Category Archives: Bulge

Showering in His Speedo

Not sure what the point of showering in your Speedo is, but Michael Phelps knows way more about water sports than I ever will, so we’ll leave it at that.

 

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Zac Efron’s Wet Tighty Whities

From Mr. Efron’s next movie, something about a Paper Boy. Zac Efron in underwear AND Nicole Kidman? I may be sold… 
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Tom Daley Busting Out of His Speedo

To all you guys who ever described yourselves as having a swimmer’s build, you can take it back now.

This is Britain’s Tom Daley, and this is how it’s done.

Now if you’ll excuse, I have some three-month-fasting to do, with a side of manorexia.

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From Beard to Pornstache


Last week, in a deliberate act of pre-meditation and long-thought-out determination, I shaved my beard. I had been itching to do so for weeks, but it just didn’t feel like the right time – or the right weather – until last Wednesday night. Even though I’m such an image shifter, it was more fun that I thought it would be (a quick dramatic change isn’t as easy to pull off as one might imagine, even with years of practice), and this was a joyously instant turnabout.

I left a mustache (pornstache) for a brief bit and took some fun Tom of Finland/Freddie Mercury shots that probably verged closer to the Village People, but you can decide for yourself if and when I make up my mind to shred that last bit of good judgment and post them here. (One is already up on FaceBook and Twitter, so if you’re not friends or following me respectively, what are you waiting for?)

On the beard removal – it was also a bit more emotional than I had foreseen. Being that this was the first proper beard I’d ever grown, and that I’d become rather attached and protective of it (a barrage of insults will do that), I realized that I’d been delaying the shearing process because I was genuinely afraid to let it go. There is definitely some truth to the notion of beards being used as barriers, as well as something behind which one can hide.

Growing a beard made me feel both older and more distinguished, and instantly took me out of the gay guy’s impossible quest to maintain twinkhood. Now, I realize I haven’t been a twink in twenty years, no matter how tight the jeans or flattering the light, but it’s a dream we all keep in the back of our heads, admitted or not. Having a beard immediately allowed (forced) me to give up that ghost, and what followed was an exhilarating feeling of freedom. The shackles of trying to be forever-young were heavier than I realized, so used to them had I become over thirty-six years.

When it came off, I didn’t really see or feel the change right away. Sometimes you only get that in the reactions of others (and my husband is one of the least reactive people I know). It wasn’t until I went into work the next day that I realized what a change had been effected.

I did not feel naked, as some men claim. (Please, you don’t know from naked. I do.) I felt a little cleaner and lighter, less cluttered and hidden, and it was a change I needed. The beard may be back next Fall, but for now it’s going to be smooth sailing.

(The one drawback was that two days later I realized I’d have to shave again. And again. And again. And that, frankly, is a pain in the neck and the jawline.)

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The Bulging Briefs of David Beckham

It may be blasphemy to say this, but is it really all that? Here is David Beckham in his tightey-whitey briefs – a product of his current Bodywear line for H&M. I managed to snag a few specimens last time I was at the mall (there wasn’t exactly a line or shortage for Mr. Beckham’s underwear in upstate New York), and my first impressions were not anything to blog about – at least not in any glowing-review sort of way.

The fit and design were flat, as if someone had simply taken two pieces of fabric shaped like briefs and trunks and simply sewed them together. There was no room for contours, no consideration for bulges or packages, and that’s the death-knell for a decent pair of underwear.

The trunks ride up on the thighs, which, if you don’t mind it, is not the worst thing in the world, but what’s the point of trunks if they’re just going to slide themselves into briefs? The briefs were better suited at staying put, but only because the fit was so tight.

Even the logo bothers me, with its Tom-Ford-wanna-be font, pierced through with an off-centered hole-punch to signify his football glory. It feels like a concept that fell slightly short of its goal, not quite abstract enough to arouse interest, but obscure to the point of annoyance.

If this is what I have to put up with to get into Beckham’s drawers, then I’m perfectly content with keeping them closed.

 

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When Beckham’s Bulge Gets Boring

There will always be some sort of cheap thrill to be gleaned when David Beckham shimmies into his skivvies for a photo shoot, and especially when he releases a line of “bodywear” under his own name. Given that he’s done just that, and we are about to be deluged with an avalanche of moody black and white photos showcasing his shirtless physique and cloth-bound package, I thought it would once again be like those heady (and ballsy) days of that first Armani underwear campaign.

For someone of his stature to front the original promos with his prominent bulge bursting forth in a tight pair of white briefs was bold and brazen. Instantly iconic, the above pic solidified his gay-pin-up status then and there. In the ensuing ads, artfully styled and lit, he continued to go where no man of his fame-level had gone before.

Now, he has released his very own line of underwear, and the first set of ads has premiered. My reaction: one big yawn. In the same way that Mario Lopez played it safe with his debut underwear line, Mr. Beckham seems to have misplaced his balls (metaphorically at least, as they’re still very much front and center in these pics). 

Beckham simply opts for the ubiquitous gray backdrop, and himself front and center. This would be fine if there were something more exciting to sell. Dull color selections, and even duller styles, do not make for a splashy entrance into the design world. There is nothing very imaginative or exciting about these pieces. Given that they are being sold as bodywear, there may be more of a sense of function rather than fashion to them, but come on – the majority of buyers aren’t going to be soccer-playing DILFs – they’re going to be urban gay guys who expect a little more bang for their buck.

I’m not going to lie and pretend that I’ll never look at Mr. Beckham in his briefs again, but as far as getting excited over this latest batch of bulges, the thrill is gone.

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Harry Judd Gives Good Attitude

My virgin brush with the UK Publication Attitude came in 1997 when I was visiting London for the first time. Finding this magazine in the midst of my coming out process was a fortuitous bit of timing and destiny. Since then I usually check it out whenever I find it at a newstand, mostly for its eye candy and cheeky British writing.

This month’s issue features Harry Judd. I have no idea who Harry Judd is, nor does it really matter. He’s in his tighty-whities, and he fills them out quite nicely. Enough said.

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Mario Lopez in His Own Underwear

Mario Lopez is apparently launching his own line of men’s underwear. Ho hum. I say that while not being completely unimpressed with Mr. Lopez’s obvious physicial attributes. Hell, I’d kill for those abs and that chest, not to mention the arms and legs… but I delightfully digress. I just don’t get the point of a new men’s underwear line if this is it. Briefs and boxer briefs – how utterly and unapologetically original. And that ‘cute’ waist band slogan – nothing but embarrassing. If I’m trying to seduce someone, I’m not going to wear underwear that says something in hand-printed block letters. This isn’t grade school.

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Novak Djokovic Strips to his Underwear

This is Novak Djokovic on some Montreal runway. He is a tennis player, I believe, from Serbia. Personally, I’ve had a thing against tennis ever since Wimbledon pre-empted ‘Days of Our Lives’ one summer. I also have a thing against short robes on men. Luckily Mr. Djokovic didn’t keep this one on for long. The black briefs are much better.

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Battle of the Bulges: Cristiano Rinaldo vs. Rafael Nadal

Full-disclosure: If they weren’t in their underwear, I’d have no idea who these two men were. I don’t follow soccer/football/American soccer/American football (these are apparently four different things), so if it weren’t for Armani (and the skivvie-trailblazing by David Beckham) I honestly wouldn’t know Ronaldo from Rafael. However, being that they are in their Armani underwear (Mr. Nadal recently took up the shorts previously filled by Mr. Ronaldo and Mr. Beckham), I can bring my more substantial knowledge of fashion to the floor and offer my take on who better wears them. First, a look at the contenders:

Above is Mr. Ronaldo. Kudos to him for following the ballsy choice to wear briefs in some of his ads. The original underwear star, Mark Wahlberg, in all his iconic poses of the 90’s, never once wore briefs. Boxer briefs, yes, but they don’t count as true briefs. It wasn’t until David Beckham crotch-rocketed his bulge onto billboards the world over that briefs became acceptable for the big names to wear. That gives Mr. Ronaldo a rather impressive edge over his follow-up:

In his first ad for Armani, Mr. Nadal is wearing a pair of trunks, shorter and more revealing than boxer briefs, but still not a true pair of briefs. This is only the first glimpse of the ad campaign, however, so I’m guessing there is more revealing fare to come.

If I had to choose at this point, (and it would be a gun-to-the-head choice as I find neither of these men all that appealing – just not my taste), I’d have to go with Ronaldo, but only because he’s had a chance to grow on me. (Truth be told, I found his ads horrendous the first time I saw them – I don’t care enough to post them here, but Google his Armani work and tell me his eyebrows don’t freak you out.) But like all savvy advertising, they were so ubiquitous that I came to appreciate his body and its curves, even if I never could bring myself to say I found him attractive. Perhaps the same will hold for Nadal, provided he steps into a pair of briefs and goes balls-out to the world.

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Where David Beckham Disrobes & Madonna Still Sings

One of the best aspects of a personal website, at least of those that I frequent, is the fact that you never quite know what you’re going to get. Because our blogs are so personal, and the human instrument so variable, it is unlikely to feature the same exact post twice. If anything, that is the underlying impetus of much of my life – it’s the reason why boredom and stagnation are my number one enemy. Things can get awfully dull when there is no room for growth or evolution or change or improvement. I will never understand those people so blind and set in their ways that they cannot open themselves up to new ideas, new ways of looking at the world, new experiences, and new hopes and dreams.

This website is what I often wish I was at my very best – and sometimes very worst, because in order to live up to the dizzying heights we ascribe to, it is necessary to wallow from time to time in the very muck from which we wish to rise. It’s contrast, the nice word for inconsistency and human frailty.

And so, as the year begins, the 8th year of www.ALANILAGAN.com (which roughly translates to 80 if we convert blog years to human years), I look to bring you more of the things that interest me, from David Beckham in his underwear to Ben Cohen in his, from Madonna in and out of her underwear to Shirley Horn alive again only in her extensive catalogue, from the safety and warmth of my marriage to the recalled journey of a young man mostly alone.

There will be travels and adventures at home and in lands far away, tales both remembered and yet to be lived, and always there will be the spring and the summer to come. It will be a journey of family lost and gained, loved and recalled and never forgotten, of friendships that have lasted through the decades, and new ones forged along the way. People will come and go, certain friends fade, certain friends renew, but ever and anon the love endures, the loyalty burns, and a laugh lingers forever.

So too will there be art – words to read, photography to see, music to hear, theater to experience, movies to watch – and somewhere in between is the art of this blog – and every blog – for there is indeed an art to sharing what we share with the world. In some ways it is the most accessible form of art – open to all, open to any, and relatively free from constrictions. It is still an art in its infancy, rife with failure and experimentation as it finds its own way. There is something raw and unfettered about it, and therein lies its potent of-the-moment glory. Perhaps its might is in its very temporal nature – both immediate and forever. Once put out there it is just as likely to be lost as it is to be forever embedded in someone’s files and spread and saved a billion times over. Who can foretell the lasting scope of this technology?

That’s where I’m headed – and you are invited to come along. No blog exists on its own. It took about eight years for me to realize that, proof that no one is too old or too stubborn to learn, no matter how much they think they know.

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Ben Cohen – In All His Hairy Glory

Ben Cohen is my kind of man. Not too perfect, not too shaved, not too thin. And not too close to anyone’s idea of what they assume I would find attractive.

My taste in men has been largely non-traditional. Aside from the occasional moment of appreciation for the ubiquitous David Beckham bulge or butt, and the brief admiration of a shirtless Chris Evans or naked Jake Gyllenhaal, I just don’t find the usual torch-carriers of male beauty all that impressive.

George Clooney? Gross. Brad Pitt? Yawn. Tom Cruise? Ca-raaaazzzy.

Maybe it’s the way they’ve been built up or put on the cover of Vanity Fair all these years. There’s something about a hugely popular figure that everybody else thinks is gorgeous that makes me subconsciously seek out beauty of a different sort. It’s the same thing that happens when many male models make me yawn more than anything else. Perfection is tedious, it’s boring. And it’s not to be found outside of the photoshopped pages of magazines and fashion blogs.

[See, this is how manscaping should be done: a bit of trimming, then leave well enough alone.]

The guys I find most attractive are those who are more real, those with a bit of baggage around their midsection, or a less-than muscular build – the dorks and nerds. I prefer a real man with a healthy field of chest hair, or someone who’s got an extra pound or two, someone who’s lived life enjoying a couple of beers or carb-loaded pasta dishes. Twinks and muscle-heads need not apply. Take your waifish, your plucked, your oiled masses and leave them outside of my realm of desire. I’ll take a real man like my husband over such nonsense any day.

(And Ben Cohen, only because he’s straight and unavailable.)

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The Madonna Timeline: Song #11 – ‘Justify My Love’

{Note: The Madonna Timeline is an ongoing feature, where I put the iPod on shuffle, and write a little anecdote on whatever was going on in my life when that Madonna song was released and/or came to prominence in my mind.}

I wanna kiss you in Paris,
I wanna hold your hand in Rome,
I wanna make love on a train… cross-country…

 

This came out in December of 1990, and as I was not yet a superfan, I don’t remember much about when the big brouhaha went down. The MTV ban, the Nightline premiere and interview, and video’s commercial release – missed it all. To be honest, I never much liked the song (where exactly is the song?) It seems more of a simple recitation of mildly erotic lyrics set to a mediocre percolating beat, with nary a glimpse of melody. I like songs that have a bit more substance to them.

Of course, ‘Justify’ was all about the video, and it remains a not-that-naughty bit of soft-porn, S&M-tinged pop art that looks rather quaint today. (And features the timelessly hot piece of ass known as Tony Ward, for which the term bubble-butt seems perfectly made.)

(Surely this post deserves a bit of the butt of the man who caught Madonna’s eye – an eye that sometimes favors body over face. It’s nice to see that Mr. Ward still fills out his briefs like nobody’s business.)

I do think the remixes of this song (one of the first times William Orbit worked on her stuff, I believe) are superior to the source material – and the one version I came to enjoy was her performance of the song on The Girlie Show Tour in 1993. (And only the end, when the actual singing began.)

Some have pointed to ‘Justify My Love’ as the seed that resulted in the Sex/Erotica debacle, and that may be true. Personally, I don’t care how sexy you get as long as you have a catchy tune to put it over – for me, ‘Justify’ wasn’t it.

Poor is the man whose pleasures depend on the permission of another.

Song #11: ‘Justify My Love’ – December 1990

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