Category Archives: boybutt

Once Again, Late

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O little lamby eyed children, I meant to post something about the start of Carnival on its actual start date which was Jan 6, but somehow a week has snuck past.  It happens.

So Happy Carnival.  Carnival is the season that leads up to Lent and which finishes with Mardi Gras.  The general idea I was always fed was that it was a chance to get all the wildness out before Lent, a season when you’re supposed to be all pious and godly and pruny faced and give up shit in order to show your neighbors what a good christian you are.  In reality I assume it’s simply one of those pagan holidays the Church gobbled up to get the pagans in the pews.  Surely, at this time of the year, after you’ve been snowed into some hut with a bunch of other stinky vikings, all of whom eat far too much cabbage, you are ready to cut loose and so here we are with some patched together holiday.

I moved to New Orleans in 1980 specifically so that I could live there during Mardi Gras.  I had come to visit during Fat Tuesdays in college and had such a good time, basing my life on the idea of being in town when the holiday hit seemed like a brilliant idea.  And it was.

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I always wanted my costume to get me to look like this.

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Inevitably it looked more like this.  Minus the striking head piece.  Mostly just a bunch of feathers and construction paper wadded up somewhere around me with some bananas and dirty feet.

I had no idea before I got there that there was an entire season of parties and parades and shenanigans that led up to the actual day of Mardi Gras, but once I found out about Carnival I plunged in with wild enthusiasm.  There is, or was, an air of giddy good times al over New Orleans during Carnival.   Any fuck up is shrugged off with an air of helplessness and the statement “It’s Carnival.”  Of course the street is suddenly closed because of a parade.  It’s Carnival. Of course you can’t get into your favorite restaurant because it’s closed for a party where people wear paper plates on their faces.  It’s Carnival.   Of course some former trick shows up at your doorstep and wants to spend the weekend.  It’s Carnival.

And that was the real thrill of the season for me: a substantial uptick in the amount of sex to be had, and I was already busy with a considerable quantity of boy pussy even without the whole “It’s Carnival” bit added in.

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Mens would be so swept up in the Bacchynal of it all, I was able to snag creatures as heavenly as this.  I swear.  And then we would move along to the next one.

When I lived there. I can remember 4 bars, just in the French Quarter, that housed back rooms devoted to anonymous, but high quality, sex.  I would strike out late in the evening confidant I would spend the next four or five hours getting blow jobs and butt fucking strangers and thought nothing of it.  It didn’t seem louche or strange or sordid.  It was Carnival.

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Like this.

On one fine Mardi Gras afternoon, I fought my way through the crowd up to the balcony around a bar called Lafittes in Exile.   There was a wall of men hanging over the railing which provided a shield for me to get down on my knees and go to town on this cute, cute boy’s wiener.  I had only really got rolling when an employee tapped me on the shoulder, not to berate me, but to ask that I take it inside.  I was annoyed.  I found out later from friends who worked there, it was simply a duty that got handed out to patrol the balcony and stop nasty business from getting out of  hand.  The job was called Cock Cop.

I don’t know why they bothered, it was never that uncommon to run across a couple of guys engaged in sodomy in some doorway.  Ah, l’amour.

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Or this.

Of course all that’s done and gone and I feel sorry for the queers of today who missed it.  But, oh whatever Saint blessed me with the idiotic idea to come live in New Orleans for Mardi Gras, my most sincere thanks.

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Saint Buttus Fuckus, we give thanks for your many gifts and for protecting your devout followers from STDS.  Amen/

Skin Deep

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So, after cleaning up all the scrapes and scraps and cuts and bits that came from my fight with the garden, I tried to be extra conscientious about keeping it clean and sterilized and, of course, it took about a day and a half to get infected.  I wound up on antibiotics that I finished yesterday, yay, with only puking once.  Any prescription that ends in “…xin” is guaranteed to do a job on my delicate stomach.  So that’s over, I’m guzzling yogurt to replace all the flora and fauna that the meds killed off in my gut and things will be great very soon.

In the meantime, let us turn our attention to a much more appealing topic, the ever popular Muscle Pussy.  I always try to include some example of it in my posts because 1) it amuses me and 2) there is so much of it available now through the magic of the internet.  When I was a young poof, I could never have dreamed of a day when there was such a wealth of beefcake spread out before us.

Usually, I just paste up some taut skinned youth and don’t really discuss it, but today I have to protest this beauty’s tragic choice of body adornment, or “ink” as the youth of today would have it.

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Look at that flawless, smooth, clear, satiny skin, tagged with the stupidest array of strip mall tattoo parlor art I’ve ever seen.  It looks like he just wandered in between his shifts at the Olive Garden and had them slap on whatever they had time to finish before he had to get back to work.

Oddly enough, considering what an old codger I am, I don’t mind tattoos in general, but if you’re going to cover a lot of ground with them, there should be some idea or concept that pulls them together in a cohesive style.  You know this boy, on the other hand, doubtless has Bart Simpson in there somewhere.  “Molly.”  Really?  What happens when Molly decides she’s a lesbian after all and dumps you and your beautiful tits?  And “1994”?  I remember 1994, sort of, what about it?  I know, it’s probably when he was born, which makes having this much numbnuts stupid tats just that much worse.  I can’t get over how lovely his skin is.  It’s like he has no pores.  To cover any of it seems like a waste.

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Then we have this boy, with a much more discreet and attractive… something.  And I’m talking about the tattoo, by the way.  I don’t know, is it backwards?  So he can read it while he admires his big, fat man piece in the mirror?  Is it “This end up” in latin?  Who knows?  And leopard skin hair!  I haven’t seen leopard skin hair since I was a gay young thing.  And that was a long time ago.

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And this last boy just because I thought he was pretty and had such lovely eyes.

All these came courtesy of the fascinating tumblr site Sparticus 2000 .  I cannot recommend cruising around there enough.

Legends Fall

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Saturday June 22 will be the funeral of Jim French.  I’m sure a big chunk of my readers know this and also know who Jim French is.  What he was was simply the best erotic photographer, ever.  Ever.

 

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Mike Betts

He started a called a business called “Colt Studios” in 1967.  The Post Office had recently lifted the ban on sending pictures of hard dicks through the mail.  French was a man in the right time.

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Doug Perry

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Can you ever have too much Doug Perry?  Nonsense.

Before him, gay smut was black and white with whatever trashy hustler/rent boy the photographer scraped up that day.  French shook all that up.  His early work is klutzy, understandably, but once he got his footing, goodness, how everything changed.

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Ray Mars

For one thing, French was a good photographer with a background in shooting fashion.  His lenswork was admirable, crisp and well balanced, but his real talent was lighting a set.  Never had bulging muscles been so three dimensional, cocks and asses gleaming and inviting.  And he was interested in their faces too, which other photographers never even looked at.  His only weakness was in posing his subjects.  There’s a lot of classic body-building style or stiffly interacting with some prop that’s sort of quaint.

 

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Jerry Haymes

One of his best and most frequently reused pose, is where he is on the ground beneath the model, shooting up at those mountainous titties.  The pose didn’t do much for me, but I recognize it for what it is: worship.  His best shots were the models lounging around looking supernaturally gorgeous.  Every muscled honed to perfection and symmetry as perfect as a plumline.

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Billy Herrington

The real zenith of Colt was being reached right at the time I was flaming out into la vie homosexual and many, many of Colt’s models matched the creatures who populated my fantasies.  Good heavens, how thrilled I would be to find a new Colt magazine at the dirty book store.  With no internet, Colt’s magazines were the best thing we had   Even now, 30 years later, Colt Studios, which French sold in the 90s, still use images from those long gone glory days to flog their merchandise.  Sometimes I look around in the Castro and think “Some of these little old men in their cardigans and knee braces, shuffling home to feed the cat were the godlings French aimed his lens at.”

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Mike Timber

I’m illustrating this with my favorites, I know many of you have your own.  I encourage you to dig them out on Saturday and remember the man who made them possible.  And then rub one out.

Daze Gone By

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Preach, sister, preach.

We had a lovely and far too short visit with dear, dear Diane von Austinburg last week.  Because my thrilling lifestyle consists mostly of sleeping, I would stumble downstairs and we would go out to dinner, come back and I would stumble upstairs to go back to sleep.  I know some people would have problems with livin’ on that particular edge, but I do not.

Diane shoved off on Thursday (I should mention Saki, the cat, does not like visitors.  Any visitors.  Every visit, Diane spends all her efforts at convincing him that he does not suspect her of low habits and misdeeds.  Diane reports gleefully every time Saki deigns to allow her to pet him without bloodshed.  I’m not impressed, because this almost inevitably  occurs when I’m holding him, most often in a headlock.  So Saki spent all day Thursday stalking around the house to make sure Diane (whom he refers to as “That Guy”) is actually gone.

I spent Friday crushing a giant nap.  I would wake up when Saki yelled in my ear about how he was starving, feed him, take my meds, and go back to dreaming about living in some grim institutional building that I was decorating.  One of those things where I couldn’t decide if it was a nightmare or not.

And then, just now, I got out of bed during the daytime (it happens) and thought how very much I would like coffee from Peet’s and some of their delectable little pastry items. And so I rolled downhill into the Castro.

I found an empty parking space (the only one in all of the Castro Neighborhood,) tried to pay the meter, cause the meter maids apparently have a special bounty system set up for my poor old car, and the meter gaily announced “FREE PARKING.”   Really?  I wasn’t going to look a no cost parking space in the mouth, so I wafted on towards Peet’s when I suddenly wondered “Could today be Sunday?”  Hmmmmm.

One of the things I like about my phone is a special feature it has for the forgetful and easily confused (that would be me) where it announces the day and date every time you kick it into gear.  Sure enough,  it confirmed my suspicion that today is, indeed, the Lord’s Day.

I’m perfectly happy with Sunday, bringing with it free parking, as I mentioned, and a great many young muscular mens wandering around without much in the way of clothing to hinder one’s ogling.  But this brings to mind the question “What happened to Saturday?”  It’s not a Lost Weekend, more like a temporarily mislaid day.

Trying to recreate some idea of how I had spent June 10, I turned to my computer, cause I’m all modern and hip and stuff.  The history there informs us that for some equally mislaid reason I looked up Marguerite Albert.  Mlle. Albert turns out to have been an early 20th century Parisian red hot mama.  Sued the Prince of Wales, lived across the street from the Ritz in Paris, murdered her husband and got away with it.  A role model for us all.

Aside from that and a few visits to the dwindling number of blogger friends I still maintain, there was nothing informative on the computer;  the car is where it’s supposed to be and all its pieces are still where they started out.  There are no inexplicable stains, or no new ones anyway.  Turning to Saki as a source of information, ugh.  He just leaves the room and either plays with his catnip sausage rope or pees in one of the many places he shouldn’t.  Sadly,  there are no unfamiliar young men snoring away in the guest room.

 

tumblr_orasfpC4Sq1qkopyqo1_500Let us be clear.  If anything even vaguely resembling this turned up, I would immediately start composing some lie about how we had gotten married after a whirlwind romance; some Lucy-and-Ethel kind of shenanigan. He doesn’t look very suspicious minded or like he has the mental high capacity to catch me out.  Tragically, it’s just me and Saki as far as I can tell.

Oh well, as I mentioned once in a long ago post: I say if the police aren’t asking uncomfortable questions, it’s probably best not to worry too much about those lost weeks.  Or day, for that matter.

 

A Day of Beauty

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What a lovely, San Francisco kind of day. It rained all night, but today is crisp and fresh washed, the perfect day for an elderly poof, such as I, to go down to the Castro to get my hair did and a mani-pedi. Loved it.
Castro Street was at its most charming.

Some guy was sprawled on the side walk so I asked “Are you all right?” He replied indiginanatly “Of course I am.” Of course he was, and all was right with the world.
Is there anything better than gossip to go with your hair-do? My beautician, Jeff, was in rare form because a big muscley thing was in one of the chairs on the other side of the very small shop and Jeff had to practically whisper the dirt to me, which just improved it, n’est-ce pas? Seems Miss Muscle Thang has recently divorced his wife the better to pursue his sideline of snagging rich old men. He looked sort of like this, but more or less in clothes.

On behalf of old men everywhere, I say if you look like a gold digger, if you gots the gold digging equipment, go dig the mother fucking gold and make some old man happy. Plus, for some reason, Jeff does a better job cutting my hair when he’s distracted with gossip, so yay.
Then, on to Hand Job for my nails. Although I never specify who I want, I almost always wind up with Malwani. I have the impression she is not the most popular girl there, possibly because she is one of the homeliest trannies I’ve ever seen. But really, I’m not there for a date, so what do I care?


She does have spectacular nails, which is encouraging.
There used to be a kind of nice looking guy here who has vanished and my dragdar tells me he may have grown his hair out, rooted through his mawmaw’s jewelery box and emerged as Malwani. There are some Ladies who go through the change and give it their all, attempting to be the most feminine creature possible. Others make no effort to hide their more masculine voice and profile, who decide that they are all the girl they need to be and they are the ones I applaud and that seems to be Our Girl Malwani.
Also, Malawani understand my cuticles.
At the other end of the Hand Job spectrum, their receptionist/esthetician is this terribly cute boy named Frank.

I think a little eye candy improves any beauty regimen, don’t you? One of the services Hand Job offers is a Boyzilian Wax, the very idea of which makes my nuts retract into my body cavity and which I think Frank may be modeling here:

He’s also a model, you can see his site at Nakkid youth

I have no idea if his facials include a happy ending; I’m simply happy to live in San Francisco, where the guy booking your pedicure is possibly an up-and-coming porn star, or should be anyway.

Lively Up Your Commute

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I took the subway up to the Castro after work this evening to meet R Man. Naturlement, it was jam-packed, but I nimbly snagged my favorite place to stand if I can’t get a seat and then, as a reward from the goddess for all my sweetness and wonderfulness, this terribly cute young man in a lovely black suit with charcoal pinstripes wedged in next to me. Even our positions were ideal, I was able to ogle him without being vulgarly obvious. Not that that has ever slowed me down particularly, but it’s nice to avoid it, if one can.

But the very most best part? As we pulled into the Castro station he bent over to pick up his briefcase/backpack/manpurse/clutch/whatever and bumped his ass very firmly into my hand. Not on purpose, get real. And I WAS NOT GROPING HIM. Had I been doing so, I certainly would have done a better job of it than the brief, but thrilling contact I managed. I got off the car humming, it takes so little to make me happy in these, my declining years.

Unfortunately, he was not Ross Hurston, pictured above, although he was dressed even nicer. I’ve seen Hurston on the street here a couple of times. One of the sweetest things about San Francisco are the feral porn stars we get to observe. I was surprised to find out he has an Australian accent, but then I was surprised to find out porn had dialogue, so I guess that makes sense.

Guys

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One of the glories of living in San Francisco is the abundance of cute, cute guys wandering around here. Especially when the “here” is the Financial District where they’re cute, well-dressed, and very serious. At lunch yesterday, I sat next to two prime examples of humpy suits. I couldn’t help but hear the conversation (I was not eavesdropping, I was listening. The tables are that close to each other, I couldn’t help it. Shut up) and I could never tell if they were new office buddies getting to know each other or if they had hooked up online and this was their blind date. Lunch at Rico’s seems like an odd choice for the latter, but they do have good enchiladas, so maybe.

It’s striking how similar the two conversations would be. Where’d you grow up, go to school, what movies do you like, that kind of thing. If only they had just gone ahead and gotten around to “so are you a bottom or versatile?” it would have cleared up everything. But then, the one in the blue stripe shirt was so obviously a catcher, I suppose the point was moot.