Photo Of The Week #13
05 Thursday Feb 2015
Posted Photo Of The Week
in05 Thursday Feb 2015
Posted Photo Of The Week
in30 Friday Jan 2015
Posted It's A Gay World
inTags
Last week Dave decided we needed to buy a new bed.
Huh.
An unexpected expenditure, but not one that would exactly break my budget. Or have any impact on my budget for that matter. But I did note that that ‘we’ is the same ‘we’ responsible when shopping in Bangkok with Noom. And since it was technically my bed we were talking about replacing, I didn’t think answering a few questions was out of line.
“Why.”
“‘Cuz I think we should have our own bed.”
“We do. It used to be my bed. Now it’s our bed.”
“Yeah, but that’s not the same thing.”
“It’s that wet spot thing, isn’t it?”
“Whaddaya mean?”
“Someone told you it really isn’t a gay rule that the bottom always sleeps on the wet spot, didn’t they?”
“You’re such a bastard.”
Dave is still new to being gay. He figured out the basics pretty much on his own. Well, not entirely on his own. My dick played a supporting role. For the rest, he turns to me for instructions. Which provides me ample opportunity to devise an entire set of rules that all gay men live by. Rule #3, I think, just got tossed out the window. And no, ya don’t want to know what Rule #2 is.
“But that is partially the point.”
“What.”
“This is your bed. It’s got your entire sexual history on it.”
“What!? These are clean sheets!”
“That’s not what I mean.”
Whew. That was a close one. So maybe I’m not gonna have to buy a new dining room table too. I considered arguing that it wasn’t just my sexual history, that it was our sexual history too. ‘Cuz there certainly were numerous nights when I masturbated while fantasizing about doing him. Back before he decided he was gay. But some things are best left unsaid. I briefly contemplated the phrasing for a new gay rule that would result in keeping my bed too. But I’ve been doing the same for one about handcuffs. And ya really got to learn to pick your battles.
“So are we talking just a new mattress and box spring, or an entire bed. ‘Cuz there’s a reason I like my four poster bed, ya know.” (The trick to successfully establishing a new gay rule is to drop lots of hints leading up to it.)
“No, the frame is fine. But there’s a lot of new types of mattresses on the market these days.”
Uh, oh. Waterbeds were once a new kind of mattress too. Fortunately they went the way of the dinosaur. Not quite quickly enough, but extinct now nonetheless. The bed industry keeps trying to invent a better mouse trap. What ever they come up with never catches on for long. There probably needs to be a gay rule about that. Or one about Dave watching too many television commercials.
I’m not proud of it – but I love my bed, and it’s entire sexual history – so in a last ditch effort I played to one of Dave’s not-strengths: his coming out process.
“Ya know if we’re shopping for a bed together, the salesclerk is gonna know you are gay.”
Pronouns, you’ll note, are often an important distinction in winning any debate. And that one made him weigh his needs. Maybe he remembered about the preponderance of gay men working in retail. Or maybe it was just pay-back for that wet spot thingy. In either case, my ploy didn’t work.
“That’s fine.”
“So you’re cool with me dry humping you in the middle of the showroom when we test a few out?”
Hey, never say die. It was my bed we were talking about. Or, from the look Dave shot my way, what used to be my bed. No problemo. But I wasn’t kidding about that dry humping thingy. Our new bed was gonna have its sexual history established a lot sooner than he’d thought.
I’m not set in my ways. But I am set in my preferences when it comes to a bed. The mattress has to be soft. Not soft like your dick is before that little blue pill kicks in, soft like Ted Cruz’s dick got when he heard both Jeb Bush and Mitt Romney were making presidential runs. My bed – okay, our bed – is the closest thing to a vagina I get to these days. At least until I vote for Hillary in 2016. Or Marco Rubio. When you jump on it, it needs to engulf you. In a warm, womb-like embrace. So on top of the soft mattress there needs to be a down-feather mattress pad. And then a down-feather mattress. With another one on top of that. Think Princess and the Pea. But a non-vegetarian version of the tale. If Green Peace ever decides baby geese are in danger of becoming extinct, I’m gonna personally blow one of their fucking boats out of the water.
So obviously Dave should have know ‘our’ new bed was gonna look a lot like ‘my’ old bed. But we had to check out the new-fangled mattresses on the market first. He was fascinated by the Sleep Number ones that allow you to adjust each side to a different firmness. So I reminded him how badly I suck at math. And then asked the cute (and gay, big surprise) salesclerk just how firm he was talking about. Dave, wisely, cut that conversation short.
Memory foam sounds suspiciously sinister to me, but we had to look at those too. That one was close. Until I told him those wet spots served the same purpose and were all the memories he’d ever need. Besides, who wants a mattress with numerous, permanent large divots in it? They would sell more mattresses if they came up with one that erased all traces of everything you ever did on it. To wipe the slate clean, so to speak. For bedtime memories, we already have the iPhone camera.
There was one that electronically adjusted heights and angles too, separately for both sides. I think bed manufacturers are trying to take American back to Leave It To Beaver days when couples slept separately in twin beds. Dave didn’t seem serious about that one. But, just in case, I reminded him my preferred position on a bed is to stretch out diagonally across it.
“Yeah, we need to talk about that.”
Huh. I feel a new gay rule coming on.
As if there was ever any other possible outcome, we ended up buying a bed that looked and felt just like my old one. But without the sexual history. So it smelled a bit fresher. And would probably stand up to a black-light test better too. He dealt with arranging to have it delivered while I got on-line and ordered the necessary dead baby geese accessories so they’d show up at our doorstep before the new bed did. Before Green Peace got involved. And it was almost a done deal. Until Dave suddenly remembered he’s now a gay man.
“Look! They have linen spray!”
Oh fuck me sweet Jesus. Home fragrances are for people who need to up their house cleaning efforts. They are marketed as products to add a wonderful scent to your home, but are really used to disguise the disgusting smells people have made that they don’t want to be reminded of. Obviously, potpourri was invented by the French. Probably by French folk who owned cats. As for bed sheets, if you want them to smell like a bountiful garden of summer flowers, try washing them a bit more often. Preferably in laundry detergent that the manufacturer is not trying to convince you smells like a tropical rain forest. Tropical rain forests smell like mold, decay, and the dead bloody carcases of small furry animals. And I’ve already covered that base with the dead baby geese feather mattress pad, mattresses, and duvet. The only thing your sheets should smell like is Tide. And the occasional wet spot.
“Lavender!”
(Spritz, spritz.)
“Doesn’t that smell wonderful!?”
Yeah. Because when I’m elbow deep in ass, the smell of grandma is really what I want permeating the air of my bedroom. Our bedroom. Whatevers. I just don’t get the fake smell home fragrance market. If you really need your house to smell like roses, stop at a florist and buy some. But I thought maybe my nose was missing something. So I Googled it. Ya know what the top selling home fragrance in 2014 was? Monkey Farts. I kid you not. Monkey Farts. I don’t even want to think about how they capture that scent. Or what kind of person would want their home to smell of them. Or what their home smelled like that made them think Monkey Farts was a better way to go.
It’s like when strawberry, bubblegum, and cherry flavored lipsticks were popular among the girls I dated back in high school. (Yeah, I’m that kind of gay.) I never got that point either. But would still have to wait patiently while my current skank applied a fresh coat before we could get down to it. So I asked once.
“Baby, lipstick is about color. So why do you buy flavored brands?”
“‘Cuz then when we’re together I’ll taste like strawberries!”
“But Baby! My dick doesn’t have a sense of taste!”
Obviously. Or I wouldn’t be banging you. Ya know. ‘Cuz you don’t have a penis. (Yeah, I was that kind of straight too.)
The same holds true for flavored condoms. Unless your asshole has talents I don’t know about. What’s the point? Cleanliness is next to godliness. That’s all that matters. And I don’t need your douche smelling like a bowl of bing cherries either. The scent of a man is as close as I need to get to heaven. That natural muskiness beats anything the personal fragrance industry can ever come up with. If you must, a tiny hint of whatever over-priced cologne you just had to buy is fine. But that after-trail smell from some guys’ cologne – that unavoidable tidal wave of aroma that says his limited vocabulary doesn’t distinguish the difference between ‘lightly apply’ and ‘heavily douse’, that reeking, all pervasive stench that would make a coroner gag – does not make me want to do you. It makes me want to take you outside and hose you down. While I hold my breath. And I certainly don’t want my bed sheets smelling like that cheap, knock-off bottle of Chanel No. 5 that you bought instead either.
Why is it that the guys who complain the most about smokers in bars, claiming their filthy habit results in the complainer’s clothes smelling like cigarette smoke, are always the same guys who wear so much cologne that that nicotine never stood a chance in the first place? And why do they think that is such a righteous anti-smoking argument when anyone with an iota of personal hygiene sense would have that outfit laundered before he wore it again anyway? I suspect those are the same people responsible for Monkey Farts being the top selling home fragrance in 2014.
“Come on dude! How about vanilla? You like vanilla.”
Yup, I do. As an ice cream flavor. That doesn’t mean I want to sleep with it. In fact, vanilla is the last thing I want associated with my bed. Or our bed. Which Dave should know by now. Maybe I need to work on that gay rule about handcuffs a bit quicker. In any case, if he’d been paying attention to the aroma from my bed’s sexual history, he’d know the scent I prefer is rice. With an occasional burrito thrown in. For the ambiance.
“How about Tropical Breeze? It smells like the islands.”
“Dude, you’re Hawaiian. You’re what smells like the islands to me. And I don’t need to drop $14.95 for that pleasure. I just need to bury my nose in your arm pit. Come to think of it . . . ”
Fresh from being dry humped on a mattress in the middle of the showroom floor, Dave quickly caught a whiff of where I was headed and decided to quit while he was ahead. He’d have to be happy with just the new bed. And as for that wet spot thingy, all things considered – all things being my comfort – I think I’ll try to convince him those are a symbol of our love. Literally. And he should be happy to wallow in them. Because he loves me. Otherwise, he can change the sheets on ‘our’ new bed while I’m in the shower lathering away the scent of our relationship.
28 Wednesday Jan 2015
Posted Photo Of The Week
inI knew there was a good reason why I never took up golf. And since the sport was invented by the Scotts, that pretty well makes the question of what they wear under their kilts a moot point too. Not to mention why they didn’t vote to get out from under Britain’s thumb when they had the chance to last year too.
26 Monday Jan 2015
Posted It's A Gay World
in≈ Comments Off on Real Gay Men Don’t Flounce, They Swagger
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Spring will soon be here, winter is almost over, next week that stupid groundhog will or will not see its shadow when what it really should be shown is a stew pot, and with the change of seasons the thoughts of young men turn to penis. At least young gay men. Although I suspect that still holds true for young straight men too because the one thing we all share in common is a heavy preoccupation with all things dick. And you can scratch the ‘young’ too, seniors are just as enamored with the thought of dick. Come to think about it, while the commencement of spring is a handy excuse, it really doesn’t matter what the season is, or what the weather is like either. So you can ignore the seasonal reference too. ‘Cuz all guys think about dick 24/7, 365 days of the year.
Granted, for some – especially those who think they are straight – those thoughts are about their dick and not the dick of others that they would like to touch, taste, feel, or gaze upon. But even among those whose primary fascination is with what hangs between their own legs, their thoughts too often include concerns over what other guys are packing. How well you measure up, or fail to, is a concern not limited to those of us who know what to do with one regardless of its size. Straight guys like to try to convince themselves their interest is really all about pleasing the ladies, but those mental images stirred by their thoughts never seem to include a picture of vagina.
Just sayin’.
That size matters seems to be a given. As does that bigger is always better. But historically, the beauty of men was not always defined by length. At least not by prodigious length. The ancient Greeks considered smaller members the ideal of manhood. Wee willys were culturally seen as desirable in a man, whereas humongous hunks of manmeat were viewed as comical or grotesque. And usually found on half-animal critters such as satyrs, barbarians, fertility gods, and the French. Take Priapus for example. A Greek god, he was often depicted as a dwarfish man with a huge penis, statues of which were traditionally set up in vegetable plots to promote fertility with the added benefit of functioning as a scarecrow to frighten birds away. Those statues probably kept the area free from men with small penises too.
Though admittedly that may have had more to do with Priapus being Greek and providing the low point on the bell curve. The ancient Romans too were as fond of Priapus as they were of their own penises, but instead of being a subject of ridicule he was much admired. A popular depiction of the god with the god-like cock shows him weighing his large erect penis against a bag of gold. Which may provide a historical basis for why so many punters in Thailand think buying their boy du jour gold is the right thing to do.
When it came to the question of whether bigger really was better, the ancient world ignored the Greeks and their short comings and replied with a resounding, “Yes!” One of the tales included in Arabian Nights is called Ali with the Large Member, a story about two young cattle herders, one of whom helps his buddy out by talking about the dude’s prodigious member where his friend’s employer’s wife can conveniently overhear the conversation. That tall tale is enough to convince her to take him as her lover. The remainder of the story doesn’t include the happy ending you’d assume it would, but that doesn’t matter. ‘Cuz size does. And it doesn’t get much better than going down in history known as Ali with the Large Member.
Even in the bible – which, even with all that begetting going on seldom makes mention of dick – some saintly man managed to include a reference to Egyptians “whose members were like those of donkeys.” In fact, with the exception of the Greeks and a few pygmy tribes out of Africa, it’s difficult to not find reference to manly-sized members in any ethnicity’s tales and legends. I’m pretty sure even our forefathers had large dick in mind when they included that phrase about the pursuit of happiness in the Constitution. It’s not just coincidence that John Hancock’s signature is so large, ya know.
And that makes sense. Straight guys, in reality, are just as obsessed with big dicks as are gay guys. But the gays get labeled with the size queen moniker. Why? Because gay guys put their money where their mouth is, or at least where they’d like their mouth to be. According to The Relation Between Sexual Orientation and Penile Size – a study by Dr. Anthony Bogaert of Brock University in Ontario, Canada and Dr. Scott Hershberger of California State University-Long Beach – homosexual stiffies are one-third of an inch longer than straight penis is. And our chubs are chubbier too.
The duo’s phallus findings are based on archived data from 5,122 measurements of men’s best buddies obtained by the Kinsey Report from 1938-1963. Penile dimensions were assessed using five measurements of length and circumference from Kinsey’s original protocol. In all five measurements, gay dudes beat out their straight brethren hands down. And up. And down. And . . . well you get the picture.
The good doctors’ study followed up the results of an earlier study by doctors Nedoma and Freund conducted in 1961 which used a live sampling of penis, but in a smaller quantity. Regardless, quality always rises to the top and both studies determined when it comes to top quality cock the gay ones stand proud. Specifically, Doctors Bogaert and Hershberger’s work found that the average size of an erect penis measured in at just under six inches among straight men and just over 6 1/3” among the gays. So it’s not just that gay men like big dicks, but that we happen to own them too.
Which might help explain the findings of a study undertaken at Utrecht University that discovered that the majority of gay men regard a large penis as ideal, and having one is proportionally linked to self-esteem. The problem with that bit of research is that it focused on just gay men and what they thought of their dicks. Had they included our straight brethren in their study I suspect they would have instead concluded that all men, straight or gay, prefer a large dick and are much more self-confident for having one. Face it, you never hear a guy – regardless of his sexual orientation – complain that his dick is too big. Although if Doctors Bogaert and Hershberger’s work gets more press you may hear straight men complain that their dick just isn’t gay enough.
22 Thursday Jan 2015
Posted Photo Of The Week
inRemember those hidden picture posters from the ’80s that if you stared at long enough were supposed to miraculously turn into a picture of frolicking dolphins or unicorns something? Those never worked for me. Maybe it was just that I didn’t want to see a picture of unicorns. Or that I thought recreational drugs were supposed to do that trick for you. I do know that some of Picasso’s work began making sense to me thanks to those drugs. I’m just kinda glad he chose women as his subjects rather than naked men. On the other hand, if the hidden subject in those mystery posters had been frolicking penises, I’d probably have done much better sussing them out.
Having said that, I hope there isn’t a penis in this photo. There is a lot of male flesh. I’m just not sure which appendages are represented. And every time I think I’ve got it, the numbers don’t add up. I’m not sure if the ink helps matters or adds to the confusion. Regardless, I keep coming back to this shot trying to make some sense of it. Maybe I shoulda stuck with the Picassos. Whatdaya think?
19 Monday Jan 2015
Posted It's A Gay World
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Today is Martin Luther King Day in the U.S., one of those odd federal holidays that few outside of government workers get off. It’s not a popular holiday. Although I assume this year with the right-wing nut clown car brigade having taken over Congress they’ll be holding a major celebration in D.C. Like maybe a large bonfire. Or some other similar event to prove you can in fact where white after Labor Day.
I don’t think they were very sincere about establishing a day to honor Dr. King in the first place. January is not the best choice for a three-day weekend. MLK Day would be much more widely celebrated if it was in August. We need a long holiday weekend in August. And then I Can’t Breathe would refer to all the beer and barbeque you just ingested instead of as a rallying cry against the racial injustice that still permeates our land.
Dr. King’s I Have Dream speech is right up there with Four Score And Seven Years Ago in the hierarchy of great political speeches, possibly even greater since it didn’t include any math. And it beats A Day That Will Live In Infamy because FOX News co-opted that one to celebrate President Obama’s first inauguration. As for Teddy Roosevelt’s advice to Walk Softly And Carry A Big Stick, rumor has it Dr. King had that one covered too. Which is always something to celebrate. So enjoy your day.
13 Tuesday Jan 2015
Posted Photo Of The Week
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12 Monday Jan 2015
Posted It's A Gay World
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My best off ever in Thailand (don’t tell Noom) was my first night with Nut, the little Burmese muscle dude who used to work at Tawan. He was new to the bar then, had only worked a few nights, and I was one of his first customers. Eventually he became one of the stars of the bar and built his body into a solid ball of pure muscle. But on our first night together he was more of a youthful Adonis. Athletically built, but not overly so. He was gorgeous. And while it was years before he admitted to being Burmese, his smile exemplified that which Thailand is famous for from the get go.
If I think about that night hard enough (no pun intended) I can remember the sex. His body takes no effort in recalling. Even if my memory primarily remembers it dressed in a pair of tighty whiteys that fit like a second skin. But what I really remember about that night was his innocence, his sense of humor, and his personality. We spent most of the night cracking each other up. And spent far more time talking than we did having sex. Naked, but talking nonetheless. Which was pretty amazing in its own right since he spoke but a handful of English words. Not to mention that usually when I’m in the presence of a hot naked man, I revert to using sign language.
Years later when his vocabulary had improved he told me he had a brother back home who was gay. That would be gay in the Thai bar boy sense of the word. Which is effeminate. Borderline ladyboy. And a bottom. By then I’d accidentally offed his younger brother a few times from Tawan, tried out his older brother once just for the bragging rights, and met the remaining sibling in Bangkok who didn’t quite measure up to Tawan’s reputation and worked at a local bank instead. The point being that Nut was straight. And the perfect example of the sexual fluidity of bar boys. Even on our first night together when he was still new to having sex with a man, there was no hesitation, no displeasure, no concern. He was curious, ready, willing, and up for anything. (Pun intended.)
Well, almost anything. We didn’t do anal that night. He didn’t say no, didn’t refuse, didn’t even flinch when I turned him over. But his body tensed up and I could tell it was something he really wasn’t in favor of. No problemo. His ass was a thing of beauty and just playing with it for awhile was enough. And I’m not into rape anyway. Not that I didn’t turn him over again on each of our subsequent times together. Just in case. And one night he surprised me by giggling, “I never!” and then promptly sat himself on my hard cock for a ride.
But on our first night together, instead he mounted me in an entirely different way. After using that single word as a question, he turned me over and then began walking on my back as a massage. Had he told me his plan in advance I probably would have turned him down. The idea of a full grown man using your back as a treadmill is not exactly the definition of pleasure. Unless you are a masochist. But it was pure heaven. He may have not known much about sucking dick – in fact he stopped me a few times while I was doing him to try something I’d just done, giving it a go and then raising an eyebrow at me for confirmation he’d gotten it right – but had mastered the art of giving non-sexual bodily pleasure. And by the time we pulled the covers over out naked bodies to sleep, he’d improved greatly in his sexual bodily pleasure giving skills too. Years later he’d stop what he was doing, smile, nod upwards at me and say, “You.” Just in case I didn’t remember who’d taught him that move. There are some souvenirs that can last you a lifetime.
The only jarring note of the evening was soon after he’d asked for my help in replacing his English word of water with the more specific one of shower – and then pulled me into the bathroom by the hand to watch him take his – he shot a questioning look my way while mimicking shaving himself. Not his face. Which didn’t need it. He was instead interested in manscaping himself. Entirely. And couldn’t quite understand the look of horror that idea elicited in me. Most Asian guys don’t need much in the way of manscaping in the first place. A bit of trimming is usually all that is necessary. If at all. It’s one of the things that I like about Asian guys. All that smooth, golden-brown skin set off by a small patch of jet black hair. That gets me every time. Shaved bald, not so much.
I remember spending the night for a sleep-over with a friend during the summer before we were to begin junior high school. Even though I was still a few months away from discovering all the wonderful things a dick can do, they still fascinated me. As they do most boys at that age. Which meant sleep-over was a euphemism for playing doctor which was a euphemism for checking out each other’s cocks. We’d played doctor before. But this time – horrors of horror – he’d begun spouting pubic hair. I’d already reached that stage, which didn’t matter to me one way or the other. But seeing it on him was traumatic. And I realized that all the boys I had the hots for would soon be sporting hair down there too. Gross. Life, as I knew it, was over. I couldn’t fathom the idea of facing a future having to be around some dude with pubic hair.
But it gets better.
Unlike some (ahem), along with my friends’ bodies I too matured. As did my tastes. And by the time I did discover all the wonderful things a dick could do, pubes just seemed an acceptable part of the package. It was a few (blissful) years later in high school – in my swim team’s locker room to be exact – that I ran across my first case of total manscaping. Which coincided with my first case of running across uncut dick too. Both on the same guy. I’m not sure which bothered me more at the time. But since then I’ve come to love one, while the other still just seems like something is missing. ‘Cuz it is. Men are supposed to have pubic hair. And I’m just glad that on our first night together Nut asked before shaving his. Or my memories of that night would be far different.
I think women are to blame for the whole manscaping thing. Brazilian wax jobs have been around for decades now and seem to be yet another part of their regular beauty routine. I don’t know why. From what I’ve heard they are painful. And if I had a vagina, I’d want to hide that disgusting thing as much as possible. I don’t get why straight guys seem to like bald pussy either. But then there are a lot of unfathomable things about how straight guys think. Maybe it’s that they really don’t care. Maybe it’s just that in their pursuit of pussy, when they finally land one they’re just too excited to even notice. But how that idea transferred over into mens’ crotches is beyond me. Regardless, it’s a trend that needs to stop.
Don’t get me wrong. I’m in favor of some trimming. And even shaving nether regions when warranted. When I run across a photo of a porn star from the ’70s who used to get me instantaneously hard, these days the first thought that usually crosses my mind is, “Huh. He really could use a bit of a hair cut.” Smooth, naked inner thighs are a thing of beauty on a man. Thinning the herd can be a plus. Hairless balls thanks to the gentle, loving application of a razor – if not in jarring contrast with what’s above – are a good thing. Bald below the belt, not so much. And while a few days worth of stubble on a man’s face can be sexy, the same down below just looks off. Like he needs to take a rain check and come back when his bush has grown back out. Please.
The good thing about the advent of nude selfies is that there are tons of photos of naked men all over the internet. But straight or gay, recently more with a cropped bush keep cropping up. To a point where it seems everyone under the age of forty shaves himself bald these days. And if it isn’t shaved, it was not long ago. I can almost understand that trend among the gay community. Gay guys, for some odd reason, tend to focus on dick. Even when it is their own. But straight guys are not supposed to be that preoccupied with penis. And unless the Hundredth Monkey Effect extends to mankind, someone is to blame for passing on the word to straight guys that they should take a razor to their private parts. Because, generally, the rule is that we keep sharp objects away from that area.
And don’t get me started on the horrors of razor burn. I’m just glad guys haven’t followed the trend among women to landscape their pubes into landing strips, triangles, or little hearts. If that’s a fashion statement I have just not yet seen, please keep that bit of knowledge to yourself.
Both of my parents come from a farming background. Or were children of the ’30s, which is the same thing. I thank the gods daily that they moved to California before having my bothers and I, or I’d be trolling for tricks on Farmers Only.com these days. Nonetheless, they couldn’t completely escape their upbringing. Which wouldn’t have been a problem except that meant attempting to impart some of those values in us. My grandmother – because unfortunately PETA wasn’t around back then – bought each of us a little baby chicken for Easter one year. And less than a year later my father decided it was time to teach us what pet chickens are meant for: the dinner table.
Back in those days beating your unruly child with a belt was referred to as effective parenting skills. So making your five-year-old chop off his pet chicken’s head with an axe wasn’t the child-abuse it should have been considered to be. They do, by the way, run around the yard for a few minutes after you’ve beheaded them. Just in case you didn’t experience the same joys of childhood that I did. Step #2 of that wonderful day was immersing our former pets’ bloody carcasses in a pot of boiling water, and then plucking off their feathers. Which, as a five-year-old you do with tears in your eyes while saying bye-bye to what earlier that day had been your beloved pet.
I don’t think that day turned out quite as my father had expected. That’s the danger of raising your kids in California instead of some fly-over state. And probably explained our not-so-happy reaction to the night he brought home our first puppy. It did teach him a lesson though. And when it came time to provide us with The Sex Talk, instead he allowed us to learn what we needed to know on the streets. As the gods intended. That street for me, obviously, was a bit bent. Nonetheless, the sight of those former pet chickens’ freshly plucked bodies on their way to the oven still plays in my mind. Even if The Silence Of The Chickens wouldn’t have made for quite as catchy of a movie title, I could still empathize. And having that bit of childhood trauma refreshed anew whenever I slip some hottie’s pants down to find someone’s been playing around where he shouldn’t . . . sorry, but there’s just nothing sexy about a man who has been fleshly plucked.
Google tells me 95% of college-aged men manscape to some degree. 73% of all American men do. Which means 22% of American men are too fat to be able to see their pubic area, or they’d be reaching for the scissors too. Google also returns 4,000,000+ search results on manscaping. Nowhere in those numerous bits of advice does it say don’t. And few fail to address going totally bare after providing the more useful advice about the occasional trim job. Gillette even has a YouTube video providing instructions on how to shave ‘down there’. The internet can be a dangerous and evil thing.
Most who do, claim they manscape because it makes their dick look bigger. It doesn’t. That only works if you have a micro-penis. And even then bigger is still small. What it does do is make you look like you have some strange tropical disease.Or that you haven’t yet mastered puberty. Or that you recently discovered you had crabs. And even if the claim that manscaping makes your dick look bigger is true, no one else cares how big your dick looks. What we care about is how big your dick really is. And that’s more about the sense of touch – or taste – than it is about the sense of sight.
Despite the majority of bedable-aged men manscaping, a survey by Manhunt of its 27,000 members showed most guys prefer the hair on their partner’s body to be left the way it is. In fact, when asked which areas of their partners’ bodies they preferred being shaved, less that 20% voted in favor of a bald crotch. The highest thumbs up for shaving went to the penis shaft. ‘Cuz no one is really in favor of pubic hair stuck between their teeth. Balls came in next. As they often do. And the taint and hole came in tied for the third most popular area to be shaved bare, because they are usually connected in most men’s minds anyway. If Dan Savage wanted to make himself useful for a change, he’d start off every address he gave to a college crowd with the reminder that men prefer men who don’t shave their better parts bare.
Having spent the majority of his life repressing his love of dick, my boyfriend (finally) Dave also spent most of his life trying to ignore his dick. Or anything to do with dick. And Dave’s a hairy guy. Not hirsute. Just hairy where he should be. ‘Cuz while I could fall in love with a baby chicken as a five-year-old, as an adult falling in love with a man with a pelt on his back would just be ridiculous. In any case, the idea of taming some of his bush just never entered his mind. Until my dick did.
Fortunately when it comes to dick, these days he’s making up for lost time. So he didn’t balk when I pulled out a pair of scissors and a razor and told him to drop his pants. And as tempting as it was to prune his pubes into the shape of my initials, I just went with cleaning things up to a manageable level where necessary, and removing it where it wasn’t. Besides, I thought just in case I ever grow to hate his guts getting him used to me holding his balls in one hand while I hold a razor in the other might be a good idea. He liked the results of my singular attempt at the hairdresser arts. I think. It’s hard to tell. Thanks to those years of repressing his love of dick, he pretty much likes anything I do to his these days. But he did like that he no longer had to suffer through having hair inadvertently pulled out by its roots during the heights of passion. ‘Cuz it taint always about how you manscape but rather where you manscape.
Along with a lot of hair, Dave has a lot of confidence. Which I generally find attractive (the latter, not necessarily the former). But he’s still feeling his way around those things he still thinks of as gay. So while his intent was to go it on his own, he flinched. And came waddling out of the bathroom one day with his pants around his ankles and a razor in his hand. He’d been planning to surprise me. And going with a complete manscape job. Yikes! Granted, that brought back those pleasant memories of my best off ever in Thailand. Along with an accompanying erection. But before he could confuse the two, I let him know shaving his groin nude would be the best way of cutting out relationship short. ‘Cuz while boys will be boys, real men have pubic hair.