Category Archives: Gratuitous Nudity

The Magic Mann

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Morality? It interests you does it? All right – it seems to us that one ought not to search for morality in virtue, which is to say in reason, in discipline, in good behavior, in respectability – but in just the opposite, I would say: in sin, in abandoning oneself to danger, to whatever can harm us, destroy us. It seems to us that it is more moral to lose oneself and let oneself be ruined than to save oneself. The great moralists have never been especially virtuous, but rather adventurers in evil, in vice, great sinners who teach us as Christians how to stoop to misery. You must find that all very repugnant. ~ Thomas Mann, ‘The Magic Mountain’

The wicked dance in which you are caught up will last many a little sinful year yet, and we would not wager much that you will come out whole. To be honest, we are not really bothered about leaving the question open. Adventures in the flesh and spirit, which enhanced and heightened your ordinariness, allowed you to survive in the spirit what you probably will not survive in the flesh. There were moments when, as you “played king,” you saw the intimation of a dream of love rising out of death and this carnal body. And out of this worldwide festival of death, this ugly rutting fever that inflames the rainy evening sky all around – will love someday rise up out of this, too? ~ Thomas Mann, ‘The Magic Mountain’

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Hunk of the Day: Stuart Reardon, Naked on Louis Vuitton Luggage

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I don’t know what  gets me hotter in this series of photos – our Hunk of the Day, Mr. Stuart Reardon and his impeccable rear, or the Louis Vuitton on which he rests his backside in one of the last photos. It’s always a toss up as to what gets one off – hot male flesh or hot luggage. I am equally torn, but if pressed I’ll just say that luggage lasts longer, and is a much safer investment than a hot rugby player. Of course, that may be because I only have a piece of Louis luggage in the house and not a rugby player. It’s easier that way, and far less inconvenient on the grocery bill, or so I’m told.

This is a slightly-larger-than-normal spread for the Hunk of the Day, but Mr. Reardon definitely  deserves it. I many not be a fan of the ink, but I can honor a well-honed physique, and this is surely one for all-time inspiration. It may even inspire me to get off my lazy Winter ass and start working on a Spring tune-up. Just in the dick… err, nick… of time.

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Bon Jovi, Madonna, Peter, Paul & Mary, and Lots of Male Skin Shots

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Last week’s weekly recap got away from me, so this collection recollects the past two weeks – something fitting for the final week of February – and good freaking riddance. I am over this Winter already, but I think we’re about to turn the corner. The song of a robin was heard this morning, the stuff falling from the sky is wet instead of frozen, and the scent of Spring is just starting to carry on the wings of the wind.

To that end, and the first hint of the coming season, it was time to update our home-away-from-home, so I made a trip to Boston to receive a new bed. And propose a Marimekko make-over.

It should come as no surprise that I got into my skivvies (and out of them) for part of this ants-in-the-pants month – such as here, here, here, and here.

The musical memories of the moment came not only from Madonna, but Bon Jovi’s ‘Livin’ On A Prayer’ and Peter, Paul and Mary’s ‘Leaving on a Jet Plane’.

There was also ample evidence of gratuitous male nudity, in the fine physical forms of Gareth ThomasAndrew Cooper, Shayne WardJason Statham, Tom ColleyWil Sabin, Sacha Harding (who sits on the bountiful buttocks seen below), and a special nude appearance by Tom Ford.

The subtle continuation of a new project went largely unhyped and unheralded which is the way I’d like this one to go.

The Oscars, and my bitchy commentary on a show I thought largely sucked.

And it’s not a real recap without a shout-out to Louis Vuitton and his new collection of robes and bags, or a reference to David Beckham and his underwear line.

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Naked Flight

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We’re so hard, aren’t we, on people who are given everything? If you’d been given everything, you mightn’t have wandered very far from the pool deck, though perhaps you wouldn’t have spent quite so much time in the direct sun. It’s as if, when someone has it all, we demand that he be tormented by some pointless ambition for more. Here he is, rich and handsome, beating off women with a stick, and he’s supposed to go have adventures, try himself somehow, scour the earth for some unhappiness. ~ Mark Merlis, An Arrow’s Flight

Maybe they really were lovers, maybe this at last was what the word meant: your lover was the one you had to shelter from the worst things you knew about yourself. Yes, this had to be it, the hot shame and, somewhere beneath it, a strange, hopeless sort of jubilation. ~ Mark Merlis, An Arrow’s Flight

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Hunk of the Day: Gareth Thomas

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In an effort to highlight more gay hunks (which I think I’ve done rather well with Matthew Mitcham, Cheyenne JacksonBrett Gleason, Chris SalvatoreAustin Armacost, Wil Sabin and Jack Mackenroth…) I offer you Gareth Thomas. Mr. Thomas is a retired rugby player who came out in 2009, while he was still playing – a pretty remarkable feat. I quite agree with his statement that, ”I don’t want to be known as a gay rugby player. I am a rugby player, first and foremost I am a man.” Hard to argue with that – and if you’ve ever seen him in rugby action, this is not a man anyone would want to mess with. On the field, at least.

I can’t imagine the kind of fortitude it would take to come out on such a public level, and on such  admittedly-homophobic terrain. We’ve made great strides, thanks to the courage of men like Mr. Thomas. Hopefully one day soon it will be a non-issue.

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Sprawled Naked

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“The body in the mirror forces me to turn and face it. And I look at my body, which is under sentence of death. It is lean, hard, and cold, the incarnation of a mystery. And I do not know what moves in this body, what this body is searching. It is trapped in my mirror as it is trapped in time and it hurries toward revelation….” ~ James Baldwin, Giovanni’s Room

“I long to make this prophecy come true. I long to crack that mirror and be free. I look at my sex, my troubling sex, and wonder how it can be redeemed, how I can save it from the knife. The journey to the grave is already begun, the journey to corruption is, always, already, half over. Yet, the key to my salvation, which cannot save my body, is hidden in my flesh.”  ~ James Baldwin, Giovanni’s Room

“Then the door is before him. There is darkness all around him, there is silence in him. Then the door opens and he stands alone, the whole world falling away from him. And the brief corner of the sky seems to be shrieking, though he does not hear a sound. Then the earth tilts, he is thrown forward on his face in darkness, and his journey begins.”  ~ James Baldwin, Giovanni’s Room

“I move at last from the mirror and begin to cover that nakedness which I must hold sacred, though it be ever so vile, which must be scoured perpetually with the salt of my life. I must believe, I must believe, that the heavy grace of God, which has brought me to this place, is all that can carry me out of it.” ~  ~ James Baldwin, Giovanni’s Room

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Hunk of the Day: Wil Sabin

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Gay singer Wil Sabin opens up this late-blossoming week as the Hunk of the Day. He’s an Australian pop star/DJ/recording artist/choreographer, and he makes a mighty convincing ”Porno Star’, the video of which clearly illustrates his attributes (and those of a few other mighty men).

Everybody Wants to be a Porno Star
This how it’s goin’ down
Got me a handy cam
I’ll be Jean Claude Van Damme
You Kim Kardashian
Fiending to see your face
Once I have set the pace
Maybe invite your friend
Block out the whole weekend 

 

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Tom Ford, Naked (With Tan Lines)

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Andy was kind enough to give me the gift of fragrance for Valentine’s Day, and I narrowed my selection down to two of Tom Ford‘s Private Blend scents: Ombre de Hyacinth and Oud Wood. This past weekend in Boston I made the final decision, and chose the Oud Wood, filling in the seasonal fragrance gap I’ve had in Mr. Ford’s line.

Here are the Private Blends I currently have, and when I like to wear them, more or less:

  • Arabian Night ~ September
  • Amber Absolute ~ October
  • Japon Noir ~ November
  • Santal Blush ~ December/Holidays
  • Oud Wood ~ February/March
  • Neroli Portofino ~ May/June/July
  • Lavender Palm ~ July/August

Obviously there is bound to be some overlapping, and these are not strict guidelines, just general ones, as my cologne choices tend to be dictated by weather and season more than name. Additionally, the beauty of the Private Blends is that many are designed to work well in combination with each other, and it is the only cologne line that I’ve found in which this is true. (I’ve never mixed or matched anything else because it gets overpowering – which is sometimes the over-the-top point of Mr. Ford.)

But let’s just get to the whole point of this post and probably the only reason you’re here: Tom Ford naked. And not just naked on his own, but Tom Ford naked and whipping another naked guy with a towel in some obscenely-staged, but no less hot, shower/gym scene. (I think the more important lesson here is that if Tom Ford has tan lines, then it’s okay to have tan lines.)

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Hunk of the Day: Shayne Ward

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Another addition from across the pond, this is Shayne Ward, the Hunk of this American Holiday. I’m not sure what Mr. Ward is known for, so I’m guessing that means it’s some sort of reality show. Whatever it is, it seems to have put him in seriously proper shape, so maybe that’s what I need to do. Here are some shots from his recent Attitude cover story. Anyway, enjoy this hastily assembled post – I’ve just returned from Boston this moment, and this is all I can muster. Perhaps we’ll make a day of it.

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The Imminence of Bed

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If all goes according to delayed schedule and changed plan, the new bed should have been delivered to Boston as of this writing. Whether or not this actually comes to fruition, I’ll be there, sleeping on an old bed or a new one, but glad to be in Boston no matter what.

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Spotlight on the Hotel Chelsea

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On a summer weekend in 2009, July 16 to be exact, I arrived off the train in New York and walked to the Hotel Chelsea. I didn’t know then that it was tottering on its last legs, soon to give up its ghosts, but I should have been able to tell by the wretched service and the even more terrifying conditions. The biggest cockroach I’ve ever seen in my life – far larger than anything I’ve ever encountered in Florida or the Philippines – scurried under one of the resident doors on the first floor, right next to the room in which they initially wanted to put me. It was the only time I absolutely refused and made them find me another. Not that I fared much better in Room 532, but it was the perfectly-run-down version of seedy that lended itself to the photographs I got for ‘A Night at the Hotel Chelsea‘.

It would be great if I could offer you some sort of gritty take on the artsy-fartsy scene of Chelsea, bluntly making bold proclamations on the crumbling state of the hotel, and what it meant to its storied history. But to be honest all I felt as I hunkered nervously down into a bed no doubt ravaged by all sorts of bugs  was this: I am way too old for this shit. (And I was right about the bugs – my back and neck and even the tip of my nose ended up getting bitten by some creatures in the night – such is the price you pay for getting naked in questionable environs.) Crappy hotels and dodgy lodgings are the province of the young, and I say let them have it. I was done. The next day I checked into the Club Quarters by Rockefeller Center, where there were clean sheets, soaps, and a blandly modern color scheme. It was heaven.

It was, however, worth it – for the honor of saying I stayed there, and for the raw material for one of The Projects.

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Mapping the Body

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One of the reasons mapping the body is more popular than mapping the mind is that our fast-paced and reductionist world does not really take kindly to paradoxical people, who are inevitably demanding, after all, of our attention… Paradox is difficult… Paradox also engenders mystery and enigma. Confronted, however, with so many contradictory qualities and characteristics, most of us tend to assume that only some are real, that others are assumed, and at once fixate on which are which. And we make the further assumption, because we all know only too well how much quicker we all are to claim our virtues than their darker opposites, that it is the brighter of the contradictions that is phony, and that the person’s darker traits disclose the real person underneath. ~ Douglass Shand-Tucci

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New Orleans Scene from ‘The God in Flight’

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Andrew’s childhood had been spent in a tall, narrow old house in the French Quarter, a house dressed in iron lace, a house with lines as graceful as those of a willowy woman. The house was even more feminine than most of the houses in that odalisque district, full of silky and velvety textures and fragrant silence… There was an enclosed courtyard where a fountain ran musically amid japonicas, camellias, green frills of ferns. The Persian carpets on the dark floors were very old, their colors muted by age to the dim, coal-lit glow that stained glass can have when you stand outside a church at night. There was a Pleyel piano, a library of scores… The town house was full of big and little pleasures and comforts, as if it thought that everyone within deserved a soft and perfumed lap to lie in… Relax, it seemed to say. Unclench your neck, breathe deep and slow. Read my books. If you’re tired, sleep. Sleep, for that matter, when you want to. Sit on the veranda in the sun and watch the clouds go by.

Winter here was a manageable enemy, held well at bay by a little fire in a toy fireplace like the one in this room… There was also a peculiarly New Orleans detail, an ormolu gilt plant stand that held an ancient and flourishing feather-fern plant. A bookcase with bowed glass doors yielded a cache of French novels and poetry: George Sand, Balzac, Lamartine. Simion had awarded himself the pleasure of drying well before the fire and got into bed in one of Andrew’s old silk robes. He had hung it on the back of a chair before the fire to warm while he bathed and slipped into it with a sigh of delight. Andrew had given him this robe; it was a heavy yet liquid damask silk the color of strong pekoe tea. He brushed his hair and thought how nice it would be to have someone else do the brushing so he could concentrate fully on the pleasant sensations and fell into one of those strange states that came upon him in this house, at once abstracted and relaxed and utterly alert. The mirrors reflected him, still as a picture, hand and brush poised at the end of a stroke. There were lots of mirrors. Three, in fact; the one above the fireplace holding him full-face, the two on the side walls offering his profile. This was how Andrew found him when he knocked on his door and entered, wearing a sherry-colored dressing gown and looking particularly golden and godlike.

“Come, don’t turn away. You let those heartless mirrors see you, now let me.”

~ Laura Argiri, The God in Flight

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