Just because Mr. Cavill looks even better in motion, I present to you the glorious GIFs seen below. He’s been here naked before as one of the more hotter Hunks of the Day (that one’s always worth a revisit) and hopefully he’ll do something to put his ass back here again. In the meantime, drool and wipe, drool and wipe.
Shortly after we first met, Andy gave me this rose quartz stone emblazoned with the word ‘Angel’ on it. Back then, I had little to no faith in such talismans, but something in his earnestness, and in the way he believed, set me at ease, and I accepted it graciously. When we lived apart in those early days, I’d hold the stone close to me when I was alone at night, envisioning much of the life that has unfolded since then, or at least wishing and hoping for it. He felt closer to me then.
The first two photos were taken in the evening, by the glow of candlelight. It softens the appearance of the quartz, and the polished surface of the stone is easy on the hands, comforting in the folds of a palm.
Through the years, I held onto it, keeping it in Boston, for those weekends I was away from him. It was a comfort; a little bit of Andy could be in both our homes.
In the morning it glows differently in the sunlight, with a bit more hope, a stronger radiance ~ exactly what is needed to greet another day.
I would hold it in my hand. Closing my fingers around it and feeling its calming influence stilled the chaos of the world. Eventually the heat from my body warmed the stone itself, and soon it seemed to emanate its own warmth, pulsating with energy and life, returning some mystical mirth to my heart.
I didn’t realize it when I started doing this that it was a form of meditation. In those moments of quiet and stillness, I allowed my head to clear itself of whatever was ailing it. I inspected each thought as it came across my mind, then let it go. I examined every nagging concern, turning them around in my head, then let them drift off. It was all right to acknowledge them. It was ok. After some time, the thoughts and worries came less and less frequently. Soon, there was an expanse of clarity, a vast plane of clear thought. It didn’t happen instantly, and some nights it didn’t happen at all. At those times there was simply too much, and too little time.
Eventually, though, I found the clarity again. It is always there, waiting to be accessed when we have the time and effort, when we can let certain things go, release resentments, set free our judgments, and accept what has come to be. Those are all easier said than done, but with work and perseverance it is possible.
That possibility greets us every morning. It’s in the cup of tea streaming tiny particles of water above its surface, waving and undulating in the morning sunlight. A new day begins. Every morning is another chance.
Given their respective size, it’s strange that I should feel so much safer in Boston than in Downtown Albany, but such is the case. Even on dark evenings, passing by alleyways like this, I feel a greater comfort and security than if I were to pass similar spots in upstate New York. Of course it’s all in my head, but sometimes that’s where the power of safety resides. It helps too that the Back Bay/South End area of Boston is relatively benign when it comes to crime, at least in the hours that I frequent the surrounding streets. (No more 2 AM strolls for me.)
Far from being spooky or haunting, these scenes delight with their subtle air of mystery and timelessness. Echoes of Europe, for which I’ve always loved Boston, sound off the cobblestone walks, whispers of a past life sharing secrets shrouded in a dusty veil. No more than a whisper can be heard tonight, not above the rising wind and a growing chill. Shadows fix themselves in place beneath street lamps, where they will remain until the first light of day washes them away. In the summer, a stray skunk might be seen waddling amid the garbage, seeking out sustenance, or a raccoon, that pesky night bandit, bold in its natural mask. Tonight, however, in the dead middle of winter, there is nothing to be seen.
In the morning, the sun streams in through the front windows of the Boston condo. By afternoon, it has shifted to the bedroom bay window, but thanks to the gigantic mirror of the John Hancock Tower, it also pours in through the front windows again, until the leaves of Braddock Park fill in come the spring. This has always been a favorite, and fleeting, space to be – in that zone where sun pours in from both sides. Along the Southwest corridor you can actually step into spots where it feels like two suns are shining upon you at once. It’s nothing short of magical, and I’ve often stopped still in my tracks when I realize I’ve stepped into those ethereal pools of shifting light.
The photos here play with the fading light of a winter’s day, and its reflections. As the sun slowly descended, a chill crept in with the dusk. The wind picked up a bit and I pulled my coat more tightly around my chest. A dinner of pho had momentarily warmed me, but it drained quickly as I hurried along Massachusetts Avenue down to Columbus, catching the last of the day’s sunlight on the dome of the Christian Science Center.
This isn’t an area I typically traverse. Most errands or walks take me in the opposite direction, so it’s been at least a year -“ probably more – since I’ve been this far down Columbus. At the dimming of the day, there was something sad about it, about how much I had been missing.
Luke Adams Gifting Co., a new shop on that stretch of Columbus that I rarely frequent, had opened up in the last few months. They had a neat selection of unique gifts, and a nice assortment of letterpress cards. I spoke with the shop owner who said they’d only recently had a soft opening, and were offering some glass-blowing classes to get word out that they were there. I purchased a few cards and went back into the quickly-darkening afternoon.
Right next door was a coffee shop that I didn’t stop in that moment, but I will on my next trip. The old neighborhood has come a long way, and is still evolving. I have missed that – the new stores and cafes that open up a few blocks away, the excitement of trying out new things. I don’t do it when I’m in upstate New York, and not only because there are less things happening. That just means there is more to explore whenever I get back to Boston.
Last night, while watching the Oscars (but not doing a big bitchy Oscar post like last year, because I just wasn’t up for it) I asked someone to give me an idea for this post. My Twitter friend Alexander recommended Jared Leto through the years. And so, here you go. I remember when he first emoted as Jordan Catalano on ‘My So-Called Life.’ I think I might have liked him a bit more back then, when his hair was a little shorter. But there are those who like a Christ-cut, and pose, and he gives that, and more, with some help from photographer Terry Anderson.
With this month just under way, and the old ‘In like a lion’ adage seemingly holding true, I’m doing a recap to encapsulate some highlights from all of February, for those lucky casual visitors who haven’t quite made this a daily-must-stop. (I don’t blame you in the least – on a good day I’m a lot to take. On a bad day, it’s simply too much.) Let’s get on with this wintry look back… so we can soon spring ahead. Despite swirling snow, I know it’s coming…
February was perhaps best-known, at least in these parts, for two seminal sporting events: the Super Bowl and the Winter Olympics. The former featured this supposedly-naked commercial for David Beckham, the latter featured these definitely-naked Olympians.
Along those Olympic lines (but not bound solely to winter), we featured the hunky likes of Blake Skjellerup, Greg Rutherford, Tom Daley, Matteo Guarise, Darren Criss, Andrew Christian, Christof Innerhofer, Jeremy Abbott, Louis Smith, & Gus Kenworthy.
The Gay Soiree was a smashing success, featuring a stellar atmosphere, some killer music, and the best crowd in Albany. My outfit was an intentionally over-the-top hot mess. And it showcased my ass.
Plagued by troubling dreams and meddlesome nightmares, this was not the easiest month in which to find sweet sleep, but protection was at hand, and family gatherings like this one brightened the dark days. Cooking was a comfort too, but it was the company that made the difference.
A Vietnamese dinner, half home-made (just don’t call me Sandra Lee unless you have a connection to her boyfriend, who still has yet to make equitable salary reparation to his Management Confidential employees – ahem.)
A low-key Valentine’s Day, lacking in the usual Dorothy Parker bitterness, but resonating on a deeper plane.
The adorable and amazing Kristin Chenoweth lit up Schenectady better than anything GE could ever produce.
You’ve got style, that’s what all the girls say…
A blast from the past, and the re-booting of a series that still doesn’t excite me.
Can we be brave?
All you really need to click: Dan Osborne Naked.
Wait, all you REALLY need to click: Dan Osborne & Tom Daley in Speedos.
Ok, THIS IS THE ONE.
Sucking too hard on a lollipop?
For some less-than-super-human hunks who had nothing to do with the Olympics, we showed off  David Mcintosh, Cole Horibe, Mark Wright, Marco Dapper, Pablo Hernandez, Josh Button, Ryan Steele, Perez Hilton, Lucien Laviscount, Alex Pettyfer, Jason Derulo, Nick Bateman, a naked Jake Gyllenhaal, a naked Stuart Reardon, a naked Tom Daley (!!!!) and the amazing Chris Salvatore bulging out of his own underwear line.
The meat and the motion, and a cool little side dish to quell the heat.
Cream… get on top!
Happy Birthday to my baby brother.
Why did my lover have to pick last night to get down?
Back to Boston, with more to come, home of the best scones ever.
A couple of recaps within a recap: some more gratuitously naked male celebrities, some ferociously hot (and bordering-on-obscene) bulges from these Hunks, and some ridiculously perfect male models. Plus, one hot naked ginger in delicious motion (the guy featured in the pics above).
And there’s always room for one more gratuitous Ben Cohen post.
Hanro, a fancy underwear line from Switzerland, has always been on my wish list, but due to their exorbitant nature I’ve largely steered clear of them… until now, when fortune placed them in my hands and over my nether regions. They are certainly worth what they cost, at least if we are judging by comfort and feel (and when it comes to underwear, that’s the only thing that should matter. I’m not saying it’s the only thing that does matter – style, style, style – but it’s what really should.)
Underwear has always been a big topic in these parts – it even merits its own subcategory (like David Beckham, Madonna, Ben Cohen, Tom Ford, Tom Daley, Naked Male Celebrities, Boston, Male Models and Music.) As for me prancing around in mine, that could merit its own sub-category too, but if you’ve noticed I’m cutting back on such vainglorious appearances. There are hotter hunks out there to ogle and admire, or maybe I’m just getting shy in my older age.
Not to worry, I’ve got a few more poses in me (one sooner rather than later, and in fuchsia no less,) but I’d rather let other guys take over in the near future, and indulge in cookies without hesitation.
All that is subject to change, and if I can continue on my health kick of late perhaps I’ll get my naked on as much as I did in the past. Or age as honestly, and as gracefully, as possible, accept every wrinkle and bulge, and photograph it every step of the way.
That sounds more like the defiance that’s been missing from my nature of late, the defiance that’s kept me going all these years (an eleven-year-old personal website is a dinosaur.)
Gay men are given more grief about aging than women, and ageism seems to be the newly-sanctified province of intolerance. I’m probably just as guilty of it as anyone else – there are few silver-haired foxes featured here (but that gives me ideas for future hunks). We can’t all be Anderson Cooper, sadly.
But back to the issue at, and in, hand: underwear. Hanro certainly knows how to do it right. Soft, supple, supportive, and form-fitting, their briefs are some of the best in the business, and God knows I know briefs. Sturdy of stitch, subtle of style, and soothing of structure, they just feel good.
Who doesn’t want to feel good?
When the underwear matches the carpet and the drapes… oh never mind. Though soon they’re going to need to make a salt-and-pepper variation to catch up with what’s happening on the top of my head. Who says that vanity and happiness are incompatible? A lot of people, actually. All fools.
After our dinner, we decided to walk back to the condo, by way of the Public Garden. It will always be a place of comfort for me, no matter what. At night, it holds a different sort of enchantment, especially at the end of winter. The first spot of color on the willow offered a bright bit of hope. The line of ducklings made its way toward the water. The foot-bridge glowed in the midst of a sea of snow. And Washington stood sentry atop a very high horse.
We are forecast to possibly be buried under snow again, so I’ll lay low and stay in upstate New York this weekend. That doesn’t mean my mind and heart won’t be elsewhere, and I’ll put a suitable salve on such hurt by revisiting last weekend in Boston. These photos were taken as evening fell over the city – part of the shoot can also be seen in the slider on the main page of this website. My friend Kira was meeting me at The Liberty Hotel after her shift at Mass General, and the evening was nice enough for a leisurely walk from the condo to our rendezvous.
We tried a Japanese restaurant, Ma Soba, which was right up the street. Kira had had a hectic day, and I was looking for something close by and soothing. Perhaps it was too soothing, as there were only two other tables occupied, and it was only 8 PM on a Friday night. No matter, it made things more conducive to talking and catching up – and there was a lot of both to do, as I’ve not seen Kira since the holidays, and much has happened since then.
It’s good to talk things out with an old friend, especially one who brings wise counsel and personal experience to the table. Mostly, though, it was just good to be with someone who’s known you for sixteen years – who remembers what you were like back then, and who knows whether or not you’ve really changed. We can hide so much from ourselves, but we can’t hide everything from our friends. In this case, she saw things as I saw them, and it was that reassurance that warmed my heart more than anything.
On the trail of Freedom…
It seemed to descend somewhere around November of last year. Just in time for the kitchen renovation and the holidays, as if there wasn’t enough tumult and craziness. A haze is the only way I can describe it, but it manifested itself in an underlying current of trouble or tension that suddenly informed every action, and over-reaction, that seemed to veer dangerously out of control. Like one of the heavy snowfalls we’ve had of late, it covered everything and obscured all, confusing the senses and smothering every surface. It blinded me, and I didn’t understand then. It felt like I was to blame, and for some of it, perhaps much of it, I directly was.
The bottomless abyss of some of my moods will never be fully fathomed, not even by me. But this isn’t so much a depression as much as dissatisfaction with the way the world – at least my world – has sometimes gone. It’s an agitation brought on by things over which I have no control, circumstances I would like to be different, or situations I’d like to see improved. I see now that sometimes there is no way to change the world, and the only thing I can do is put faith in something greater, and keep the faith I once had in myself. We cannot control anything other than our own path, and even then it sometimes takes the guiding force of something more.
This is turning into one of those cryptic posts that means nothing to anyone but myself, and some will read all sorts of nonsense into it. Luckily, I’ve reached a point where this is less about pleasing others and more about getting out some cathartic inner-dialogue and setting it free. But for those requesting something more concrete, some bit of narrative to get a handle on what is being said, I’ll get plainly descriptive.
For a while now I’ve felt like I’ve been under this haze. I couldn’t see or understand what was going on, it just felt like things were cloudy, like I was unsure of what I’d always held true. More than that, this haze was becoming oppressive. Almost like I was under attack by some insidious evil that had invaded my home when I was not looking, a poisonous fog that infiltrated the smallest cracks and fissures. Terrible nightmares unfurled suffocating tendrils over the winding forests of my sleep. Ghosts of the living and dead fought on these landscapes of slumber, for and against me, but the whispers of loved ones kept me calm and eventually rose above the clamor and rancor. I distinctly recall the voice of a woman near and dear to me whispering directly in my ear, “It’s ok. It’s ok. You will be ok.â€
The nightmares slowly shifted, until I was no longer afraid. Instead of filling me with dread, they instilled new hope, new guidance. I started to feel better. More importantly, I started to take better care of myself. Eating better, exercising, cutting out alcohol, working out, and educating myself on a healthier lifestyle. I’d done it before, but only with the intent of looking better on the outside. This was a change that began on the inside. That was the only way it could begin.
Eventually, though, the battle to be better wore me down, and after skirting sickness all around for months, I finally succumbed to a nasty head cold and sinus trouble. That’s what happened earlier this week. Yet even that was relatively easily to deal with – using a few sinus rinses, large quantities of green tea and honey, and some badly-needed rest. In fact, the sickness worked its own form of healing. There have been many periods in my life capped off by an illness, and each has marked the end of one thing and the start of something better.
It forces me to stop everything: work, projects, travel, writing and even blogging. I am captive to the stillness, a prisoner of the quiet. It only allows for reading and contemplation, the latter of which eludes me more often than not. This time I took three days off from work, from running around, from distraction. I had to re-examine some things, have another look at what was really important. Stability, safety, warmth ~ these are the unlikely components to my happiness, and instead of trying to find them in other people and material possessions, I looked deeper and began to see them in myself. All these months – years, really – I’d been trying to find that in another. As self-centered as the world likes to think I am, I’ve been remarkably willing to do anything and everything for others – to make an impression on them, to force them to feel something, to make a mark on someone’s life. In addition, I’ve gone out of my way to be fair to my husband and friends and family. I do not talk about people behind their back, I don’t discuss private matters among strangers, I don’t invite or invoke negative words or thoughts upon anyone. It’s not much, but I know not everyone can say the same about me. For a while, these last few months especially (only now do I begin to see), that was one of the underlying sources of ill-will that had bogged me down. It took a head cold to stop me in my tracks, to shake me and wake me and force me to see things I’d perhaps intentionally left unseen.
Rather than confront or go on the counter-attack – which I may have unconsciously tried to do at the start, resulting in epic battles, thrown objects, and otherwise-uncharacteristic behavior – I paused, took stock of the areas where I was in the wrong, and did my best to rectify what I could. It was no longer a case of defending or fighting back against darker forces, but simply a matter of bettering who I was, and making the world better for those around me. Suddenly, all the attacks I felt, subtly and subliminally – could not touch me. There was no longer anything to deflect, because they did not matter. Whether they imploded on themselves, or turned to cause strife at their own source was of no consequence to me now. That burden was gone. I felt better, this time from the inside out.
Slowly, the haze and fog were lifting. Slowly, I was coming back to myself, back to my senses, back to the clarity that is at times harsh and brutal but never untrue. I’m not quite there yet. Remnants of sickness remain – a runny nose, a lingering tightness in the sinuses, moments of doubt and frustration – but we’re on the way to recovery. And spring is within view. In a couple of weeks we will turn the time forward, giving up an hour of darkness for a longer period of light. Already the days are longer, already the sun deigns to linger.
Male models, given far less credit (and money) than their female super-counterparts, have always been appreciated on this blog. More than lust or desire or frenzied acclaim, they are an inspiration. They help me put down that second danish, or walk by the bowl of M&M’s, or take the one flight of stairs instead of the elevator. Granted, none of that is turning me into a male model anytime soon, but if such inspiration is a starting point, why knock it? And why keep them hidden? Here, then, is a brief collection of those shirtless men who keep some of us on our toes. One of the greatest gifts that another person can give is inspiration; these hunks have proven most generous in that respect.
Let’s begin on a personal note, with a model whom I first met when he was just five years old. Who knew at the time that the thin, rambunctious cousin of my then-girlfriend would grow into such an admirable young man? Meet Calvin.
Someone I haven’t met (but if anyone can manage an introduction, please hook a guy up) is Noah Mills.
Two words: David Gandy. And since you can never get enough, another naked glimpse.
Two more words: Tyson Beckford.
In case you haven’t heard a bazillion times before, I prefer my male models not too closely-shaven. In fact, when it comes to chest hair, less depilatory action is more. As proven in these shirtless and nude shots of Josh Wald, Jared Allman (and he is all man), and Daniel Garofali (who just manages to keep enough on, and I don’t mean clothing).
Before he went all Fifty Shades of Sexy, Jamie Dornan was just another Hunk of the Day.
Cult favorite Benjamin Godfre always seemed a tad too edgy to ever be mainstream model material, and I love him all the more for it.
In addition to flaunting his nakedness in front of the camera, Todd Sanfield also produced a line of his own underwear, that he models better anyone else.
He may have been better-known as Madonna’s sexy boyfriend at one time, but Jesus Luz got some modeling gigs out of it, and with good reason.
Theres nothing better than a male model who can rock a colorful bow tie (and colorful square cut), such as Victor Ross does so winningly.
Calvin Klein has introduced a number of remarkable specimens over the years, a knack that continued with a nude Garrett Neff and an equally-naked David Agbodji.
Asia has unfortunately never been tapped as a great supplier of male models, but gentlemen like Choi Ho Jin should go some way toward correcting that. And Godfrey Gao has made his own sexy efforts as well.
Tom Ford, however, has been tapping male models for years, as richly evidenced by Juan Betancourt.
Brazil has also never been lacking when it comes to male models. See Caio Cesar take it all off.
Nobody pulls off fringed leather chaps like Rob Evans.
Nathan Owens brings us the shirtless and pants-less Days of Our Lives.
Dolce & Gabbana were largely responsible for putting Tyson Ballou on the male model map, and cartographers around the world should be ever grateful.
Finally, a man of fine ink, David Mcintosh, because an apple a day keeps the doctor away.
I may not be the best brother in certain aspects, but one thing I do well is give some great gifts. I’m talking about the metallic cock I gave him for Christmas (a kitchen chicken decoration, you sick fucks), the peeing boy who pulled his pants down and shot water (like the kind you see at hibachi tables for show), or some of my Madonna LPs for his record collection. This year, however, I went a little deeper.
It turns out that my brother is into Tibetan art, and actually visited my favorite Tibetan store in Harvard Square a few months ago. At that time, he was taught about the Tibetan prayer bowl – a hand-made copper bowl, heavy and designed to produce a tone perfect for meditation. The last time I was in Boston, I made up my mind to find one for his birthday present.
These prayer bowls are not inexpensive, but their hand-made and unique nature makes them worthy of such a price, so I went to the Tibetan store on the Boston side of the Charles River and found this one. I’d been there a number of times – it’s toward the end of Charles Street, and down a few steps, hidden away as if saving itself for those who are really looking.
Near the back of the store were a few shelves that held the Tibetan prayer bowls. I tried a few before settling on this one, which called to me with its simple, clear tone, and smaller shape. The kind woman at the store moved its wooden stick around the rim, and it sang the sweetest, calmest song. She struck its side, and the sound of peace overrode whatever else was happening in my head and outside on the street.
She smiled and said it had a nice sound, then asked me what color tissue paper I would like to include with it, as I’d indicated it was a gift. I chose blue and a coppery red, and then found a few Tibetan prayer flags to include with it, and a hanging tapestry, all of which would fit into the attic at my parents’ house that he had re-decorated.
It seems my brother and I have more in common than we sometimes realize. I was about to explain how the lady at the store managed to elicit those dulcet sounds, but he said that he already had a lesson by the man in the Cambridge store (the same one who once taught me how to tie a scarf for maximum warmth), and this man had spoken about meditation, made him close his eyes, and even placed a cape on his back. If you know my brother, you know how strange that sounds – and even if you don’t, it sounds a little odd, but in the best possible way. Perhaps he should be instructing me.
Starting off the morning in a very sexy way… Just when you thought there couldn’t be any more naked male hotness from Stuart Reardon, along comes this post featuring more of his namesake and strongest asset. I love when a man knows his attributes, and how to use them to best advantage. In this instance, it’s his ample ass, on display as it was in this previous post. Had I known that this is what rugby could do for a body, I’d have picked up a ball years ago, instead of just sucking on them.
Attention: Tom Ford’s latest Private Blend ‘London’ is now available in Terminals 3, 4, 5 at Heathrow Airport. Just a short while ago it was only available at his Knightsbridge store. Now, it seems to be on the slow-move across the world, and it’s only a matter of time before it reaches these shores (fingers crossed). It definitely sounds like an intriguing scent, a bit darker and less feminine than his Jardin series, and more similar to his recent Oud infatuation. As should be apparent by this third post on ‘London’, Â I simply can’t wait to try this one out. Tom Ford rocks.
