Okay, I promise. This will be my last politically-minded post for a while. Today, millions of people are casting ballots about “gay marriage,” legal protections for same-sex couples, and candidates whose campaigns are built at least in part on fear of “the Gays.” In times like this, it can be hard to stay centered. It can be difficult to know how to feel when you’re part of a small minority of the population being evaluated for the extent of your citizenship by the faceless majority. I suppose we could pray for a good outcome. We could wait on the edge of our seats as the returns start to roll in this evening. Or perhaps we could take a different approach:
BG East boy Brad Rochelle* has the right idea, I think. When the political storms are brewing, the best thing to do is look gorgeous and flip the bird.
Gerard Butler is a quickly rising stock in my lust-portfolio, in no small part due to the dozens of pics available displaying the Scotsman’s rational, reasonable response to annoying people who would strive to make him into an object and a commodity. We should take a lesson from Gerard’s response to the paparazzi, and salute “the electorate” accordingly.
Seriously, I have no clue who this guy is. TMZ tells us that he is (was, wants to be?) Miley Cyrus boyfriend. Whatever. He’s got sweetly rippled abs, a mouth poised for penetration, and exactly the attitude I’m feeling about election day 2009.
Frankly, though, I’m not sure these guys capture quite the sentiment that I’m trying to put my finger on here. The middle finger salute is on the right track, but it’s lacking the volume that I think is commensurate with the dehumanizing role that ballots play in offering the faceless majority the opportunity to screw over the Gays.
There we go. Brooklyn Bodywrecker is communicating the sentiment clearly. A double bird, the word “fuck” clearly forming across his lips, and his balls resting across the chin of some obliterated punk (let’s call him “Doug“)… that captures both the content and the volume of the only appropriate response to election day 2009.
And though Trevor Adams doesn’t appear particularly fierce in this fantastic performance art piece, I’d like to end with him and his shiny chest. Trevor looks ridiculous and ironically uninvested as he lets fly a pair of birds. Perhaps that’s the most constructive place to be in today. Looking gorgeous and oiled up, in a g-string, dancing, pointing a double-barreled “fuck you” at the world and yet not really caring so much.
*I don’t know the actual political opinions or ideological leanings of any of these guys. I do know, however, that they’re gorgeous and make me smile.
It’s the time of year in America when state and local elections hit the fan. Depending on where you live, you may be seeing a lot of homophobic, hateful campaigning (like I am) around polarizing candidates or statewide initiatives. It seems like pretty much every year, lately, the gays go up for a vote. And every year, we get sucked into believing that our liberation, our dignity, our very identities are at stake as our neighbors go and vote based on how bigoted or “tolerant” they are. If you’re like me, you can’t help but get swept up in it, to get anxious, to fear what happens if the votes go the “wrong way” or the hateful candidates (perhaps once again) win the day.
So today’s post is both for you and for me: Breathe. Calm down. Turn off the television and the radio and stop reading the op-eds. Remind yourself that there is no vote that will determine whether you are acceptable or respectable. No hateful candidate will ever be able to legislate away the beautiful, passionate, precious person that you are. Your dignity is not in the hands of any citizens initiative. The haters can hate and the tolerant can tolerate, but that has nothing to do with the fucking fabulous human being you are, and they will never be able to do anything about your capacity to love and be loved.
So the next time you think they’re voting about you, or legislating about you, or judging about you, flip them the bird and consider these two gems:
1) First, if you haven’t seen it, you must check out this amazing commentary from the man who was robbed (ROBBED I say!) of the opportunity to run for the presidency (only) on the South Carolina ballot last year. This offers a nice, fresh perspective from my favorite “conservative” pundit:
2) And second, just consider all the things that they cannot take away from us, no how, no way: Like Greek gods barely squeezed into black leather pants.
And massive pecs crying out for someone to thoroughly lick them.
Who we are, the dignity with which we live, and the passion that makes our hearts pump faster is not up for debate.
I’m a hypocrite. I’ll be the first to admit it. I’ll pick on someone else for not attributing their borrowed pics, but then I’ll turn around and do that very thing. Last Saturday I posted my latest installment in the history of “what turned me gay.” Sadly, I don’t actually have many pics or videos of the “male exotic dancers” so prevalent on 80’s daytime talk shows that I was highlighting. In referencing one particularly memorable episode of Donahue (where he has hot hunks in speedos flexing their glutes to win a best butt contest – and pow! I’m gay), I threw up an otherwise unrelated pic of a man (let’s just say “a god”) with astounding buns. And there I went and didn’t credit the jaw dropping hunk.
Not that Trevor Adams probably needs citing. He’s awfully exposed all over the net (hallelujah!). That ass is astonishingly round, and it’s perky enough to put me back on obsessing about butts again! Dear God, is he smuggling watermelons!?
He’s in magazines and fitness videos and, well, at 6 feet tall and 210 pounds, it’s hard to avoid giving him a double take when you come across an image of him. His ADORABLE story in the August issue of Instinct, in which he discusses his coming out, is about as sweet as sweet potato pie. Almost all the photos I find of Trevor have him flashing his Blue Steel, but the occasional glimpse of a smile on that handsome face, mounted on that dizzyingly gorgeous bod is sheer poetry .
I have no idea what this Christmas video is about. I’m sure it’s sacrilegious, probably juvenile, and likely pointlessly insulting… and I can’t help but continue to watch it over and over again. How does he get his pecs so shiny? I mean, specifically, I’d like to know the details of how his pecs get so shiny… and how I can work into that process somehow.
His personal website is just a splash page, sadly. Mostbeautifulman.com gives us the tantalizing tidbit that Trevor is into watersports (not my thing, but for Trevor… sure). And Modelmayhem.com lets us know that Trevor is “very experienced” (which isn’t as funny as saying he’s into watersports, but still it’s a workable double entendre). In any case, I am flogging myself (I said FLOGGING!) for my sloppy, insensitive, and thoughtless lack of giving credit where credit is due. That glorious, nearly unbelievably, divinely beautiful ass belongs to none other than Trevor Adams.
The best and brightest minds (read: morons) of the political right in America are promoting the idea that straight porn turns people gay. As usual, their irrationality reveals much more about their own deep insecurities and fears than they say anything about us. So let me set the record “straight”:
Phil Donahue and Sally Jesse Raphael turned me gay. At the very least, they get credit for beginning my pre-porn video collection. With increasing frequency throughout the 1980’s, daytime talk shows ran male-stripper stories. Initially, I think, they were ostensibly “about” male stripping. They would actually interview them to learn about their career choices or pretend that it was a “fashion show.” But by the late 80’s, they were unapologetic strip shows, with the boys swinging from poles and tugging off their breakaway pants to shake their moneymakers dressed only in thongs and g-strings.
As a gay adolescent, this opened up a whole new world to me. I began combing through the TV guide to plan ahead for upcoming male strip show-themed episodes. I’d pop a blank in the VCR and record the celebrations of man-flesh in order to “enjoy” them over and over (and over, and over…).
I remember two Donahue episodes in particular. One included hunks standing in a line, facing away from the audience, their upper bodies blocked off by a screen. Based on applause, the audience voted for which of the speedo clad hunks had the best butt. This was an incredibly erotic lesson for me in the joys of male body worship: the concentrated, lustful worship of one beautiful body part at a time. When one of the hunks flexed his glutes rhythmically to the screaming adoration of the audience, I swear my heart fluttered.
Another Donahue episode that sticks out in my mind was taped in a big performance hall with one male “erotic dancer” after the other performing. One talented hardbody (seen here ever-so-briefly at 0:33…) came out in a monk robe, and proceeded to strip to almost nothing and hump the floor to the accompaniment of Annie Lennox’ “Missionary Man.” Sweet Jesus (literally!)!!! The layers of forbidden pleasures and sacrilegiousity were seared passionately into my memory.
Finally, a shout out to the total trash TV diva, Sally Jesse Raphael. Sally more frequently used the gimmick of the “Hunk Contest” as the excuse to parade near-naked harbodies and jack up the ratings (other things were jacked as well…). I remember one “contest” modeled after a beauty pageant, where instead of an evening gown competition, the hotties paraded out in their favorite sports costume. One pec-tacularly gorgeous babyface walked the runway in amateur wrestling gear, including shrugging his shoulders out of the shoulder straps and rolling the outfit down to his waist. Considering my already existing obsession with the homoeroticism of wrestling, this was like a sign from God: worship the hardbody wrestler hunk! (Yes, sir!). In a devastatingly tragic twist, somewhere along my transition to adulthood I lost my pre-porn collection of daytime stripper hunks (thus most of these pics are an homage to, rather than evidence of the clips I describe). These days, I’d love to see them again, just for (well, mostly for) nostalgia’s sake.
Other daytime trash TV shows have exploited the genre of male strippers to give a shot in the arm to ratings. For me, though, some of the roots of my adult sexual fetishes trace directly to Phil Donahue and Sally Jesse Raphael, and the thrilling celebration of near-naked male bodies being worshipped for their stunning beauty.