Monday, August 29, 2005


Photo: Young James and Me at Wigstock, taken by Blogdaddy.

I took the Orient Express up to NYC this weekend. Guess I'd better enjoy the service while I can. A friend tells me that this morning's METRO describes the obviously unsafe conditions (uninsured, bald tires, unlicensed drivers , no windshield wipers, dozens of young Asian women whose constant cell phone chattering in Mandarin and Cantonese is interrupted only by the hello kitty ring tones of incoming calls) which keep the lines' ticket costs so low-low-low. Life is cheap on the Chinese bus. I for one am willing to put my life on the line for the $20 round trip. Seems though that Senator Charles Shumer doesn't share my cost/value, benefit/risk assessments, and is intent on shutting them down or regulating them out of existence. On the other hand, Chinatown is the chief vector of infectious disease for the island of Manhattan, so maybe I'll save myself the trouble of drug resistant tuberculosis (here now) or the westward moving Avian Flu ( due around late October, I reckon).

Met up with some blog buddies for a late (for them. Ed Time lunch is around 3 or 4 PM) lunch at The Sidewalk Cafe on Avenue A. My cell rang, and I turned away from the group to answer and saw Young James standing ten feet away outside the open window, calling to see where I was so we could meet up. Fortified with several Brooklyn Lagers, the boys and I wandered over to Tompkins square Park to see the Wigstock portion of the Howl Festival, organized to celebrate the arts which flourished in the East Village neighborhood back when artists could actually afford to live there. Saw BJ , Brooklyn (formerly Philly) photographer cub Brendan and pals Michael and Luis (who is, together with their friend "Mr. NYC Eagle 2005" Robert, pictured in this month's "Details" magazine as the embodiments of the sort of fearsome fellas who are lightning rod targets of "The New Homophobia"). James and I followed the painted and sequined masses to the sweltering low ceilinged Slide, where we were delighted to hear shouted replies to our disco calls of "Whoot! Whoot!" (Whoot ! Whoot!) from the other dancers, packed in between the DJ booth and go-go boys, even as we contorted to avoid the whipping hair extentions of one Party Gurl who ALMOST got the nostalgia hawking former MTVee-Jay Nina Blackwood look down. Visits to The Phoenix, Boys Room and Siberia followed. I think.

Wednesday, August 24, 2005

Shirtless Drunks Drink Free at the Eagle!


They don't?


Regardless, this picture reminds me that some guys
should be shirtless ALL the time.

Monday, August 22, 2005

Teddy Bear Picnic

We were late.

It was my fault of course. After picking up my companion at The Bike Stop and slogging through midtown traffic, we'd finally crossed The Ben Franklin Bridge across the Delaware onto the cats cradle of New Jersey highways. Top down and wind streaming over our fresh buzz cuts, we raced through the glorious late afternoon blue skied sunshine. My companion navigated from the shot gun seat.

The proscribed turns of the print out directions he clutched against the rushing air got us to the correct exit, but once in rural small townness, the turn lefts and bear rights had failed us, leaving us lost amid strip malls and car lots rather than farm stands and feed stores. Helpful locals at sawbuck tables outside of a barbecue shack offered enthusiastic but unintelligible assistance. All I gleaned was a right, a KFC, and another right somewhere after that, which ultimately brought us to a cross roads marked by the China Dragon Inn. The day host's broad gesticulations and pidgin of Mandarin and Mid-Atlantic ultimately proved easier to understand. We were only a two miles from the bear-b-que.

Friends who'd gone to last year's had told us all about it. They'd reported that the guests would be "A-list bears". (I asked my homosexuality advisor what distinguished "A" bears from run of the mill ursa. He replied; "their wallets"). Part party, part potlatch, it would be catered and the liquor would be free flowing. Guests would shed inhibitions and clothing as the evening wore on, eventually ending up naked in the pool. Bear soup. Any who felt unable to drive home were welcomed to stay in one of the many available rooms. To add invitees to their circle of friends, the host couple canvassed the three levels of The Bike Stop, extending ink jet invitations to new found friends and attractive revelers they'd hoped to add to the roster. They gave my companion an invitation on two seperate occations, and confirmed the date the preceding week. They REALLY wanted him to come. When my companion asked me to accompany him (and give him a ride), I immediately accepted, gleefully dubbing the venture "The Teddy Bear Picnic". We'd brought our overnight kits, "just in case".

Mr China Dragon had guided us well. Businesses had turned to dwellings hugging the blacktop, then set further back and apart, then fields and farm houses. I felt a nostalgia for my own home town and trips through the surrounding country in the green station wagon with the wood grain contact paper sides. We soon sighted the post and split rail fence strung with bobbling red balloons as indicated on the printout, and pulled off onto a gray gravel drive. The Sleek Black Leopard snaked through pine and oak woods, and heavy brush and scrub. We rounded the last bend and emerged at our much anticipated destination.

Before us, a shiny black Harley Davidson soft tail, tricked out with extra chrome and studded black leather saddle bags, stood a glistening sentry at the mouth of a clearing harboring three parallel rows of the guests vehicles. Lumbering SUVs and lacquered European sedans reflecting the forest in their sightless tinted windows, and several self consciously rugged soft top jeeps were tucked under reaching boughs. I decided that my old and non glamorous convertible was much more fun and infinitely cooler. We pulled into a shady spot near the Harley,

My companion spoke; " I keep thinking we should've brought something, but they said 'Just bring friends'."

"That IS something" I replied, "Decorations. Something for the other guests to look at."


"Yeah. When their buddies, their 'peers' arrive, they'll each discretely give a bottle or good cigars or something for later.
I'm guessing they're hoping that YOUR contribution would be other little hotties like yourself."

"Well" he reached across the console and squeezed my knee, "then they would be correct."

I put my cash, cards and key monster in the trunk , leaving only the one car key on the nylon strap clipped to my left hip, and secured my cell phone in one of the compartments of my favorite extensively seamed and zippered and pocketed shorts. I noticed my wife beater was stained with the evidence of a hurried lunch, so peeled off this other half of my typical summer uniform, and tossed it in too. I extracted a red, short sleeved button front shirt with patch flap pockets, white stitching, and epaulet's. The bears would hate it. It was in violation of their printed t-shirt, cut off sleeves and camouflage shorts drag code. I reasoned that I probably wouldn't be wearing it all that long anyway. My companion wore essentially a Gap clerk's unifom; blue polo shirt, khaki shorts and Addidas, so different from the boots jeans and chest hair ensemble I usually see him in. I was surprised when I'd picked him up in town.

"What, no harness?" I marveled.

"Maybe later. It's in my bag. Better to have it and not use it"

We set out toward the house. Sited across a sweep of blemish free green lawn, the compound comprised a substantial steeply gabled cottage, separate garage, and guest house, all covered in raw brown clapboards mottled and darkened by the elements. The buildings clustered informally, connected by weed free red brick paths, bordered with raised beds walled in ashlar laid sandstone and overflowing with precisely random, rigidly edged and compartmentalized flora, the sort of arangement cultivated by professional attention.

Following the laughter and splashing, we skirted the main house, passing by a glassed in porch and squat box hedges backed by waves of tiger lilies, and headed toward the back.. Men in camo shorts and surfer's trunks, many shirtless and even at distance kinda hairy, clustered in scattered groups behind the house. To the left in a leafy grotto formed by a towering willow tree, was a self service bar well appointed with multiple top shelf brand choices of each type of booze, lots and lots of empty bottles of mixers, and what would prove to be insufficient ice and too few plastic cups. An ice filled garbage can buoyed a battered silver keg of Coors Lite on the right, symmetrically balancing another galvanized can full of Miller Lite bottles on the left, shattering dreams of decent beer. Two hefty men manned the keg, one at the pump and the other holding the nozzle to the rim of a half gallon sized clear glass mug. Opposite, a broad buzzed and bearded fellow in wrap sunglasses pawed at the icy water for Millers, as though attempting to catch salmon.

Straight ahead of us was a manicured landscape of levels climbing back up on the right toward the house like Mayan terrace fields. Up railroad tie steps was the main level and pool, paved in a crazy quilt of large irregular bluestone flags. Men in ball caps and bellies, muscle shirts, colored tank tops and olive drab sleeveless BDUs, stomped up and down the levels in their Teva sandals and untied floppy tongued Timberlands. I leaned on a railing and discretely removed my Italian calf slides. A shirtless multitude populated the chairs and lounges around a sentimental gazebo in the style of Thomas Kincade,"The Painter of Light". The main focal point past that was a shoulder high stepped pyramid of more of the planting bed limestone, dotted with vegetation. From it's apex issued a steady cascade of heated water, piddling here and sheeting there over the strata and down into the amoeba shaped pool, where more furry brethren bobbed about. The wet hair on their ample bodies darkened and clung to glistening chests, backs and broad shoulders in zebra stripe patterns. I could see that my slight winter belly, kept well past season, would be no liability, my barely-there-body-hair might.

We had reached the main level, where we made our initial greetings and paused in visual reconnaissance. We could see that the hierarchy of guests was also a pyramid. The much vaunted "A" group surrounded the hot tub on the uppermost terrace, by the French doors to the house. There was a higher concentration of good looking men at the sumit, more muscle and less jiggle, and subtle indicators were added to the standard faded and stonewashed uniform; the glint of a Rolex, or boutique sunglasses. Status diminished down the levels though degrees of insiderness, diffusing as it descended into hangers on and wannabes clustered around the bar and the grass sloping toward the pond, like the playground at a Jr. High School for large furry boys.

"Have you made any preliminary selections?" my companion asked. He knows I make my decisions quickly.

"I have. They're over by the hot tub. See if you can guess."

"Hmmmm." he considered the assembled.
"Tall black tank top. Green cut of sleeves."

"You know me well. How 'bout yourself?"

He pondered a moment, scanning, "I think I can have pretty much anyone here. I'll just leave it open 'till later. Oh. I saw you looking at red beard. STAY AWAY from that mess. He's gonna be on you like a shark as soon as you get in the pool."

My companion has made himself my social director, sure that I don't get laid enough. His Henry Higgins has great plans for my Eliza Doolittle. Aparently, a linchpin is social capital, in which equity is grown as much by who you DON'T fuck, as by who you do. He's made it his duty to keep my stock on an upward graph. So many rules.

My companion was starving and I had to piss. He hurried to the buffet tent, to scavenge what ever scraps remained after three hours of onslaught by hungry bears. I was directed up the steps to the house.

The draperies billowed gently at the open door, cool air escaping under the ruffled hem and onto my bare feet. I fought my way through the layers and found myself in the livingroom. The walls and ceilings were white, edged and accented by rough timbers, which also spanned the eaves in the areas where the room was open to the second floor and then further up into the gables. Carpets of thick wool pile arabesques blanketed the floor leaving starkly contrasting borders of polished pine around the perimeter. Everything was faded beigey gold and dusty olive. Squishy rolled arm sofas and chairs upholstered in plush brocaded velours, buttoned and skirted with rope fringe, were attended by numerous delicate curliqued mahogany tables and stands, all crowded with effusively decorated objects in crystal and porcelain. The mantle shelf was lined with a Victorian emporium's worth of ornate easel frames on a crocheted runner, holding incongruous photos of burly men in ball caps and sleeveless flannel, shorts and boots. A couple who I gathered were the hosts were in each image; in the wooded mountains, in orange whitewater rafting vests, against gray wooden railings before sea side sunsets, and standing amid crowds of leather chaps wearing harnessed passers by on crowded city streets on both coasts. Smiling silently side by side, clustered together with other men, one arm around the next guy, and in their free hands holding plastic pint glasses of beer. Swags of velvet hung right at the casings drooped over the doors and window sashes on three sides, making the high ceilings feel close and low. Their steady march around the room was interrupted by the piers between windows. Placed sentry like at these intervals were curved glass vitrines, some honey colored and inlaid with wooden bouquets and garlands, some dark and enriched with gold mountings, and all filled with carefully polished histrionic sterling teapots and sugar bowls, wavy edged trays and undulating posy vases, accompanied by opera glasses, pierced ivory fans, and sepia photo's of pale women in high lace collars arranged in precise vignettes. It was as though all four Grandmothers had died at once, bequesting the frilly spoils of inheritance by the van load in their Last Will and Testaments. I walked up to the long narrow table along the back of a sofa at the center of the room. The marble top was almost covered by foil capped green bottles, wooden cigar boxes, and small glossy tissue paper stuffed shopping bags from fancy shops in town. I could smell chocolate, cedar, and cellophane, even over the flanking bowls of potpourri.

I found the powder room, pissed and washed my hands. I stood in front of the ornate gilt mirror hung over a rosewood China trade demi-lune table which supported embroidered linen hand towels and another bowl of potpourri. I put a couple of eye drops in with my contact lenses, vigorously rubbed the stubble on my head, and checked my teeth for burrito fragments. Then anounced "Showtime!" to my reflected grin and jazz hands, reconsidered for a moment, and decided to unbutton my shirt. I pushed the paneled door open, crossed the expanse of carpet to the glass doors, and stepped out into the brightness and heat to locate beer, my companion, and to find and greet the two men in the photographs whose generous hospitality I was about to enjoy.

Thursday, August 11, 2005

Atlantic City

I leaned against a mirrored wall in the alcove outside of the current of day trippers and vacationers eddying and streaming by in the adjacent corridor. Across the baroque carpeting Willie consulted a comp machine.

A woman two machines away also checked her complimentary bonus points, seeing the benefits racked up by hours and dollars spent on the adjacent casino floor. These totals are the frequent flier miles of the so called "gaming" industry.
Her fingers jabbed assuredly at the familiar key pad. She, like Willy, had done this before. Her actions were accompanied by the jangle of flat mirror polished dangles hanging from her gauntlet of gold bracelets. She paused in contemplation; even at rest they tinkled as wind chimes. I could see her white lacquered fingers, edged with gold sparkles like the the glitter lines drawn on old German glass Christmas ornaments or the coated rim of a gold dusted margarita glass, but not her face, which was obscured by a voluminous beach ball sized topiary of teased and tortured thicket dense shiny blue black hair (?). A few stray offshoots called for hedge clippers.

I could though see from the side and rear her resplendent outfit, a two piece ensemble of matching turquoise jersey knit. In this place overrun with multiple patterns and hues, it was the largest uninterrupted area of a single color in the room. It had bat wing three quarter sleeves, concealing her elbow and upper arm and leaving her stabbing wrists and hands seeming detached from the motionless plumb bob form of her torso. It's taper was duplicated by loose pantaloons which diminished from the ample circumference of her waist to closely skimming at mid calf. The separates were united by a longitudinal line of poker chip sized silver grommets running from shoulder to cuff, under the sleeve and to the hem, and continuing down the leggings to her calf; a stylish aid in venting (hot flashes?). The grommets reoccur at a smaller scale on the almost matching glazed teal leather of her stacked heel open toed mules, simulating a handful of silver Cheerios scattered by an unruly grandchild, who may well have edged her white polished toenails with fingernail matching glitter while down there.

She received her information and finished, turned my way and walked toward the corridor. Her face was a striking contrast to the hairdo which wrapped it like an Eskimo's fur trimmed hood, a pale and china doll perfect powder pink moon rising over the tanned and freckled valley of her decolletage. For a second her dark eyes met mine from behind beveled edged blue tinted lenses, precariously perched on a tiny nose barely up to the task, and steadied by outriggers of curving gold temples, all almost hiding the generously brushed highlights and shadows of invented bone structure striping her chipmunk cheeks. My eyes followed her toward the rushing masses channeling from restaurant to gift shop to gaming floor in the passage way.


Willie startled me and I turned to face him.


"Dinner on the Hilton Sisters tonight!" he anounced, beaming. His bright blue eyes twinkled in delight with his own totals, now further enabling his natural generosity.

"Yee Hah!" I enthused, forgetting my current obsession for a moment to consider a long standing one: free food. My mind lept forward to the steak house bone in rib eye au jus we'd already discussed. In my mind the tab would come out of Paris and Nicky's allowances, and I savored the expected high cost.

Oh, but wait! I whipped my head back toward the corridor. Whence the turquoise lady? What wonderous baubles ornamented her earlobes? Could her voice and mannerisms equal the drama of her costume? Did she smoke cigarettes? What brand, and were they drawn from a snap closed vinyl case bearing her initials in gold script? All would remain mysteries. I saw her brunette dandilion head bobbing like a fuzzy fishing float in the crowd, then watched it enveloped by the streaming bodies and swept away. Knowledge of further details was lost to the current.


Willie snapped me from my reverie.

"Boardwalk Pizza. You in?"

"Huh? Yeah yeah. I'm in."

I slipped back into reality and we slipped into the crowd, and descended the escalators toward the boardwalk.

Thursday, August 04, 2005

ur hot ! (Pink continued)

Tripple X's new pics have been up for a few days, and the hairy wet love is rolling in. The public votes with it's collective mouse, right? So, The Jock Strap Series must be good. None of the, uh, close ups are on there, not even as locked images. Surprising, 'cause the boy photographs well. In the past, he's used tag lines and proposed T-shirt slogans I'd invented as his headlines. I've done some editing as well. Photo's , headlines, text... Hey wait a minute! I'm doing all the work here! I demand a percentage.


Besides selflessly making sure my boy shows to his best, (and stalking various other friends to see how much time they really spend on the site. I'm pretty much just a lurker, breaking cover to chat in the rare instances when someone has anything interesting to say, or even says anthing at all when they unlock. For the record, my catch so far has been limited to a guy who'd been chasing me around the bar for months (I thought it seemed like a good way to get my feet wet, and I could get him off my back ) and a nervous, rather severe man who I ordered over to the studio to blow me, and then ushered out the door as soon as I was finished with him. Feh. Like any man, I can describe in precise detail the size, contours and coloration of My Wet Dream Come True. Even so, I'm largely personality driven, so It's not an ideal venue for me.

I've put a lot of effort lately into not doing any work at all, and trolling on MH several times a day has really helped me accomplish this. Since I'm at the screen anyway, I belive I should try to do some actual fishing. I think I may have the wrong bait in the water. All I've been pulling lately, are 18 and 20 year olds, skinny wiry punks with multiple arbitrarily inserted piercings (It must be increasingly difficult to horrify your parents these days, all i had to do was put a ring in each lobe and shave my head). As a bunch they're pretty cute, a couple are bright and I might actually meet one of 'em. They only have free memberships so insist that I instant message them on AOL, lest they use up their freebies. This one, the only one I can even remotely communicate with, was so persistant that I actually contacted him.

An excerpt:

Me: well, here's your message
Punk: yo
Punk: im xxxxx whats ur name dude?
Me: is this the way you speak in real life?
Punk: sorta
Me: my name's ed
Punk: kewl
Punk: ur hot ed
Me: i gathered you thought so, what with how persistant you're being.
Punk: yeah? u want me 2 be more sub 4 u? hahaha
Me: no at all xxxxx.
Me: i wouldn't have you any other way
Punk: yeah, im kinda a dom kinda bottom but really just vers except for hot stocky dudes like urself
Me: do you hound alot of "older" men, xxxxx? what are you proposing exactly?
Punk: im proposing that ur hot n ur top n i can be ur bottom if u want it
Punk: coffee n shows r kewl too tho

I like a straight forward guy like this, but nothings gonna happen. xxxxx was born the year I registered to vote. What would we talk about, his skateboard? Coffee is always a pleasure, but any shows would be limited to all ages alchohol free affairs, or have him segregated in the kiddie corall at Trocadero with me trying to sneak him drinks ('cause he's so cute). I seem to have trouble sexulalizing someone i really percieve as a boy, however personable. Just in terms of animal fuck lust, the guys who can trump personality are the ones who manifest stocky hairy muscly-ness, of whatever age. If kids like that exist, they're not contacting me. At any rate, I've still got mountains of work to not get done here. Maybe I should get Tripple X to come over here and take some new pictures of ME. And bring that jockstrap.
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