?  To get equal rights, must we first prove ourselves to be equally bland?

In BW's latest installment of "Pop" Culture on YouTube, tousle-haired Danny Danger wrestles Johnny Cockstrong in a funny, hair-raising, and outrageous match that mounts a full-frontal assault on the senses, the kind of over-the-top show that in the not-so-distant past only the most flaming fairies could have devised. 

Twenty-year-old Danger, 5'10", 150#, is as cute as a yaoi ninja, and Johnny Cockstrong is a 6'3", 180-pound superhero with a fondness for leopard-print underwear and a finishing move that's a head-in-tights piledriver he calls the "dickstroyer."   Yes, that's right:  a superhero in leopard undies who finishes his opponents by sticking their heads against his cock and piledriving them to the floor.

People, did you hear what I just said?

And it's free.  Beyond Wrestling is putting this match and all the others from its August "Pop" Culture show on YouTube in installments.  You can watch them all for nothing.

Sometimes the best things in life are free.


Somebody recently told me that the mere word "wrestle," spoken aloud, could make him hard.  It was an observation I can relate to.  "Wrestle," "wrestler," "wrestling," all work for me the same.  "Rassle," especially when stretched out in an Alabama drawl, can practically make me jizz in my pants.  Expressions like "X pinned Y" and "X beat up Y" and "X gave Y a good licking" can induce a mild delirium.   If you ask me, "suplex" is a six-letter poem, complete in itself.  My favorite names for boys are "Matt," "Butch," "Scoop," and "Flex," and will remain so until "Figure Four Leglock" joins the list in The Complete Book of Baby Names.

Right up there with these is "rematch," which instantly connotes "grudge match" to me.  What a rematch promises is a contest between two rivals already acquainted with the other guy's tricks.  Few things offer more pleasure than to watch two skilled wrestlers in action, who from experience know each other body and soul.  And a rematch means the two have unsettled business, some bones they'd like to pick in a second, third, fourth turn together.

Last year at Krushco, Krush and Al worked each other over pretty good in "Sprawl 'n' Brawl," "Sleeper Hell," and "Twisted."  It's good to see them facing off again in the company's latest release for download (Underground Wrestling 59).  Krush is at his best once he's warmed a guy up.  (His many matches with Lucien are almost too easy now.  The two have practically grown into one man, two sides of the brain at war with one another.  Not a serious complaint, though.)  Al, a smaller wrestler with a strong back and thick hairy thighs, gave Krush a good run for his money from the very first showdown, and getting on the mat with the aggressive giant a fourth time seems like it's an itch Al's been wanting to scratch for a while.

It's a good rough match, like we're used to from Krushco.  Chokes are applied.  Punches are thrown. The two know each other well enough to be able to shift the balance of power from time to time, but not so well as to drain the fight of a few surprises.  The contest is photographed in a single shot from a low angle against a partitioned white screen, almost like a scene from an Ozu movie (if, that is, Ozu ever shot a wrestling match).  Al is scrappy and nimble, totally comfortable going up against a man Krush's size.  The two breathe heavily from the beginning, as much from concentration as from physical exertion.  Krush has the edge in experience, but Al brings the sort of exuberance I like in a mat fighter--constantly rebounding, never entirely down, mind ever alert to gaps and opportunities.  As usual, the object is not to win (or lose), but rather to give every second of the bout every ounce of muscle and focus at their command ... and the thrill, of course, of topping another dude, whose toughness and skill you know and respect.



I realize that the heart and soul of pro catch-as-catch-can wrestling are in the Midwest, clustered around Chicago and then spreading upwards cross the border to Canada, or maybe I've got the directions reversed, and then of course the really big shows are up in the Northeast--Stamford, Connecticut, and, for kinksters like me, Pembroke, Massachusetts.  But for me, given my personal history of rowdy roughhouse, wrestling will forever have a Southern accent.

My feelings about the South are ambivalent--my mother was from Alabama, my father was from Wisconsin, and as a military family we lived in Florida, Illinois, Oklahoma, Nevada, and Japan, before my father retired and we settled in South Florida.  As an adult, I've lived in Georgia, Tennessee, West Virginia, and North and South Carolina, as well as various parts of Florida.  The South has its Gothic charms and its tragic hubris, in equal shares--that is, whatever bits of "Southernness" remain in the midst of strip malls, Costco, and Starbuck's--and it has its fair share of handsome meaty boys who like to rassle, God bless em.

I don't follow this Tennessee promotion (Elite Wrestling Entertainment) closely, so I am not sure about the back story to this match, but I like the basic setup.  Tormented young hothead J.R. Manson, half Jud Fry, half you-know-who, prone to tantrums when the crowd is against him, gets into the ring with clean-cut body beautiful Ty Hamilton, an upbeat out-of-towner, to whom of course the crowd takes an immediate liking--I mean, who wouldn't?  The basic cruelty and beauty of the South are all here--the annoyance with people who "don't fit," or "don't belong," especially when they feel sorry for themselves the way Manson does, and instantaneous, uncritical love for the well-scrubbed good ole boy, all the more so because he's a strapping young stud and--or so would go the immediate assumption in these parts--God fearing, to boot.

Hamilton ultimately wipes up the mat with the pouty malcontent, proving that a little sunshine in the soul and meat on the arms are all you need to get through the hard times.  Hamilton, though!  He's a dish.  The kind of chicken-and-cornbread-fed good looks that makes me go a little lightheaded at least five times a week.  What a body the kid has, too!

Tuesday, September 28, 2010

Wrestling Angel

Who hasn't dreamed this?  You're a buff tatted-up young turk at the gym, and you cannot keep your eyes off this really stacked muscle god working the free weights, a man bigger than you by about a third your size.  Without his shirt on, the guy looks like Hercules--or the way you always dreamed that Hercules would look.  You shower.  You go home.  The crap on TV is putting you to sleep.  Then, knock knock knock at the door.  Lo and behold the muscle god has followed you home ... and he's pissed about your ogling at him at the gym ... and he wants to fight you ... in your empty two-car garage ... and he's Ace Hanson!

This is where I usually wake up from the dream, cursing and wiping the drool off my lip.  But after our interview on this blog a month ago, I am thisclose with Mr. Mike of Thunder's Arena, and Ace is now practically family.  So I'm watching this little gem to the finish, savoring every thump and grunt.  And while I am not the biggest fan of squash jobs--in which there's one guy who doesn't stand a chance against the other--I have to admit that this match between Hanson, 6'0", 220#, and Angel, 5'5", 135#, wins me over and pretty well stands as a classic of the form.

It's a custom-built video (Thunder's first ever, scripted and cast by a fan ... no, not me), and it could serve as Exhibit A in the courtroom drama of what sick fucks we wrestling fans can be.  Not for a second do you buy that Angel can take Ace, there's even a question of whether he can survive the fight, but it is fun to watch the big guy dismantle the little guy piece by piece, first by chopping off his pride and then by squeezing out his will with his bare hands.  Ace has got as much muscle in his buns of steel as poor Angel has in his whole well-built but compact body.  Angel is pretty much a "travel-size" opponent for Ace, easily packed and stowed in the overflow bin till Ace needs somebody to smash to smithereens.  I'll say this much for Angel:  he's a tough bastard, and he takes his licking like a man.

This is a juicy little masterpiece.  Like all Thunder's Arena product, it stays safely on the G side of a PG rating, but its pleasures rest as much in seeing Angel's heavenly torso stretched out in a light coating of sweat and shown off to the camera as in catching your breath every time Ace Hanson's beauteous massiveness rises like a tropical thunderhead or a radioactive Japanese lizard to fill the screen.

Monday, September 27, 2010

Tough Love

These shots from BG East's just released Gazebo Grapplers 11 (Catalog 84) remind me what I love about love.  I love it tough.  Never in my life as a sexual adult have I liked loving that was all snuggles and coos, pet names and private, flirtatious winks.  You may tell me I'm missing out on something wonderful, but I just don't feel it for the warm and fuzzy.  I'll take the hot and sweaty.  Since my first sexual experience with a man at age eighteen, a motel-room wrestling match fueled by too much contraband liquor and too few inhibitions, I have been solidly in the camp of those who think love should be hard.

Oddly enough--"odd," that is, in retrospect--I never fully entered into the S&M scene, not the whole gamut of dungeon shackles, leather harnesses, and groveling love slaves.  Who knows?  I might have liked it.  Except for some dilettantish turns on the stage, I have never been one for role playing, though.  Props and costumes look like unwanted insulation between me and the man I want to wrangle down to grunting submission.  What I like is pretty much what we see here:  two men, in minimal garb, releasing a little pent-up tension on each other, just to the point that one of them incontestably dominates the other, and the whole battle resolves itself with a little frottage and heavy petting, right before the two finally shoot it out.

I have long thought Patrick Donovan is a reasonably attractive wrestler, but his GG11 fight with Steven Thomas gives me a fresh appreciation for the guy.  The guy's steely, and I like that.  He grinds his molars as he glares into Steven's eyes, mentally computing just how many seconds it's going to take him to slap this guy to the mat and stretch him out, chest on chest, belly on belly, thighs pinching in on thighs.  For his part, Thomas isn't cowed.  I like that, too.  He meets Donovan's stare and dares to push back.  Here's a guy who won't back down.  Neither man is afraid to muss up his hairstyle.  Both can take their knocks, so long as the other dude has a finisher that makes it worth all the trouble.

Sunday, September 26, 2010

All American (Review of Travis vs Cody)

How does this grab you?  Blond in white versus brunet in black.  Both fitness-model perfection, and both know their way around a wrestling match.  The setup is nothing new--two muscled hunks move from posedown to set-to and then from set-to to beating.  It's a classic formula, but it works, it probably always will work, and these two pull it off like a couple of pros.

Rock Hard Wrestling's latest output pits blond newcomer Travis Storm, 5'11", 170#, against RHW veteran Cody Nelson, 6'0", 175#.   As the new meat, Storm does not disappoint.  All smiles at first, till Nelson takes it to mind to wipe those smiles off his face.  That goal accomplished, Nelson finds in Storm an adversary who's hard to intimidate and hard to keep down, despite a first round that Nelson, in his third singles match at Rock Hard, rules.

The three-round bout lets the men dominate and suffer in turn, which they manage with equivalent energy and showmanship.  There's no mistaking this for a real fight, of course, but Storm and Nelson run down the checklist of takedown moves and punishing holds without missing a beat, and Rock Hard's hi-def camera captures the twitch of every muscle.

I have to admit that such physical perfection can be a bit of a handicap in my appreciation of a fight.  Tough is usually sexy enough for me all by itself.  Photogenicity is great, of course, but it seldom pairs up with the kind of heart, drive, and meanness that make my nuts start ticking like Mexican jumping beans.   No, I'm never convinced that there's any risk that either Storm or Nelson will pop out any eyeballs or bust any lips--they only barely break into a sweat--but the nearly flawless bodies' rubbing up against each other and the weight of muscle on muscle tickle my small hairs and stir up all the dirty thoughts I need to feel I've been properly entertained for the evening.  And, to be fair, Storm and Nelson are plenty aggressive and plenty tenacious.

Travis Storm is an excellent find.  He's less Greek god than high-school quarterback lightly dusted with good-ole-boy high spirits.  He jumps into the fight for the sport of it and the sheer joy of movement.  Clearly he enjoys putting his muscles to the test, not just primping them up for us to worship at a distance.  As things heat up, he sets his mind to knocking Nelson down a peg or two, and this, too, he seems to take joy in, finding satisfaction in cranking up the hurt on his haughty rival.  I can't help but like a guy who loves his body like this, loves what it can do, and, in particular, loves testing its limits on another well-turned body.

(Now, in the interest of full disclosure, I should say that Rock Hard Wrestling let me look at this match for free.  This is not the first time I've received gifts here.  I think I would have liked Travis and Cody just as much at the listed download price of $14.95, but gifts do compromise one's objectivity, but, then, so do a lot of things ... beauty, for instance, and kind words, and music.  Frankly, for me, just the fact that there's wrestling in it inclines me to tip the scales in its favor.  And, to be absolutely frank, I won't deny that, had Travis Storm and Cody Nelson appeared on my doorstep last night in tight squarecuts, offering to include me in a three-way no-holds-barred match, the review would probably have been more enthusiastic.  Anyway, lest you think my vote's been bought, I should point out that I could just as easily have not mentioned the fight at all and that RHW never even hinted that a largely positive review would adequately repay the cost of the download.  So there.  And any one of you is just as welcome to send me free wrestling videos, featuring yourself and/or fitness models.  Anytime.)

Friday, September 24, 2010

Kenny King

Kenny King, 29, 6'0", 230#, was an also-ran in the second season (2002) of the MTV/WWE collaboration Tough Enough, a show I apparently enjoyed more than the critics did or, for that matter, the public (the show ran for just three seasons, plus a fourth on the now kaput UPN).  Although he didn't win a WWE development deal, after the show King pursued pro wrestling in the indies, at one point facing off with fellow reality star Mike Mizanin (The Real World: Back to New York and Season 4 of Tough Enough--now "The Miz" on WWE).  In 2007, King joined the Ring of Honor roster.  Today he wrestles solo and with partner Rhett Titus.  His September 11th one-on-one match against Jay Briscoe, 26, 6'0", 205#, was not as widely heralded as Roderick Strong's winning of the championship belt that night, but from the looks of these photos (by Scott Finkelstein), it was still one hot contest between two tough and ridiculously well-put-together competitors.  King won the match with a royal flush.

Thursday, September 23, 2010


When I passed on the word about a mixed-gender doubles clash in August, I commented that in my mind the "real fight" was between the two boys.  On September 11th, Extreme Canadian Championship Wrestling gave us the real fight, and what a fight it was!  Neck and neck, until Alex Plexis, 6'1", 166#, nailed Artemis Spencer, 6'0", 175#, in the closing seconds.  Spencer, adherent of the Church of the Divine Prophecy, exchanged heated words with Plexis's tag partner Billy Suede before the event, working up his righteous indignation against his opponent, but even divine intervention (illegal) from fellow Church man "Dastardly" Danni Deeds did not save him from the force of Alex Plexis.  The four will clash again, together as tag partners, in a couple of weeks at another ECCW event.

Mexx: 25

Austrian wrestler (and, by day, policeman) Mexx turns 25 today.  How did I ever miss the fact that this dude has FANGS?  Totally bad ass, yeah!  And, well, yeah, creepy, too.


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