While not solely devoted to David Beckham’s backside, this post does have several fine examples of said bottom. I’m not going to waste your time, and mine, by espousing rhapsodically on Mr. Beckham’s remarkable assets – too many words have been spent drooling over his attributes, and I’m growing tired of all these mixed metaphors. On with the David Beckham ass show for a Friday.
The snow was not necessary to let us know that the turn into fall had been executed a while ago. It flickers and fades in the memory, receding further into the past. No longer is it possible to pretend that it hasn’t yet happened. There are a few more warm days to come, I hope, but the chill has set in, and the heat that the earth holds through early autumn has just about dissipated. Once it goes, it’s very difficult to get it back again, and we likely won’t have that all-enveloping warmth until next June. That feels like a long way off.
On Sunday, when the first few snowflakes fell, I’d made a tour of the yard. It had been a couple of weeks since I was last out. The fallen annuals and desiccated, brown ferns depressed me too much. In addition, I’d been sick, and traipsing around in the cooler weather did not seem like a good idea. Besides, I’d already seen the devastation that the arrival of fall inflicts on a garden. It starts with the ostrich ferns, particularly in such a dry hot summer. They were on their way out months ago. Now, they are long gone.
The leaves of the coral bark Japanese maple tree are just beginning to light up, and as soon as they turn yellow the brackets of their red bark will form a magnificent pairing. The traditional Japanese maples will burst into a brighter scarlet, and when they catch the dying sunlight they will burn like the most glorious fire.
The lady ferns have held on, and will slowly go a ghostly pale-cream shade, much like the lighter leaves of the Solomon’s seal have already done. This year the leaves of the hydrangeas have gone straight to burgundy, an interesting combination with their pink umbrels which continue the show. I cut them off and brought them inside before the hard frost.
Northern sea oats are in their seed-headed glory, nodding their dangling architecture in the slightest breeze, swaying and gently shimmering in whatever light the day affords. They’ve gone an earthy tan color, but even that will glow in afternoon sunlight. One of the best, and most surprising, color shifts occurs on the feathery leaves of the weeping larch. It looks so convincingly like an evergreen that the switch to a bright copper hue is startling, and always a shock. A beautiful, fiery, final clarion that will have to be enough to ignite the memory until its soft wintergreen starbursts signal the arrival of another spring.
The garden breathes slower now, preparing for its annual slumber. The days sigh, giving way to the nights. There will be other ways to find warmth now.
The release of any Madonna album carries great import, but in 1992 it meant something even more, as her first book ‘Sex’ was released at the same time (actually, a day in advance). It was a heady moment in Madonna history, and it imprinted itself on my memory for a number of reasons. The cover stories of ‘Vanity Fair’ and ‘Vogue’ had primed my anticipation (with two of her best features in each, and scorching photo shoots by Steven Meisel to accompany them) and the entire world had heard about the ‘Sex’ book. All I really cared about was the music, and the ‘Erotica’ album more than delivered on the aural satisfaction front.
The scratching of a record needle opened the main event, then the dark bassline – sinister and seductive – lured the listener into a delicious dungeon of sexual threats and erotic promises. Her throaty whispers and the convincing assimilation of the Dita persona ushered in a new level of sexual boundary-pushing, while the gritty house music was interlaced with the sampled horns of ‘Jungle Boogie’. The song rode to number 3 on the Billboard charts, thanks less to its own merits and more to the outrageous hype that surrounded its release.
My own sexual awakening was on the verge of happening, and the ‘Erotica’ album would accompany it in ways I’m not quite ready to divulge. The male supporting cast of ‘Sex’ fueled more fantasies than all of Madonna’s naughty bits, but I wasn’t prepared to admit it. Instead I focused on her, on her naked body, trying to force myself into liking it because I thought that’s what I was supposed to like. In truth, it was less the nudity of her person that struck me, it was the poses of vulnerability that turned me on most. It was also the guys at the Gaiety – the former male strip-club that was once plopped right in the midst of Times Square, across the street from the Marriott Marquis, where I would pay a pittance for Ann and Suzie to join me in the audience to watch guys get into their birthday suits and dance a bit before heading backstage, fluffing up, and coming back out in blood-filled form. Ahh, the good old days of New York.
The best part of that experience was the waiting room/lobby area, where stills from ‘Sex’ were framed on the wall. Far more thrilling than hard naked cock in our faces was the idea that a year or two prior Madonna had stood in that very space, posing with those very naked strippers, and crafting the book that would stand in infamy forever after.
Yet for all the supposed seediness of the scene, there was something rather quaint about it. The whole thing was artifice. I could see that then, and appreciate it as such. There was no danger for me here. The simple word ‘No’ could accomplish a great deal, preventatively speaking. It would be much more terrifying, and harmful, to fall in love than to watch a guy get hard and naked on stage. The same proved true for my experience with ‘Sex’. I took the images for what they were – some artful, some trashy, some moving, some silly – and I understood that this was a presentation, inviting the viewer to conjure their own thoughts and fantasies, to pick out what moved us, and what didn’t, and perhaps wonder why our own sexual proclivities were such as they were. It didn’t lead me down any path into danger – my heart would do that on its own.
As for the ‘Erotica’ album, it fashioned its own journey along a spectacular soundscape filled with hooks and harmonies and choruses that underlined the fact that Madonna, almost a decade into her career at that point, was a pop music master who knew her way around a concept album. Sex may have been at the forefront of songs like ‘Erotica’ and ‘Where Life Begins’ but love was the driving force behind it all, as evidenced by the vast majority of cuts (‘Fever’, ‘Deeper and Deeper’, ‘Waiting’, ‘In This Life’, ‘Why’s It So Hard’, ‘Secret Garden’and ‘Rainâ’). The accusations of Madonna being vapid and vacuous in this period must have been made by those who hadn’t listened to the album in its entirety.
I listened to it non-stop that fall. As the leaves fell from the trees, and I shook off any vestiges of childhood from my body, the emergence of a young man gripped me physically, casting off innocence even if I hadn’t really done anything, even if knowledge was often misconstrued as guilt.
ONCE YOU PUT YOUR HAND IN THE FLAME, IT CAN NEVER BE THE SAME
THERE’S A CERTAIN SATISFACTION IN A LITTLE BIT OF PAIN.
I CAN SEE YOU UNDERSTAND ME…
While a dinner at dp and an evening with Wanda Sykes were Andy’s main birthday presents, we’ll also be taking him out to one of his favorite restaurants this evening, Bongiorno’s. Seeing as how today is his actual birthday, one must mark the event accordingly. Andy is pretty low-maintenance when it comes to most things, birthdays included. (Though my birthday celebrations may seem more extravagant, I’m the person solely responsible for planning and reserving and making it all happen, so it you’re going to characterize me as high maintenance, I’m only high maintenance for myself – no one else had to lift a finger.)
I made a much bigger surprise bally-hoo for his 50th birthday (which we spent in Ogunquit for a few additional days). This time around will be far less impressive, but hopefully no less enjoyable. He’s already getting great fun out of my parents’ gift to him – a canister vacuum that he loved instantly. It was a request from the birthday boy himself – and cost way more than any Tom Ford Private Blend, so once again my extravagance is an assumption over actuality.
At any rate, he deserves a very special day (and dinner) for being such a great guy. Happy Birthday, Drew – I love you. (And many happy returns of the day!)
Yes, it snowed here yesterday, Ho hum, hum-drum, pa-rum-pum-pum-pum. Too early for that kind of nonsense. Way too early. Thus, we do our best to keep things hot just a little bit longer.
Today is Monday, but the real blues hit tomorrow.
Ben Todd was incendiary in full-color, and black-and-white.Â
Stal and vamp, vamp and stall.
Simon Dunn had his second crowning as Hunk of the Day.
Show us your tackle, indeed.
This will never be a political blog, unless it involves hunky politicians like Martin O’Malley.
Madonna: at close range (at least, the closest that I’ve ever been).
By request, Randy Orton was another Hunk of the Day.
Eat here at your first opportunity.
One of the more polarizing Hunks of the Day in recent memory is Frankie Grande.
This Speedo Trio was a triple-threat of sexiness.
Separately, they were pretty hot too.
On this snowy Sunday (yes, snow in mid-October, because upstate New York sucks that way) here’s a second Speedo post to keep you warm. With this one, we are taking a closer examination on each of the guys featured on this Speedo Trio post.
First up is Jack Laugher, the blondest of the three, whose swimsuit barely seems to contain his backside. Pop it like it’s hot, because it’s freezing here today.
Second is Speedo All-Star Tom Daley, who gave us his all in myriad posts over the years.
Finally, on this day of threes, the third specimen we take on his own is Chris Mears, rounding out his colorful Speedo and soaking up the rays on a beach that is most decidedly warmer than anything in these parts. Calgon take me away.
This triple threat threesome consists of Tom Daley, Jack Laugher, and Chris Mears, each of whom has been featured in solo fashion, particularly Mr. Daley, who has his own category on this website (a feat that only the iconic likes of David Beckham, Ben Cohen, Tom Ford and Madonna have managed to earn). This time, their Speedo-clad prowess combines to the power of the third, lending a prismatic status of hunkiness to the scene.
Tom Daley was christened with his first Hunk of the Day honor here, where we celebrated him in, of all things, a Speedo. It’s really the only way to celebrate Tom.
Jack Laugher got his first, and thus far only, Hunk of the Day spread here. Surely, he lacks nothing to merit a second, other than an Attitude photo shoot or such.
Finally, bringing up the proverbial rear in nothing but his own, Chris Mears stripped it off and got his Hunk of the Day crowning here.
Taken together, they make for a very merry Sunday morning, something to stave off the chill and conjure a source of heat that only the Speedo-clad can.
Celebrating our 40th birthdays, just a couple of months after the fact, Suzie and I reserved a seating at O Ya, probably the best restaurant in Boston right now. It was to take place the night before our Madonna concert, and the entire weekend was a much-needed reunion of two very dear (and ever older) friends. After a brief out-of-the-way excursion (we got talking and didn’t realize we passed our exit by 45 minutes…oops!) we found our way back on track to Boston and arrived to a parking space right on Braddock Park. No matter, we hadn’t seen each other in a while, and certainly haven’t had much one-on-one quality time, so this was a luxury. The sun was shining, the first days of fall were just upon us, and the weekend stretched out full of promise and possibility.
A cocktail at the Hotel Intercontinental started things off on the right foot, but after that it was all about the amazing works of culinary art that paraded before us at O Ya.
Each plate was a revelatory masterpiece, building in taste and exquisite artfulness.
It’s a pricy endeavor, but one only turns 40 once. (Thank you, Suzie!)
The dinner was matched only by the company, and Suzie always manages to remind me of comfort and safety and family, and all the good things on which we should be able to rely.
In the last fifteen years of attending Madonna concerts, I’ve never had really great tickets. Seeing as how I’m not a cajillionaire, I don’t have the thousands (literally) of dollars it would require to see her up close and personal. (I also feel like I’m too short to enjoy floor (standing) seats anyway, so the first tier has been preferable anyway.) The closest I’ve gotten to her was a Reinvention Show in Worcester, where her catwalk extended closer to the back of the arena. That was a revelation, but the last few tours our seats have been far away. (In a disastrous viewing of the MDNA Tour in Boston, Andy and I were seated behind the stage. Really, we were actually BEHIND the stage. It was only made bearable by the behind-the-scenes action we could gawk at. Rocco chumming around with the back-up dancers!)
On her Rebel Heart Tour, I was expecting some back-of-beyond seats again but thanks to her extensive heart-shaped stage extension, we were closer than we’ve ever been. With two empty seats in front of us, Suzie and I were treated to unobstructed sight-lines, and Madonna close enough to clock her facial expressions. It was a dream come true, and made this quite possibly my second favorite Madonna concert ever (the first will always be the very favorite in my mind – the Drowned World Tour).
Due to such proximity, I was able to sneak a few of the better photos I’ve been able to take of her myself. That’s a luxury usually afforded to other lucky folks, and to be honest I didn’t take more because I was simply too engrossed in the gorgeous sound and spectacle of it all. (And clearly there are much finer ones out there than my mini-camera could capture.)
In one of the longest-promised posts to come, there will be a far-more studied review of the show at a later date. (It will arrive well before my full-frontal nudity reveal, so stay tuned.)
As for the closeness of my ultimate muse, the woman who has held my fascination for three decades and counting, it was a magical brush with greatness, and as she sang ‘Rebel Heart’ mere feet from us, my eyes filled with tears. Yes, I can be sentimental and sappy – but only when it comes to Madonna.
Ever since the #CockInASock craze and ALS Ice Bucket Challenge, I’ve been on the lookout for the next fun-yet-ridiculous-in-the-name-of-a-good-cause event. It seems that may be on hand with #ShowUsYourTackle, as put on by one of my favorite clothing shops, Jack Wills, in support of the brainstrust – a brain tumor charity. Most of the guys who have been doing this are doing so with their shirts off, as exhibited by the photos here of the Flair Bears.
You can enter the contest too (even if you probably can’t use the big £5000 bar tab) but you’ll need a pair of Jack Wills pants (and you can’t borrow mine). I may show you my tackle, but not unless this sinus issue clears up, and soon. I don’t pose when I’m this sick – it’s just a thing.
Here are the official rules:
To be entered into the competition, it’s pretty simple. Get your Jack Wills pants out (take this as you may: on your head; over your jeans; or strip down…), take a picture, and upload to Instagram, making sure to hashtag #showusyourtackle and tag @JackWills.
For each picture posted Jack Wills will donate £1 to Brainstrust, so you can be doing something amazing for charity, AND entering the competition…ALL whilst getting your kit off.
The only good thing about the sinus cold that is ravaging me from the neck up is the fact that it waited until the end of this year’s trip to Ogunquit to strike. Thank you, thank you, thank you for that small favor. (Other years have not turned out as fortuitously.) Unfortunately, that meant going into work with a countenance that was decidedly less than happy. Contrary to popular belief, I’m not a wimp when it comes to sickness – after a childhood wracked with asthma and lactose issues, I can take a bit of sickness and discomfort without much complaint. However, when I do get ill, it’s no joke. And yes, I’m a little testy, but never wimpy about things. Needles and blood tests and hospitals never scared me. Hopefully we won’t get to that point. I’ll stick to a steady regime of Zicam and hot green tea made with boiled water infused with fresh ginger coins. Tastes as delightful as it sounds!
In the meantime, I promise to do my best in getting back on track with some updates regarding recent Boston and Maine trips, and some magical Madonna moments as well. The Delusional Grandeur Tour isn’t slated to resume until next week’s ‘Book of Mormon’ performance at Proctor’s, so there’s some time for recuperation. I am determined to let nothing derail this tour! Ok, the second exclamation point in as many paragraphs is a clear indication that I’m not right! Oh God, there’s a third. Heading out to find my mind…
I’ve long maintained that Tuesday mornings are far worse than Monday mornings, and that holds doubly true on the Tuesday after a Monday holiday. I’m not sure why I’ve always thought less of Tuesdays. Maybe it was that damn religious education class that we were forced to take on Tuesday afternoon, the one that extended the school day well beyond that of those fortuitously-non-Catholic heathen classmates. More than that, though, I think it’s because one expects that avalanche of awfulness that is Monday, so when it comes, it’s never as bad as it seems.
Tuesday takes you by difficult surprise, the morning minutes slowing to a snail’s pace, halting and hesitating and making themselves known in a cadence that usually goes unnoticed on a Monday. Of course since today is the first day of a workweek, it may function more like Monday in that respect. So I’m hoping I won’t mind this Tuesday as much. I’ll save the drudgery for Wednesday.
This post has been brought to you by post-weekend/post-vacation laziness.
It seems strange to be celebrating a man who basically ravaged this country’s native people, so this “holiday†will pass without much notice from me, other than a day of thanks for having it off from work. It’s certainly no reason to skip the weekly recap, so here it is, a bit later in the non-work day.
It began in fine Hunky fashion, with the likes of Matthew Manning making his debut as the Hunk of the Day. A day later, Jeff Grant had his Hunk cherry popped in even finer fashion.
Boston will be coming back here in a big way, as I’m about to drop a few Beantown posts that will round up the last couple of tour stops there.
I’m popping bottles that you can’t even afford, I’m throwing parties and you won’t get in the door.
A Hunk by the name of Leo Sabato makes for a sunny Sunday indeed. And Monday. And every day.
Things got very eclectic here, not just once, but twice.
Hotels and Tours go hand in naked hand.
The Delusional Grandeur Tour continued, as three more installments of the Tour Book hit the blog:
On the Road/Hotel:Â Part I
On the Road/Hotel:Â Part II
On the Road/Hotel:Â Part III
The (male) Flesh & the Fantasy is all coming back to me now.
And more male flesh comes back again.
Our look back at those skin-baring male celebrities who have graced these pages previously continues with this flesh-filled post, which picks up with fan-favorite Phil Fusco. He’s been named a Hunk of the Day just once so far, but I can see him quite soon becoming a well-deserved two-time hunk – and then to be a top contender for the ultra-rare Triple Threat Hunk Status (thus far only achieved by Ronnie Kroell).
British cad Mark Wright filled out his briefs quite nicely in his Hunk of the day feature.
Bound to a bed, released of his clothing, or baring his butt, Charlie King is a welcome addition to any post.
No stranger to Hunk retrospectives, Adam Levine has strutted his naked stuff a couple of times here, in this butt-baring post and this nude-but-for-pair-of-hands photo shoot.
Once and future Hunk of the Day Derek Allen Watson is about to make his return to this blog, so here’s a little something to pave the shirtless way.
Nick Jonas has made many a splash here, from his first Hunk of the Day feature to this booty-baring internet-breaking photo. There were also those sex scenes…
Last but not least in this day of sexy look-backs, this is David Beckham – because some guys don’t even need to take their clothes off to heat things up.
It’s been a while since we’ve had a collection of male celebrities showing off their skin, so let’s rectify that immediately. October is the month that the chill returns, but the hunks on display here will do their best to keep things warm. We begin with the striking form of actor/cologne model Scott Eastwood. Though he’s pimping for the rather gross Cool Water fragrance, he’s doing so in fine form.
Next up is rock-god Lenny Kravitz, a nod to my friend JoAnn who has loved him without reservation for years. She is not alone.
A pair of hunks rendered in shades of gray: here are Alex Minsky and Simon Dunn.
Charm and intelligence go a long way toward gaining a Hunk of the Day honor, but so does natural cuteness. Noam Ash offers all of the above.
A double dose of David Gandy in GIF form is below, in honor of all the times that Mr. Gandy has graced this blog, such as here, here, and here.
Two hunks for the space of one, this is the fun beach day when Zac Efron hung out with Max Joseph and no one thought to invite me.
Bringing up the rear of this first installment is Tom Daley and his Speedo-framed butt. More to come…
