Friday, December 31, 2010


It's no exaggeration to say that I've shot more splooge watching BG East's Motel Madness 1 than any other video in the world.  The VHS tape I bought years ago valiantly held out long enough to see, this year, the re-release of this classic on DVD.

You can probably guess that, egghead that I am, I have attempted to analyze why this particular set of fights triggers my libido.  No doubt, it's partly the simplicity and genius of the setup:  two men rendezvous in a motel room to wrestle, peeling away layer on layer of their gear as they peel away layer on layer of their reticence and reserve.  The lack of pretense in the setup--the use of available light and sound--makes the steamy action more immediate and authentic.  It is just lucky coincidence then that the action synchronizes at times with the blare of the radio, advertising stacks of juicy all-beef patties and piping in strains of Aretha Franklin's "Respect" and Lenny Kravitz's "It Ain't Over Till It's Over." 

The first match is a heel versus heel showdown.  Taciturn Bass Wallace faces down the all-but-frothing-at-the-mouth Flying Tiger Collins (in his only outing with BGE).  At first Wallace plays it cool, but when Collins gets it in his head to pull hair and grab balls, Wallace rightly sees it all as deliberate provocation and evidence that Collins is just asking for it, and so Wallace gives it to him, putting the slightly smaller man through the wringer and showing no mercy.  Or maybe, all along, Wallace was just giving Collins enough rope to hang himself, just waiting for a good excuse to pounce and pummel.  Either way Tiger gets pounced and pummeled. 

The second match is classic squash, with Kid Leopard taking on slave-boy-in-leather Justin Fiori.  Fiori likes it rough, he says, and that's the way the Boss gives it to him, from beginning to end.  Fiori doesn't have a chance, but he can't get enough of it, and the action heats up as these two men sweatily grind into each other and the Kid digs deep into Fiori's threshold for pain and humiliation.  The second match takes us to places the first match only hints at, as the patent eroticism of the fight comes to the surface and Leopard reduces young Justin to just a small pale heap of quivering desire.

I respond to the no-frills, even rather seedy charms of the room itself, hardly the upscale suites you find in more recent numbers of the Motel Madness series.  The guys break out into real sweat--sweat you can almost smell as it rolls off their shoulders and stomachs.  The natural lighting makes each shot grainy and a bit murky, giving it a naturalistic edge and a bit of funky gloom that heighten the moodiness of the battles.

This may not be everybody's cup of tea, but it is mine.  It touches a delicious raw nerve in me.  These men's comfortableness with their rough edges and willingness to delve into their mean, predatory ids are the stuff of my fevered fantasies, and these images have indelibly colored my erotic imagination since I first saw them, years ago.

Thursday, December 30, 2010


My definition of "classic" is anything that provides a touchstone in the development of an art form, a product, a technique, or a culture (including a subculture).  It need not be the highest attainment in every respect.  Down the line, innovations will inevitably outstretch its achievements, but it remains the goto point for evaluating what comes after.

In film, for instance, King Kong, the 1933 version, one of my favorite movies of all time and inspirer of this blog's name, remains a benchmark of jungle adventure and special effects, though obviously in the latter department its jumpy stop-motion animation cannot hold a candle to what CGE technicians are able to accomplish today in films like Transformers or even relatively low-budget made-for-TV fantasy.  Still, the original King Kong is a classic, justly elevated over two remakes that achieved more subtlety and verisimilitude in their visual effects.

This definition leaves room for subjectivity.  What is a classic for me may not be a classic for you, though generally we expect a measure of consensus in the designation of classics.  When I watch homoerotic wrestling, I continually measure it against certain standout matches I saw previously.  But I recognize a classic the instant I see it--no need to wait years to see what will "stand the test of time."  When I see it, I immediately sense the impact it is likely to have on everything else I will see.

For me six or seven titles spring immediately to mind when I think of "classics" ... Can-Am's Kick-Ass Bodybuilder Feud 1 (1994, featuring Paul Perris and Roman Stone, pictured above), BG Enterprise's High Stakes Wrestling 3 (1996), Naked Kombat's Nov. 18, 2009--Rusty Stevens vs Tommy Defendi: The Oil Match, and at least four titles from BG East:  Motel Madness 1 (1991), Tag Team Torture 6 (2004), Ultra Fight 7 (2007), and Gazebo Grapplers 11 (2010)--and that's without even giving the topic a lot of thought.

Now, as 2010 comes to a close and thoughts of "auld lang syne" come naturally tumbling into my consciousness, it's a good time to think back on the images, matches, gear, and personalities that shaped my current tastes and kinks.  This week, I'm pulling out the old (print) brochures and catalogs and looking them over.  I don't want to live in the past, but since the past is the yardstick I use to measure the present, it's not a good idea to forget it either. If you still have a VHS machine and VHS tapes, why not dust them off and revisit the old stuff?  (Thankfully companies are beginning to re-release some of their vintage videos in DVD format.)   I cherish the classics, even as I look forward to the rush of bold, new sensations 2011 is likely to bring my way.

Wednesday, December 29, 2010

There Arose Such a Clatter

You have heard of the War on Christmas, right?  A bunch of bible-thumping wackos all bent out of shape because some fourth-century pope tacked the name of his god on a round of ancient pagan holidays (honoring the Son of Isis, Saturn, or Mithras, depending on the ancient pagan--look it up).  I don't get the point of the argument myself.  Christmas is as much about Jesus as Thursday is about Thor.  It's a frigging name, for fuck's sake, get over it!

Today Mr. Mike at Thunder's Arena sent me a war on Christmas I can get behind.  Frankly, until today the idea of a wrestling Santa did nothing, zero, nada for me.  I knew it was a gimmick used by just about every wrestling organization at this time of year, and it was, I figured, good for the kids, I guess, but nothing about this angle ever made my sugar plums want to get up and dance.  But evidently I was looking at it the wrong way.  I was thinking of Santa as the roly-poly Santa that illustrator Haddon Sundblom branded in the Coca-Cola colors back in the 1930s.

Thunder's Arena has done the gimmick the right way for a change.  Santa in red muscle-hugging Spandex wrestling a malingering blue Elf who wants to spend the holidays at home with his family.  Santa tries to defrock the whining elf, and the two set to an unzip-and-strip match to settle the true reason for the season--lots of toys for privileged girls and boys (Santa) or fair labor standards for workers and time-and-a-half for overtime (elf)--the political and economic implications of the red and blue gear are worth considering, really.

The dialogue is corny, but rather fun and kind of sweet.  The wrestling suits are sexy as fuck--a Morphsuit of my own is already Item #1 on my Wish List for next year.  The gear comes off about halfway through--not all-the-way off, of course--Thunder's Arena don't play that way--but enough off to see plenty of skin and a glimmer of pubes.  I have to say that Mr. Mike may have a new tradition on his hands here.  It's no Wonderful Life or Rankin/Bass TV special, but if homo-kink wrestling ever needed a holiday classic, this, my friends, is it.

It's well after Christmas now, yet still I don't want to spoil the surprise Thunder's Arena's "Christmas Chaos" packs.  It's who Santa and the elf are under the Spandex that makes the video a special treat for me.  Let me say this much, though, hint hint:  Santa is my very favorite Thunder's Arena wrestler.  I've never mentioned this point before in this blog, so don't even bother doing a "search" for the answer, though I welcome you to shake the package as much as you like.  As for the elf, he's an oh-so-close second and a good friend to this blog.

That I'm as taken with this sugar-frosted little gem as I am surprises me as much as it probably does you.  But it's a charmer.  The guys clearly are having fun here, and the cheer is contagious--and fairly hot, too, for G-rated entertainment.  And if any bible-thumping wackos are reading this, you'll be happy to hear a strike for your side, too, when the elf, frustrated with Santa's bitching, sighs, "Oh Jesus," putting the man who stilled the water right in the center of it all, where you, no doubt, believe he belongs.


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