Friday, November 30, 2012
Thursday, November 29, 2012
Thanks (again) to Almatolmen for fact-gathering on my current European wrestling obsession, Pete Bouncer. You can read his research in the comments section here. It turns out that Pete's the son of a GWF executive--almost as sexy as being a preacher's son, in my opinion--and he has a big brother, who goes by the name Frank Bouncer. Nice!
Wednesday, November 28, 2012
Mein Gott! diese Schultern! Pete Bouncer's first GWF match in September, against another newcomer Pascal Spalter, renders similar results to his second, but better screen caps. Bouncer has been pitting himself against much bigger competitors, and looking really really good in the endeavor. Reader Almatolmen complains, "The hotter guy should never lose!" But many would disagree. I'm on Almatolmen's side on this one, liking to see hot guys suffer as much as anybody, but always hoping for a sudden, last-minute Von Erich turnaround, where the handsome hero bumps off the heel with a "surprise" finish.
I tell you I'm liking this guy Bouncer. I hope he's around for a while and gets some matches at German Wrestling Federation he can win. In the meantime, he puts on a gripping losing battle and makes me proud of my German heritage (not too proud, mind you, given the country's hubristic history, though in class I'm something of a syntax nazi). If any of you readers can gather any stats on this guy (height, weight, age, IQ), please send them my way--I'm working on an obsession I may need to nourish.
No man could ask for a much sweller back than the one that hangs on wrestler Pete Bouncer. Pete, in camouflage tights, made his second showing for German Wrestling Federation in this November 3rd match in Berlin against Crazy Sexy Mike, in black and blue. Things go pretty much as you might expect them to go for the young hotbody, but whatever Pete lacks in "crazy," his torso more than makes up for in "sexy"--in that one respect, at least, he totally outclasses CSM. For hours I could lose myself in those traps and lats!
Tuesday, November 27, 2012
The term dark match deserves to mean so much more than what it does mean--which is, prosaically, a non-televised match before or after the main show. Hasn't pro wrestling any poetry left? To my mind, a dark match should mean dim area lighting in gray and murky surroundings, a brutal overhead spot aimed at the brawlers' necks and shoulders, making them explode against the muted background, the overall effect of a George Bellows painting of back-room boxers or a Goya black painting of lost souls writhing in agony in a penumbral inferno. Beyond Wrestling's shadowy lighting for this free match from the jazzily titled Coin-Op Co-Op show, suggests what the term ought to mean. BW shot this contest, in which Anthony Stone battles the taller, meatier Biff Busick, in September in Huntingdon Valley, Pennsylvania. Stone and Busick are two raw-boned and hungry-looking fighters, whose sharp, stoic features catch the harsh light just right. The blurry images here capture the strain and exhaustion of a hard-fought battle. Much as I like Blu Ray clarity, I also like the unsettling noirish mood we get in this video.
Monday, November 26, 2012
I was somewhat dubious when Bard recently suggested that Thunder's Arena is taking a more sensuous turn, but now I'm inclined to agree. (At this point it's probably axiomatic that Bard and I will eventually see eye to eye on just about everything, except perhaps the sexiness of beer guts and anchormen.) I would attribute the turn to a number of factors, but chief among them, in my opinion, is Braden Charron, 5'8", 155#. Braden not only brings an uninhibited sensuality to his first rush of matches at his new home, but shines brighter than he ever has before. Clearly, Braden and Thunder's make a neat fit. And I would go so far as to posit, risking hyperbole (as usual), that the company's history may one day be remembered in two major epochs: "Before Charron" and "After Charron." At any rate, it sure looks like Braden is determined to leave a mythically proportioned imprint on the Arena--and test the limits of its PG-13 sensibility.
As evidence I offer two recently viewed matches. First, in his latest, Mat Rats 29, Braden is already breaking in new talent, as he takes on rookie babyface Ken, who has plenty of selling points of his own. For the most part, this match is a classic beatdown, with Braden flexing and grinding Ken down to pulp. But the segment that really caught my imagination is towards the middle of the match, when Ken clutches Braden in a figure-four headlock (as recently noted, one of my favorite holds), smashing Braden's face up against his crotch. The hold is nice enough on its own, but what grabs me is the way Braden sells it, writhing, thrusting, and twisting, throwing every inch of himself into it, from head to the tips of his curled toes. And his yellow string bikini, which he appears to have stuffed with a roll of silver dollars, slips and crinkles with every body spasm, most attractively. It's an image branded on my mind now, and I'm sure I'm going to find some use for it in some future fevered fantasy or such.
No Holds Barred 25, an earlier release, finds Braden in a bedroom match against the equally luscious Batar. This match is more loaded with innuendo than a Restoration comedy, as Batar threatens to shove a squirt gun up Braden's butt and Braden wriggles his cock, this time in a pink polka-dotted string bikini, right in Batar's face. It's basically a regular Arena-style match, frat fun and frolic, with tons of oneupmanship. But played out on a kingsize bed with a wine-colored duvet, the hijinks take on a decidedly erotic heat.
Using a mattress as a wrestling mat heated up No Holds Barred 16, too, about a year ago, with Uno waking Eric Fury up on the wrong side of the bed, so the bedroom angle is not new to the Arena. In fact, Thunder's fun-and-games style has packed a lot of heat for a while now, not all of it subliminal; Braden's arrival is mostly good timing, I guess. For years Big Sexy has played to his gay fans, happy for the attention lavished upon his godlike physique and fearless in his embrace of the homoerotic dimension of wrestling: I think specifically of the moment in the Auditions Video Series when Pee Wee asked Sexy to bearhug him, just because he wanted to know what it would feel like, and Sexy gamely accommodated him, and on many occasions Sexy has not been shy about acknowledging the beauty, even the sexiness, of other men's bodies. There's also Impact's narcissistic self-fondling at the beginning of Battlespace 34, the only time I can think of when a prologue was perhaps a bit hotter than the match. (Bear in mind that I'm not usually a fan of prologues at all.)
I doubt it's in the game plan for Thunder's ever to go triple-X, and I'm not even remotely interested in its taking that particular tack. We already have Naked Kombat and a number of other venues for that sort of depraved fun. Thunder's needs to stay true to itself, but being true to itself means recognizing, as a wise man once put it, "their gay audience (aka, their audience)." (I do buy that Thunder's and UCW and even BG East have female admirers, but I dare say these are females who enjoy Randy Blue, as well.) Everything has to grow and everything has to stay true to itself. It's a struggle to maintain a balance between these two necessities. But stop growing and you stop being alive, and lose your integrity and you lose your identity too. As Braden and other stars of the Arena give us a glimpse of the company's "O" face, it's no less important for Thunder's to remain true to its vision of itself and its mission, to decide which boundaries to preserve, to consider the sensitivities of both its talent and its customers, and, perhaps above all, to keep it fun.
Sunday, November 25, 2012
The so-called "lost" videos at UCW-Wrestling fill particular niches for the company's fan base. They are actually not lost at all, but rather custom matches that, after a period of time, UCW sometimes makes available to the general public at somewhat less than its usual price. For $450 (current price for a custom match), you can be the producer, casting agent, fashion adviser, and writer of your very own special underground wrestling match. These videos run the full 30 minutes (or longer) typical of other UCW productions.
Obviously, a custom match reflects the customer's particular interests in wrestlers, scenarios, gear, and, especially, holds. Quite a few of the lost matches have specialized in gut punching and ball grabbing, two of the trademark moves in UCW's general releases, but in the custom matches the desired action is repeated or sustained continuously for all or nearly all of the 30+ minutes. Some requests arrive with detailed scripts, with dialogue; others merely sketch out the desired action in broad strokes, leaving room for the wrestlers to improvise. Most of the lost videos have not been to my tastes, unsurprisingly, since the customers paid good money to ensure that their customized matches reflect their own personal kinks or fantasies. And even when I share the kink, mechanical repetition can dull almost any form of stimulation.
But Klown-versus-James [#239] comes the closest to what I would have ordered if only I had the moolah. It's a 30-minute figure-four leg choke, shot from different angles, with slight variations in the hold and positioning. Even given my fanaticism for long, groaning body locks on the mat, it would be nice if there were some more variety in this video, some punctuation or stanza breaks to reduce the monotony. But in the right mood, I could appreciate a continuum of scissor holds and chokes, both wrestlers entangled and recumbent on the mat, breathing deeply, moaning, muscles twitching ever so slightly, saving me the effort of having to rewind and replay such a moment in a regular match.
And it's great to see Klown again. His last match against James was over two years ago, in which he wore the same green trunks; I commented on them, in fact. His heart does not seem especially in this match; he has the deadpan stare but not the arrogance and squirrelly intensity of Mark Lander. Still, I always found his half-heartedness on the mat appealing. He always seemed less agitated than the guys he was wrestling. He was good, too--at selling other wrestlers' holds and applying his own holds. In this match, Klown's languor is sexy, his smooth body almost unintentionally causing James unspeakable agonies.
Saturday, November 24, 2012
Missing Max Anderson? Want to see Ethan Axel Andrews* wrestle freestyle, long before he was co-owner of his own wrestling site? Then there's good news for you. Movimus Wrestling now owns the rights to the 300+ pre-August 2011 releases of a now defunct "no holds barred" wrestling site (without the rights to the company's name--hint: its anagram is "tenth blab").
And until next Friday, November 30th, Movimus is running a 20%-off sale with the code "turkey20."
I'd be jumping on this deal myself, except my Internet connection is practically the two-cans-and-a-string variety. (Watching video in ten-second spurts on my laptop is like watching NASA satellite relays from the 1960s.) I have no word yet whether Movimus intends to create original product in the near future, or whether said defunct site is planning a comeback under its old name. Movimus is Latin for "we have moved" (as well as "we have stirred" and "we have aroused"), so the perfect active indicative (the verb form that suggests that an action was completed in the past, with results that continue to the present) could provide a clue (I'm feeling very DaVinci Code this afternoon, apparently).
Who can say? But what once looked to be forever lost has now returned! Thanksgivings, indeed!
* aka Case "CT" Thornton
* aka Case "CT" Thornton
I love me some KENTA, and last Saturday's Pro Wrestling NOAH show, in which he went toe to toe against Yuji Nagata, illustrates why. Nagata, 6', 240#, is hugely popular in Japan right now, mostly because of his stiff chops and penchant for breaking opponents' bones even when he loses. The shoot style of wrestling merges Anglo style professional wrestling with Asian MMA techniques, for more dangerous, punchier full-contact frays. Both Nagata and KENTA, 5'8", 180#, are proponents of the style, with backgrounds in other martial arts, KENTA having been an amateur kickboxer before turning to wrestling in his late teens, Nagata having competed internationally as a Greco-Roman wrestler. KENTA, also hugely popular in Japan, is the better known to American wrestling fans and to me, and this meetup against Nagata has been anxiously anticipated.
I prefer the old-school Southern style of sweaty grappling, as many of you know, but KENTA's stoic demeanor draws me into his fights, even though they seldom employ the kind of grunt-n-groan work on the mat that I enjoy. It's not just that he goes up against much bigger opponents, because a lot of wrestlers do that--in fact, smaller wrestlers have to fight big opponents often if they want to stay in the game. I like the glare of KENTA's eyes and his fearlessness. He's not impervious to pain, but he reserves niceties like facial expressions for when he really feels the pain. Enraged, he flies into his opponent without regard to his personal safety (this does not always go well for him). Several times in this match his temper flares, and he and Nagata go toe to toe for a slugfest (and kickfest, too).
KENTA somewhat reminds me of a mix of Jason Hades and Jonny Firestorm, except, you know, Japanese. He is small but rugged. He's got attitude, but he's not flamboyant about it. (More Takashi Shimura than Toshiro Mifune, if, like me, you're a Seven Samurai fan.) KENTA's got a steely stare. His tight, fit body looks less a product of a fastidious gym regimen than of frequent hard-fought battles in the ring. Dismissive at first, Nagata comes to respect the smaller man for his resilience and feistiness. Both men appreciate a good fight, and they damn near kill each other in this one.
Friday, November 23, 2012
Looking backward with an eye towards analysis is one thing, but looking backward to mine cheap sentiment is nostalgia. I hate nostalgia, the Merchant-Ivory longing, the neverending big game of the eternal high-school quarterback, the hollow familiarity of golden oldies, but I find myself becoming involuntarily more nostalgic the older I get. It comes with the territory, I guess: It being wistful attachment to one's past, the territory being the awareness that now there's more past than future.
I am reaching the end of a decade. Four more months and I am a round number again. I'm old enough to be looking back on my life with a mixture of awe and dismay. It's been a terrific life, riotously happy at times, and it's not over yet. Lately I have been prone to thumb through old photo albums. It amazes me how hot I looked at age thirty. If I could hop into a time machine, I'd wrestle my old self to the ground and rape me. (What jury could convict me?) But now my life is settling down to a well-measured contentment. There are worse things, much worse. My only real regret is that I am currently wasting too much time thinking about the old days. Still, I am pleased I have so much to look back on with delight.
In most ways, fifty-nine has been a banner year for me so far, only two-thirds through. Wrestling-wise, I have ventured out, sometimes solo, sometimes with an accommodating friend, to see some pro wrestling shows, something I had never done before last December. I have enjoyed blogging about my tastes in wrestling, the pleasure dulled only by the awareness that the days when I could instigate an impromptu wrestling match, live, sweaty, and interactive, are long gone. Now I watch videos and YouTube ... sigh ... but don't think for a second that I do not appreciate the profusion and variety of underground wrestling available in the 21st century. I am not so nostalgic as to think that everything old is better than anything new. Far from it. We are now in a veritable golden age (even as I approach my golden years).
Lately, though, I have been thinking about the twentieth-century matches that both reflected and shaped my wrestling tastes. One of my favorite matches of the 1990s is BG Enterprise's High Stakes Wrestling 3, produced in 1996, with Brad Michaels tearing the clothes off former Mr Universe contestant Brandon Reevet. I just noticed yesterday that I have mentioned this match before on this blog--counting it as one of my all-time favorites, identifying it as perhaps the first erotic wrestling video that measures up to my erotic fantasies of wrestling--but I haven't posted many pictures of it or properly reviewed it.
There are several great things about this video, some of which have not often been matched in the subsequent decades. Brad is all hairy aggression, determined to submit and then fuck the living daylights out of smooth, chiseled Brandon. It's a vigorous and authentic display of animal audacity and lust. Beautiful and elegant as he is--and strong, too--Brandon is doomed, doomed like the sleek and graceful gazelle getting clutched and mauled by a faster, hungrier predator on Animal Planet. As with all prey, in time the hope dies in Brandon's eyes and he succumbs, seemingly willingly, to Brad's superior prowess.
The action has nothing stagey or prearranged about it. It's a battle. From the get-go it looks destined to be Brad's to win. If somebody arranged for it to turn out one way or another in advance, it certainly does not show in the fight. Brad simply has what my old friend Dutch used to call the "killer" in his eyes. Brandon doesn't have it. He's got muscle and agility, but in the end appetite and nerve overcome Bowflex and protein powder. It's a splendid contest, 43 minutes' worth: the spandex gets peeled off, the guys get sweaty and hard, the victor takes his prize.
It's obvious that these two are attracted to each other, but it's that complicated attraction I have written about before. To judge by appearances, Brad and Brandon don't want to cuddle, eat cheesecake, and watch Beaches on VHS. They want to struggle. They want the pop and smack of muscle thrusting against muscle. They want to work up a sweat together. They want their hearts to pound and roar before climactically sinking themselves into each other. These guys aren't just joking around, and they're not just wrestling for a paycheck. They bring passion to the fight.
My favorite moment--the one I most vividly remember--is when Brandon is on his back with Brad on top of him. His legs are spread, bracketing Brad's thighs, and he clutches Brad's head under his left arm. The two men huff and puff, buck naked, as Brad struggles to get loose. With his free hand, Brandon reaches down to spank Brad's flexing ass, but Brad thrusts his forearm up to Brandon's chin, forcing back his head. The thrust causes Brandon to arch his body up to Brad's, and Brad's head pops free. Brandon tries to scissor his opponent's waist, but now Brad has the leverage to push himself up on him, chest to chest, belly to belly, cock to cock, with Brandon's palms and ankles clamped to Brad's butt as Brad squeezes and pushes and moans. My words don't do it justice, but let me tell you, it steams my glasses every time.
I don't know what became of Reevet. I'm happy to see that Michaels is still going strong, wrestling under various names at BG East and elsewhere. The man should be an underground folk hero on the basis of this one match. It's one of those rare perfect objects, where every element comes together. There's probably nothing on this video that you can't see in other videos, but nowhere do the pieces fit in place as they do here, and nowhere do you see such brazen lust, groaning strength, and pluck in wrestling.
I would like to see this passion and ability equaled in a 21st-century bout. There's some good stuff out there now, some of it gritty, raw, and primal. For the most part--and forgive me for sounding like an old coot here--a great deal of the wrestling today is played too safe, under too many constraints, with too little heart and vitality, and perhaps too much smirking irony, too. But I must remind myself that what makes High Stakes Wrestling 3 unique was unique even back in the 1990s, when it was produced. I should be happy--and I am--that it exists at all, rather than complain about its rarity.
In America we celebrate something called Thanksgiving on the third Thursday of every November. As best as I can explain it, on this day we are collectively thanking our god for giving the European colonists the wiles and gunpowder to steal the land from people who treated the land with a great deal more respect. The first Thanksgiving was a celebration of the natives' generosity in sharing their winter provisions with starving white men. I don't need to go into what happened next. On a personal level, I am thankful for having had a good life--and when it hasn't been good, it has at least been interesting. And I am thankful for small things which, upon reconsideration in retrospect, are actually quite amazing. There are plenty of these things, I am happy to report, and Brad's taking Brandon down is just one of them.
Thursday, November 22, 2012
New to BG East but long familiar to readers of these pages, Ethan Axel Andrews appears in his most homoerotic match to date in Gloved Gladiators 5, facing hottie Lorenzo Lowe, who made a huge splash facing Eli Black in Wrestler Spotlight: Eli Black. GG5 takes our hero (and friend to this blog--one of the first wrestlers to embrace this hobby of mine) into the BGE ring to spar with Lorenzo, reportedly as a followup to a fevered private motel match, which regrettably nobody filmed, but probably (hint) needs to be recreated in a future Motel Madness.
Axel, of course, has teased us (quite nicely) with the sensuous aspects of grappling in his classic bouts at UCW-Wrestling, Rock Hard Wrestling, and, recently, Freestyle Combat League (which he founded). Over the past three years we have witnessed his UCW gear get tinier and tighter--last month we even saw him wrestle in drag (sort of). And he has never made a secret of his genuine interest in hard, smacking punches and MMA-style fight-clubbing.
I have to admit my ambivalence over boxing--its gear, its science, but especially its eroticism. In pro style wrestling I have long appreciated the corner 10-count, where a wrestler backs his opponent to the corner, stands on the middle rope so that his cock is even with the opponent's upper lip, and rains down a series of angry punches while the crowd counts them out. Forearm punches and chops are a standing tradition in pro wrestling, best used (I think) as punctuation for a lot of sweaty, flesh-against-flesh grappling.
But boxing, I don't know. The gloves, for one thing. Some of them are like balloons at the ends of arms. I find hands, wrists, and forearms sexy, so covering them up just doesn't make sense to me. Of course, in the Gloved Gladiators series, the gloves inevitably come off, providing a striptease as the fighters doff gloves, ear guards, and trunks as the boxing morphs into mat wrestling. But, in the end, it's really the wrestling that gets me. The one thing that has ever turned me on about boxing is the boxing stance: feet shoulder-width apart, one foot (usually the left) ahead of the other, weight resting on the balls of the feet (not the heels), ready to pounce, shoulders hunched and slanted towards the opponent, chin down, hands up with palms towards the face. Very macho. I like.
Andrews versus Lowe is a sequel to the private match we never see. There's a lot of hot talk about Lorenzo wanting payback for some unspeakable humiliation he suffered at Ethan Axel's hands back at the motel. Lorenzo is considerably smaller than Ethan, twenty pounds lighter and a good half a foot shorter. But in Black's Spotlight, it was Lorenzo who gave Eli arguably the toughest fight of the set. Happily, for me, the gloves come off fairly early in the game. Tired of Ethan's sneering domination, Lorenzo explodes, backs Ethan to the ropes, tangling the man's arms against the top rope, and peels off his trunks. The gloves come off so Ethan can feel the fury of his punches as sharply as possible. He presses his cock up against Ethan's incongruously "innocent" face. Now things are getting interesting.
The photos above illustrate the chemistry and heat that percolate between Ethan and Lorenzo. When he regains the upper hand, Ethan reveals a dungeon-master sadism we have never seen in him before. It's pretty damned exciting to be honest, and a far cry from Axel's "Don't be a bully" platitudes as babyface onetime champ at UCW. At BGE, Ethan comes out as a heel who enjoys not only dominating but sexually humiliating his opponent, and he does not mind taking cheap shots to gain the control he craves. What starts out as sparring escalates into a furious, sweat-soaked brawl, with one man victorious, the other knocked clean the fuck out.