A journal of self discovery and figuring out why I like the erotic wrestling things I like. For more content, check out: https://guywrestlingaddiction.blogspot.com/
Everything Great About a Match: Reid Hawthorne v Ricky Clayton (bgeast.com)
Everything Great About a Match: +6
Reid Hawthorne v Ricky Clayton (bgeast.com)
SPOILER ALERT: I highly recommend viewing this match in its entirety before reading this post.
So let's begin:
+1: I love how full of himself Reid can be. That sexy lean body could go heel, could go jobber, it all depends on how he's feeling that day but above all the man knows he's hot. It's no secret that Reid/Rudd is an instant buy for me and it's attitude like this that seals the deal for me.
+1: A point for jobber Reid. I drooled a little seeing jobber Reid stretched out. Those abs, that hairy chest, that amazing body stretched out and at the mercy of Ricky. Some wrestlers only know how to do one thing but not Reid, the man can sell the punishment with the best of them.
+1: Speaking of selling it. Let's talk about the audio here, now some wrestlers neglect parts of their performance but it really takes the whole package - the visual combined with the moans, groans, and the little noises that sells the pain. Reid makes you feel every stomp and every smack on your laptop. Having Reid job for you is a masterclass in ASMR.
+1: A point for Reid in heel mode. Then suddenly, Reid turns the tables and he's back on top. You gotta love how comfortable the man is as both heel and jobber. The man is a natural, equally skilled in both the fine art of taking and dishing out punishment.
Reid: The right heel, back on top... Yeah!
+1: Finally, Ricky deserves a point for slowly draining Reid of all that heel energy and showing him, that he's the dirtiest fighter between the two of them. I mean just listen to that bearhug - Reid is completely drained and left at the mercy of Ricky! This has got to be slowest, sexiest, most draining bearhug I've seen awhile - bonus point for this [+1].
Reid's pathetic whimpering almost deserves a point on to itself!
I can feel my own ribs being squeezed by proxy and love how cocky Reid is put in his place. This angle especially, not one we normally see in the ring, emphasizes just how spent Reid is.
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Everything Great About this Match: +6
So there you have it. This is a knockdown drag out between who could fight the nastiest. Reid is just too cocky for his own good and Ricky shows how to bring the man down by humiliating him with low blow after low blow until the end where the loser simply cannot go on. You could turn your laptop screen off and simply listen to how hot this match is and get by with the audio alone. Listen as the fight is slowly drained from Reid and the once proud man is left a quivering mess.
Everything Great About a Match: Rudd Hawthorne v Tanner Hyde (wrestler4hire.com)
Everything Great About a Match: +6
Rudd Hawthorne v Tanner Hyde (wrestler4hire.com)
SPOILER ALERT: I highly recommend viewing this match in its entirety before reading this post.
So let's begin:
+1: A point for Rudd of course. That strapping body will always receive a point in my opinion. The guy lacks that typical wrestling body (in a good way) and instead uses that lanky, thin body of his to its full potential.
+1: For the size difference. Tanner is more like that typical wrestling build. Small, compact, yet powerful is the name of the game with most wrestlers and seeing that 'wrestler build' trounced by the Not-a-wrestler build is worth a point. Makes me think about all the non-wrestlers out there who think they could take on wrestling.
+1: Seeing our wrestlers glistening in sweat. These two guys put in the effort and it shows. In truth, I bought this match with full intention of focusing on Rudd but Tanner shines (literally). Both men radiate with manly sweat and emphasize the reality here, wrestling is work and the best wrestling is two men pushing each other. [+1] Bonus points for all the close ups of both men - whoever shot this really puts you in the action. I can almost feel the heat and smell the sweat wafting off of both wrestlers.
+1: For the domination. Tanner is clearly doomed from the start. Our little wrestler has no hope against the tall Rudd. All those hours Tanner spent in the gym to hone that body of his to the zero percent body fat tank that he is was all in vain, in the end Rudd is the superior man. Rudd not only dominates him physically but also verbally, emasculating him at every chance. Just listen for all the times Tanner whimpers and groans and picture Rudd powering up with each utterance - every sign of submission feeding our heels ego and making him stronger.
Rudd: Yeah, you like that view?!
Tanner: *Muffle* *Muffle*
+1: The inevitable worship. I say inevitable because come on look at Rudd. The man is a triumph and who wouldn't want to admire that body. The man combines a certain masculine attitude that can't be denied. The sun rises, the sun sets, and men like Rudd get admiration and worship from jobbers, it's the way of the world.
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Everything Great About this Match: +6
So there you have it. As most of you know, I'll buy anything with Rudd appearing in it and this match shows you why - that atypical wrestling heel, Rudd punishes a thirsty jobber. I wrestled in high school and I'd always see guys out there challenging us to fights to prove their manhood. This match takes me back to how a few strapping non-wrestlers out there might fare against an eager wrestler, wanting to win but yearning more to be put in his place.
Everything Great About a Match: Kendall Hawthorne v Bennett (can-am.com)
Everything Great About a Match: +5
Kendall Hawthorne v Bennett (can-am.com)
SPOILER ALERT: I highly recommend viewing this match in its entirety before reading this post.
So let's begin:
+1: A point for all the close ups of Kendall. The man is totally hot when he's dominating his opponent and equally well when he's laid out. Kendall shines throughout the match and I don't care what anyone says the guy is the star here.
+1: For Bad Bennett making his namesake come true by fingering his opponent. There is no hotter way to emasculate a hot hairy hunk; Kendall fights between loving and hating this move. The guy can't give it up within the first 5 minutes but you can tell he wants to.
+1: For all the low blows. Kendall is made to regret showing off that hairy tight body. Afterall serves him right for flaunting that sexy weapon around.
+1: For all the manhandling. Kendall is Bennett's plaything. Things start off bad and then only get worse as the match goes on. Kendall fights back. The man is a fighter after all. But every fighter has his limit and he goes from stallion to drooling jobber by the end.
+1: Bennett is only human and the guy can't resist giving Kendall a good feel before trashing that hot body. I mean can you blame the guy? With that hot body on display, Bennett pops a long lingering rub down.
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Everything Great About this Match: +5
So there you have it. Kendall puts up a solid fight and even comes around a few times before Bennett completely destroys him. Did I say destroy I meant, humiliate, degrade, making Kendall his own personal plaything and that's the beauty of this match. It really is everything to love about gay wrestling.
Everything Great About a Match: Santiago Sandoval v Reid Hawthorne (bgeast.com)
Everything Great About a Match: +7
Santiago Sandoval v Reid Hawthorne (bgeast.com)
SPOILER ALERT: I highly recommend viewing this match in its entirety before reading this post.
So let's begin:
+1: Reid Hawthorne is the man. There is no doubt about it this deserves a point. Watching that strong, hairy, lanky body trash his opponent is a dream. Watching said opponent take it with barely enough strength to fight back is why gay wrestling is the king of porn.
+1: For the sweaty worship. You can tell that Santiago can't handle this. This being Reid's sweaty hairy chest, his pits, or his arms. Reid makes the big submit to the very arms that put him down. Hell that deserves a bonus point for how eager Santiago goes at it [+1].
+1: For how easily Reid turns Santiago into a whimpering mess. Enter one muscle stud named Santiago and then later said muscle stud is left a groveling mess. Reid may be outmuscled but he more than makes up for it and overwhelms his opponent.
Santiago: You think you can take this?!
Reid: [smirk]
Reid: Not much left? Too fucking weak?
+1: For the ab abuse. Reid goes all out abusing his muscular opponent but he saves just enough aggression (jealousy?) for those abs.
+1: For the give and take. This match gives you just enough hope to believe that Santiago could win. That Reid could be dethroned. Anything could happen in gay wrestling and while squash jobs are fine, I need to see our heel punish as well as suffer.
+1: For how thoroughly dominated and humiliated Santiago is in this match. This match brings together everything great about gay wrestling - the domination, the submission, the humiliation. All of these ingredients comes together to form the perfect experience of one man's agony and another's ecstasy.
Hand over the mouth while you grab their crotch!
That look of pure submission. That you could never match your opponent.
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Everything Great About this Match: +7
So there you have it. I'm ashamed to say that I've stepped away from gay wrestling lately but now I'm back for a bit. Reid makes the action real and Santiago is the eager jobber awaiting his beating. If you ever have that fantasy of a david-goliath, smaller wrestler beats down a behemoth, or if you simply can't stop watching Reid Hawthorne in all his forms - then this match is for you. \
Blond Jock: 19 Years old, 6'3"
Tech Bro: 20 Years old, 6'1"
My heartbeat is loud enough to count. And then he steps through the ropes. The Jock.
I’ve watched him a hundred times. Studied the timing, the angles, the way he uses the ring like it’s a stage built for him. None of that prepares me for the fact that he’s real. Ten feet away. Looking straight at me. My mouth goes dry.
I’m a fan. A huge one. A lifetime “this is my guy” kind of fan. I’ve got the posters, the clips saved, the habit of rewatching his comebacks when I’m supposed to be doing literally anything else. I’ve imagined this moment so many times it should feel familiar.
He rolls his shoulders, smirks, and tilts his head like, Well? The crowd cheers him. I swear the ring itself does too.
Inside, my brain is screaming: I’M IN THE RING WITH HIM.
His forearm snaps into place. My hand finds his shoulder. Our bodies press, and for a second I think I’m holding my own, that maybe the months of training, the hours of drills, the sheer desperation in my bones might matter.
The corner comes up fast. Turnbuckles dig into my shoulders and the ropes vibrate behind me. He keeps the collar-and-elbow, leaning in, and his face is close enough that I can see the sweat on his brow, the cool certainty in his eyes. Then he lets go and starts working.
Short punches. Tight, controlled, right into my midsection. Not wild. Not sloppy. Professional cruelty with perfect spacing. Each shot steals air and replaces it with white noise. The crowd reacts with every thud like they’re part of the rhythm.
I fold, instinctively, and he traps me there, forearm across my chest, body blocking the exit. Another punch. Another.
My hero. My nightmare.
One hand snakes into my hair, right at the crown, and he pulls me up. Not a yank, not a jerk, just enough to make the message unmistakable: You move when I say. My head tilts back. My feet scrabble for balance.
“Come on,” he says, like we’re friends and he’s spotting me at the gym. “Give me your best shot. Fight back.”
There’s a grin in his tone. Not kind. Not cruel. Just… amused.
I rush him before I can overthink it. My hands plant high on his chest, fingers spreading into a claw-like grip the way I learned, the old-school nerve-hold sell. It’s staged, it’s wrestling, it’s pressure and performance and control. My palms press, my fingers curl just enough to make him feel it without doing harm.
And the look on his face when the surprise hits him…
His smugness cracks for a heartbeat. Not fear. More like: Oh. You’re not just decoration.
I’m still a fanboy in my soul, but in this moment I’m also a wrestler, and the power of that is dizzying. I push him back a step. Then another. I can feel his chest hair under my hands, the tension in his frame as he sells the shock.
I step behind and swing an elbow into his upper back, near the shoulder blade. Clean. Controlled. The kind of shot that gets a whoa! from the crowd when it lands right.
He bends forward, one hand flying to his chest like he’s checking his breath. I can’t see his face, but I can see the line of his back, the way his long legs brace.
He drops to the mat on his side while turning, and I dive for his legs. Wrap them up. Clamp my arms around his shins near the ankles, pressing them down like I’m trying to pin the wrong end of a statue.
He's just a man, he's beatable, but what I can't resist are those huge manly size 14 feet.
Something primal erupts in me and I forget the match entirely.
I scramble back and climb fast. Top rope. The crowd rises with me.
He’s down. Perfect.
I launch, elbow tucked, aiming for the dramatic landing, the big comeback moment every fan dreams of. I’m mid-air and the lights are blinding and the mat is rushing up to meet me and I can already hear the cheer in my head.
Then he moves. Both knees come up like a trapdoor snapping shut.
I see them too late.
His arm snakes around my head, tight and mean, and he yanks me into a standing headlock that makes my world tilt sideways. Not choking. Just grinding control. His ribs press into my temple. His bicep is a steel bar. His stance is wide, stable, effortless.
He talks while he holds me, loud enough for the front row.
“Still want that best shot?”
The crowd laughs. My face burns. I push at his hip. Try to slip free.
He tightens the hold just long enough to make the point, then shifts his grip and hauls me up.
Over his shoulder. For a moment, I’m weightless and helpless and staring at the blur of lights as his long legs step forward.
Then he drops me into the canvas with a body slam so crisp it feels like punctuation.
The mat squeaks. The ropes shake. My ribs ring. He stands over me like he’s posing for a poster.
I roll instinctively, trying to crawl away, trying to find air, trying to find anything.
He drops behind me and threads his legs around my midsection, crossing his ankles in a classic body-scissors squeeze. The pressure isn’t injury. It’s control. It’s the kind of squeeze that turns breathing into a chore.
His thighs clamp. My core compresses. My lungs argue. He leans close so his voice hits my ear like a command.
“Surrender, Tech Bro. Now.”
Instead, he drags me into position like he’s writing the ending he wants. He drops into a cocky cover, lounging across me with the casual certainty of someone who knows the cameras are watching.
One… two…three.
Then he does it.
He stands, steps around my head, and plants his foot lightly along the side of my face, cheek/temple area, controlled and showy. Not crushing. Not cruel. Just the kind of humiliating little exclamation point that heels live for.
I can feel the mat under my skull, the heat of the lights, the pressure of his foot like a brand.
And I hate how much my brain records the details: the sole texture, the dust, the balance in his ankle. The way his long leg looks like it belongs in a statue.
He looks down with that smug expression again, and his eyes say: This is my ring.
The crowd reacts like they’ve been waiting for it.
That primal urge is back and in front of thousands of people I subject myself to his domination. I need to feel anything from him, anything even if it's humiliation. He dominated me and I need to show him he's won.
I need those feet to make me feel owned.
He doesn’t even look back at first.
So I follow. I follow him out of the ring and to the locker room.
I didn’t get his mercy.
But I got his attention.
And for a fan like me, obsessed with the myth of the blond jock, that tiny glance feels like a trophy I’ll carry for weeks.
I limp after him, because apparently primal urges for his feet is not something I can stop.
Canadian Hero: 25 Years old, 6'1"
K-Pop Stars: 21 Years old, 5'10" and 21 Years old 5'10"
I stood alone in the ring under hard white lights, rolling my shoulders loose and letting the noise crash over me. They weren’t here for me tonight.
When the music hit, the arena changed temperature. Screams, blue light sticks, phones raised. The K-pop kid stepped through the curtain in baby-blue trunks and matte boots, fringe skimming his brows, wearing that idol smile like armor. The crowd loved him so loudly it felt personal.
I waited in the center, maple leaf bright on my waist. I’m honest. I’m not a cheap-shot artist. I’m a pro. So when he slid between the ropes, I gave him a clean lock-up.
And then I took control.
He was quick, but I was quicker to the point. I cinched him, turned him, and ragdolled him into an Irish whip so hard his boots skated before the ropes snapped him back. The recoil fed him right into me. I sent him again and he hit the corner with a thud that made the turnbuckles shiver.
He tried to reset.
I didn’t allow it. I crushed him in the corner, chest-to-chest, forearm high, pinning him into the pads until he disappeared under my frame. The ref started a count, the crowd screamed, and I leaned in just enough to make the point: you can be beloved and still be outmatched.
When he slumped out, I didn’t bother with flourish. I lifted and dumped him over the top rope in a controlled toss. He hit the padded floor outside and scrambled, trying to find his knees.
I straightened up in the ring and raised my arms. Confident. Triumphant. Honest work.
Then something hit my back.
A blur of baby-blue and gloss boots slid in like a secret. Another Korean kid, slightly taller, messy quiff, small flag tattoo flashing on his shoulder. He cracked me from behind before I could even turn.
My stomach dropped with something colder than pain: betrayal.
The first idol rolled back in, and suddenly it was two-on-one. One of them hooked me from behind to stall me while the other stepped in front and started snapping punches into my chest and shoulder, clean enough to pass, mean enough to bruise. I tried to twist free, but the hold behind me made every move cost double.
They squeezed me in a double bearhug, both of them seated in tight, arms locked around my ribs like a coordinated clamp. Taller, stronger, heavier, none of it mattered when my lungs had nowhere to expand.
Then they set the backbreaker. One knee, then the other. My back arched across their raised thighs, my body bridged into a bend I didn’t choose, lights splintering into bright squares overhead.
They weren’t done. One kept me pinned while the other spread a hand across my abdomen, that theatrical ab claw that’s half show and half humiliation. It wasn’t the pressure that made my blood boil. It was the grin. The idea that my match had become their skit.
I caught a break when the taller one got too close. I hooked him, hauled him up, and ripped him into an over-the-shoulder throw, hurling him straight into his partner like a warning shot. They tangled in blue and surprise and the crowd gasped.
That was my window. I stomped one of them to keep him down, then turned to face the other, chest heaving, jaw set. I wanted him to look at me and understand: I’m not your highlight reel.
And that’s when the low blow hit.
From behind. Cheap. Ugly. Pain detonated through me, my knees buckling, the arena noise turning into a distant ocean.
They dragged me out flat and each took an arm, pulling hard in opposite directions until my shoulders lit up with warning. Canvas against my spine. Their grips clinical, confident, like they’d planned it and saved it for the moment I couldn’t fight back.
I bared my teeth and stared up at the ceiling, furious and refusing to break.
Because I’m honest. I’m trustworthy. And the second I find my base again, somebody’s getting paid back.
Is the Canadian muscleman finished? To be continued ...
What turned me gay (not really) ... This post, inspired by the sidelineland.com blog, takes a tongue and cheek look into "what made me gay (not really)" and my journey of discovery really went into overdrive with one man: Mr. Troy Baker.
The Background
I uncovered Bgeast at a pivotal point in my life. I was just coming into my own as a gay man and the company made a lot of things clearer for me. Epiphany isn't the right word here but it's sure damn near close. To quote the great Shane McCall in an interview:
Shane McCall: ...[Gay Wrestling] validated us in being who we are. They didn't feel weird. They didn't feel like a misfit or out of a community.
But I digress and my gay wrestling revelation would not be complete without the angelic Troy Baker.
Not only was he the star of the first Bgeast match I purchased, he was someone that solidified by interest in gay wrestling. In fact here's the man himself getting schooled by Shane McCall in a stand out match - Jobberpoloozer 4.
I mean they simply do not make wrestling matches like this anymore ...
Surprisingly, Troy wasn't my first Bgeast crush. In fact, the first wrestler that actually caught my eye was Brigham Bill - there was just something about him straddling Dino Sierra in that image that took hold of me and didn't let go.
So now with both my first infatuation, Brigham, facing off against Troy - it was something I couldn't miss.
Brigham (like all heels!) simply could not keep his fists off of Troys abs.
And more ab abuse ...
Yes other wrestlers caught my eye over the years: Flyboy, Kenny Star, Mason Brooks, Nathan Sargent. But none of them had anything on Troy "Heel bait" Baker, the man was the beginning and the end of gay wrestling as far as I was concerned.
Troy was beautiful, sure. Gorgeous, even. But the internet is an endless supply of handsome men, so that wasn’t the hook.
No, Troy was special because he was that somehow contradicting combination of fragility and toughness.
Troy will forever be etched into my mind for that reason alone. Watching a Troy Baker match felt like seeing something exquisite get shattered into pieces, then somehow, impossibly, forged back into one whole thing again. And definitely something that turned me gay.
Blond Jock: 19 Years old, 6'3"
The Body Breaker: 36 Years old, 6'0"
Under his legs I feel small.
He threads my thigh, clamps the knee, and the ring stops being a square and becomes a vise. Then his hand spreads over my chest—pec claw—fingers flat, heavy, certain. It isn’t pain first; it’s ownership. The muscle flutters under his palm like it’s trying to leave my body. My breath starts talking back to me—short, hissed, embarrassed.
I hear the crowd love him and I hate that I understand why. He’s taller, cleaner under the lights, an easy picture to cheer for. Jealousy tastes like battery on my tongue. I ball a fist anyway—every drill, every mile, every early morning gathering into one hit—and drive it into his chest.
He laughs.
Not loud. Not cruel. Worse—amused. The audience catches it and the chuckle spreads, warm and wide, and suddenly I’m a story they’re telling each other. I feel heat climb my neck. It’s not from the effort.
I slip, spill to my belly, and crawl. Canvas bites my forearms. If I can just snag a rope, I’ll get a breath, a reset. My lungs are greedy—dragging air in like it owes me money.
Then he steps in and kicks me from behind. So much for being the good guy, I guess even good guys have their limits. All that trash I threw his way is coming back to me as he forces his leg into me.
He gathers me up—wrist, chin, the back of my balance—and the arena blurs into a hot halo. I feel his arms cinch from behind: ribs locked, diaphragm pinned. The pressure isn’t dramatic; it’s decisive. Each breath shrinks in the hold like laundry in a too-hot wash. My hands scratch at his wrists and find nothing to move. The ref asks. I hear him as if he’s down a hallway.
What I feel most is exposure. Not pain—exposure. My mistakes, my hopes, my rehearsal of triumph—all of it laid flat under the same lights that make him beautiful.
I want to be him for one second. I hate that thought as it forms.
The squeeze tightens, and little white flecks dance at the edges of the hard-cam. There’s an urge to keep fighting because that’s who I say I am, and an older, quieter urge to be honest about what’s left in the tank. Humiliation is heat in my face. Jealousy is a pebble in my shoe I can’t shake. The feeling in my chest is simple: I am beaten.
My palm taps. Once. Twice.
He releases and I fold to the mat in parts—knees, hips, shoulders—listening to my own breath return like a tide. The crowd sounds far away. What stays close is the ache of almost: the stubborn, aching sense that victory was right there and got peeled off me one clean, public inch at a time. I lie still, swallowing the sting, and promise myself I’ll remember exactly how this feels.
The last thing I remember seeing is that stupid smirk with a shit eating grin. He got me, he knows it. All because I got carried away and lingered too long on that beautiful golden body.
Blond Jock: 19 Years old, 6'3"
The Body Breaker: 36 Years old, 6'0"
When we last left off I was squeezing the Kid's abs...
I hook his wrist, dip my hips, and the blond sails—then drops straight down onto my posted knee. Atomic drop, clean as a whistle. The crowd gasps for him; I grin for me. He’s taller than me, but in this instant he’s weightless—then very, very aware of gravity. He stumbles forward a step, hands splaying to find balance, blue eyes flashing like he can’t decide whether to glare or breathe. I can’t help it—I drink in the sight. He’s beautiful, ridiculous, infuriating. And he’s mine to move.
“C’mon, golden boy,” I murmur, loud enough for the hard cam. “Show ‘em how tall you look from your knees.”
Humiliation is a tool. It rattles timing, scrambles the feet, makes even smart wrestlers forget the next beat. I circle as he steadies. He throws a long-arm swipe; I slip under, cut an angle, and we’re down—my shoulder slotted under his ribs, my arms cinched. Side bearhug on the mat. He wheezes air over my ear as I squeeze. I kiss his ear, just a taste, but he tastes better than I thought.
Long body, not a lot of mass, all leverage and lines—exactly the kind I love to fold. He claws at my wrists, trying to peel space; I ride the roll and swing a leg over so I’m straddling his back, knee posted between his shoulder blades. He’s strong, but I’m stubborn. I pin one wrist and make him carry me, make him feel me. The crowd hates it. The hate tastes great.
He bucks, almost gets a knee under him. I flow with it—let him think he’s up, then snag the head and a thigh and stand. The world tilts for him. Over-the-knee backbreaker. He arches over my posted leg, every muscle drawn like cable.
That noise he makes—half breath, half pride—fires something in my chest I refuse to name. I clamp the hold and grind a heartbeat longer, then shift the cradle so his head is under my arm. I don’t crank the neck; I just trap him—control, not cruelty—folded across my knee, his spine begging me to stop, his chin tucked in my armpit as I talk to the hard cam.
“Too long to last, superstar,” I tell him. “Bend.”
The ref barks at me—enough—and I let him slide, only to catch a fistful of air at his hip and haul him upright. He’s unsteady; I’m electric. I march him to the ropes like a trophy. The top rope bites his stomach as I spread my arms to the side, presenting him, soaking in the boos. The whole arena lifts for him even when he’s folded over steel. I get the heat. He gets the halo. That’s the deal with a darling: every breath is applause.
I lean in close. “They love you,” I say, low. “I like that they watch me bend you.”
Humiliating him—making him feel how small tall can be—is almost better than the winning itself. Almost. But beneath the scorn and the swagger, a quieter current hums. I know how he moves before he moves. I know the rhythm of his lungs. I know his tells: the way his shoulders twitch before he spins, the half-second he needs to reset his stance. It’s not just experience; it’s attention. Too much attention.
I linger.
He smells musty, like a man who works hard. A guy you want protecting you with those big strong arms only this time those arms are mine. This 6'4" man of muscle is my plaything. It's intoxicating.
Just a second. Just long enough to feel the heat coming off him, to admire how clean his lines look even when they’re breaking. Long enough to let the cheers for him ripple through me like static. Long enough to forget that I’m supposed to be two beats ahead instead of one beat lost. But I can't help myself.
He doesn’t waste the gift.
A palm plants. A hip shifts. He slides off the rope, slips low, and I reach wrong—too high, too proud. He tumbles to his left hip with the grace I pretend doesn’t thrill me and scythes those long legs around my head. Ankles cross. Hips lift. Side headscissors locked before I can blink the sweat out of my eyes.
The mat rushes close as my balance disappears. I’m down on a knee, then flat on my side, hands flying to the cross of his ankles. I can feel the pulse in my cheek, steady as a drum, matched to the roar building for him. He deserves it. I hate that. I love that. I hate that I love that.
I let the jealousy burn, let the secret admiration burn hotter, and convert both into numbers and angles. I find the hinge of his ankles with my knuckles, and I stop listening to how alive the crowd sounds for him. Somewhere under the noise, I hear my own heartbeat again—steady, mean, certain. I’m the Body Breaker. I don’t have to be taller; I don’t have to be prettier. I just have to be closer, heavier, more relentless.
He squeezes. I smirk back through the pressure, because even now, even here, some part of me is thrilled he’s good enough to make me work.
“Okay, golden boy,” I grunt, shifting my hips and threading the wedge. “Let’s see how long you can lasts.”
Blond Jock: 19 Years old, 6'3"
The Body Breaker: 36 Years old, 6'0"
I knew the second he slid through the ropes that I hated him.
Not just “heel hates babyface.” I mean the real kind — the kind where you’re looking at a kid who got everything you didn’t. Six-four, blond, stupid handsome, even his body hair looks like it was groomed for a photoshoot.
We come to center and I can smell the arena lights baking sweat off him already. He’s taller — obviously — so I walk in chest first and make him bend. I smirk up at him.
“Come down here, golden boy.”
He grins back, stupid confident. “You sure, old man?”
We lock up — collar-and-elbow — and I feel it right away: kid’s got real leverage. Long arms. Long legs. Even slim like that, he can lean and make me move. I drop my hips, dig my boots in, but I can feel the height. That’s the part I hate — feeling someone taller than me. I can work around being heavier, stronger, faster. Taller? Taller is a constant reminder.
So I do what I always do: I cheat the angle.
I bump him once, make him take a step. On the second push I drop — straight down — and his eyes go wide because he wasn’t ready for me to disappear. My hands are on his ankle before he can retract it. Bare foot, long, tanned, veins on the top — even his foot looks like a model’s — and I yank.
“Down you go.”
He spills, big red-trunked tree coming down, and I’m already between his legs, grabbing the other one, splitting him just enough — not dirty, just enough — to keep him flat. You neutralize tall guys on the floor. That’s the rule. Height is a weapon until they’re horizontal.
He tries to sit up — I shove him back down by the shin. “Nope. Stay long for me.”
I keep his legs out, spread just shoulder-width, heel on the canvas. It’s petty, but I enjoy it — keeping him down, making him the same size as me.
He’s slowed, so I slide up his back. Real hairy kid — arms, chest — but it still looks like it belongs on a swimsuit cover. I hook his arms over my thighs and lace my taped hands under his chin.
He groans — real one, not overacted — and his back bows. I pull harder.
“How’s the view now?” I ask him, because I want him to remember I had him on the mat. “Crowd still love you down there?”
He claws at my wrists; I can feel his lats working under me, long and lean. I pull farther, just to hear that air leave him. This is the good part — the part where they all see that the handsome one can be bent.
But handsome ones always have a second wind.
He powers up on me faster than I thought — kid’s fresh. He rolls, shrugs out, and we’re both up — and then he’s on me. He steps in and wraps those long arms around my ribs and squeezes.
Not a lazy bearhug either — this is a real one. He sets his bare feet wide, hips in, and lifts me enough that my boots scrape the canvas. My ribs get pulled into him, and his chest hair is right in my face. I hate how solid he feels.
“Got you now,” he breathes, smiling. And damn it — I can’t breathe that well. He’s got the angle, under my arms, elbows in. Every time I try to pry, he pulses the squeeze — little shakes, just enough to knock air loose. I squint, teeth showing, because I do not want to sell for this kid, but it’s tight. And I hate — hate — that it’s tight.
For a second, black creeps in at the edges, and I think, this is how the crowd wants it: shiny tall boy crushing the hairy heel.
He drops me.
I land on my knees, boots splayed, sucking air. He stays standing, chest heaving, sweat on that blond hair. The whole place pops like someone took the lid off.
He throws his arms out — flexes — not even that big but the height makes it look big. He looks down on me. That’s the worst angle for me — being eye level with his trunks while he poses.
“Yeah!” he shouts at them. “That all you got?”
They roar. For him. Of course.
I stare at his abs while I breathe. Long lines, tanned, not a roll anywhere. Mine are solid, but his are TV. And I feel it — that twist in my gut — I should’ve looked like that. I’ve been here longer. I should be the one they cheer.
He turns just a little too far to the side.
That’s his mistake.
I crawl in, slow, selling the bearhug. He doesn’t expect it. Ref’s on the wrong side.
I shoot my arm up.
Thud.
He freezes like a statue. Mouth open, eyes wide. Then he folds — perfect, beautiful tall kid cut straight in half.
“Ohhh nooo…” I mock, loud enough for the front row. “What happened, starboy?”
He’s still trying to stay up — because he knows the camera’s on him — but his knees are shaking. I pat his hip like I’m helping. I’m not.
I grab him by the head — fingers in sweaty blond hair — and march him to the corner. He’s listing, trying to protect himself. I don’t let him. I post him on the buckles, arms over ropes, chest open.
Then I start picking off the abs.
First: straight right to the gut. My fist disappears in tan and hair and muscle. He coughs, eyes shut. I hate, HATE, how good it feels to hit something that tight.
Second: knee to the midsection. I yank him in and drive it up. He folds again. His breath hits my shoulder.
Third: I step back, plant, and Muay Thai knee straight into the stomach — heel up, knee driving in. He can’t even shout now, it’s just that short, choked “ghhh—” sound.
I get right in his face. “You know why I’m doing the body?” I tell him. “Because I’m jealous, kid. Of all of it. The height. The pretty face. Those TV abs. So I wreck what they like.”
I do it again — knee. He sags more. Ropes save him.
And that jealousy? Doesn’t go away. Hurting him just makes me want to hurt him more.
I decide to finish the ribs.
I step behind him and loop my arms around his waist — low, right where those lines run into his trunks. He’s taller, so I have to bend my knees more, get under his center.
Then I hoist.
He comes off the mat — barefoot toes leaving the canvas — and I lock my hands. Now it’s my turn to shake.
I squeeze and rag him side to side. Not wild — controlled, heel style — just enough that every shake smashes his own ribs against my forearms. I can feel his breath sputter.
“Breathe now, golden boy,” I growl into his back. “C’mon. You were real loud a minute ago.”
He grabs at my hands, fingers scrabbling, but I keep him in the air and pulse the squeeze. I feel his obliques flexing, abs trying to harden against it, but he’s tired from the corner shots. That’s why you punish the body first — so this part feels worse.
And, yeah — I enjoy it. I enjoy having the taller, prettier, everyone-loves-him kid up off the floor and needing me to put him down. I enjoy knowing the hard cam is catching him making that winded face.
I drop him to his knees in front of me — same place I was. He’s hunched over, arms wrapped around his own stomach, blond hair falling in his face, chest hair matted with sweat. The crowd’s quieter now — they don’t like watching something so beautiful getting torn apart in front of them.
I grab a fistful of his hair and lift his head so he has to look up at me.
“Round two,” I tell him. “This time we go deeper on the body.”
Everything Great About a Match: Tim World v MPJ (Cosplay)
Everything Great About a Match: +6
Tim world v MPJ
SPOILER ALERT: I highly recommend viewing this match in its entirety before reading this post.
So let's begin:
+1: We have to talk about Tim's Body. Mr. World looks incredible as he dominates the Spiderman. For those of you unsure what is going on we have one, an extremely masculine and muscular Tim thrashing Spiderman, there you're all caught up on everything you need to know.
+1: For all domination and attitude. We all know the premise of the superhero being taken advantage of us but we get Tim being the heel we know he can be.
Tim: This is the point you realize you're completely helpless.
MPJ: *Groan*
[+1] Bonus point for all the foot domination. Tim let's MPJ know that he's beneath him and it shows.
+1: The Bearhug and the side camel clutch variation. I mean is this more about the punishment or is Tim just showing us what we're missing out on? I love that this move combines real wrestling punishment with gay wrestling intensity. Plus MPJ sells it really well to boot!
+1: Tim getting dominated himself in the end. Gay wrestlers know how to share - that is they know how to play to us fans. Following Tim's triumph he turns his back on MPJ only to get roughed up in the end. But we the viewer all the better for it to see Tim getting trashed about.
+1: MPJ applies the same Bearhug and camel clutch variation. I honestly don't know which is better seeing sexy Tim dominate or seeing the man himself dominated. MPJ did an excellent job selling the punishment but seeing Tim's body being punished is a work of art.
-------
Everything Great About this Match: +6
So there you have it. This is a solid cosplay match between MPJ and Tim, the two definitely are comfortable around each other and take the risks needed to make this match work. MPJ has some excellent selling here but the star for me is Tim! I said it before and I'll say it again, it's Tim's World and we're all just living in it.
The Body Breaker: 36 Years old, 6'0"
Steel: 30 Years old, 6'2"
Tech Bro: 22 Years old, 6'1"
I had just finished folding the kid when I heard the pop from the crowd.
Tech Bro was flat, exactly where I left him—on his back, yellow trunks, chest heaving, eyes glassy. I still had my hand on him like I owned him. Because I did. I’d toyed with him, stretched him, slammed him, and then I’d pinned him in the middle so everyone saw it. That’s what a heel does: you don’t just win, you show the win.
Then the people started looking past me.
I didn’t even have to turn to know who it was.
The "Daddy" Names, Steel.
He rolled in hot—shirt off now, soccer-dad muscles out, chest hairy, breathing like he was actually ready to fight a real wrestler. He came straight at me, no circling, no testing, no respect. He got in so close I could smell the canvas sweat on him.
“You don’t bully the kid,” he said.
I smirked. “I bully whoever’s in.”
And he slapped me.
Flat-palmed me right across the face in my ring.
My head snapped to the side. I could’ve lost it right there. He wanted it to be a white-knight moment. He wanted the crowd to believe in him. And for about half a second they did.
Then he dropkicked me.
Crowd loved it. Of course they loved it. Heel gets rocked, that’s candy to them.
But you know what you learn being a mean son of a gun in this business?
Everybody who runs in for someone else leaves an opening. When he landed, he turned just a little—checking on the kid.
That’s when I stepped in behind him and kicked him low.
Just dirty. Right where it takes the wind and the moment out of a man. My boot went up, he folded, and all that fire he had for the rookie? Gone. He dropped to his knees, hands down, face twisted.
Crowd went from “yaaay” to “ohhhhhh” to booing me again. Music to my ears. “Should’ve stayed in the seats, coach,” I told him.
He tried to crawl away—every do-gooder does—but I wasn’t done. I grabbed both his legs, yanked him right back under me, flipped him over onto his back like I was dragging a duffel, and stomped his stomach. Nice, flat, shirtless target—right in the middle. He jackknifed up, air gone.
So I hauled him up and bearhugged him.
Chest to chest. My hairy chest against his. His arms pinned to his sides, ribs flaring, feet barely planting. I locked my hands behind him and squeezed, nice and high, right under the ribs.
“Submit,” I told him. Right in his face. Mustache to nose. “Tell them I’m better.”
He actually tried to say no. Of course he did. The protector always wants to be brave in front of the kid. He tensed, tried to widen his stance, tried to pry my arms off.
“Still think you can save him?” I said.
He didn’t submit.
So I got meaner.
I dumped the bearhug and slid right into a headlock—tight, snug, grinding his face into my side. He was pushing on my arm, trying to stand. I didn’t let him. I jerked it up, turned my hips, and when I felt him slow just a hair—
—I stepped behind and clicked in the sleeper.
My right arm around his neck, left hand on my biceps, right hand behind his head. Textbook. Heels don’t need fancy—just effective.
He was fighting it, feet stamping, hands up on my forearm.
Still wobbly from the beating I gave him earlier, the Tech Bro crawls in. He grabbed my arm, both hands, trying to peel it off Steel.
I actually laughed.
“You again?” I said over Steel’s shoulder.
I tightened. Steel’s hands got weaker. Tech Bro was pulling but he didn’t have the weight, didn’t have the strength, didn’t have the right to save him. Steel’s eyes started to go glassy. Knees bent. His head leaned back into my chest.
Steel slumped. Out. Protector power gone.
I let him drop.
Then I turned to the rookie.
He was on his knees, breathing hard, still reaching like he wanted to help.
“No more heroes tonight,” I said, and I snatched him too—same arm, same motion, same sleeper. He thrashed more than Steel because he was scared, but he was lighter, easier. I wrapped him up, pulled him in, squeezed past the fight. I forced him into my pit where he belongs.
He went soft.
Two bodies on the mat.
One heel standing.
I looked at the crowd—half mad, half buzzing, all watching me.
“THIS,” I shouted down at them, tapping my chest, “is what happens when you step to the Body Breaker.”
Boo me, cheer me—doesn’t matter.
They all saw the same thing:
I beat the rookie.
I beat the rookie’s daddy.
And I walked out of their rescue attempt standing, smiling, and still mean.
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