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.

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Seriously.

 

It just don’t get better.

Star

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.

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Voyeur

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.

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

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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.

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

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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But he ultimately proved to be too strong.

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