It’s been at least a couple of weeks since a shirtless David Beckham post, so let’s rectify that immediately with this preview of his latest H&M Bodywear promo series. After this epic post, there’s no need to recap Mr. Beckham’s previous appearances here, so just click here and have fun perusing the past. My eyes are on other things…
While we’re on a tennis kick, here is Novak Djokovic, caught on a balcony in a pair of boxer briefs. Personally, I prefer him in something slightly skimpier, as seen here, but I don’t think anyone would throw Mr. Djokovic out of bed for wearing these. As for his package of jewels, I love a man who knows his way around balls. Tennis, people, I’m talking about tennis. Love – Love. Game on.
There has been a resurgence in briefs in the drawers of men, and it’s time to celebrate with a gratuitous post like this in which we revisit some of the more notable brief encounters we’ve had over the years, starting with an expert in fuzzy balls, Novak Djokovic. He keeps it simple in basic black – a wise and classic choice, on or off the court.
Mario Lopez kept it real in this pair of skimpy Christmas briefs, as he trimmed the tree and presented his presents.
Zac Efron gives tighty whities a bad name in this set of questionable briefs. One would have thought he’d fill them out better than that. Then again, one would prefer Zac Efron completely naked.
Faring far sexier in his briefs is Nick Youngquest, who knows how to pack a punch, and a package.
Sometimes a simple pair of white briefs is all you need for runway glory, at least according to Noah Mills and this ridiculously sexy walk.
Josh Wald may be wearing the skimpiest pair of briefs ever made here (one that perhaps passes into string bikini territory.)
Busting out of his Calvin Klein briefs is Ngo Okafor, whose chest more than matches what comes below.
Two words: wet briefs. Two more words: Sandor Earl. One last word: semi.
I can’t decide if Christian Sancho looks better in or out of his briefs.
Jack Mackenroth makes all sorts of underwear look great in all sorts of ways.
As bodacious as these brief-barers are, they still don’t quite match the excitement of a jockstrap – but that’s another post for another time.
As is the case with Ben Cohen, putting a ‘definitive’ label on anything to do with David Beckham is as limiting as a Madonna Greatest Hits album: there’s always more to come. Mr. Beckham actually paved the gay-friendly way for Mr. Cohen, presenting himself as a straight ally more through his flaunting of a metrosexual style, pin-up caliber poses, and calendar and photo shoots that were aimed strategically at the groins of most gay men. He scored, we swooned; he disrobed, we gasped; he started an underwear line, we ate it up. Since the start of this website, David Beckham has been a constant source of eye candy and inspiration.
Here is an almost-comprehensive list of Mr. Beckham’s past posts. There are a lot, but I haven’t heard anyone complain about their prolific nature given the specimen on display.
It all began (at least post-website-revamp) with his Butt and his Bulge.
A decent way to start, things soon got interesting, if questionably exciting.
The evolution of Beckham’s package.
Forget Justin Trousersnake, Beckham’s got the real deal.
The basic boxer brief showed off Beckham’s best assets.
Oddly enough, he didn’t receive his first Hunk of the Day crowning until 2012.
Nobody does a promotional video better.
Always a top contender for a Greatest Hunks collection…
And a mainstay for the decade of this website.
The battle of the century: Ben Cohen vs. David Beckham. Who’s sexier?
The 2nd battle of the century: David Beckham vs. Mario Lopez.
The best David Beckham posts are those that are purely gratuitous.
Ever wonder what he smells like?
Forget the subway tile, it’s the underwear.
That age-old dilemma: bulge or butt?
The pre-cursor to this post, in brief.
David Beckham and a tease of nudity…
More nudity, and less.
Beckham and his budgie smugglers.
No, not really. And we know gratuitous male nudity here. Below is the supposed “nude selfie” that James Franco posted in the middle of the night, then quickly deleted. Boo on both. First of all, it’s not nudity. Second, why the sudden shyness for such a relatively innocent photograph? I love Mr. Franco’s collection of selfies, shirtless and otherwise, as well as his philosophical take on the role selfies play in our culture, so I’m not sure why he so precipitously took the pic below off his Instagram account. Show some balls!
Of course, it’s not Franco’s fault that the media has gone and made something out of nothing. It’s quick-on-the-draw and desperate-for-headlines bloggers like myself who said it was a naked selfie, but I like to delve a deeper. So for now, this gets categorized under ‘Shirtless Male Celebrities‘ and ‘Underwear‘, but not quite ‘Gratuitous Nudity.’ He’ll have to work harder for that. (Like he did in this post, where he gives a glimpse of his bare ass.)
To christen this lusty month of May, let us take a look-see at some of the men who have already been featured on this site… in their underwear (and maybe out of it.) A guy in his skivvies can be a glorious thing to behold – but it all depends on the guy and his underwear. (Donald Trump in a pair of rumpled boxer shorts, for example, not so much. Same goes for Justin Bieber – eww to all the Beliebers.) The gentlemen below him, however, look better in precisely that mode.
Far more exciting than the Biebs is Chris Salvatore, which makes sense seeing as how he just released his first line of underwear, which includes the pretty-in-pink number he so perfectly fills out here.
Speaking of pink, check out the shirtless Aaron Schock, who, while not in his underwear here, might as well be. Sooner or later his naked Grindr texts are going to hit the internet, mark my words.
The amazing Russell Tovey is no stranger to selfies in his skivvies, and I have yet to hear a complaint.
While the following photo is not Tom Daley in his underwear, or even his Speedo, it’s welcome for its sunny and shirtless aspect – a much-needed blast of happiness and good weather from anywhere other than the Northeast right now.
And finally, bringing up the rear, literally and figuratively, is Harry Judd. Decidedly OUT of his underwear, as Mr. Judd often is. I’m still not hearing any complaints.
Just in case you haven’t seen enough of me in my underwear, a brief post culled from shots rediscovered while on the hunt for something else. A happy accident, as I was lacking for a post tonight. These also feature my supposed “favorite” Madonna t-shirt.
It’s a memory that may not have actually happened. The time of the year is accurate, the weather quite distinct, and the location a very tangible one. The tail end of August, after a rainy day, on the very tip of Cape Cod ~ Provincetown. It was still summer, but barely, and the first hints of fall were seeping into the night. The year was 1995, and Suzie and I made our virgin trip to what might as well have been the edge of the world. Foolishly, we hadn’t thought ahead to make any sort of reservation (things were slightly different back then) so we entered the town after a long drive, exhausted and not in the mood for the lack of vacancy that was going on. Finally, we found a place – well, Suzie did – and I went along, relieved to lay down on a stationary object.
It was on a quiet side street, and after the rain the town had seemingly gone to sleep. The forecast had not been a happy one, but Suzie and I were just glad to be out of upstate New York, and near the water. Overcast and cool, we couldn’t care less. Depositing our suitcases in the room, we rustled up some grub and had a leisurely dinner. That night, Suzie stayed in while I took a short walk along Commercial Street.
A long line of men stood watching me pass by. In a tight black t-shirt and flowing linen pants, I must have looked like a cross between ‘The Birdcage’ and the clearance section of International Male. I was too young and inexperienced to know any better, and I strutted down the street like a bashful peacock, a haughty, arrogant air defying anyone to say hello, a mask of outward confidence barely betraying a bottomless well of insecurity. I pretended so long and so hard that it would eventually come true, but back then it was ordinary make-believe, a case of flimsy affect that I was certain people could see right through. Quickly, I passed the crowd, much quicker than it felt I’m sure, and made my way further into the evening. The air had cooled from the rain, and that glorious fragrance of its aftermath, the scent that always made the rain worth it, was lingering like a few scant straggling blooms of the privet. A few still managed to hang on, perhaps tricked by the upcoming change in season.
That much of the memory is clear. Pristinely so. The only haze was that of the actual evening – my head recalls every nuance perfectly – until this moment. On a street off of Commercial – and it may be directly off, or the one just above, running parallel – a quiet portion of Provincetown revealed itself between green hedges and immaculate yet lush landscaping. There stood a guest house, and through its windows a warm amber light glowed. It was painted richly in shades of purple and lavender, with accents of brick red that somehow worked (though I would never combine them in any outfit outside of a circus). Gold was at play too, either in gold leafing or brass handles or some sort of filigree that wound its way into my memory. There was music too, faint at first, but it came to the ear if you stopped pushing gravel around, if you stood still and listened like we never really do. Scratchy at first, like the muffled old spinning of a true record player, it smoothed itself out into a soulful and creamy voice singing of love and sex and loss and relief.
I looked deeper into the house through the windows. A bookcase stood on one side of the room. A chair was placed by a small table. I thought of two old men having tea and coffee together, sharing a moment, sharing a lifetime ~ a lifetime of twists and turns exemplified by the languidly-paced music.
This was, I believe, my first brush with ‘Bewitched, Bothered and Bewildered.’ I’d just heard it in the film version of ‘Love! Valour! Compassion!’ so looking back it was probably that soundtrack that was playing. Ella Fitzgerald’s version, so dreamily slowed down into a dirge of desire, a meandering tale of the blossom and decay of romance, the tricky, capricious nature of love, and the way most of us would do it all over again no matter what.
I stood there, alone outside a guest house that wasn’t mine, near rooms that would remain forever closed to me, and looked into the dark sky. I wanted for something I could not put into words, for someone who seemingly did not exist. If you’ve ever wondered whether it’s possible to miss someone you’ve never met, yes, it is. I learned that then, as Ms. Fitzgerald told her wonderful, woeful, wild and winsome tale.
Not having ever had your heart broken doesn’t mean you can’t access or know heartbreak – and sometimes loneliness exists even when you’ve never lost someone. I listened to the end of the song and walked back to our room. The next day, before departing, we’d visit the beach. A windy and wild day, it remained slightly overcast. The photos we took show us squinting into the rush of air and sand, hair blowing messily, propped against a travel pillow for whatever buffering effect it might produce. We read a bit there on the beach, listening to seagulls and the occasional snippet of conversation carried by the wind, and then it was time to go.
On our way back from the Cape, we brushed Boston, where these photos were taken. In a few weeks I’d return to Brandeis, but there, in the sudden dark, driving with Suzie, I was in a holding pattern. Waiting. Wondering. Watching for signs. The turn of the song, then, a surprise twist lending whimsy and humor and pathos, and for the next few years I’d find it all, even, and especially, when I didn’t want anymore.
Love, then, was a difficult business. It came in fits and stunts, it arrived unwanted and unheralded, it was there when you least expected it and elusive when sought out. It was a funny thing, made that way out of necessity. We’d all be crying if we couldn’t turn it on its head, but for me at least, it was hard to make a laugh out of such sorrow. Ella knew this, and her voice comforted and soothed. She said it would be all right, it would work out in the end, because sometimes we end up with the wrong people. Sometimes we have to go through the silliness, the sexiness, and the sadness, as she took us through the last lines of the song. Determined to leave it all behind, the words are a final declaration of defiance, and a chance to start it all over again with someone else. Back then, that was hardly an appealing notion. I wanted to fall in love once and for all and have it last forever. That was the romantic in me.
And there it ended, not with a bang or a boom but with a simple “no more.”
The song haunted me for years. I wanted it to have a happy ending. I wanted it to work out. I wanted there to be something that matched the longing and yearning and wistfulness of the music. But it wasn’t happening, and eventually, after trying to force a few failed romances to be what they would never be, I understood. If it’s meant to be it will be. If it’s not, it won’t. Once I got that into my head, once it was understood, the world of romance became a much happier one, and I became a lot happier too. It was then that I embraced the song, every twist and turn of it, from the unlikely hope at the start to the freedom of the finish.
The battle of the bulge means something different on this site, when a bulge is something that is celebrated. Far more than a blatant full-frontal dick pic, a subtly-covered bulge offers the erotic power of the imagination – the sexiest part of the human experience. Therefore, the male bulge has received more than its fair share of exposure here, from revealing VPL (Visible Penis Line) shots to even more revealing wet-underwear pics that leave almost nothing to said imagination.
One of the first bulges to ever be featured here quite fittingly belongs to David Beckham. He has a penchant for almost bursting out of his briefs, as in this quick-change scene on the field. Even when his bulge gets a bit boring, like pizza, it’s still pretty good.
Some bulges are best when they go head-to-head, as was the case in this post pitting Cristiano Ronaldo’s junk against what Rafael Nadal had in his pants. Similar fireworks exploded when David Beckham thrust his stuff against Ben Cohen or when Mr. Beckham had a go at Mario Lopez.
Male models can always be counted on to display their wares, putting bulges front and center in such prominent promenades  by Tyler Lough, Lance Parker, Choi Ho Jin, Chris Fawcett, and Justin Deeley, who parlayed his bulge into an acting career.
The Speedo – or Budgie Smuggler for those Down Under – has long been the seminal item for showing off the bulge. Tom Daley was first featured in nothing but his Speedo in this post, surpassing Michael Phelps in his Speedo,  and who knew what he would become to this site. Both his bulge and his butt – and you could debate the merits of each for hours. Matthew Mitcham would likely agree, though he has his own magic to work.
Even more revealing than the Speedo, however, is a pair of tight briefs or, better yet, a jockstrap, as exemplified by such studs as Colby Melvin in his Andrew Christian finest, the bursting Calvin Klein briefs of Ngo Okafor, or these almost-obscene wet underwear shots of Sandor Earl. And it’s hard to beat what Jack Mackenroth has packing in his sexy underwear.
Finally, the very first bulge post of Dan Osborne now seems almost nostalgic since he’s been in so many posts since then. I’ll let you seek them out – I’m spent.
All right, apologies for that awful April Fool’s joke in the previous post. To make up for it, here’s a practically-full-frontal look at my junk (which most people have seen through careful perusing of the Archives here anyway.) What a difference a few cotton fibers make, but what is the real difference anyway? Long have I battled with the notion of exposure, over-exposure, and under-exposure, but why does it really matter? We’re all born naked, and underneath our clothes we’re all still naked. Deal with it.
From the moment I mooned a car at the Dan Dee Donuts as a seven-year-old (to the horror and amusement of my brother) I’ve never had a hang-up with nudity. Clearly, that continues to this day, even if the moonings go worldwide.
While the cock may have gotten a bit of notice lately, this site has always been about the butt. More specifically, the British bum, those across-the-pond glory-holes of Ben Cohen, Tom Daley, and Harry Judd – each of whom has been featured here before. Sometimes Mondays demand a more leisurely entry, like through the back-end.
A fittingly furry post for Thursday, this is an ode to the hairy male form, those hirsute guys who have the confidence and taste not to shave off all their body hair. The hairless look is depressingly epidemic, with men under the mistaken belief that it enhances the appearance of muscle and definition. The truth is, properly maintained chest hair can do the same thing, and it often grows in along the most flattering contours. (Besides, if you don’t have much definition or a chiseled six-pack to begin with, no amount of follicle pruning is going to change that.)
I’m all for a bit of judicious trimming when it comes to body hair. There are some places where you just don’t want it – at least, not too much of it. (I’m thinking of the back and shoulders. Only one creature can pull off yeti, and mostly because we’ve never seen it.) Fortunately, most cultural indicators are pointing to the chest hair embargo coming to a desirable end. Leave it to the gays to bring chest hair back into vogue, and leave it to the straight guys to follow a few years later. It’s happening, and that’s a good thing.
One of the furriest guys ever requested here is Mark Ruffalo, whose thick mane merits mention again. Also of note is the thrillingly-thatched chest of male model Josh Wald.
Scott Caan should be in the Chest Hair Hall of Fame for his lovely carpet, while Matt Goss and his otter designation should be featured here simply for his appreciation of chest hair. Jon Hamm has mostly been noticed for his package, but his treasure trail is a thing of wonder as well.
There are those who vacillate between furry and fur-free. Henry Cavill, Jesse Metcalfe, Chris Evans, Matthew Morrison and Stephen Dorff for example. All four have had unfortunate moments when they’ve gotten rid of all their chest hair, and looked like plucked chickens for it. When it comes to manscaping, I always advise to err on the side of the hair. It’s easier to take more off than put it back on. Surely you have heard the horror stories of the drag queen who shaved off her eyebrows and they never grew back. It’s not a good look in the light of day. Chest hair is less apparent than eyebrows for those of us who don’t live on the beach, but you still don’t want to mess around with it too much.
For our final featured forest-thick chest of hair, I have but two words for you: Ben Cohen. He trimmed quite a bit of it off for his recent dancing contest, but I have faith he’ll let it return to all its former bushy glory – and long may he mane.
‘Erotica‘ – the new collection of stories by Brian Centrone – is being released as an e-book today (paper version to come.) It’s a special thrill to see a work that combines words and images. Having been bombarded with gay porn and videos since the advent of the internet, it’s a welcome throwback to something that’s somehow more engaging, more meaningful, and in many ways more of a turn-on. There is nothing sexier than one’s own imagination, and that’s exactly what comes into play when words are involved.
Published by New Lit Salon Press, this is a compilation of gay erotic short stories penned by Mr. Centrone. The seven scintillating tales, one for every deadly sin, are accompanied by artwork from Terry Blas, luke kurtis, Rob Ordonez, and the name-sake for this very blog. As amazing as the work of my fellow art contributors is (and it is pretty damn amazing, handily putting my photos to slight shame,) it has always been the words that resonate most deeply, as noted in the press release:
Brian Centrone has been publishing erotic literary fiction since 2007. “Mates,” “Lost,” and “Team Player” are the three works Centrone published with Alyson Books. “These three stories were the start of my writing career,” claims Centrone. “They were my first major published pieces of fiction, and my first paid writing gig.” Erotica also features the previously published “Making the Grade,” Centrone’s only story with Cleis Press, and the online-only story, “Boracay,” which was featured in the now defunct THIS Literary Magazine. Rounding out this collection are two new stories, never before published: “Getting What He Wants” and “Chubstr.”
Beyond the sexy stories, Centrone’s works showcase that erotica can be literary. These stories are written with the same attention to detail, construction, and quality which readers have come to expect from traditional short stories. Centrone is a writer at heart, and whether he’s writing about a religious zealot who decides to run for small town political office (“The Life and Times of Biddy Schumacher,” I Voted for Biddy Schumacher: Mismatched Tales from the Mind of Brian Centrone) or a young man seeking to mend his broken heart and broken sex life all the way around the world (“Boracay,” Erotica), he does so with such honesty, depth, and understanding that every reader can appreciate and relate.
New Lit Salon Press is an independent publisher that subscribes to the belief that Words and Art can and should coexist. NLSP injects new life into an old-world ideal by publishing essays, stories, poems, novels and art in digital format.
‘Erotica’ by Brian Centrone is available in e-book form starting today, with a hard copy version being release at a later date. Mr. Centrone has a website, and can be found on FaceBook and Twitter as well.
In honor of this Irish-themed day, here we have a collection of red-heads to get your ginger groove going. Gingers have long been a favorite feature here, with the likes of Prince Harry, Sean Patrick Davey, Greg Rutherford, and Ricky Schroeder.
In a new photo exhibition by Thomas Knights, ‘Red Hot,’ the ginger takes pride of place as an object of affection and desire. These photos more than prove that. Happy Ginger Ogling!
What did men do before the advent of the boxer brief? You were either a brief guy or a boxers guy, with nary wiggle room for anything in-between. Thankfully, today there are more choices than ever for men’s underwear – and I tend to enjoy all of them for different reasons (with the exception of the thong ~ there’s nothing more frightening than flossing your ass.)
Thanks in large part to the pioneering efforts of Marky Mark and Calvin Klein, my generation seems to prefer the boxer brief above all other styles, and for form and function it’s hard to argue with such a selection.
Bare-assed and blue ~ the best of both worlds ~ brooding in a Boston window ~ the story of my life.
