The bold celebration of gay porn that this site has recently embodied comes to a tattooed head with this Hunk of the Day, François Sagat. This rugged Frenchman with a scalp tattoo had been delighting audiences for his entire career, and only a couple of years ago did he announcement from the porn industry. Luckily, he’s been immortalized in shots like these.
The gluteus maximus gets much of the glory on this website, and in honor of Ass Wednesday it gets another day in the sun (or in the flurry-flecked gray, as the case may be). Some may find something profane about the whole butt-play on a religious day like Ash Wednesday, some may cry foul at the mention of naked male booty just as the Lenten trudge to Easter begins, and some will just click on this post and scroll down to the nude male celebrity butts and links that follow. I know which camp I’m in…
We begin with the meaty backside of Tom Hardy, who recently had a full-frontal river romp splashed across these wireless frequencies. (Well, not these particular ones, as full-frontal male nudity is a frontier we have yet to conquer here.)
The aptly-named Stuart Reardon is proof that more male athletes need to pull down their drawers for photo shoots like these. (He’s also the butt-naked guy dunking the basketball in the featured photo for this salacious post.)
Click-bait warning: we move onto the ample assets of Ryan Reynolds, who reportedly has a naked wrestling match in his new ‘Deadpool’ movie opening this week. I was going to see it regardless, but this is a happy bonus. He’s only shirtless here, but his bottom is on flagrant show in this post.
Below is the beauteous backside of Simon Dunn, which can also be seen in all its glory in this post. (And a bit more of him can be found here.)
Two more words: Orlando Bloom. Who knew the elves had such hot asses?
Cooking and nudity may not seem like the safest pairing, but when Adrian De Berardinis does it you can do nothing but watch in rapt wonder. He is ‘The Bear-Naked Chef‘ – a title that works on too many levels to list right now. His YouTube channel offers his take on some classic Italian cuisine, all done up in naked and fine furry form. But as they said on ‘Reading Rainbow’, you don’t have to take my word for it. Besides, he puts it into words better than I could ever do, so keep reading (and scrolling).
When I cook, I am transported to a plane where nothing else exists or matters. It’s my mediation, my therapy. And once I’m in the zone, it becomes a game of the senses. It is my world to explore, taste, see, feel, experience and ultimately share.
It’s a sensual journey for me: from selecting the perfect and freshest ingredients, to the preparation with attention and care, to the sexy plating of what I’ve prepared, as you already know, we eat also, with our eyes….
Once again, Food is just sexy! One of my earliest recollections of it in a sensual context was that iconic scene in ’9 1/2 Weeks’, where Mickey Rourke feeds Kim Bassinger on the floor in her kitchen in front of the open fridge …the penultimate food orgy in cinematic form.
So, it made sense that cooking naked was something to take the experience to another level for me, and my viewers. And I offer these dishes and instructional videos in its rawest form to you, stripped down, easy to follow, and simply delicious. ~ Adrian De Berardinis
Now check him out in his apron (and nothing but a thick net of chest hair) as he prepares to take us through the magic of Chicken Cacciatore.
I’m not an exhibitionist, but I play one on this website. When faced with an actual opportunity for exhibitionism in person, I get all shy and quiet, particularly when it comes to disrobing. Suspend your disbelief, stop your guffawing, and reign in your instant-dismissals. Allow me to explain.
As a kid, I was all about the nakedness. Neighbors still recall when my brother and I went running around the front yard in the middle of January, wearing only our Underoos. On a Sunday morning excursion to pick up breakfast at Dan-Dee Donuts (the local Amsterdam version of Dunkin’) I mooned a car in the parking lot, much to the consternation and mortification of my brother.
My favorite swimsuit was a tiny (even for a kid) pair of tight, square-cut shorts that had little lines of stars running down the sides. I ran across countless beaches up and down the Eastern sea coast in that thing, gleefully basking in the summer sun. I did the same in our backyard by the pool, unabashed in front of the neighborhood gaggle of kids.
When we played ‘Star Wars’ I always chose to be Princess Leia in the Jabba the Hut scene, brazenly exposing some side ass-cheek in a ridiculously-torn bit of fabric that had to be draped just so. I won’t even get into the politically-incorrect ‘Cowboys & Indians’ garb I concocted, but you can guess which side I chose, and the lack of coverage said ensemble provided.
Growing up in a household where your Dad spends the majority of time lounging in his Jockey shorts, you don’t get a real sense of shame in the human body – and that’s the way it should be.
Somewhere in my childhood that changed. As I grew up and became aware of my body, and the whole Adam and Eve story played in the back of my mind, I became more guarded about things. The carefree innocence of being naked was being replaced with something dirty and shameful. Good boys and girls didn’t behave that way. They didn’t parade around as if we were born that way, they didn’t run about in their underwear, and they certainly didn’t bare their butts in public. I can’t pinpoint when or why or how I became aware of this. There was no traumatic event (fortunately) that sticks in my head, no watershed moment that suddenly changed everything.
Once the curtain of shame and self-awareness descended, I clammed up and covered up, and went in the complete opposite direction. Clothing became my armor, and I found ways to manipulate my image and express myself through such sartorial decoration. Perhaps I took it to an extreme, but being naked became a sign of weakness, a supreme state of vulnerability that a sensitive heart simply couldn’t abide.
I dreaded the simple scoliosis tests at school, when we had to take our shirts off and show our spine to the nurse. I hated undressing in the locker room before and after physical education classes. I even hated taking my shirt off to swim.
(How at odds with what you have come to know, and with everything you have seen here.) I told you: it makes little sense. Such are the quirks of an introverted extrovert. I’m working through those issues with the images before you. It’s a cheap and simple form of therapy, a way to grapple with deeper-seeded things in a very public forum.
Yet even this is safely removed from direct interaction. The photos you see here were taken weeks ago in a hotel room far away – and it might as well have been a lifetime and a galaxy beyond ours. Still, it’s a start. Everything I present here is done with an aim to get over my own issues with shyness. I still have those hang-ups.
In person, you will never see me take my clothes off. I may come close (I’ve finally felt free enough to go swimming – with no shirt on! – in front of people, but you’ll never see me disrobe completely. You’re never going to see me parading around in a Speedo at a pool party, and you’re never going to see some live-streaming shower video of me. But on a recent stay at the Standard, I inadvertently gave some of New York a bit of a peep show, and as uncomfortable as it felt, it was also quite liberating.
It’s still not going to happen in the real world, but it’s happening here.
My shyness is the antithesis of everything I put on display on this website, and that’s why I do it. The shame I feel in being naked in front of people is a shame wrought by society and religion. It’s the same sort of shame I once felt in being gay. And shame like that has no place in the world I want to leave behind.
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!