Category Archives: Male Nudity

In Tibetan meditations on the sound of water, the adept unites the fluidity within his or her own body-mind with the waters of the external environment. The same process applies to qualities of earth, fire, air, and space. If brought to completion, this form of meditation is believed to lead to a state in which the boundaries of the individual ego are replaced by a deep, transparent empathy with the phenomenal world.
~ Ian Baker
From The Heart of the World: A Journey to Tibet’s Lost Paradise

The only artists I have ever known, who are personally delightful, are bad artists. Good artists exist simply in what they make, and consequently are perfectly uninteresting in what they are. A great poet, a really great poet, is the most unpoetical of all creatures. But inferior poets are absolutely fascinating. The worse their rhymes are, the more picturesque they look. The mere fact of having published a book of second-rate sonnets makes a man quite irresistible. He lives the poetry that he cannot write. The others write the poetry they dare not realize.

~ Oscar Wilde, The Picture of Dorian Gray

First, there is the fear. The insurmountable wall of “I could never do this” standing right in your path, blocking the light and the way, and for a while you think, ‘No.’ Absolutely not. Not ever. Sometimes it stays there for years, and you learn ways around it, or you simply dress it up with layers of artifice and make-believe until it no longer seems like a wall at all, but just part of the backdrop to your life.

Then, there is the challenge. The little voice that whispers from deep inside and says, ‘You should try it. There’s no other way.’ No risk, no glory. And it cracks something open like a tiny drop of water can crack a stone, and that little fissure sprouts an idea, an idea that begins to take root.

Next is the obsession. You cannot stop it now. It is all you can think about doing, and everywhere you go you see further signs that you are on the right path, until the whole universe seems to be nudging you in this direction, and has been all the time.

After that, there is the artistic execution – the experimentation, the searching and finding, the discovery and setbacks, the creative expression and drive that fuels a project. You have dared yourself to do this, and there is no going back. What you will find is not yet known, not yet understood, but the way to the answer is the journey you were meant to make.

Finally, there is the revelation – the moment you show the world what you have done, for better or worse, for praise or condemnation, for ridicule or judgment – you put it all out there, you reveal every bit of yourself, and you wait – not so much for a reaction, but for some sort of recognition, some bit that sparks relation in another person – a tilt in perception, a coo of longing, an intake of disbelief.

It’s always somehow sadder than they think it’s going to be, more poignant and touching because there is something so earnest and hopeful about it, no matter how tawdry or salacious the matter may at first glance appear. Looking back at it years later, it seems even more moving because that moment has passed.

The hair is grayer, the stomach is fuller, the thin, bony structure has filled out. He has grown into himself, he is not the boy he used to be. Vestiges remain, bits of innocence survive, and as naked as he is, as he has always wanted to be, he has still refused to fully reveal himself. What is the body but a shell of the soul?

He has somehow done it, done exactly what he had set out to do. And the documentation of it is intact – the perfectly poised precipice between youth and adulthood embodied in these photos, in these moments, remains captured in a project.

It was incendiary on a personal level too – Andy and I almost broke up after he had seen some of the images I was intending to use – and we ended up canceling a big premiere party we had planned (I held a smaller gathering for my close friends, who didn’t really see what all the fuss was about). It was a learning experience for both of us – he learned that he would never be able to quell my artistic expression, and I learned that there were some things that should remain private and only between the two people in a relationship. Andy also taught me, indirectly, that there was something more titillating and erotic about what is hidden or hinted at than what is blatantly revealed. Both artistically and personally, this project was one of the most difficult and ultimately rewarding that I’ve ever done.

Sometimes I feel like I’ve settled into a mainstream life of complacency, and in so many ways I’m just another old married guy. But to be honest, I’ve always felt that way, and it’s never dulled my edge. Whenever I feel that sharpness start to soften, I tend to do something to scare myself into new realms of creative excitement and uncharted artistic territory. Lately, however, I’ve felt less of a need to shock, and more of a desire to connect, but despite these efforts not much has changed.

Sometimes, I need a little push. When discussing ways to increase visitors to this site, I thought about all those places that block www.alanilagan.com due to its perceived ‘Adult’ or  ‘Sexual;’ content. I’ve received various messages from readers over the years that this site is not available at their local cafe or hotel. I’ve seen it blocked first-hand at Best Buy, and railways. (Not that those folks aren’t dying to get on, or off.) The fact that this site is considered ‘NSFW’ has always been fine with me – if not mostly a source of pride for my NSFW attitude.

But in recent months, as I’ve become aware of site traffic and seen other less-interesting fare garner rave write-ups and readership, I wondered if I’ve forsaken a larger audience in the search of honest, naked, raw emotion – both literally and figuratively – and if perhaps it’s not in my best interest to tone things down, to strike a gentler chord, and appeal to a broader base.

Thankfully, after speaking to a couple of friends whose opinions I respect and implicitly trust, I’ve come to a conclusion that should satisfy my creative expression without alienating my core audience of readers (all five of you), and it can be summed up in two simple words:

Fuck that.

This website was built on the very premise that nothing would be off-limits, nothing would be too racy, and nothing would be censored. It’s built a proud following for all the gratuitous male nudity, the tongue-in-cheek lounging-around in my underwear, shirtless and naked celebrity men, and an occasional sexy Madonna shot . This site will always veer on the side of her Sex book over that English Rose nonsense, and I will make no apologies for it, nor kow-tow to anyone who attempts to put this baby in a box.

You’re still never going to get me to go all full-frontal on your ass (not on the Internet at least), and I’m not about to link to straight-up guy-on-guy porn – there’s a modicum of taste and elegance that will always permeate this site, no matter how minor and hard-to-find. But if I want to recount a dick in my mouth, you’re going to have to suck along with me, or get out of the way.

And for the record, I’ve never considered anything on this site particularly NSFW or dirty in a negative way. We don’t go for salacious, we go for sultry. We don’t go for pornographic, we go for artistic. We don’t go for shameful, we go for proud. And if you can’t tell the difference, you probably shouldn’t be here in the first place.

The small-minded and culturally-bereft need not apply.

My last trip to Provincetown as an available single man was just before I met Andy. Some of the Cornell Collegetown Crew had assembled on the Cape for a week in P-town – Kristen and I took the boat over from Boston, while Suzie, Chris and Alissa arrived by car a few days later. It was the sun-drenched month of July, but it didn’t seem crazy yet.

The guest-house we had rented was close to the Gifford House, and we would spend most evenings at the latter, enjoying the night breeze on the porch, or talking and singing ‘Delta Dawn’ with the boys at the bar. A Tanqueray and tonic was my constant companion, and to this day the taste and fizz of that lime-tinged cocktail brings me back to that summer in P-town.

Despite my swinging-single status, I was not on the lookout for a mate, romantic or otherwise, and once you’re freed of that onerous albatross, the world becomes a lot more fun. Especially if you’re in Provincetown.

Days were spent cutting up fruit from the market and laying on the beach, along with intermittent shopping jaunts along Commercial Street and periodic people-watching. JoAnn and Kim came into town for lunch, and I’d occasionally see a familiar Boston face bobbing among the crowds.

At tea dance Kristen and I checked out the crowd, sizing up potential suitors mostly for fun, for I never had the guts to approach anyone. The five or six dance songs that were most popular then whipped the crowd into its all-too-brief frenzy of arms-in-the-air abandon, and soon it was over.

As night fell, we found ourselves back at the Gifford House, breezily talking with other vacationers as the moon rose overhead. Provincetown was casting its enchantment, and suddenly there he was, before me, returning my none-too-subtle glances and finally coming over to say hello.

His name was Chris, and he had a kind, crinkly-eyed smile. That gets me every time. We spoke with him for a bit, then he departed. I watched him walk away into the night, sighing a wistful sigh of resignation mingled with strange relief and relaxation. I was no longer in the business of looking, even if I hadn’t even met Andy yet.

Later on in the evening, he returned. A candle flickered on the little table between us, light dancing in our eyes and the crowd thinning out on this summer weeknight. We sat on the porch and talked a bit before he walked me home. We went upstairs to my room and did what boys in P-town do together. Moonlight peered in through the windows, mottling the room in shades of gray.

When he left I kicked off the sheets, along with any remaining tendency to fall for my one-night-stands, and laid there looking up at the ceiling in the dim light of night. We hadn’t even exchanged numbers, and I hadn’t bothered to ask.

When we saw each other on the street the next day, we pretended we didn’t. I don’t know which stung worse – the fact that he looked the other way, or that I honestly didn’t care.