Just in case you haven’t seen enough of me in my underwear, a brief post culled from shots rediscovered while on the hunt for something else. A happy accident, as I was lacking for a post tonight. These also feature my supposed “favorite” Madonna t-shirt.
Every spring
among
the ambiguities
of childhood
the hillsides grew white
with the wild trilliums.
I believed in the world.
Oh, I wanted
to be easy
in the peopled kingdoms,
to take my place there,
but there was none
that I could find
shaped like me.
So I entered
through the tender buds,
I crossed the cold creek,
my backbone
and my thin white shoulders
unfolding and stretching.
From the time of snow-melt,
when the creek roared
and the mud slid
and the seeds cracked,
I listened to the earth-talk,
the root-wrangle,
the arguments of energy,
the dreams lying
just under the surface,
then rising,
becoming
at the last moment
flaring and luminous –
the patient parable
of every spring and hillside
year after difficult year.
This is a filler post. I haven’t made one of these in a while, trying valiantly to give more content to this blog, but I may go back to filling in the blanks with photos. Spring is a busy time…
A few days ago Andy posted a photo of Ogunquit, taken on the Marginal Way, that immediately set my heart to missing that gorgeous seaside town. We’ll be there in a few weeks, and I cannot wait. Nowhere else is there such a sense of peace and calm such as we have found in Ogunquit. Our May stay also marks the start to our summer season, and there are traditionally lilacs in bloom (or slightly before or after that glorious spell). In all respects, even in years when it’s done nothing but rain, Ogunquit has offered us respite and relaxation, as well as some badly-needed, and increasingly rare, time together, as husband and husband. In fact, it’s a toss-up as to what I love best about it – the sea, the seafood, or the time with Andy.
Having finished off the final days of Lent with a Good Friday flourish and an Easter Bunny Sunday, the week in which I started a new job came to a rather quiet close. We finally had a spell of sunny, decent weather, whereby I could finally begin work on the winter clean-up. Thus far I’ve loaded 25 lawn bags of debris and leaves from the backyard, and I’m only about halfway there. My back will verify, but it will be worth it. Onto the week behind…
Shifting gears from the sexy to the sweet, a pair of posts featuring the Ilagan twins set the cute dial to high, with this tease, and this delivery. The kiddie hi-jinks continued here and here, because with twins it’s always double the fun.
Music, man flesh, and memories, accompanied by the magnificent Ella Fitzgerald and Norah Jones. Oversexed again…
An incredibly shirtless set of Zac Efron GIFs that set fantasies on fire.
Dreaming Until…
Giving rise to things other than Jesus, the Hunks of the Day included Nick Kenkel, Gerrad Bohl, Matt Cardle, Noah Wright and CJ Richards.
You monsters love to see me in tears, so here’s the annual Easter Bunny shot, trotted out again to bring you your yearly dose of pleasure in my discomfort. It remains Suzie’s most favorite picture of me, and for years it stood framed in her house. (How and why anyone would send it to other people is beyond me. It’s a veritable photographic record of how to torture a child.)
At the mall the other night, I looked over to see a line snaking its way toward an explosion of fake flowers and plastic grass, and in the center of it all a sign that read simply, ‘THE BUNNY.” Those poor kids, I thought, with a rare moment of compassion for the little people. All they want is the chocolate non-animated version of that thing. I will say that the Easter Bunny has come a long, friendlier way from the horrifying form he or she used to take when I was peeing in my pants having my picture taken with the beast.
I’ve also come a long way in reconciling my initial traumatic experience, going so far as to approach an Easter Bunny at a Boston brunch last year and conquering the fear. Still, part of me will always recoil at this holiday, and I’m glad you get such joy out of it. Now hop along, there’s nothing more for you to see here.
Terrain that from above, aboard the hurled
steel spore, appears suffused with vivid
ravelings, the highways’ mimic of veinings
underground, the fossil murk we’re all
propelled by, for whatever term: as with
magenta freshets of Texas redbud, curled
among dun oaks fed on by yellowing nuggets
of old mistletoe, the sometime passport
to sulphurous Avernus (the golden leafage
rustling in light wind), though here we hugely
deafen to the hiss of Nemesis: so turns
You can
die for it –
an idea,
or the world. People
have done so,
brilliantly,
letting
their small bodies be bound
to the stake,
creating
an unforgettable
fury of light. But
this morning,
climbing the familiar hills
in the familiar
fabric of dawn, I thought
of China,
and India
and Europe, and I thought
how the sun
blazes
for everyone just
so joyfully
as it rises
under the lashes
of my own eyes, and I thought
I am so many!
What is my name?
What is the name
of the deep breath I would take
over and over
for all of us? Call it
whatever you want, it is
happiness, it is another one
of the ways to enter
fire.
As the high holidays kick into gear, I’m going easy on posts for the moment, as I’m starting a new job and want to focus on that, as well as getting ready for spring and trying to be healthier and happier – both of which require effort and work and living in a world off of the computer. That doesn’t mean I won’t be checking in regularly.
The easiest way to keep abreast is by that social media triumvirate of FaceBook, Twitter, and Instagram – each of which I try to update throughout the day, no matter where I am or what I’m doing. That holy trio often gives you a better pay by play of what’s going on with me than the lengthy diatribes and hot hunks you may find here. So friend me or follow me and we’ll have a splendid time.
The first time I set foot in the Troy Music Hall was when I was rehearsing for an Empire State Repertory Orchestra performance. It is said to have some of the best acoustics in the country, but I wouldn’t have known the difference if I’d been playing underwater. It was enough just getting through the staccato sixteenth notes of Copland’s ‘Hoe Down’ on the oboe, that most unforgiving of double-reed instruments. I’d been feeling knocked down by the competitive nature of the orchestra, and the demanding discipline it required of an already-fragile fifteen-year-old, but the beauty of the surroundings entranced me, occupying my worry and setting me at ease.
A couple of weekends ago we went to see a performance of Ciaran Sheehan, and the beauty of the hall, a well as the traditional Irish music, transported us to another time. The sound of the venue remained perfect, and the musicians who played that evening wholeheartedly agreed, opting to try out part of their program without any electronic amendment so as to enjoy the acclaimed acoustics.
Some people joke about Troy, and I’ve been guilty of that in the past, but there are good things here, and the music hall is proof of that.
Switching from the salacious to the sweet, soon we herald a couple of posts returning the Ilagan twins to the fold, with a recap of their fourth birthday celebration. For now though, a hint of that, in the toys of childhood ~ colorful, innocent, and fresh as the break of dawn. Come back in a day or two when we resume the usual adult content.
Until then, welcome to the dollhouse.
It’s easy to get lost in the airport. Not physically lost, but emotionally. Surrounded by strangers, and people from far and near, it’s simple to drop your identity and pick up another, if only for a layover. It’s one of the reasons I love the airport. It gets tiring being me sometimes. You have the luxury of clicking away if things get dull or annoying or bothersome. You have the choice not to see me at all. I don’t have such an escape.
But in an airport I can pretend I’m someone else. Not seriously, and not forever, but when I need to get away before or after getting away, it’s a nice feeling. Pretending to be lost is better than actually losing yourself. Safer too. And if that’s what it takes to return to the world that I know, if that’s what it takes to survive, then let me be lost at the airport. Await my arrival.
When Zac Efron accepted his MTV Movie Award for ‘Best Shirtless Performance’ or something, he made good on a promise to do so shirtless. Personally, I think he should have done it pants-less, but beggars can’t be choosers. Besides, that’s what this naked Zac Efron post is for. This stunt is a blatant pandering to have his own sub-category, like Tom Daley, Ben Cohen, or David Beckham, but Mr. Efron is going to have to do a lot more in his underwear before that honor gets bestowed.
While I’ve been gone, there have been more than a few skin-heavy posts, glorifying gratuitous male nudity, and putting naked male celebrities upon a posterior-posing pedestal, which means this recap is going to be more than a little racy. Â April is, however, one of the racier months, speeding by as it removes the last vestiges of the most stubborn winter. Until the heat is here to stay, we’ll rub some sticks and dicks together and make our own warmth. Onto the hotties…
The “Great Naked Male Celebrity” post has been done to death, right here on this site, but never with this amount of GIFs and a bonus video.
A recap within this recap (as is the tendency when I’m away) is doubly represented by The Words and The Photos.
Another double-dose of sexiness was on full display with a pair of posts: The Bulge Report – with its healthy recollection of some notable male package action, and The Butt Report – with its coming-from-behind posterior power.
If it was my butt you were after, one of my favorite artists captured it here.
The Hunk of the Day feature was in full daily effect, populated by the sexy clothes-shedding likes of Andrew Morrill, Joshua Michael Brickman, Todd Hanebrink, James Clement, James Maslow, Drew Pare, and Jason Taulb.
Since we just featured The Bulge Report, it seems only fair to give a shake to the other end of the action. Here’s a collection of the backsides that have brought such joy to some of you over the years. While there’s a bit of a full-frontal male nudity embargo on this site, the butt has always been all access, all the time. Rear entry has never been denied in these parts…
The posterior of aptly-named Stuart Reardon may be one of the hottest to burn up this site’s stats, so get clicking.
Male model David Gandy provided ample eye candy when he turned around to bump and grind it.
It’s a tossed-salad-toss-up as to which side of Benjamin Godfre is better – the back or the front – so you can decide for yourself..
Todd Sanfield may have a stunning underwear line, but he’s better when baring his backside sans underwear altogether.
Dan Savage’s better half, Terry Miller, may try keeping his booty in a Speedo, but it just barely fits.
The amazing ass of Scott Herman is quite a sight to behold.
Dan Osborne’s been featured here for his bulge, but he’s got an equally-admirable booty, as seen here.
And last but most certainly not least, Harry Judd proved his butt has remained in perfect shape since he first bared it a few years ago.
PS – Who’s going to start a campaign to get David Beckham to show his tush?
