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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Descent of Night

Though the days are getting to be their longest, night still comes to New England. This is no land of the midnight sun, and dusk never goes beyond 9 PM.

Go to bed, daisy head.

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The Boy You Always Wanted to Be

TURN AROUND

EVERY NOW AND THEN I GET A LITTLE BIT LONELY AND YOU’RE NEVER COMING ROUND

TURN AROUND

EVERY NOW AND THEN I GET A LITTLE BIT TIRED OF LISTENING TO THE SOUND OF MY TEARS 

TURN AROUND

EVERY NOW AND THEN I GET A LITTLE BIT NERVOUS THAT THE BEST OF ALL THE YEARS HAVE GONE BY

TURN AROUND

EVERY NOW AND THEN I GET A LITTLE BIT TERRIFIED AND THEN I SEE THE LOOK IN YOUR EYES

TURN AROUND, BRIGHT EYES

EVERY NOW AND THEN I FALL APART

TURN AROUND, BRIGHT EYES

EVERY NOW AND THEN I FALL APART…

Give me a cheesy dance cover of a classic 80’s tune and I’m in adolescent heaven.

It was the mid-90’s, and I was working at the Faneuil Hall Structure store, sandwiched between Bath & Body Works and Express and loving every minute of it. The new spring music mix had been delivered and I was trying to get my head around how I would listen to these songs non-stop for the next three months when the familiar chords of ‘Total Eclipse of the Heart’ came on. Backed by its racing BPM and the diva-lite vocal stylings of one Nicki French, it thundered through the store and framed that spring with its romantic longings intact.

Oddly enough, the memory that this song sometimes provokes is of the second guy I kissed. Unfortunately, he had to deal with the relatively cruel aftermath of the first guy I ever kissed, and as such I treated him like shit. It’s not something in which I take any pride. I was young and foolish and stupid and mean, and if I could do it again differently I would. But that’s fast-forwarding through things I need to exorcise.

Back to the beginning, when I was waiting at the Porter Square commuter rail stop after a day in Boston

AND I NEED YOU NOW TONIGHT

AND I NEED YOU MORE THAN EVER

AND IF YOU ONLY HOLD ME TIGHT

WE’LL BE HOLDING ON FOREVER

AND WE’LL ONLY BE MAKING IT RIGHT

CAUSE WE’LL NEVER BE WRONG TOGETHER

ONCE UPON A TIME I WAS FALLING IN LOVE,

NOW I’M ONLY FALLING APART

NOTHING I CAN DO ~ A TOTAL ECLIPSE OF THE HEART.

Spring had arrived, and with it the usual restless New England excitement that comes following a winter of snowbound darkness. I only had a couple of weeks before returning home for the summer. (Despite the fact that we had the condo in Boston by this time, there was something better about being somewhere with a pool and central air conditioning that appealed to my comfort zone.) Still, there were a few days of spring fun to be had, and after that fall and winter, when my heart had been broken in ways I didn’t quite realize at the moment, I needed it. I also needed to inflict my hurt on someone else. At least, that’s how I felt at the time.

The Porter Square station has one of the longest escalators I’ve ever ridden. To get from the T platform to the commuter rail platform is a lengthy ordeal, and when one of those escalators is out of order, there’s a mini-marathon waiting to wreak havoc with your knees. On this day, it was fortunately operating as usual, and I waited as it slowly brought us up to the light. Whimsical subway art in the form of tiny statues of gloves provided passing interest as we rose higher. I’d arrived early, as always, and there were a few more minutes before the commuter rail would stop to begin the trek to Brandeis. I sat on the bench inside the station door and waited.

Across from me, a tall man with blonde hair stood and looked at me. He waited there without briefcase or bag or coat, and I detected the slightest smile as he caught my eye. This was in the pre-Grindr days, the days before your phone could find the nearest guy looking for sex, the days of luck and chance and destiny, when it seemed both harder and easier to find someone. The smile I returned was more of a sneer; my heart was in protection mode, my head was ready to attack. There’s something hot about sadistic tendencies.

TURN AROUND

EVERY NOW AND THEN I KNOW YOU’LL NEVER BE THE BOY YOU ALWAYS WANTED TO BE

TURN AROUND

BUT EVERY NOW AND THEN I KNOW YOU’LL ALWAYS BE THE ONLY BOY WHO WANTED ME THE WAY THAT I AM

TURN AROUND

EVERY NOW AND THEN I KNOW THERE’S NO ONE IN THE UNIVERSE AS MAGICAL AND WONDROUS AS YOU

TURN AROUND

EVERY NOW AND THEN I KNOW THERE’S NOTHING ANY BETTER, THERE’S NOTHING THAT I JUST WOULDN’T DO.  

At that point in my life, after the let-downs of my first brushes with love, I knew that I was not quite ready to begin again. At least, my head knew that. The heart is a different story, and though everything I would eventually do came out wrong, the initial attraction to another person was real, and when we sat in close proximity to each other on the train, I was nervous and hopeful. There was excitement in eliciting the notice and thrill of someone else. Where this rather false jolt of confidence originated, I’m not entirely sure, but I was certain he was interested. When you’re young and only slightly cute, you become quickly adept at noticing when someone notices you. It’s survival. I’d never felt particularly attractive, but in rare instances, and in certain company, I was aware that I could cast a spell. Maybe everything I did and would ever do revolved around this dilemma. Every photo I would take, every word I would write, every outfit I would wear – they would all be done in the name of making me pretty. It was a fool’s errand, and I would make it over and over and over again.

From my seat I could see he had pulled a pen and small piece of paper out of his pocket and had written something down. At my stop I stood and slowly eased into the aisle. I saw that it was a name and a number. Walking by him, I paused and held out my hand. He put his number into it, and I walked off the train without saying a word. I mastered aloof nonchalance in the face of a pounding heart long ago.

TURN AROUND, BRIGHT EYES

EVERY NOW AND THEN I FALL APART

TURN AROUND BRIGHT EYES,

EVERY NOW AND THEN I FALL APART…

That night, I called him. No game-playing, no strategic waiting, no hesitancy whatsoever on my part. That’s how it always was with me, and it usually ended up badly because of it, but this time things were different. I’d given up control before. I’d been battered and punched, all my innocent questions crushed, all of my ideals pounded with the cold renouncement of one man who couldn’t extend a hand of help or simply humanity. Yet my heart still yearned. My head, however, still hurt, still pained. And it sought out someone to punish.

It was true. My heart was being eclipsed – by hurt, by sadness, by the brutality of a world where no one really cared, not in the way I wanted them to care, not in the way I needed them to care. Yet maybe this was the world. Maybe no one ever cared after your parents, and sometimes not even them, and I had to get over it in order to get on with it. It was a possible truth I was not quite ready to acknowledge. Not at that young age. Hope was still my driving force, even if I’d learned to not reveal that hand. So I went the opposite direction.

I can’t really explain it. Hurt is hard to explain. Our actions in the face of it are even harder to explain. In some ways, it appears I’m still trying. To explain. To justify. To make right. And I know it’s probably not even possible. You can never undo pain. You may apologize and regret and wish to rewind, but hurt is not retractable. It is incontrovertible. Once it happens, there is no refuting or reversing it. And so I carried it with me – then and now – like some unlucky penny that appears when at last you thought it was gone.

AND I NEED YOU NOW TONIGHT

AND I NEED YOU MORE THAN EVER

AND IF YOU ONLY HOLD ME TIGHT

WE’LL BE HOLDING ON FOREVER

AND WE’LL ONLY BE MAKING IT RIGHT

CAUSE WE’LL NEVER BE WRONG TOGETHER…

We met up a few times, and had a number of nice calls. There was passion and excitement, but always a safe distance. I didn’t get too attached too quickly. Quite the opposite. I was cutting and blunt, hurtful and sarcastic. When the smallest thing didn’t go my way I was ready to be done with the whole scene. It was all giving on his part and all taking on mine, and I demanded it as such. His every kindness was met with suspicion and meanness. His romantic overtures were greeted with disdain and ridicule. And somehow he kept coming back for me, because he knew I was unforgettable. I knew it too by that point. I was channeling Linda Fiorentino in ‘The Last Seduction’ and it was not a good look on me, but I didn’t give a fuck.

In a very childish way, I was testing him. Seeing how far I could push it before he would be forced to leave me, like they all left me. Like I gave them any other choice. To his credit, he saw right through it all and took my petulance not to heart, but as an aspect of my personality that needed to be reconciled. I couldn’t forgive him for being so reasonable and so patient, and I lashed out even more.

The strange thing is that the worse you treat someone, the more they want you. A dangerous power lurks within each of us at some point in our lives, and how we wield it is the true test of our character. I did not wield mine well in the beginning, and I have no excuse for it.

I DON’T KNOW WHAT TO DO I’M ALWAYS IN THE DARK…

There won’t be any further specifics here. The detailed recounting of what I said and did matters less than the cumulative effect it had on him and on myself. Like a real eclipse, the darkness came on suddenly, as much as it was predicted and expected. Hurt is like that, whether you are the giver or taker, and it’s always too late once it’s set into motion. What starts out so solid and crystalline – the sharp piercing of icy, unrequited love – eventually subsides, gently eroding into something softer, less striking perhaps, but no less resonant. It becomes a dull thing, an emptiness more than something of substance, and that makes it all the trickier.

Many, many years ago, before humanity figured out what was happening, an eclipse felt like the end of the world. Striking terror into the hearts of all of us who did not know any better, it must have seemed as though Armageddon was at hand. A total eclipse of the heart inspires similar fear – the fear of being loved as much as the fear of loving too much.  When I look back at the young man I was twenty years ago, more than anything else I want to tell him not to be afraid. I want to tell him that nothing awful ever came from being kind to someone else. Maybe even more than that I want him to listen, even when I know he won’t.

ONCE UPON A TIME I WAS FALLING IN LOVE, 

NOW I’M ONLY FALLING APART

NOTHING I CAN DO ~ A TOTAL ECLIPSE OF THE HEART.

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Snow in Boston

Don’t get excited – it’s a different kind of snow. (And not this sort of white stuff either.) Here are a few shots of the cherry blossoms that floated over Boston a few weeks ago. This is the only kind of snow I want to hear about at this time of the year, with the possible exception of a snow-cone by the beach. (My version of Cake by the Ocean.)

Nature has her own way of working a motif of beauty – from snowflakes to flower petals, she’s always dropping something from the sky in a confetti of natural glory.

This cherry was of the palest pink – it reads white by all appearances, but up close and personal, particularly as they ripen into their last days, it veers further from pure white, and just as they are about to jump into the wind, the petals are unmistakably tinged with pink.

Like a shower of rose-hued snow.

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Vivaciously Bold by Diana Vreeland

The late, great Diana Vreeland left a lasting legacy of fashion, boldness, and vivacious spirit, and that all lives on in her namesake fragrance collection. It’s also in good hands, as these fragrances are as rich and varied and bodacious as the fearless woman was herself. For the winter months and holiday time I use the sandalwood-centered ‘Absolutely Vital’ – which also employs Turkish rose and Egyptian jasmine for its richness. As I perused the fragrance counter at Neiman Marcus the other day, I noticed a bright new addition: a lime-green bottle called ‘Vivaciously Bold.’

The literature for this one called it “luxurious vetiver with an audacious cocktail of citrus zests. A bouquet of pettigrain, orange flower, and jasmine creates the ultimate fantasy floral finished by a daring accord of sensual musk and the finest vetiver.” While I’ve never been the biggest fan of vetiver, here it works quite well. Traditionally a masculine scent, vetiver grounds the floral fantasy into something wearable, and Ms. Vreeland’s take on cologne is what reportedly inspired this one: “I think men’s scents are wonderful… They have such character and are so marvelously clean.”

This is very much a spring/summer fragrance, with its crisp citrus opening, and it manages to pull off a neat trick that most fragrances can’t: it disappears somewhere in the middle of its trajectory, falling off wherever you sprayed it for a brief time, before reappearing later on. I’ve never experienced that sort of magic before, and it’s something to keep in mind before you go too gun-crazy assuming the citrus won’t last.

At first I thought last year’s ‘Smashingly Brilliant’ would be my go-to summer fragrance, and on paper it looked like the more logical choice, with its bergamot and citrus oils tempered by wood and suede finishes, but for some reason that read as bracingly chemical on me. It’s a lesson I learned long ago: fragrance is less about what is on paper and more about what is on your skin – and it’s different for each individual.

As the lady herself was wont to ask: “Am I wrong?”

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Building Beauty

A boy I once liked very much said this was one of his favorite buildings in Boston. It was after our first and only date, and he had parked right in front. There was no good-night kiss, and no interest from his end. Of course I fell in love with him right on the spot.

Now I only find it pretty in certain light.

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Plum Blossoms

At least, I think these are plum blossoms.

There used to be a gnarled old plum tree on the island in the middle of my childhood street. It was low to the ground, and afforded easy climbing opportunities for a boy. One large branch veered off at a precariously low angle, while the main trunk went up and above, affording a leafy canopy. Every late spring it bloomed in sprays of white, with a sweet-smelling perfume that also attracted buzzing bees. They never bothered me.

I was fascinated by the amber sap that formed bulbous clumps of shiny beauty. Every bruise or cut bled into a little jewel that I’d discover at varying stages of solidity. If you caught it at the right moment, it was almost transparent, while at other times the lightest touch would turn it cloudy and matte-like. Clearly, I’m not a scientist, and I’m only describing how a clueless boy saw the world at such a young age.

I sat on that limb, swinging my legs over the uncut grass beneath it, and waited for summer to arrive.

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Direct from the Bark

Cherry trees aren’t generally known for producing flowers so close to the bark, but there are always anomalies, particularly when the cherry is of advanced age and has been subjected to severe pruning. This specimen was perched above Braddock Park in Boston, overlooking that beautiful street and sharing a small token of wonder and pretty strangeness with the passing world.

 

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Boston Afternoon Vista

Whether I’m lucky enough to be lounging in the bedroom as the sun goes down, or caught in the wave of commuters rushing home, late afternoon in Boston is one of my favorite times of the day. I’m not sure why – early mornings carry their quiet charm, and midnight walks hold their own enchantment, but something about the pause in the day, the light of the almost-golden hour, and the illuminated buildings make it one of the more magical moments in a twenty-four hour trajectory.

Here, Trinity Church is lit up in all its amber-glowing splendor, backed by the building formerly known as the John Hancock Tower. (It’s called 200 Clarendon, now, I believe – which is neither better nor worse.) The juxtaposition of old and new is a telling mirror of Boston itself, and one of the reasons I love the city so much is this thrilling mash-up found around every corner.

If you examine the top left of the photos, you’ll also see the moon and an airplane cutting through the sky – another incongruous pairing, this time of timeless nature and modern-day technology, spinning around one another in dizzying contrast. That’s not just Boston – that’s the world. And that may be more food for thought than anyone can chew on an early morning like this.

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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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Post NYC Recap

The staggered posting format of this blog means that a proper recap of this recent weekend in New York will have to wait, as will other things. For now, a look back at what went on website-wise, not in real life. I prefer the latter to the former, so do the math as to my satisfaction level as I hurriedly write this.

A hot ginger led the Hunk of the Day charge. This is Steven Di Costa in his fiery debut.

Followed hot-on-his-heels by a midnight charged post of Sergey Lazarev.

Are you hungry? Try this uni and lobster in Cambridge.

In search of more heat? Here’s Eyal Berkover.

My favorite part of a party. Well, almost.

Rays of white.

How to smell like a daisy.

Daisy party garb.

A daisy birthday.

A somewhat-semi-annual Broadway excursion in effect again.

My sheer brief underwear.

A blood-sucking Hunk of the Day: Alexander Skarsgård.

The glamour! The fashion! The cologne!

And again!

The rarity of a two-time Hunk of the Day.

A beautiful bouquet is worth more than the sum of its parts.

One of my favorite Hunks of the Day in recent memory: Jacob Tomsky.

A most-fitting, and surprisingly-touching tribute from a Queen to a Prince.

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A Queen Honors A Prince

A sleeve of ruffled lace sat atop a crystal-studded cane, while a diamond cross dangled in the spotlight.

A throne of purple velvet slowly turned to reveal Madonna, resplendent in a shiny purple-and-lavender paisley suit and ethereally blonde curls. The opening notes of Prince’s own ‘Nothing Compares 2 U’ – most memorably performed by Sinead O’Connor at the dawn of the 90’s – came out of her mouth and the world wept to see the Last Great Pop Star of their generation paying tribute to a recently-fallen one.

No one could have done this better, no one could have made it mean more, and no one else was a more worthy angel for conveying Prince’s pop legacy. As tears filled her eyes, and she sang the words that suddenly rang with greater import than ever before, it was clear that this was the emotional catharsis so many of us needed – a eulogy of priceless proportion, singularly commanded by the only other performer remotely near his legendary level. When Stevie Wonder appeared and began the final walk into ‘Purple Rain’ it was an astounding tribute to an astounding icon.

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Building Beauty

A boy I once liked very much said this was one of his favorite buildings in Boston. It was after our first and only date, and he had parked right in front. There was no good-night kiss, and no interest from his part. Of course I fell in love with him right on the spot.

Now I only find it pretty in certain light. And hindsight.

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The Beautiful Balm of a Bouquet

When I was in grade school, our general music classes took place in the basement/bomb shelter of the building. As a kid, its mustiness and fluorescent interior did not bother me in the least, nor did its painted cinder-block walls and dank corners. If anything, it was an escape, not solely for the topic at hand, but for the excursion into the recesses of a building we mostly knew from above.

Our music teacher, a blonde woman whose hair changed styles from year to year (there was an especially-iffy perm circa 1986 that I remember to this day) was a piano-playing soprano who endeared herself to me with her annual presentation of ‘Peter and the Wolf’ – still a remarkable introduction for kids to the world of classical music. She doted on me in return – my boyhood voice was pretty soprano as well. I sat in the front row with a few girl friends and she would sometimes use us as an example of how to sing something in tune or in rhythm. (Yeah, I was that kid – and loved it.)

Somewhere during our seven years together at McNulty school, she started to receive bouquets of roses – once every week or so. She’d place them on the corner of her desk, and on those days her step had a brighter bounce to it, her countenance a cheerier aspect. Even her sometimes-questionable hair looked better when that bouquet stood at happy sentinel by her side. When she sang on those days, her voice soared, as if trying to match the heights of beauty that those flowers exemplified. As much as I was struck by their beauty, I was equally enthralled with the effect they had.

A bouquet of flowers changes the atmosphere.

It shifts the balance of a room.

In the case of a dark, fetid basement, it brought in an airiness that was just as good as opening a window.

In the case of a party, it is the mark of a friend.

Always, it is a work of art.

A bouquet of flowers can be as simple or as elaborate as one wishes, limited only by the imagination of the arranger. In the stunning case presented here, a rich landscape of flowers and foliage results in a fresh and vibrant pocket of paradise, a portable glimpse into a miniature world of beauty.

Comprised of a magnificent array of orchids and exquisitely-ruffled tulips that could pass as fancy roses, it is backed by feathery greens, and thrillingly accented by a pair of poppy seed pods that lend it an exotic and other-worldly splendor.

Our friend Courtney made this extraordinary bouquet, as a gracious gift of thanks for hosting JoAnn’s birthday party. I have to confess, I’ve secretly been longing for a Courtney bouquet since I sat at a table that held one of her creations a few years ago. It had sprays of mimosa in it and entranced me with its perfume and delicately designed beauty. When I saw this one, it felt like a dream come true.

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The DG Tour: Cologne Glamour Fashion ~ Part 3

A crazy perfume called Lou-Lou stands in plastic turquoise salute. It reminds me of holidays and bears named Felix from Filene’s.

Folds of colorful silk lie like pools of tranquil water, in vermillion, coral, and Granny Smith green.

Fragrance, texture, color and sentiment combine in a wave of nostalgia, yet in that moment a new memory is created. The memory of a memory.

Time is marked in outfits and pieces of clothing as much as it is marked in scent.

Summer is signaled by a floral jacket as much as the sweet neroli beneath its cuff, but there are diversions from the seasonally expected too.

Who else would wear sequins and flip flops and aviators by the pool, or to a parade for that matter?

Who would wear a kimono to a black-tie affair?

You may not be remembered for what you wore, but I’ll be damned if I don’t try.

Tom Ford knows best.

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