Well here’s a Happy Monday surprise for some of us: Simon Dunn naked. He was just crowned as Hunk of the Day for a second time, but this bobsledder from Down Under is clearly making a serious bid for the elusive Triple Hunk glory. (Thus far only Ronnie Kroell has managed such a feat.) Since Mr. Dunn seems to have no issue with nudity, he looks to be the next contender. Thanks to Simon for brightening up a decidedly-dreary Monday. No better way to begin the week than with a nude Simon Dunn.
It’s tougher to get your naughty bits and bobs out when the temperature takes a nosedive, but the beauty of the internet, and this lazy website in particular, is that photos from warmer days can be conjured during the colder times. Hence this pair of naked shots, and the litany of links below to take you to the warmer parts and places that once graced this space.
First up on this sexy Sunday rundown is a group of footballers (the American sort) because the Lord’s Day is not just about Jesus, it’s about pigskin. Just ask Danny Amendola, Drew Brees, Victor Cruz, Scotty McKnight, and Mark Sanchez.
The very versatile jockstrap.
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 ‘Rain’). 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…
When Madonna was putting out her ‘Sex’ book at the ripe old age of 36, someone asked her if she’d stop taking her clothes off for pictures when she was 40. True to form, Madonna balked then, and judging from the set of topless photos released this past spring when she was 56, I’d say she’s still balking now. However, much as I’d like to be, I’m not Madonna – and I don’t have the millions of dollars at hand to afford the trainers and chefs and time that would enable a honing of my body into such pristine form. For that reason, posing nude into my 40’s doesn’t seem like the best idea.
Besides, the idea of evolution, upon which this website was founded way back in 2003, forms the basis for everything I do here. Change is cause for celebration. New things are welcomed and embraced. If they work, they can stay, if they don’t we move on. But one thing I can’t abide is stagnation. Dullness. Repetition and more of the same. So when the notion of MORE nude photos of my already-overexposed naked ass reared its head, I began to wonder if we haven’t played that hand enough. How does one go on making male nudity interesting and fresh and new?
There’s also the well-intended advice and exasperated chatter of those who claim that at my age it may be time to tone things down, to mature with grace and dignity (and covered head-to-toe in fabric of some sort). If I’ve learned anything in 40 years, it’s that I shouldn’t be so quick to shut down ideas that at first glance appear different or oppositional to mine. To that end, I’ve given it some thought and put in some considerate deliberation, and I’ve come to a conclusion:
My 40-year-old naked ass.
If you don’t like it, I probably didn’t invite you to this pool party.
Be gone before someone does a cannonball on you.
All bad punning aside, I’m 40 years old, and I can do what I want. For a spell of 90 degree days, I find a bit of skinny-dipping a refreshing way to end the afternoon. It’s still exciting. It’s still invigorating. And as long as I’m enjoying it, I’m going to share it.
For your end, you are free to avoid this space if you don’t want to take the chance of encountering naked booty. Forewarned is fairwarned, and this place is not always safe for children or work. Since I abhor both, it’s not an issue for me.
And now, Mr. DeMille, I’m ready for my birthday spankings.
Clothes and sundries, accessories and toiletries.
Socks and underwear on the bottom, along with whatever pajamas or loungewear that feel appropriate for a visit.
Rolled pants and shirts (rolling will actually keep things less wrinkled in most instances).
Maybe a book if I’m carrying the bag with me.
Sometimes a gift or two, depending on the host.
The most important thing to pack though, and you don’t even need a fancy bag for this, is an open-minded readiness for anything, and a willingness to try everything. It is the essence of a good traveler.
This won’t go as far back as when those first beefcake pin-ups of muscle-bound men began appearing in service of ‘working out’ – those go back further than most of us realize. Instead, a round-up of more-recent beefcake posers, some classics and some should-be classics. Now and then an immaculate collection of a shirtless sort is needed. No time like the present… and speaking of presents…
First up is the fabulously fit Phil Fusco. He inspires a lot of ‘F’ words, as evidenced here and in his very first featured post a while ago. He also fared finely in his first Hunk of the Day spot. In fact, he’s probably due for another…
Second, the ever-brilliant Ben Cohen, who is currently working on his autobiography, and his line of grooming products, is a must-see in these recent shirtless shots, exemplifying his hirsute fitness. (Rumors abound that he has an underwear photo shoot coming up.)
Third, the heroic Chris Evans, who is a timeless pin-up guy for any generation. He’s been in practically-naked GIFs here before, and completely nude as well. He also gets to represents some hot and heavy collections like these.
Finally, a gratuitous slice of ginger beefcake in the spectacular Seth Fornea. He too has played a stunning visual part on posts featuring male nudity and the like, or simply standing alone in his own glory.
How does the Naked Chef do it? There are so many dangers, so many burn risks. And sometimes an apron just isn’t enough. But sometimes it is. Especially in the summer. This brief collection of gratuitous gourmet shots is an homage to all those cooks who trouble and toil in the kitchen, like Martha Stewart, Jamie Oliver, Lidia Matticchio Bastianich, Joanne Weir, and Dinah herself (strumming on the old banjo).
I don’t get to cook as much as I’d like, and I’m actually pretty decent at it. (I’m less gifted at the cleaning-up aspect, as Andy will attest.) But the creation and the preparation? Absolutely. It satisfies some of my creative drive, and recipes appeal to my love of scientific order and transformation.
Some favorite dishes that I’ve succeeded in executing over the years include the following:
Chicken and olives and oranges, oh my!
Kickin’ it with the quinoa.
Kimchi fried rice and the all-important fried egg.
A meal fit for a prostitute.
For (and from) the family.
Rest assured, if I can handle them, you can. I prefer the simple, tried and true rather than the exotic and elaborate, so these are easy-peasy lemon-squeezy. Get your apron ready.
Not really sure what to say about the recent photo that Justin Bieber put up on Instragram… My ass certainly wouldn’t fly if I put this on Instagram, but maybe he’s taken it down already. He was kinda naked already on this blog, and was definitely in nothing but his underwear. As for the fully naked shot below, have at it. I’m neither impressed nor unimpressed.
A cheeky Part 2 from the shirtless pool promise of Part 1, and the second-laziest post I’ve done in a while. The good thing is that new stuff is on the way, and the promotional push and hype is about to engulf all my outlets. You have been warned. Enjoy the next few days of relative quiet.
This is not technically a Hunk of the Day post, as we’ve already done that for today. Instead, it’s just a weekend-ender gratuitous entry honoring adult film star Ashton Harvey. (That’s the adult term for gay porn star, which is preferable to my ears, but Sunday night is traditionally for family fare so let’s keep it at least to the PG-13 level.) Mr. Harvey needs a tall stiff cocktail named after him, and I’m not talking Wallbanger. Anyway, Happy Sunday!
How such a thing as ‘World Naked Gardening Day‘ came into existence is baffling to me (dirt and thorns and ticks don’t seem like a natural match for nakedness) but given what I’ve done thus far on this website, how could I not participate? Before I get nude and start pushing around a wheelbarrow, however, I’d like to point out that gardening is a lifelong passion of mine that I take very seriously.
This week began my spring-time clean-up and garden prep. It’s an arduous process that takes several days, and it takes a lot of physical exertion (as my back will attest) and ruthless mental dedication, as it’s basically just hours of raking up debris and getting it into about 50 large lawn bags then hauling them out to the curb. After that, hundreds of pounds of manure need to be added to the soil around the plants who need a little boost. All of that then must be covered with healthy few inches of mulch. Then there’s the ruthless pruning of trees and shrubs, and the thinning out of overgrown patches of plants, or the replanting of those items that got lost in this wild winter. In other words, gardening is serious work. It’s peaceful work too, and a Zen-like calm settles on me every time I’m in that zone.
The results are more than worth it, and by results I don’t just mean the beauty of the garden, but the peace and contentment the whole process bestows upon those who appreciate it. Such peace may be found in the cultivation of an ostrich fern, or the maintenance of a sweet woodruff patch. Contentment can be culled from the premiere of the peony parade and the delicate shading of the celadon poppy. The subtle shifting hues of a hydrangea and the hot fiery blooms of a prickly pear contrast nicely, while some foliage is just as fine as a fancy butterfly-luring flower. Despite all of that, and my self-taught wealth of gardening knowledge, you probably just came to see some nude gardening, so in the name of World Naked Gardening Day, have at it (you twisted perverted fucks).
PS – How many double-entendres can you dig up in honor of the day? Plow this!
I must say I find it hard to understand how any man who values his self-respect would wish for long to avoid responsibility for his past deeds; it may not always be an easy thing, but there is certainly a satisfaction and dignity to be gained in coming to term with the mistakes one has made in the course of one’s life. In any case, there is surely no great shame in mistakes made in the best of faith. It is surely a thing far more shameful to be unable or unwilling to acknowledge them.” ~ Kazuo Ishiguro, An Artist of the Floating World
For indeed, a man who aspires to rise above the mediocre, to be something more than ordinary, surely deserves admiration, even if in the end he fails and loses a fortune on account of his ambitions… if one has failed only where others have not had the courage or will to try, there is a consolation – indeed, a deep satisfaction – to be gained from this observation when looking back over one’s life. ~ Kazuo Ishiguro, An Artist of the Floating World
I suspect the reason I couldn’t celebrate the floating world was that I couldn’t bring myself to believe in its worth. Young men are often guilt-ridden about pleasure, and I suppose I was no different. I suppose I thought that to pass away one’s time in such places, to spend one’s skills celebrating things so intangible and transient, I suppose I thought it was all rather wasteful, all rather decadent. It’s hard to appreciate the beauty of a world when one doubts its very validity…
But I’ve long since lost all such doubts… When I am an old man, when I look back over my life and see I have devoted it to the task of capturing the unique beauty of that world, I believe I will be well satisfied. And no man will make me believe I’ve wasted my time. ~ Kazuo Ishiguro, An Artist of the Floating World
I have learnt many things over these past years. I have learnt much in contemplating the world of pleasure, and recognizing its fragile beauty. But I now feel it is time for me to progress to other things… it is my belief that in such troubled times as these, artists must learn to value something more tangible than those pleasurable things that disappear with the morning light. It is not necessary that artists always occupy a decadent and enclosed world. My conscience… tells me that I cannot remain forever an artist of the floating world. ~ Kazuo Ishiguro, An Artist of the Floating World
Hailing from the Czech Republic, this male model is our Hunk of the Day. Jakub Stefano has worked with such photographic luminaries as Lewis Payton, Mark Lynch and Dylan Rosser. Those guys know how to capture beauty, and Mr. Stefano knows how to give good face. And good ass, as these pictures will attest.
Russian male model Stepan Pereverzev is one hunky glass of vodka. Looking like he packs more wallop than a Moscow Mule, Pereverzev offers and edgier glimpse of the naughty moments that happen off the runway. I don’t know what it’s like to have a body with that much muscle on it, and I never will. Instead, I’m just going to admire the handiwork of a guy who puts the work and the effort into physical perfection.