My forty-one-year-old ass is ready for its close-up.
Get DeMille on the line and fire up the Isotta-Frascini.
The pool is ready, willing, and able.
I’ve got my birthday suit on, much like last year.
And any other year for that matter.
What are you waiting for?
Jump.
A diplomat is a man who always remembers a woman’s birthday but never remembers her age. ~ Robert Frost
The Delusional Grandeur Tour may be even more delusional than originally thought, as my traveling seems to have diminished greatly. When you only have to step out your back door to an 87-degree pool, and back inside to a cool 70-degree house, travel seems largely unappealing. That said, I still enjoy a jaunt out of town, and this tour is still in full-effect until I say it isn’t. Hence this bonus tour post, which recalls the Hotel portion of the Tour book. Rather than trouble you with further discussion, here are a few links to bring you back to one of my favorite hobbies: staying in hotels.
“I’m more at home with my backpack, sleeping in a hotel room or on a bus or on an airplane. Than I am necessarily on a bed. It’s weird being here. It feels like I’m standing next to my real life.†~ Henry Rollins
There’s a distinctive shift that comes over me when I’m in a hotel room. A sense of safety in anonymity, the possibility of being unknown and untouchable. Ensconced in a lofty space high above a city, or on the ground floor of some seaside retreat, I find comfort in being a transient stranger.
We are all known in our own circles, and that can be incredibly wearying.
As much as we strive to be known, to be recognized, to be seen, we sometimes forget that it comes with its own set of burdens and responsibilities.
I long for a different kind of freedom, something that can only be found when you go away.
In the aftermath of Orlando Bloom’s more-than-just-a-dick-slip photos, it seems fitting to pause for further reflection and reminiscing over those male celebrities who have bared their assets for all the world to see. Male nudity is the final frontier, it seems, for prurient America, and in this wretched election year let’s turn our attention to the staffs at hand.
A is for Austin Armacost, who has graced these pages with his boffo bod, ever-improving over the years. These latest shots prove that Armacost has focused on his very best parts, and shown them off to their greatest potential.
B is for Bloom, as in Orlando, who started this resurgence of male nudity with this collection of racy fully-nude photos. It also stands for Bieber – Justin Bieber – who continued the streak, quite literally.
C is for Chris Salvatore, whose musical prowess is as magical as his disrobing.
D is for the delicious David Gandy, eye-&-man-candy, and deliriously-sexy Dan Osborne.
E is for Epke Zonderland, one of the very first naked Olympians we ever featured on this site, back in the Summer Olympics of 2012.
F is for Fusco, as in one of our most popular Hunks of all-time, Philip Fusco, who has been charming our pants off by taking his pants off for years.
G is for gingers, like Greg Rutherford – and the red carpet matched the red drapes.
We’re just going to skep ahead to Z, because it’s summer, I’m tired, and there’s more than enough naked male celebrities for you to fawn over until tomorrow.
Z is for Zac Efron, who went bottoms-up in this memorable post, and has teased us tantalizingly ever since.
Unseen, across the landscape of light, a morning approaches. Unbidden, because there are certain nights you don’t want to end, it presents itself matter-of-factly. There it stands in front of you: the day. Unpretentious, indisputable, and always just a little inscrutable, it awaits further instruction. Which way will you go? Where will you take it? How would you like it to end?
Obscured by the changing lens of life, it looks a little different to everyone. Distorted by the stories we tell ourselves, and the tales we choose to hear, it bends and refracts and ricochets like light. Yet as tricky as it sometimes seems to be, there is something reassuring about the whole scene: a tacit understanding with the day that we will do it together.
We are but a few weeks away from the summer Olympics, and our Hunks of the Day are all coming to you straight from the Olympic trials. While Greg Louganis has already been a Hunk of the Day, and a hero, he’s showing off his fine physique without so much as a Speedo for the ESPN Body Issue (read: the Nude Issue). It is a thrill to see someone still exercise such fine form and mastery of staying in shape, but when you have Olympic blood in you, it seems to be part of life.
Mr. Louganis has made a splash here before, in ways both moving and sexy, and he does that again in this brief post. Though he was diagnosed with HIV almost three decades ago, he’s still going strong. As he recently told ‘People’ magazine, “HIV taught me that I’m a lot stronger than I ever believed I was… Also, not to take anything for granted. I didn’t think I would see 30, and here I am at 56.”
As a new crop of divers heads to Rio to prove their worth, it’s good to see an old favorite – and a childhood hero of mine – still inspiring, and jumping into the future without looking back.
The title of the post pretty much sums up the assets on display. Nick Bateman has been a Hunk of the Day before, but it clearly due again. In the meantime, he just posted a naked butt shot on his mega-popular Instagram feed. For those who are hungry, here’s something to whet the appetite.
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.
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.
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:
Don’t cry for me, Larix decidua.
And if it’s the guy below you’re into (or want to be in to), here’s Paddy out of the woods.
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.â€Â ― 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.â€Â ― Shelley Winters
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.
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:Â 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.
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’ Donuts) 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.
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.
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 ‘Rainâ’). 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…
