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A Wonderful World

In this Age of the Internet, it’s easy to think that we know everything about everyone, particularly someone who has an immensely popular blog. Kenneth M. Walsh, of Kenneth in the (212) fame, is one of those online-celebrities who in many ways feels like an old friend, at least for those of us who have followed him religiously since he exploded onto the scene. Yet you never really know someone until you read their memoir, and Mr. Walsh offers scintillating tidbits of the humorous and twisting tale that brought him to the enchanting metropolis of New York in last year’s ‘Wasn’t Tomorrow Wonderful?’

Struck-through with world-weary wiseass remarks that only a fellow social anxiety-sufferer could love (“I don’t even like to be touched when I’m having sex”) there is much to laugh about and love in his engaging recounting of nights with one-armed men, terrorized toothbrushes, and an almost-unhinged Thomas Roberts. Yet for every hilarious occurrence (and there are many) there is an equally-poignant and touching moment of melancholy. Such depths give this memoir a gravity that grounds the more outrageous wanderings of the occasionally wayward protagonist.

The most audacious and memorable character in the book is Mr. Walsh’s own mother, the indomitable and unsinkable Molly. She is perhaps the mother of all mothers, pulling no punches and delivering every blow with brilliant comic madness and sometimes unbearable pathos. Walsh digs deep with his family memories, and the years-long dance his Mom somewhat awkwardly performs regarding his sexuality is one to which many of us can relate. We want so badly to be loved, and we will forgive almost-all parental transgressions because we have but one mother.

Most moving is Walsh’s own coming to terms with his coming-of-age, especially the exact moment his childhood innocence departed. Not all of us can pinpoint the exact moment that innocence is shattered, but Walsh has it down to a date and time. It was during the Johnny Carson Show, when that evening’s guest introduced a film clip from a gay love story. The audience’s reaction – jeers and boos and open hostility – was what rang in young Kenneth’s ears, and suddenly the notion of shame was born. It’s something that resonates with most gay boys and girls, and this is the part of the book that struck me most deeply.

“My ability not to be painfully-self-conscious around people ended that night,” he writes. “My self-doubt and increasing sense of worthlessness – the whole nation would turn hostile and boo me if they knew who I really was – became who I was. All a stranger had to say to me was “Hi,” and I’d instantly turn beet red and my heart would start racing out of control.”

When Walsh revisits the clip years later, he is struck both by his somewhat overblown recollection of the audience response, but also by something more: “Despite the fact that it wasn’t “as bad” as I remembered, it still made me sick all over again, thinking about that isolated fourteen-year-old boy watching television that night and getting booed over his shameful secret. If it seems like almost nothing now, that’s just further proof that it’s the little things that can affect people so much, especially children. Things are hardly perfect for gay youths today. Still, I’m glad something this blatant would be unlikely to happen again.”

As in Andy Cohen’s recent diary, New York City comes alive as Kenneth’s ultimate true love and salvation, and their decade-long-and-going-strong relationship evolves from distant admiration to rocky-rodent courtship to torrid yet stalwart sustenance. The final post-Studio-54-party scene is the stuff New York dreams are made of ~ wistful, romantic, and sweeter than expected. It ties up the long and winding way Walsh wound up in the city of his dreams, and leaves things full of promise and further adventure – the way the best books always end.

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Shout-out to HomoRadio

It’s always a joy to visit HomoRadio. I used to go on when I was hosting 1st Friday events at the Romaine Brooks Gallery, so when they asked Andy and I to stop by for a fun segment on marriage, we returned and talked about what brought us together way back when. Currently in their 23rd year of production (they debuted in 1992!) HomoRadio continues to offer compelling dialogue and up-to-date news of local events with an LGBTQ slant.

Dr. Ray, Sean, Ulysses and Dave are engaging personalities who bring listeners together from around the world. Along with news producer Joe Galu, they’ve created a vital and vibrant forum that was once lacking from our local cultural landscape. Doing anything for over two decades is an accomplishment, but to have a gay-themed show in 1992 was a groundbreaking experience. In a world before the internet, most of us had to scramble and search to find others like us. A radio show was a way of reaching people who needed to feel less alone.

In the ensuing decades, our community has made great strides, and HomoRadio has chronicled every step along the way. They’ve become a cornerstone of Albany’s tapestry, growing alongside the Capital Pride Center and consistently joining in the Capital Region’s dialogue on what it means to be gay today.

It’s also just great fun to hear my friends have this party every Sunday – and the best part of being on the radio is that it doesn’t matter what you wear. (As evidenced below in Versace – and backed by Dr. Ray’s car.)

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An Extended Family Dinner

We welcomed snowbirds Elaine and Tony back to the Northeast with a dinner of ham and potatoes au gratin this past weekend. They’d been fortunate (and wise) enough to have spent the winter in Florida, and were none too pleased with the weather that was waiting for them upon their return. Luckily they brought their own sunny countenances, along with a couple of bouquets of flowers to drive off any lingering winter darkness.

My father-in-law and sister-in-law joined in the fun, as did Suzie and her family. Andy made a special strawberry cake upon request from little Momo, who proclaimed it “very good.” All in all, it was a sweet way to spend a Saturday night. If all goes well, the next time we gather together may be for an outside barbecue. (Dare to dream…)

In the meantime, let us have daffodils and disappearing snow.

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The First Recap of Spring

Though it feels far from that glorious season referenced in the title of this post, technically it is spring, and I’m dressing as if to the manner born. That means bright pastels and colorful shoes, snow and ice and dirty streets be damned. The turn of the seasons was marked in tell-tale fashion with this filler post. (Nostalgia played a big part in this week’s posts, and you do have to take my word for it.)

The week began with this glorious Not-Safe-For-FaceBook post, because if there’s one entity that has its finger on the pulse of appropriateness, it’s fucking FaceBook.

Better yet was the exploration of The Art of the Jockstrap and the magnificent craftsmanship at work by The Crochet Empire.

The bulge of a prince was more than fit fodder for Hunk of the Day Richard Madden.

Slices of 80’s nostalgia were in full-effect with this ditty by Roxette and this piano-driven ballad by Richard Marx.

Perfect male model Isa Rahman was all we needed for this Hunk of the Day honor.

This is the only kind of hand-cuff I could handle, and it’s quite beautiful.

Another beautiful male model, Chad Buchanan.

Things got a little deeper with some uncomfortable-because-they’re-true family issues, and a look back at one magical night out.

A pair of European beauties rounded out the superficial delights of the week: Stepan Pereverzev and Olivier Rousteing.

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You Can Dance… For Inspiration

In the midst of a lull…

On the hunt for inspiration…

Amid the chaotic ramblings of a transient heart…

This Sunday morning offers the dawn of a new promise, like every morning does, but the fact that it’s Sunday instills it with more meaning.

Tom Ford can simply open up his closet, slip into a dressing gown like the one seen here, and find all the beauty he needs to keep going. For the rest of us mere mortals, a little more is required. For those days when Mr. Ford is feeling uninspired, he claims to don a tuxedo, deck himself out to the nines, and suddenly everything feels a bit better. I get that. It’s partly why I put such effort into my wardrobe. It’s rarely done to impress others; it’s done to empower me. I need all the help I can get.

In the first few days of spring, before it really feels like spring, there is this limbo of dirty slush and gray skies. Everything feels so bleak. A state of purgatory before it gets really good or really bad. Either way, the heat will soon be on.

In the meantime, my eye is on Boston, where I’ll return for the first time in what feels like forever. No matter the state of snow, I shall be there next weekend, catching up with Kira and the city I so adore. It’s time. Spring weather or winter remains, it’s happening.

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To the Extreme: More Than Words

The chain link fence ran the length of the bridge, preventing anyone with half a heart from climbing over and jumping into the slumbering Mohawk River below. The wind whipped through it in typical unapologetic and unrelenting fashion. We walked single file; there wasn’t really room to do otherwise. As dusk settled over Amsterdam, we made our way across the bridge that linked the southside with downtown.

To the right was the Amsterdam Mall, that low monolith which divided the once-whole downtown into two uneasily disparate sections, and then slowly emptied into hollow cement corridors of faded storefronts. In 1991, there was still a spattering of places that struggled to stay open, but the mall had been a bad idea from the beginning and was limping on its last legs. We eyed it as a teenage destination, and pulled out jackets closer in the night wind.

In my head, the song of the moment was playing on endless repeat, this acoustic ditty by Extreme:

 

Sayin’ I love you
Is not the words I want to hear from you
It’s not that I want you
Not to say it, but if you only knew
How easy it would be to show me how you feel
More than words is all you have to do to make it real
Then you wouldn’t have to say that you love me
Cause I’d already know

My best friend Ann was walking ahead of me, leading the way as she often did. I followed  a little behind, perpetually in awe of her steely courage, sky-high hair, and uncanny ability to give the world the middle finger with attitude and Guns ‘n’ Roses. I leaned on her in more ways then she knew.

A few other misfits joined our less-than-rowdy crew: Jessica, Autumn, Amy, and John. The latter was the wild card of the bunch – prone to mischief and fits of crazed, maniacal laughter in between moments of melancholy and something much deeper. There were whispers of a troubled family life, but we were all part of such whispers to a certain extent. No one had a perfect familial existence; no one ever will.

We began the slow descent onto the ramp that dropped us in a parking lot littered with the glitter of broken bottles and stray weeds poking through cracks in the pavement. Such a sad set of surroundings, and yet I couldn’t have been happier, Free from my own angry family, on a Friday night with my friends, I felt the first tugs of young adulthood pulling me forward. I also felt the warm heartstrings of friendship emboldening my otherwise insecure countenance. Here was a group of people that accepted me, misguided hair and questionable fashion aside, with all my mood swings and unlovable attributes.

What would you do?
If my heart was torn in two
More than words to show you feel
That your love for me is real
What would you say
If I took those words away
Then you couldn’t
Make things new,
Just by saying, “I love you”
More than words,
More than words…

I carried my camera everywhere in those days, with a six-pack of 35-mm film bulging out of my coat pocket. I was forever waiting for the big capture, the shot that would change our lives, or simply make me laugh on a later, colder day, when I’d be missing my friends and longing for a night like that. I posed for more than a few pictures myself, trying to find someone in that gangly little boy who was all unruly hair and baggy clothes and silly grins. Some days I still find myself looking.

We turned onto the tiny Main Street, burning yellow and supremely surreal beneath the buzzing street lamps. Conover’s, the office store I remembered visiting as a little kid, still had a faded green sign above its fuzzy glass front. A few doors down, a band was setting up. We peeked in the back door and I snapped a quick photo before rushing out from fear of our ridiculously-underage status. We were a good group, staying clear from booze and other teenage explorations. Christ, we were Honors kids more afraid of a B+ than practically anything else.

Still, being out on our own, in a part of town that my parents would surely not approve of me traversing after nightfall, felt like a grand thrill. A little forbidden, a little adventurous, and a whole lot of what I needed. I don’t think I realized then how lonely I was, how much I needed those friends. It would have crushed me, and I was already pretty beaten down at that point.

Now that I’ve tried to talk to you and make you understand
All you have to do is close your eyes and just reach out your hands

And touch meHold me closeDon’t ever let me go
More than words is all I ever needed you to show
Then you wouldn’t have to say
That you love me
Cause I’d already know

The night ticked on. I didn’t go out enough to even have a curfew. (See, I really was a good kid.) The minutes flew by and soon it was time to step back onto the bridge. We climbed the stars and rose above the river, the tiny city behind us. Cars whizzed by, engines roaring, light beams blinding us from the other side. I zipped my coat up, the wind whipping even more viciously, colder too. I didn’t mind in the least. My stomach was sore from laughing, the corners of my mouth aching happily from uncontrollable smiles. A joy I could never feel at home – the joy of fitting in, even if it was in a group of outsiders – resonated from within, and it was something I’d hold onto when things got really bad. We’d done nothing but walk around and goof off, and it was better than any fancy night I could have imagined.

What would you do if my heart was torn in two
More than words to show you feel
That your love for me is real
What would you say if I took those words away
Then you couldn’t make things new
Just by saying I love you…

More than words.

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The Lost Son

“Family is really important to me, but strangely enough family is not necessarily your blood… Sometimes our family lets us down and we end up creating a new family for ourselves. And family is really people that you know you can rely on, people who won’t judge you, people who have your back, people you can trust, people who are loyal.” ~ Madonna

There’s a lot about the Bible that pisses me off. Some of the lessons are noble and true, some of the sentiment is powerful, but much is antiquated and too easily misread. One of the biggest stories that has always bothered me was that of The Prodigal Son. Maybe it just hit too close to home. Maybe I just need to learn forgiveness. Or maybe there is no justice in the world and there never was.

The Parable of the Lost Son

Jesus continued: “There was a man who had two sons. The younger one said to his father, ‘Father, give me my share of the estate.’ So he divided his property between them. Not long after that, the younger son got together all he had, set off for a distant country and there squandered his wealth in wild living. After he had spent everything, there was a severe famine in that whole country, and he began to be in need. When he came to his senses, he said, ‘How many of my father’s hired servants have food to spare, and here I am starving to death! I will set out and go back to my father and say to him: Father, I have sinned against heaven and against you. I am no longer worthy to be called your son; make me like one of your hired servants.’ So he got up and went to his father.

But while he was still a long way off, his father saw him and was filled with compassion for him; he ran to his son, threw his arms around him and kissed him. The son said to him, ‘Father, I have sinned against heaven and against you. I am no longer worthy to be called your son.’

But the father said to his servants, ‘Quick! Bring the best robe and put it on him. Put a ring on his finger and sandals on his feet. Bring the fattened calf and kill it. Let’s have a feast and celebrate. For this son of mine was dead and is alive again; he was lost and is found.’ So they began to celebrate. Meanwhile, the older son was in the field. When he came near the house, he heard music and dancing. So he called one of the servants and asked him what was going on. ‘Your brother has come,’ he replied, ‘and your father has killed the fattened calf because he has him back safe and sound.’

The older brother became angry and refused to go in. So his father went out and pleaded with him. But he answered his father, ‘Look! All these years I’ve been slaving for you and never disobeyed your orders. Yet you never gave me even a young goat so I could celebrate with my friends. But when this son of yours who has squandered your property with prostitutes comes home, you kill the fattened calf for him!’

‘My son,’ the father said, ‘you are always with me, and everything I have is yours. But we had to celebrate and be glad, because this brother of yours was dead and is alive again; he was lost and is found.’”

Moral of the story? The son who has fun, fucks up his life, and goes back to beg for more ends up in a better position than the son who behaves and becomes a productive member of society. Granted, there is some higher forgiveness and grace at work (at least I hope), but there is no way that this supersedes the bottom line that if you’re bad, you get the help and the love and the forgiveness and the compassion and the fucking fatted calf.

Way back in high school, when I had already seen the rift between the recognition, help and attention the kids who behaved and did well got as opposed to the ones who messed around, got arrested, and did whatever they wanted to do, I wrote a Letter to the Editor of the local newspaper lamenting the way some of those good kids were treated – or not treated as the case may be. It’s about more than getting attention. Everyone always pulls the attention card and thinks that’s it. Newsflash: some of us don’t need any help getting attention. As far as it being a case of whining and complaining that ‘It’s not fair!’ well, it’s not. And if life is unfair, it’s because certain people make it so, and others let it happen.

There are a few choices. Work your ass off, do what you’re supposed to do, and be a responsible, decent human being. It’s not always fun, but it’s the right thing to do. Or, give in to whatever wish and whim you want, fuck up and have a blast. It’s way more fun, and if someone’s going to be there to take care of you and your kids when you need it, why not live it up? A friend suggested that I find a surrogate mother, have a baby, squander my money on a ridiculously lavish house and cars and motorcycles and become the son in need. My friend’s mother, when confronted with the age-old question of which child she favored the most, used to say, “The one that needs me the most.” There’s something very sweet in that, and something so unjust it makes my heart break.

“Family isn’t blood,” she said bitterly, continuing to back away. “Family is who loves you, who takes care of you.”  ― Bruce Coville

The real lost sons are the ones who take care of themselves, who pay their credit card bills in full every month, who don’t make impetuous selfish decisions, who don’t fuck up their lives, and who don’t expect anything from anyone. We’re not lost because we can’t take care of ourselves, we’re lost because it hurts so much and we never say it.

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Spring Born in the Snow

A fresh blanket of white stuff covers the land, and the first day of spring looks remarkably similar to the first day of winter. It’s a kick in the face to those of us so desperately hoping for something warmer, something sunnier, something less fucking winter-like. Enough is enough.

In honor of this seasonal change, let’s look back a year or two at some other first days of spring. You’ll find it’s not all that different. For instance, in 2013 I seemed to be equally unimpressed with the arrival of the new season. (I’m so bitchy sometimes.) But on that day I had some moving musical memories to keep me warm. (Plus, Hunk of the Day Dylan McDermott was keeping everything else quite hot.)

Sometimes the moon helps ring in the spring season, as it did in 2011 (even if I didn’t show my moon.)

Last year it seems the seasonal shift made no mark on blog posts, as they stayed smutty and shirtless, as in this one featuring Henry Cavill, and this one featuring Hunk of the Day Jason Beitel. To be fair, they were merely  lead-ins for the lead-us-into-temptation bit of this post. (And so we don’t just push you to the edge and stop, the climax.)

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Cuff Me

Last weekend I took my friend JoAnn on her first trip to Saratoga. The rain held in abeyance for the most part, as we strolled along Broadway. We ducked into shops selling incense and spiritual items, browsed several expensive clothing places, and marveled at some of the millinery on hand. Towards the end of our time there, we walked into Saratoga Trunk. It was my first time visiting the shop, and it was absolutely charming.

An entry-room held a number of beautiful pieces, as lovely owner Natalie Sillery (just back from Paris) explained various items and told of the creators behind them. I was taken by a few gorgeous cuffs by Daniel Mozzes – intricately-designed works of metallic splendor and sparkling faux-jewels. We viewed a few of his fashion designs as well – JoAnn was taken with a particular dress in a shade of deep blue. I kept coming back to the cuffs.

As silly as it might sound, there are certain items and accessories that simply call out your name. They tug at the heart with their beauty, offering the crazy notion of betterment and fun and simple enjoyment. This cuff had that power and held that sweet sway over me.

I get a lot of flack for being so seemingly superficial, but even a bauble can have an impact on the world. Like Wonder Woman’s bullet-deflecting cuffs, some bracelets instill the wearer with more than something pretty: they inspire confidence, happiness, joy – and all of that is contagious.

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Helplessly Aware

Once upon a time I was a romantic.

In the summer nights between seventh and eighth grade, on the verge of adolescent angst and leaving boyhood brilliance behind, I wrestled with the bedsheets as the outside breeze rustled the curtains.

The red glow of a digital clock and the yellow light of numbers 87 through 108 from the radio illuminated the inner-sanctum of the room, while shafts of a street lamp fell in through the finely filtered cross-hatching of a wire mesh screen.

Seventh grade had been rather dismal for me, as I struggled with algebra and allergies – the latter of which knocked me out for weeks at a stretch, further alienating me from school-mates who were already feeling distant and less-than-friendly. It didn’t help matters that I was suddenly allergic to cats, and the few whom had found a home with us were slowly being shipped out all because of me and my sickness. The arrival of spring that year marked a new beginning, as our last cat was given away in the cruel month of January.

Now, in the summer stretching out before me, in the darkness and the humid heat of a night in which the screeching of an insect matched the buzzing of the search for a proper radio station, I felt relief and release. The glorious opening chords of a Richard Marx power ballad came through the haze:

Just when I believed I couldn’t ever want for more

This ever changing world pushes me through another door

I saw you smile

And my mind could not erase the beauty of your face

Just for a while

Won’t you let me shelter you

I sensed, even without having experienced the sensations yet, the loss and desire in a song like this. My heart felt something far in the future reaching back and connecting, some foreshadowing of pain and heartache that was soon to come. How I knew to access and fathom that sadness made no sense, but beneath the dim light of the night, I held on for dear life.

Hold on to the nights
Hold on to the memories
I wish that I could give you something more
That I could be yours

I didn’t like boys or girls then. I didn’t know what I liked. Stirrings of fraternal connections made certain body parts tingle, but it wasn’t yet sex or even love I was after. It was closeness. I craved a kindred spirit. I didn’t want to be so alone. And yet I kept a safe distance from kids my age, lazily usurping my brother’s friends when I wanted a bit of adventure. We’d ride our bikes beneath the leafy canopy of Pershing Road, popping wheelies on mismatched sidewalk ledges and skidding out over grassy islands, leaving dirty scars in our wake.

Most boys realize their boyhood in the sun of summer, and though I was no exception, I sought out something more in the night.

How do we explain something that took us by surprise
Promises in vain, love that is real but in disguise
What happens now
Do we break another rule
Let our lovers play the fool
I don’t know how
To stop feeling this way

I breathed in the air in the space between my bedroom and the lofty boughs of an old hawthorne tree outside my window. A dog barked in the distance, a lonely plaintive sound that echoed my own loneliness. In later years, I’d combat that sinking feeling by opening a book, but at that age, in that summer, I listened to the radio and found solace in the noise that masked the heart while revealing it at the same time.

Hold on to the nights
Hold on to the memories
If only I could give you more…

Fleeting moments of friendship flashed across my brain from the previous school year: sitting next to Ann in art class as she created an epic Bon Jovi collage, sharing answers with Jeff for a health test and trying the wrath of a very scary health class teacher, walking to band with Tim and laughing as he mentioned how a certain person was surprised to see the sun come up in the morning.

It dawned on me, earlier than most I suppose, that I wasn’t just trying to hold onto the nights, I was trying valiantly to hold onto my youth. As dismissive as I was of the silliness of being a kid, I knew it was a realm I’d regret having to leave. As much as I wanted to grow up as fast as possible, I was cognizant enough to know how much I would miss it. That awareness was childhood’s greatest – and quickest – killer.

Well, I think that I’ve been true to everybody else but me
And the way I feel about you makes my heart long to be free
Every time I look into your eyes, I’m helplessly aware
That the someone I’ve been searching for is right there.

I had a few more years before I’d leave all that innocence behind. For that night, the summer felt a little endless, and somehow there was comfort in that abyss. We never know what is in store for us. That’s the beauty and the rub. Though I’d never be one to really hold on to anything, I was still just a boy trying to find his piece of the kingdom. “You may know what you need, but to get what you want, better see that you keep what you have.” One midnight gone…

Hold on to the nights
Hold on to the memories
I wish that I could give you more…

Hold on to the nights.

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A Little Bit Dangerous

You pack your bag.

You take control.
You’re moving into my heart
and into my soul.
Get out of my way!
Get out of my sight!
I won’t be walking on thin ice to get through the night.

It was 1990. The dawn of a new decade. I was a freshman in high school. Scared, frightened, meek, but just a little audacious, I wanted to be the girl in this song – the dangerous one. The one who had eyes that hit like heat. There was power in being perceived that way. There was power in beauty – and a sinister elegance in danger. I knew then, however, that true power and danger didn’t need to announce themselves boldly and grandly. They didn’t shout or cause a commotion. They didn’t attack or assault.

It was the quiet ones you had to worry about.

If I portrayed danger, it was in the name of protection, like those poisonous caterpillars who displayed their colorful plumage-like shells to ward off any would-be predators. I was small and slight. Against a brawny football player I didn’t stand a chance. Against a riled-up teacher, I was powerless. It’s a wonder I was so daring and so mean. (Sometimes you have to be a little mean to survive.) That was the business of high school. That was the game.

Hey, where’s your work?
What’s your game?
I know your business
but I don’t know your name…
Hold on tight,
you know she’s a little bit dangerous.
She’s got what it takes to make ends meet
the eyes of a lover that hit like heat.
You know she’s a little bit dangerous.

Popularity was the main currency of those ridiculous high school days. That wasn’t what I was after. Hell, after a while I didn’t even hope for acceptance. Mostly what I wanted to do was survive. I wanted to get through it all relatively unscathed. Brutality waited around every corner ~ the burning end of a cigarette in the bathroom was always attached to the hairy arm of an older boy who would either smile or stub it out on the back of your neck as soon as you took your place at a urinal and unzipped your pants.

In the locker room, in those scant minutes we had to change after physical education, roving packs of pugnacious and puerile boys ran amid the maze of metallic boxes, honing in on their prey and taking their squirming catch around the corner to the showers. I never stayed to watch what happened next.

You turn around, so hot and dry.
You’re hiding under a halo, your mouth is alive.
Get out of my way!
Get out of my sight!
I’m not attracted to go-go deeper tonight.

Somehow I managed to skirt all of that. We’re often a little more popular than we think we are. (And sometimes, a lot less.) I was never great at reading the crowd, so I did my own thing – flagrantly and yet unassumingly. The stray skirmish at lunch, the random bloody nose, the whispers of a knife – they passed right by. I was more cloak than dagger. When I eventually did come out of my shell, I’d already built a fortress around me.

Hey, what’s your word?
What’s your game?
I know your business
but I don’t know your name…
Hold on tight…

A few years later I really did turn a little bit dangerous. I was careless with hearts, dismissive of love, and had a predilection for hurting anyone before they could get close enough to hurt me. Strangely, and somewhat sadly, that sort of danger seems to hurt the one who wields it more than anyone else.

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The Art of the Jockstrap

If there’s one item of clothing this blog has supported wholeheartedly over the years, it’s the jockstrap. Both utilitarian and stylish, useful and sexy, ubiquitous and precious, the jockstrap has proven itself a prime example of when substance and style merge into one iconoclastic item. Andy Boyer aimed, and succeeded, in infusing a brand-new twist into the jockstrap we all knew and loved. He created The Crochet Empire, (taking more orders next month) in which he offers custom-made crocheted jockstraps. His variation on the hallowed athletic supporter is a cozy yet breathable option for those who don’t like the standard scratchiness of traditional jocks. While Andrew Christian has run deliciously wild with design in regards to jock wear, Mr. Boyer offers a painstakingly hand-made interpretation that rivals Mr. Christian in artful intricacy.

Boyer’s work is the result of a sexy template and individually-tailored crochet work. These jockstraps give a little to accommodate your most sensitive organs, while provided enough support to keep them secure and safe. It’s like a little hug for your cock and balls, embracing you as long as you keep it on.

The charms of such artisanal efforts don’t stop at the jockstrap; there are bow ties and belts and other accents available, and custom-options that allow one to perfectly match their underwear with their outerwear. In a world of mass-production, where people have the same Gap shirt and the same North Face jacket, it’s a refreshing luxury to find a place that produces one-of-a-kind items.

The unique slant that Boyer puts on each item, and the hours of work and toil that go into every piece, are evident in the quality and beauty of the end result. It takes a little longer to produce such a masterpiece (the popularity of the product has resulted in a bit of a lag) but it’s well worth the wait. I’m sure I’ve called the jockstrap a work of art before, but I never really meant it until now.

A planned runway show, ‘Super Jocks in Super Jocks’ is scheduled for May 10, 2015 in Chicago. It will be hosted by Bianca del Rio and will benefit TPAN, a local HIV/AIDS organization. Hunky guys will sport a few of the Super Jock designs, and then the jockstraps that they wore will be auctioned off. If that’s not the best mix of sexy and serious, I don’t know what is. Bonus: readers of this blog (yes, that’s you if you’ve made it this far) get an additional 15% off with this code: ABI15. They should be up and taking orders in a few weeks, so check back to check out.

PS – My signature colors are lime green and Tiffany blue, with a dash of fuchsia for some interest, in the hopeful event that someone sees fit to gift me one of these works of art. I’d even model it for you…

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NSFFB ~ Not Safe For FaceBook

With all the stuff I post, I’ve had a couple of run-ins with the FaceBook picture police. While Kim Kardashian can show her booty in all sorts of greased-up, uncovered, ready-for-anal glory, it appears the rest of us mere mortals get spanked for it. I’d just assumed it was because her derriere was prettier and meatier than mine, but what if there’s a double-standard at FaceBook that allows for women to show off their assets but not gay guys? They’ve already shown some questionable targeting of drag queens in their recent requirement for real names to be used (there was never such a stink made when we all changed our middle name to ‘Hussein’ in a show of support for Obama during his 2012 election run).

Now it seems that FaceBook has been selectively targeting gay male photos for censorship. Dirk Caber and Jesse Jackman posted the black and white feature photo above and it was reported as pornographic. Other FaceBook stories involved a gentleman who was banned from FaceBook for posting a photo of two uniformed gay policeman, just because some homophobic jerk reported the photo.

There are spring break shots of ladies that are pornographic, but a loving depiction of two men seems to raise the red flags – such as the ones posted here. Do they push the envelope? Perhaps. Are they pornographic? I don’t think so. Lest anyone think I’m too open and accepting with regards to sexual images, please note that I don’t post full-frontal nudity, male or female, here (nor do I allow it on my FaceBook or Twitter timelines). But I don’t mind a butt shot (hell, it’s practically my livelihood) nor do I find issue with female breasts (what’s good for the goose is good for the gander).

As for these images, I find them beautiful. I find them pure. I find them loving. If you find them pornographic or dirty, that says more about you than it does about me or the gentlemen presented here.

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A Recap for the Last Week of Winter

This is it: the last official week of winter! We are about to kick this motherfucker to the curb because I am so done with it I was contemplating a move to Florida. That’s crazy talk, but we’re in crazy mode until this snow goes. We’re almost there. My friend JoAnn spent the past weekend with us, and it was the perfect reunion – but more on that a bit later. For now, a look back.

Madonna was back in full-force ~ a lovely return to pop culture form that will continue during her appearance on the Ellen Degeneres show all this week. The ‘Rebel Heart’ album is an epic release – her best work in a decade – and one that embellishes and adds to a musical legacy that was confirmed legendary many years ago.

Jason Dundas was lucky enough to interview Madonna, and that was enough to get him christened as a Hunk of the Day.

Music makes the people come together, as evidenced by local luminary Caleb Eick and his senior recital.

Waiting for the end of winter… and this too shall pass.

Boston Renaissance Man Ricardo Rodriguez made his debut as Hunk of the Day, only his latest honor in a long string of accomplishments.

Sunday morning with the Ilagan twins.

This Hutch (Dano) was not made for your dining room (mostly because he’s shirtless.)

We had a gay old time.

One Hunk of the Day by request ~ James Norton ~ and a group of British gentlemen who took it off before.

Boom! A Special Guest Blog by a dear old friend: JoAnn ‘JoJo/Josie’ MacKinnon.

A gift for JoJo: this shirtless post on Jason Statham.

Finally, Max Emerson was honored as a Hunk of the Day for s second time thanks in no small part to his underwear web series.

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Statham, Jason: Shirtless

For my friend JoAnn, who’s visiting this weekend, and who just wrote the Special Guest Blog of the week, I offer these photos of one of her favorites: Jason Statham in various states of shirtlessness. Personally, I’m not the biggest fan of Mr. Statham, but I love my JoJo, so here you go. She’s always liked them a little rough around the edges… and smoking’ hot.

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