In Friday's post, Alex posed some provocative questions about what's said in a homoerotic wrestling match. Specifically, whether hearing a wrestler taunt his opponent by asking if he's "gay" (by implication meaning weak, wimpy, less than a real man, et.) is a turn-off or perhaps ought to be out of bounds for wrestling for a gay audience. The post generated some fantastic conversation, which is exactly what I expect every time Alex puts pen to paper. His thoughts, coupled with some images I've recently been obsessing over, reminded me of the flip side of the equation, as well: when without so much as a word, a wrestler turns me on full force in an instant with just a look.
The recent photo releases from Can-Am of my long-time favorite wrestler emeritus, Rusty Stevens, in Pro Sex Fight 4 against Kevin Crowes, has been making me sweat buckets. But this particular shot of angelic beauty Kevin sweaty, pumped, and swinging pipe caught my attention. Specifically, look at the look on his face! Fuck that's hot. He's been taking a mauling at the expert hands of Rusty for eons at this point in the match. It's looked like Rusty's got this adonis crushed and sprinkled over an intensely tasty dish of sex served hot, until deceptively pretty Kevin catches the veteran sex wrestling champ getting a tad too cocky, a smidge too over-confident, and just as Rusty is sizing up the slice of beef he's about to eat whole, Keven lays him down, strips him naked, and starts pounding the hell out of Rusty's balls. In an oh-how-the-mighty-have-fallen moment, Kevin takes a strutting victory lap around his opponent's vulnerably body. All that viciousness, all the bile, all that contempt and scorn pouring out of Rusty earlier is doused, and the look of pleasure on Kevin's face sells a whole novel's worth of story to me. The abs, quads, and simply gorgeous cock don't hurt his case either!
Honestly, I've been trying my best to watch BG East's Wrestle Shack 16 all the way through, but fuck me if I can manage to get more than about 5 minutes at a time watched before I'm stoked into delirium and exhaust myself entirely. Holy fuck, Lorenzo Lowe (I don't give a damn what his frat brother's call him, he'll always be bespectacled Lorenzo to me) is an insanely sexy little scrapper. But damn, damn, DAMN when he's getting his crotch ripped apart with muscle bunny fallen archangel Gabriel Ross leaning over top of him, I'm helpless. The look of calm, chill, confident, hungry pleasure on Gabriel's face contrasted with Lorenzo's agony-twisted visage, is worth about 10 orgasms (and that's not counting the one Lorenzo's about to pop).
|Ethan Andrews looks delighted.|
|Tak looks ready for his close up.|
Like Alex suggested, it doesn't take a lot to suck the air right out of a homoerotic wrestling match. Just a word, an implication of genuine contempt for the audience that slapped down plastic to watch, and at least some of us find our buzz killed. And at least for me, the opposite can also be true. As much of a fan of trash talk as I am, some of the sexiest moments that sends fireworks exploding in my head are entirely about one compelling, silent look that tells the most homoerotic wrestling story of all.