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With friends like these . . . Portrait photographer Patrick Hall convinced sets of friends to be tasered with 300,000 volts of electricity for art. Those to be shocked were nervous and anxious, those tazing their friend were excited to be the one causing some pain. The resulting photos and video, if nothing else, tells you to pick your friends wisely. Knowing that the pairs were naked for their tasershoot is probably what will get you to click over to Hall’s site.
First it was provincial health officials in Chiang Mai warning of new draconian laws governing the sale and enjoyment of alcohol, now their counterparts in Phuket are claiming the same. Huh. I hope these folks checked in with Almost Prime Minister Prayuth before they allowed their inner media whore to run free.
The important part of the story was not that United Airlines diverted a flight from Newark to Denver this week after two passengers got into a fight over the use of a Knee Defender, which prevents the seat in front of you from reclining, but that there is a device on the market to stop the idiot sitting in front of you from reclining his seat into your lap. Now I wonder if someone’s come up with something to fix the unruly rug rat problem on planes. I mean other than pepper spray.
I considered posting (and may still do) an updated Eye Candy article on Gayhoopla’s hottie Filipino/German stud, Ken Ott, since he just bottomed on camera but in the meantime here are some moving pictures of part of that action. Or if you prefer the teaser video, click here.
And in a defense that should be popular among Sunee Plaza fans, a New Jersey man is suing Grindr for ‘negligently’ hooking him up with a 13-year-old.
I thought the days of a woman pretending she was pregnant to get what she wanted were long over.
This week’s NSFW Tumblr link is the appropriately named Sexy Asian Men, which features some of Asia’s hottest male models as well as some of those twinks y’all love so much.
In trends we’d all like to see continue, 18-year-old Calum Hood of the Aussie boy band 5 Seconds of Summer understand what fans really want and recently posted a video on Snapchat of his erect dick. Personally, I think the Erect Dick Challenge would raise a hell of a lot more cash for charity than the Ice Bucket Challenge has.
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There were no stars in the sky; the clouds had smothered the moon, and he could feel the weight of the sky itself pressing down on them as Wit and Paul made their way down Patpong 2 headed for Paul’s hotel. Wit’s nipples were raw and every brush of his shirt’s fabric against them caused a frisson of excitement at the thought of why, of what he’d just experienced, spiced by a degree of apprehension, even a modicum of fear. It didn’t help that he was still harder than Woody Allen at a Chinese orphanage.
He looked over at the man walking at his side, trying to make sense out of what he’d known and what he now knew of his companion. Paul was gentle. Educated. And a bit shy. Yet an hour earlier, when he fastened his ‘gift’ around Wit’s neck, his expression had immediately changed; what little benignity he had about him seemed to vanish into the murky darkness of the bar. When they hit Silom and its vendor stalls crowding the sidewalks, Wit was still preoccupied with his thoughts, he couldn’t even spare a passing glance for the heaps of merchandise on display. Although a fleeting thought briefly interrupted his contemplation, that it would be nice if Paul bought him a new T-shirt to replace the one he’d bought for Wit earlier that evening. The one he ripped from Wit’s chest back in the bar.
Their night had begun well enough, even if Paul had been anxious about getting them to his favorite place in Bangkok, a small club in a black building with the incongruous name of Bar Bar. Wit had been warmed by Paul’s familiarity with the club’s staff, a bit apprehensive of the noises floating through the main bar area from unseen rooms tucked further back in the club, and then a little of both when Paul told him he had a gift for him.
The last gift Paul had given him, a spiked, leather cock ring – for Paul to wear – had not been what Wit had expected. Or hoped for. Considering the setting, this time around his vision of a chunky gold baht chain had dissipated almost as quickly as it had appeared. And Paul had not disappointed. It seemed his idea of a gift always meant leather and spikes. As many different smiles as Wit had mastered over his lifetime, he’d had a difficult time coming up with an appropriate one when Paul fastened what looked like a dog collar around his neck. And when he’d snapped a small silver chain onto it, and then leash in hand pulled Wit further into the dark room they’d just entered, Wit was glad Paul’s back was to him and that he couldn’t see Wit’s face. When Wit got a good look at the room, his attempts at coming up with the right smile immediately came to an abrupt stop.
The massive display of candles would have been a nice, romantic touch if not for their illuminating a wide selection of medieval torture devices. All of which Wit would have written off as just odd decor if not for the leather-clad, whip wielding Thai woman whose attention was focused on the exposed, and alarmingly red buttocks of a middle-aged farang splayed out over one of two room’s spanking benches. That was when Paul had ripped the front of Wit’s new T-shirt open. And when, with a devilish smirk on his face, he’d grabbed a candle out of the rack to drip hot wax on Wit’s chest. Wit had almost been too surprised to remember to act as if that was a new experience for him. Even if usually he was buck-ass naked and on stage when hot, melting wax flowed freely over his chest. He’d flinched, convincingly enough to widen the smile on Paul’s face.
The second area Paul led him into was more secluded and better lit. And Wit, although he’d soon been proved wrong, assumed this was the draw that made Bar Bar Paul’s playground of choice in Bangkok. It looked like a doctor’s office. Complete with an examining table. And Paul was, after all, a doctor back in his home country. An attached tile-lined shower stall, large enough to be considered a room itself, caught Wit’s attention. Wit’s exposed, and now rigid nipples caught Paul’s. And when his gentle caresses quickly turned into the sharp bite of too many teeth, Wit hoped the examination room decor included a stock of bandages. But instead of some comforting first-aid, Paul tore the rest of Wit’s shirt off, leaving him naked from the waist up.
Wit barely had time to register that they’d moved into a new room before Paul grasped him by the nape of his neck and buried his tongue deep in Wit’s mouth. With a yank of the leash’s chain around his neck, Paul directed him to his knees. Wit caught a reflection of himself as he sank to the floor. The room’s walls were mirrored. And he looked pretty damn hot. Paul evidently thought so too. When he crammed Wit’s face into his crotch, Wit could feel Paul’s hard cock throbbing within the fabric. Not sure if he should, he reached up to free it from the confines of Paul’s jeans. Paul slapped his hand away, and said with a groan, “I haven’t given you permission yet.”
Wit looked up, hoping to catch some glimmer of direction in Paul’s face. There were several people staring down at him. The room’s ceiling was glass. And he and Paul were attracting quite a crowd. An even more appreciative crowd when Paul yanked him back to his feet and then just as quickly yanked his pants down to his knees exposing Wit’s throbbing cock to the spectators above. A hard slap to his ass brought Wit’s attention back to his partner. Another brought Wit back to his knees. And this time when he turned back to face Paul he got the permission he’d wanted. “Suck it,” Paul commanded as he freed his erect cock from his pants.
Wit felt a stranger’s hand on the back of his head. He turned and caught a quick glimpse of a bar girl wearing a dominatrix costume before she shoved his face back down on Paul’s erect member. And then felt the sting of her paddle on his ass. He moaned, partially in pleasure, partially in pain. Which only served to excite Paul further as he crammed his stiff cock deep into Wit’s throat, vigorously pumping again and again until with a low moan of pleasure himself he shot his full load into Wit’s mouth. A small dribble seeped from between Wit’s lips to pool amongst the hardened wax on his chest. Wit’s hand reached down to his engorged dick and he began furiously pumping, seeking release. But Paul dragged him back to his feet with the stern command, “Not yet. I haven’t said you could cum yet.” The dominatrix punctuated Paul’s words with another painful whack to Wit’s ass. He thought maybe this was when he was supposed to use his safe word, that invoking it would allow him the release his cock so desperately craved. But one look into Paul’s eyes told him that was not to be.
With Wit’s private parts still exposed to anyone who cared to look, Paul led him up a short flight of stairs to a small, private room. The dominatrix followed. Chains hung from its walls. A low, wooden bench filled the expanse along one side of the room. A strange, scary wooden contraption that Wit didn’t want to guess as to its purpose dominated another. Paul shoved him down, face first, onto a small cushioned platform. And then, having yanked his own pants down to his knees, without warning immediately entered him. Wit whimpered in pain at the sudden attack, and then moaned in pleasure as Paul’s pre-cum provided lubrication for his powerful thrusts. Looking into the mirrored wall in front of him, Wit watched the dominatrix finish belting on a strap-on, and then felt Paul’s response as she moved in behind him. Paul’s movements picked up speed, the two’s combined efforts pushed Wit over the top, and the low guttural cries escaping from Paul’s lips culminated in Wit’s gushing orgasm. Paul’s second orgasm of the night quickly followed as the dominatrix forcefully entered him for the final time.
The two men flopped down next to each other on the cushioned platform, exhausted, trying to catch their breath as the bar girl quietly left the room. Wit hoped they’d be allowed to use that shower room he’d seen downstairs. The tattered remnants of his T-shirt wouldn’t be enough to clean up either one of them. When Paul’s chest finally stopped its heaving, he turned to Wit and once again spoke those words that Wit now dreaded hearing, “I have a gift for you.”
The small box he handed to Wit held a beautifully crafted silver dragon. It was strangely shaped, elongated, holding a small, white, chatoyant ball in its claws. Wit smiled, not sure of the meaning of its odd construction, but thinking that maybe he was finally getting a present from Paul that was an actual gift. But when Paul’s cock, amazingly, began stiffening again, the intention behind the gift became clear. Wit quickly paced the cover back on the box. And told Paul they both needed a shower.
Downstairs as they prepared to leave Wit watched Paul pass a handful of baht to the bar girl who’d spent time with them. It looked like a lot. A lot more than Wit ever got tipped working as a bar boy. He wasn’t sure if it would be rude to ask how much, but then decided considering what he’d just gone through and the vivid red splotches still apparent on his ass cheeks when he’d showered, he didn’t have much to lose. Paul didn’t seem to mind the question. “We should have bought her a drink first,” Paul explained. “That’s 300 baht.”
“It’s 3,000 baht more for 90 minutes of a bar employee’s time,” he went on to explain, adding, “But if you want to take one back to your hotel that runs 4,000 baht.” Wit kept mum. He didn’t want Paul to think he was the least bit interested in offing anyone. Besides, he was trying to come to terms with the idea of a 4,000 baht bar fine. “And then there’s the tip,” Paul said. “That’s up to you, but I usually give 4 to 5,000 baht. Tonight I made it an even 10,000 since there were two of us.”
Paul misconstrued the look of pain on Wit’s face. And the old, gentle, shy, and caring Paul was back. “It doesn’t bother you that we just paid for sex, does it?” he asked. Wit answered with a quick shake of his head, not really listening to Paul’s words. He was trying to calculate what the monthly take for an employee at Bar Bar was. And wondering if they hired men too. He was still in a bit of shock as they made their way out the door. He still hurt a bit too. And was worried about his stiffening member as images of the last hour played through his head.
When they got to the hotel, Paul was his normal gregarious and gracious self, greeting the staff and asking them how they were doing. In the elevator he embraced Wit in a warm hug. The Paul that had been in his element back at the club was no longer evident. Wit wasn’t sure which of the two versions of his friend and lover he preferred more. The combination of the two, he thought, might be the biggest attraction. But when the pair entered Paul’s room, Wit knew what to do if he wanted their relationship to continue and grow. And he did. Regardless of Paul’s strange taste in gifts. So as the door swung close behind them with a gentle click, Wit sank to his knees in front of Paul again. And the look Paul beamed down at him, he was sure, was one of love.
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Knowing how much readers of this blog enjoy my coverage of the Olympics and other huge international sporting events, I’d be remiss in not covering one of Thailand’s top athletic tournaments, the King’s Cup Elephant Polo Tournament which runs this year from today through the 31st at the VR Sport Club in Samut Prakan. You may think that means an advanced version of a pub crawl featuring some of Pattaya’s most prodigiously built sexpats, but the animals on the playing field at the King’s Cup won’t be quite as large as they are only real elephants.
Bulges of amazing breadth and dongs that would put Swedish pole vaulters to shame, nonetheless will take center stage over the next four days in Thailand. This is the 13th running of the tournament put on by Anantara Hotels, Resorts & Spas under the direction of the World Elephant Polo Association (no, really), with teams competing from Scotland – a back to back World Champion and two times winner of the Kings Cup in Thailand – as well as over forty other different nationalities taking part in the charity event that funds the world’s only elephant therapy project for autistic children.
Elephant polo is a lot like regular polo and neither feature the half-naked hunky bodies of men’s water polo. But the King’s Cup also has parades, beauty contests, monk blessings, and an all-you-can-eat fruit buffet (for the elephants, not Pattaya’s sexpat population. So all you balloon chasers can just stay home). On the other hand, fans of Sunee Plaza will be thrilled to know all participants must be young, preferably under 20 and still at an age where they will thoroughly enjoy the sport, but large enough to carry a player with ease. Which should sound familiar to said Sunee fans.
Best yet, there’ll be plenty of prime pachyderm flesh packing the playing field. And probably a few cute mahouts too. To get you in the spirit for the tournament, here are some of the hotter contestants and fan favorites:
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“Hey babe, you know that BFF of mine who recently decided he’s gay and wants to have my baby?”
Phil, aka The Boyfriend, is not a visibly gay gay guy. He doesn’t do drag, and couldn’t do camp if his life depended on it. He’s never called another man girlfriend, and no black woman will ever accuse him of stealing her shtick. But the withering glance he shot my way would have done any of the contestants on RuPaul’s Drag Race proud.
“Um, we’re kinda thinking of going to Burning Man together next weekend.”
I was wrong. That withering glance worthy of a drag queen must come naturally to him. ‘Cuz it appeared again.
“And I’m not invited?”
“You have to work.”
“That’s not the point”
“Come on, it’s not like it’s a romantic weekend away on a tropical beach. There’s sun and sand but the only water within 100 miles are the port-a-potties.”
“Which is the point. You’re a roughing it means no 24 hour room service kinda guy.”
“I know. But Burning Man is on my bucket list.”
“You mean Dave is on your bucket list.”
“Did I ever tell you how cute you look when you’re angry?”
“Don’t even you bastard.”
I gotta give Phil credit though. In honor of Burning Man, I assume, his face was nicely aflame.
If you don’t know what Burning Man is, you really need to quit watching Big Brother and get out more often. Every year around Labor Day about 70,000 people converge on a remote and inhospitable dry lake bed in Northwestern Nevada to create Black Rock City, a temporary metropolis which then hosts the Burning Man festival. It’s a week long party devoted to radical self-expression. And getting totally wasted. Think of it as Spring Break for nerds and geeks. It’s where Hunter Thompson’s line, ‘When the going gets weird, the weird turn pro’ comes to life.
Burning Man is the one place in the world where you’re guaranteed not to be the weirdest kid in the classroom. It’s a utopian paradise for the disenfranchised and is populated by tens of thousands of people who look like extras from the Mad Max movie franchise. It’s performance art on a massive scale. And everyone participates. There are no corporate sponsors, it is not a consumer event; nothing is allowed to be sold there. And the initial batch of 38,000 tickets for the annual music and arts bacchanal that went on sale on-line in February sold out within 45 minutes. At $380 a pop.
“So you’re actually going to go camping in 100 degree temperatures where the winds hit 75 mph at night?”
“Uh, no. Dave knows someone with a RV. We’re borrowing it.”
“A RV. So you two are turning into lesbians then.”
“Don’t be silly. You know you can’t wear flannel in the desert.”
“And this would have nothing to do with Dave being free now that he and his wife have split, right?”
“It’s not a Circuit Party. It’s Burning Man. It’s not like we’re spending a weekend at Fire Island.”
Damn, maybe there’s hope for Phil and that visibly gay thingy after all. His talk to the hand gesture was masterfully thrown. And okay, so maybe I lied. Just a bit. While only about 12% of attendees identify as gay or ‘occasionally gay’ at Burning Man sex-positive free expression thrives, so that percentage is akin to the low number of men who admit to masturbating. There is a strong queer presence at Burning Man. There’s even a gayborhood where like-minded individuals set up camp. So I figured the festival was the perfect place for Dave to get his gay on in public for the first time. Kinda like losing your virginity in an orgy.
One of Burning Man’s 10 guiding principles is the directive commanding “radical inclusion.” In practice, this means that everyone is welcome to take part in every formal event and even every informal shindig. No one gets made fun of for the way they look, or what they wear, or their preferences in regard to sexual partners. Which could change at the drop of a hat. Or the drop of someone’s trousers. Experimentation rules the day. And night. Gays, straights, and in-betweens party their asses off together throughout the festival. And if you’ve never been spanked, peed on, or had an up close and personal experience with the sexual organs of a gender that’s not usually your preferred flavor, Burning Man is where you should. It’s almost an obligation. And I’m only going to help Dave meet his obligations. Which, as a newly minted gay man, I’m assuming will be pretty vanilla. But I’m packing handcuffs too. Just in case.
“You know I’ve been talking to Dave too. And he’s scared shitless about bottoming.”
“Well from where I’m standing that’s a good thing.”
“You are such an asshole.”
“Yeah, but as long as that asshole is . . . .”
“Besides the plan isn’t for us to have sex. The plan, with luck, is for us to score some peyote.”
“Then we’ll have sex.”
“Do you really think that’s smart? He’s still all screwed up about discovering he’s gay.”
“I think peyote is the perfect answer. I’m hoping he’ll have a vision that his spirit guide is a penis.”
“You mean your penis.”
“I like to call him Obi-Wan Kenobi.”
Nudity at Burning Man is rampant. So you’d think the festival is all about penis. But unfortunately, there’s vagina too. Not that it matters. Rather than staring at dick all day, most Burners are looking for shade. Or a cold beer. Or a port-a-pottie that hasn’t yet blown over in the high winds. Survival is almost as important as sex. Event tickets carry a clear warning stating “You voluntarily assume the risk of serious injury or death by attending”. And event organizers seem to care more about their policy of leave no trash behind than they do the occasional dead body. Which one assumes someone is tasked with packing out too.
But that’s part of the Burning Man culture. If someone sees you throw an empty beer can on the ground, you may well end up being one of those dead bodies. And that’s pretty drastic for someone who still considers their recycling can as an overflow receptacle when trash starts piling up. But hey, we all make sacrifices and in an utopian village filled with naked men and straight boys trying their gay on, even I can live with a pack it in pack it out policy. Besides, once the sun goes down no one can see where you are dumping your trash anyway. Which also solves that blown over port-a-pottie problem too.
And speaking of getting trashed, when the sun goes down anyone who hasn’t already passed out from their day’s indulgences gets their party face on. Which means 70,000 Burners getting shit faced in a carnival-like atmosphere set to a thumping bass beat. Neon rules the nights. As do glow sticks. Which is pretty amazing considering there are no electrical lines running to Black Rock City. But the techo-geeks manage to light up the playa to a degree that puts Las Vegas to shame anyway.
“You know you don’t have to spend four days in the desert just to do Dave. He wants you and you’d probably be more comfortable in a suite at Caesar’s Palace.”
“Yeah, but you know how big a fan I am of killing two birds with one stone.”
“I know how big of a fan you are of outdoor sex.”
“Well, there’s that too.”
“Just remember that lube and sand don’t mix well.”
“Neither do facials and beards, so Dave should be in for a memorable time.”
“God, for his sake I hope they kick you guys out early.”
‘If you build it they will come’ seems to work for Burning Man, and the geek version of sand castles that get erected at the festival are a major draw providing both a whimsical and surreal ambiance to the landscape. Which works well with the copious amount of drugs consumed during the festival. The burning man himself, which grows larger and more extravagant every year, and the Temple – an architectural feat designed to allow contemplation, where people leave notes, photographs, and objects relating to their thoughts – are built by event organizers. And then burned to the ground by attendees (the burning man goes to flame on Burn Night (aka Saturday) and the temple becomes a pile of ashes the next night.
The art installations installed by attendees, however, are what makes the festival’s grounds unique. When you awake in the early afternoon with the mother of all hangovers, with mind-altering drugs still coursing through your system, and step outside for a pee to find a thirty foot tall three legged spider hovering over the horizon, you know you’re not in Kansas any more. And since there are no over-weight couples from Ohio in matching aloha wear, you know you’re not in Vegas either.
“Dave seems to think being a gay man means being with you, and your dick won’t rest until it finally gets what you’ve been fantasizing over for the last twenty years, so I think the two of you on a weekend away together is a good idea.”
“Really? You’re cool with this?”
“I don’t know that I’m cool with it as much as I’m willing to bow to the inevitable. Besides, once you both get what you think you want maybe you’ll start thinking with something other than your dicks.”
“Wow. I don’t know what I did to deserve you.”
“What I did to deserve you concerns me more.”
“Yeah, that karma thingy can be a bitch. I gotta call Dave and tell him.”
“I already did.”
“Did you really think Dave would head off for a weekend of sand and sex with you without asking me first?”
“I really need to stop hanging out with ethical people.”
Some first time Burners enjoy themselves immensely. Others become addicted, can’t get enough, and come back again and again. Some find it really isn’t their cup of tea. While others detest the entire experience. Some can take it or leave it. And others decide it took more effort than it was worth. Kinda like those trying gay sex for the first time. Either works well as a metaphor for the other. Considering the fisting workshop at Camp Beaverton and the always popular greco-roman nude oil wrestling matches at the Astropups’ camp, they well may be one and the same thing. Regardless, when 70,000 of your closest soon to be friends throw the event of the season to coincide with your coming out party, what could possibly go wrong?
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