Category Archives: boybutt

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.

The Sordid Side of Sordidness

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These are the Carlson twins (the naked ones. I don’t know who the gropey girls are.) They seem so determined to assure every one of God’s creatures that they are not queer, nosiree, that they get on my nerves even as I admire their flawless buttocks.

If Fabulon is the fabulous planet, then these boys are from some bizarro opposite planet of homophobes making a buck off of peddling their joint pussies to the gays they’re so rigorous about denying. It is the planet Fabuless.