Some Blatant Self-Promotion

So, the BGEast annual Bestie awards ballot has been posted, and my match with Mitch has been selected as a finalist in two categories: Best Mat Battle and Sexiest Match.

Of course it was.

You can go vote for me and Mitch here. Don’t make us fucking hunt you down, because we will.

I mean, what could be sexier than me and Mitch? What mat battle could have been better? Everyone else should just withdraw, of course, since they can’t compete.




It just don’t get better.

Beautiful Boy

As I said, Rafe Sanchez just oozes sex appeal. Watching him wrestle in person, his sexy body growing slick with sweat just a yard or so from where I stood with my camera, was an incredibly enjoyable experience. One of the things I liked about him was that, despite his lithe, lean muscled frame, he had no problem taking on guys who had a definitive size advantage over him, like Vlad Varek and Mitch Colby.

Vlad and Mitch also had a titanic battle in the ring of their own; Vlad towered over Mitch, which is no small feat. So, sexy young Rafe was giving up a lot of size to Vlad, but somehow managed to hold his own before going down to a bruising beating in the ring with him, on Ring Rookies 1.

And then, if that wasn’t enough, he got on the mats with Mitch Colby–and I can tell you now, from experience, that son-of-a-bitch is strong. But again, despite giving up some early falls to the bigger man, Rafe got some vengeance–and he enjoyed making the big man submit to him, before going down to defeat (Mat Hunks 9).

You’ve got to love that.

He also embraced the erotic side of wrestling, getting down and dirty with Billy Lodi in Catch Weight 3.

Peter Stallion, the beautiful eastern European stud, and Rafe also got down and dirty in Wrestle Worship 1:

And then there was his sizzling match with Sebastian Rios, X Fights 32: Caribbean Oil.

Yup, I needed to get in the ring with this punk.


Looks like Bard over at Sidelineland finally picked me as Homoerotic Wrestler of the Month again…although just like the last time, I have to share the honor. No worries; both wrestlers I shared the title with are hot as fuck, so I can’t really complain. Of course, this had everything to do with the Mitch match on Motel Madness 14, although I have to admit, I figured he’d pick Mitch since he’s been such a fanboy for so long.

You can read it here. 

Ah, Bard, one of these days we’ll get in the ring together.

Here’s the write-up of the first time I shared Homoerotic Wrestler of the Month.

Ringside at Skull Island also had some good things to say about the Mitch match, as well: Joe’s write up is here.

Here’s a little wayback Wednesday; the start of a story called “A Cowboy’s Work is Never Done,” that was originally published in an anthology called How the West Was Done.

The story was inspired by a BGEast wrestler…as were so many of my stories.

I’ve always had a thing for cowboy wrestlers.

To me, there was absolutely nothing sexier than a man in cowboy boots and black trunks climbing through the ring ropes wearing a pair of black leather chaps and a black leather vest open to show a powerful chest. They were always bad asses—tough stud who always took apart some pretty boy with ease. And there was no one sexier than Top Rope’s Big Bill Tucker. When I first discovered Top Rope’s website (“gay oriented wrestling!”), the front page had a huge picture of Big Bill, dressed exactly as my ultimate fantasy man: a tough sneer on his handsome face, a curly mullet dropping out from under his black hat, one black clad boot up on the lower rope in the corner, in his black trunks and black leather vest. The trunks couldn’t hide the huge bulge; I clicked through to see the match write-up and the pictures of him just taking a handsome muscle stud named Donnie Brooks apart—and the smile on his face showed just how much he enjoyed destroying the good looking young stud. I ordered the tape, and it was one of the hottest and sexiest matches I’d ever seen—Big Bill left Donnie crumpled and broken in the middle of the ring, stripped of his trunks, his big muscular bubble butt up in the air justb begging to be fucked by the big man. But Big Bill didn’t fuck him. He just tucked Donnie’s trunks into the front of his own, growled at him, and then climbed through the ropes and walked out as the camera faded to black. I ordered every tape that had Big Bill on it—and there were a lot of them over the next few years. No matter how much I hoped for a money shot, though, there never was one. Big Bill never took off his own trunks (although he always stripped his beaten foe out of his), and never did anything sexual with the loser. And then, there weren’t any more tapes with him. Like so many others, he’d apparently retired. And while Top Rope always introduced new studs, there was never another cowboy star.

 Apparently, Big Bill broke the mold.

After I went to work for Top Rope, I’d asked the Boss about him, but all I got was a shrug. “Last I heard, he was living in Dallas. He was supposed to come up and tape for us, no-showed, and he stopped returning calls or answering emails.” The Boss had shrugged. “It happens. We were sorry to lose him.”

Yup, I always had a thing for Big Clint Morgan. Day-um.

clint morgan


Who doesn’t love gear?

I know I do. As RuPaul said, “we’re all born naked and everything else is just drag.” Part of the fun and eroticism of wrestling is the thrill of the gear; even if it’s just a thong or a speedo, if it’s the boots and pro trunks and pads and the whole ball of wax.


These were the first–and only–pro trunks I had made specifically for me. Both sets of trunks are actually mine; and those black boots were the first pair of actual pro boots I ever owned. Lacing them up the first time was a huge turn-on for me; almost as big of a turn-on as climbing into a ring for the first time. Here I am, wearing them for the first time:


The vast majority of my gear was purchased on-line, either from eBay or at various wrestling gear sites, like Highspots.

I loved gear, and I loved buying gear; I loved trying it on for the first time. And some of my gear wound up being worn by other wrestlers at BGEast–because I always brought my big bag o’gear with me every time I went to a taping.

Of course, BGEast has the most amazing collection of gear. Sometimes I wore theirs instead of mine. This was my  absolute favorite pair, which also looks fucking amazing on Kayden Keller:

I fucking love those red trunks. I should have stolen them, but then if I had, we wouldn’t have the treat of seeing sexy Kayden wearing them. Damn, he is a sexy boy, isn’t he?

And here’s Rees Wells and I wearing the same pair of trunks. How on earth we could fit into the same pair of trunks is beyond me–the kid is lean and trim.

Speaking of Rees, here we are in the same white speedo.

They don’t exactly fit us the same way, do they?

Likewise, these USA bikini trunks don’t look quite the same on me as they do on Bobby Horton:

It’s also amazing how different you can look in the same gear, at different times, based on facial and body hair.

Okay, I’m also a little leaner on the left. But it also has a lot to do with lighting and poses, too.

You can also look dramatically different from one video shoot to another on the same day. Believe it or not, both of these portraits were taken on the same weekend:

Pretty amazing, huh?

One last shot for you before I am done for today:


Have a good one, bitches.


It is strange to watch a recording of oneself wrestling ; at least it is for me. I don’t watch myself often; I am much too critical of myself to endure this more than once in a great while. I look at myself on-screen and my eyes immediately go to every flaw; the slight pouch of flesh here, the-not-quite-as-defined-as-I-would-like muscles there, until the entire thing becomes an exercise in self-loathing neuroses. I wrestled for years before going in front of the cameras, so having a record of some of my matches, while lovely to have, is also…strange.

I tried writing about how surreal that is in a short story; I don’t remember which one, there are quite a few, but I don’t think I was able to really capture how disconcerting and weird it is to see yourself on your big screen TV in wrestling gear, fighting with another guy. I’ve taped some of my private matches, but as a general rule, I don’t watch them; they’re more of a memento of the match more than anything else.

It was quite strange watching the match with Mitch; what was even stranger about the match was I remembered so much of it wrong. I would have been willing to bet money that the match opened with him coming after me and tying me up in my T-shirt…but I wasn’t wearing one. And watching it…I also found myself wondering about missed opportunities; chances that I would have never passed up if I were wearing my mask. “Why didn’t I knee him in the side there? Why didn’t I choke him with my shorts after he smacked me with them? Why? Why? Why?”

I remember being a bit intimidated by his size; I remember thinking he was a good wrestler as we fought. I also remember that as the match wore on, it began to shift away from being about who could beat who and more about touch, and touching each other. It was kind of hard not to notice his muscularity, since he took every opportunity to flex his arms and back and chest and legs for me, as though daring me, willing me, to touch the hard muscle beneath the smooth, tanned skin.


And you know what? Who am I to say no to a feast of muscles put in my face?


And the wrestling became more erotic, more about touch and feel and pressing our bodies together and rubbing them against each other, all thoughts of winning and losing leaving our minds as the mattress, a former wrestling arena, became a playground for us…two wrestlers with new goals in mind.


And what a beautiful body I had to explore, right there at my fingertips.


And the camera faded to black…and what happens in Vegas, stays in Vegas.

I do wish, though, we’d also done a match in the ring.

A Question of Lust

Once after a spectacularly fun, sweaty and erotic hour or so of wrestling with a wrestler buddy, as we lie naked together on his mats, drained and drenched in sweat, my head resting on his pecs, he said to me, with a bit of a laugh, “You know, wrestling is just another form of rough sex.”

And I realized it was true in many ways; wrestling videos certainly had long replaced pornographic ones for my viewing and masturbatory pleasure. My embrace of the erotic side of wrestling, and its place in my nature and desires, was deep and intrinsic. I often had to warn opponents, before hand, that I would get hard while we wrestled; the contact, the testosterone, the competition and struggle, would be a turn-on for me, but I also never expected anything sexual to come from the wrestling. It was a nice bonus, but wasn’t necessary.

So, there I was, on top of Mitch Colby in a hotel room in Vegas, listening to him breathe laboriously, struggling to get away, to get out from under the hold he was trapped inside, as I tweaked it ever so slightly in order to make it even more painful for him to continue resisting.


Wrestling Mitch, despite the fact it was a tough fight, was also turning me on. Maybe it was the fact the fight was so tough that it was a turn on? Was it an overpowering attraction I felt for him? This match was him at perhaps the physical peak of his body; this was arguably the hottest he ever looked.


He was bigger than me, he was stronger than me. Those shiny trunks hugged his pouch and ass beautifully. And even when I got control of the match and was able to dominate him for a while…he was able to take control back almost ridiculously easily.

And then he would flex  at me, posing, taunting me with his beautifully shaped and defined muscles.


And with his crotch in my face, his muscles flexing and his veins popping, winning the match became less of a concern…but I still wanted to get some punishment in.


But he ultimately proved to be too strong.


Are You Man Enough?

It was strange wrestling without the mask. I’d gotten so used to wearing it, and there was a strange sense of power connected with it; I like to think I’m a fairly nice guy in my day-to-day life, but once that mask went on I turned into someone else. I’d never seen myself as a heel, to be honest…but the Boss was smart enough to know that with a mask on, I’d bring out the nasty, sadistic son-of-a-bitch just below the surface.

I mean, you can see the difference:


Totally different in attitude, look, everything.

So there I was in a Las Vegas hotel room, no mask, getting my ass handed to me by Mitch Colby. He’d gotten two quick submissions out of me, and this match was definitely not going to the way I wanted it to, the way I’d pictured it, the way I’d thought about it.

Then he dragged my workout shorts off me and slapped me with them a couple of times, laughing.

Laughing. At me.

Nobody laughs at Cage Thunder.


Time for a little turnabout is fair play.

Submit, bitch.


Viva Las Vegas

It finally happened when I was in Las Vegas. I couldn’t believe it. After he emailed and set up the match–what were the odds, really, that we would both be in Las Vegas at the same time? I mean, really–I wasn’t entirely convinced it was actually going to happen. So many near misses, so many missed chances, and now, in Las Vegas, no mask?


I got the room set up, and then it was time to wait. And wait. And wait.

I fucking hate waiting.

And then came the knock on the door. I got up, opened the door, and there he was. My heat was pounding. He was wearing shorts, sunglasses (at night, of course), and a black wife beater. He gave me that smirk from that day at the photo shoot, and sneered at me as he took the sunglasses off, “are you ready for me?”

I was. We bumped chests, and then he sent me flying with a shove, backwards onto the mattress I’d set up as our wrestling arena, and as I got back to my feet, he took off his shorts and started taking off his shirt.

He’d gotten under my skin yet again, and I went after him before he had the shirt off.


Yup. I played right into his hands. He was ready for me, expecting it, and was able to use my anger and frustration against me.


Before I knew what was happening, I’d already submitted twice. And I was still wearing my fucking workout shorts.

Mother fuck.

And as you can see from the pictures, he was clearly enjoying making me eat some of the shit I’d been talking on social media…

And you know how good he looks in pictures and on video?

He actually looks better in person.



to be continued….


As my obsession with wrestling Mitch Colby grew, as the heat on social media and on the blogs for this match continued to build, something else happened that was insult to injury; gasoline on a slowly moldering fire.

A photographer–and a good one, at that–had reached out to me about doing a Cage photo shoot with him the next time I was in Florida. As I was also writing, in my spare time, a book about gay wrestling which I would eventually publish under Cage’s name, I thought, what a great idea. I modeled some when I was younger, and I got myself into shape.

Imagine my surprise when I found out that not only was I going to be doing the shoot, but I was going to be joined by Mitch Colby.

You can’t fit it into your schedule to wrestle me, but you can do a photo shoot with me?


Insult added to injury; the shoot was at the ring BGEast was using at the time to tape matches.

mitch portrait wow

In all honesty, the photo shoot was a lot of fun. He was a good guy, we got along well, and even had a few laughs. And there was some chemistry.

the wrestlers

So, why the delay in scheduling? Why was it not happening? I was mystified, confused. But then again, looking back on the whole thing, I now think he was just trying to get inside my head.

mitch cameling cage

That’s an important trick in wrestling; if you can get inside your opponent’s head, it’s half the battle. He was driving me crazy, and I was getting incredibly frustrated.

cage sleepering mitch

And when the shoot was done, he smirked at me and said, “okay, we’ll do this. But not in a ring and you don’t wear a mask.”

Fucking finally.

Got a Hold on Me

There is nothing we want so much as that what we cannot have, what is denied to us. The grass is always greener, that promotion we didn’t get would have made everything perfect,  the one that got away…it’s a theme in literature and film and music that never wears out, never becomes tired, because it’s something we can all relate to; every human being has wanted something they couldn’t get. Moby Dick, for example, is about Captain Ahab’s obsession with the great white whale; The Great Gatsby, Gatsby’s obsession with Daisy Buchanan, on and on and on, one after another another, ad nauseum, ad infinitum.

My great white whale was turning out to be Mitch Colby. The more I wanted the match, the more it moved just out of my grasp.

And insult to injury, it seemed like every fucking new catalogue had yet another Mitch Colby match in it.


The guys on the message boards worshiped him like he was Apollo come to earth. The bloggers waxed euphoric about his physical perfection, his skills, how he filled his trunks.

Meantime, I seethed.


He wrestled everyone, big or small, pro or mats, inside or outside.

Everyone but me.

So I started calling him Mitch the Bitch, and it kind of caught on with the other guys.

It happens.

(to be continued)