On an unrelated note, I thought I'd update you about my hacked email account. I changed all my security settings, but my account was continuing to be used to send spam to my small list of contacts. Worse, my hope that perhaps the spammer was a hot, ripped young punk (picture Johnny Lee Miller via Hackers... I am...) just wanting to stir things up and perhaps grab my attention for an invitation to wrestle, appears to be unfounded (the coward). I've killed off that email account in the hopes that a slash and burn approach will kill the invader's opportunity to annoy my online friends. My email access has migrated, and I feel somewhere in between a full-on resurrection and an enlistment in the witness protection program.
I've also noted, as has an eagle-eyed reader, that some of the muses for my homoerotic wrestling fiction has been showing up in the internet spotlight in the past couple of days. Every time there's a new photo shoot of Andrew Stetson, I get requests to revive his role as a player in the Producer's Ring secretarial pool. His selection as Socialite Life's Male Model Monday boy earned him another pitch from a reader wanting to see him in action again. If only Andrew knew the profoundly loyal fans he has among the homoerotic wrestling crowd!
I totally get it. Andrew's a smoking hot model. I love his ink. I love his eyes. I adore his abs. I'm a little intoxicated with staring at the boa constrictor that appears to be coiled up in the pouch of his underwear.
I'll have to double check my story line, but I think for there to be any semblance of literary continuity, Andrew will have to be pulled off of duty as Luke's personal whipping boy in order to find himself front and center, starring in another Producer's Ring wrestling match. He's been seriously crushed in body, mind, and spirit, and seeing him again will be nothing short of a resurrection. As is evidenced by my feelings at claiming a new email address, that's not out of the question. Whether he's resurrected in the manner of Calvary or more like Pet Sematary, remains to be seen.
I was also pleased to see over at Homotrophy another muse, namely Bernardo Velasco, has momentarily claimed the front page. Bernardo showed up as the model for a fighter in the most recent chapter of my superhero series at Sidelineland. I received a couple of comments adoring his tag team partner in that story, but no one has mentioned being quite as enamored with Bernardo as I am.
And speaking of smuggling astonishing wildlife in the pouch of your underwear... holy shit. Can you develop lower back problems hoisting around that much mass hanging from your crotch? Good lord almighty, if anyone has a pic of Bernardo's cock, you must send it to me immediately. We'll negotiate your reward.
In my imagination, Bernardo's form is transposed onto a character I've dubbed "Remote" for his power to manipulate his opponents' bodies telekinetically. Indeed, he has our protagonist, Nova, in a bad way, beating the living crap out of him from across the arena. He has Nova in a bad way, that is, until Nova remembers that he also has an ability to manipulate his opponents from a distance. In Nova's case, it's the ability to ignite his opponent's libido, and once Nova grabs hold of the initiative, he quickly has Remote gasping defenseless on his knees with precum dripping from the head of his cock "like a leaky faucet."
If anyone has a picture of Bernardo specifically in that situation, you can pretty much name your price.
In any case, despite my absence from posting new fiction, and despite the death of the email address I've had for years, I'm still alive, still obsessed with homoerotic wrestling, and looking forward to more fully engaging my imagination for my (and, by extension, your) entertainment soon.