Category Archives: Gratuitous Nudity

Naked Saturday

It wouldn’t be fair for me to do a post catechizing other guys to take their pants off if I’m not going to do my part and be brave too, so here’s the nude preamble to today’s posts. Truth be told, I haven’t been as unclothed here as everyone seems to think I am, but that’s what happens when nudity is involved – everything gets thrown out of whack and blown out of proportion. The false puritan notions of America, bogged down by hypocrisy and hyperbole.

This site has long been a bully pulpit for self-expression and a shame-free zone for the naked human body. While there is no full-frontal nudity (I don’t mind the NSFW label we get, as long as I know it’s not true) there’s just about every other sort, and one man’s backside is another man’s treasure. Now we’re slipping into Debbie Reynolds talk, and I’m pretty sure Carrie Fisher would hardly approve. Come back later for hotter guys similarly lacking in attire.

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Gus Kenworthy: Naked at Noon

Gus Kenworthy has become one cheeky Olympian, and no one is more glad than the visitors here. His naked ass first appeared in his virgin Hunk of the Day post, and since then it’s been popping out all over Instagram. Apparently no one’s complaining about another nude Gus Kenworthy shot, so scroll down for more. And to think we go crazy when male celebrities go shirtless – this is whole new level of swooning.

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Happy World Naked Gardening Day 2016

The first Saturday in May has been dubbed “World Naked Gardening Day” and this year it couldn’t have fallen on a better date. The merits of gardening without clothing are questionable at best, dangerous at worst, but so highly entertaining it seems the powers-that-be have made an unofficial holiday of it. Though it’s been far too cold and dreary to take any new shots (and my winter body fat has yet to be shed) I’ve been naked in the garden before, so go here for a look back at my backside. For this post, let’s have a gander at some other asses.

And in case anyone still thinks it’s just a nude pose, check out these gardening links:

Bend and snap!

Zen zone.

At least three cheers.

Cherry popping.

Don’t cry for me, Larix decidua.


Sweet ruff.

The tree peony.

A mantle of a lady.

The celadon poppy.

Do not mock this.

Screaming loud.

Lace it up.

The rays.

A bunch of pricks.

And if it’s the guy below you’re into (or want to be in to), here’s Paddy out of the woods.

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Sunday Shirtcocking

There may not be a dictionary definition for shirtcocking yet, but if Donnie Rust has anything to say about it there should be. The act of wearing a shirt and no pants is the very loose description of it, as illustrated by all butt one of these shots. (Yes, that ‘butt’ was entirely intentional; there are no accidents here.)

 “The terrible poetry of human nudity, I understand it at last, I who tremble for the first time in trying to read it with blasé eyes.” ― Rachilde

“Beware of the naked man who offers you his shirt.” ~ Navjot Singh Sidhu

“I think on-stage nudity is disgusting, shameful and damaging to all things American. But if I were 22 with a great body, it would be artistic, tasteful, patriotic, and a progressive religious experience.” ― Shelley Winters

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Mid-Day Ginger Treat: Burning Bush

Though we already have a Hunk of the Day picked out for a bit later, I’m giving you a bonus post of Mr. Kevin Long. Based on this photo shoot alone, there’s a good chance that Long will be featured in his very own Hunk of the Day feature in short order. In the meantime, enjoy this ginger-themed one-off for this very hot St. Patrick’s Day.


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Hunk of the Day: Bryce Harper

Much has been made over his miraculous feat of doing squats while balancing precariously atop an exercise ball, but Bryce Harper more than earns his first Hunk of the Day crowning simply through his baseball-playing prowess and accompanying body. It’s on display here and is ample justification for this honor. Here’s hoping he poses for another Naked Body Issue very soon.

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Hunk of the Day: François Sagat

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.

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Happy Ass Wednesday

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?

Bringing up the tail-end of this post rather spectacularly is Matt Bomer, in full motion, and also seen in greater glory here, but not here.

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Hunk of the Day: Adrian De Berardinis

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.

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Why I Get Naked Here

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.

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Simon Dunn Naked

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.

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November Nudity

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.

Baseball has always been about summer weather. See the naked form of Matt Harvey, the aptly-named Grady Sizemore, and my pal Skip Montross. (Hey, he was once a Hunk of the Day too, you know.)

The very versatile jockstrap.

The battles of the bulges: Mario vs. David ~OR~ David vs. Tom ~OR~ Cristiano vs. Rafael ~OR~ just David.

Finally, the nude male celebrity collection, the naked male celebrity collection, or this sans-clothing collection.

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A Sexual Day of Reckoning

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.




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Birthday Boy, Birthday Suit

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?

You’ve seen it all before,

You’ve seen it all before,

You’ve seen it all before

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:

Here’s my naked ass.

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.

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What’s In A Bag?

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.

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