Unexpected Limitations to One's Obligations

In the First Years

It happened late one night. Some years ago.

I remember coming home after catching up with some friends at a gay bar on Oxford Street. I was tired and didn't know whether or not to risk a coffee. And was debating the point and half watching the news on TV. You know, the easy way to appear informed.

Quite suddenly and noisily, it seemed as though the flat was being broken into. I was on the ground floor and the intruder had climbed onto the balcony. But he just moved conspiciously round. And the thought actually occurred to me that I was about to be attacked by a wild unthinking beast - but it was the thought that was wild, rather than the creature.

This delusion was followed after a few minutes by some rather polite knocking on the balcony door!

Of course - it was David Z's modus operandi. Appearing unannounced often after a silence of years, and needing all sorts of help. Even after a big season with 'Paris Planning', his modeling agency in Paris.

Two Photos from David's Advertising Flyer for 'Paris Planning' Model Agency, Paris

So David moved in.

Using the Car on a Late Visit

But after some weeks, again determined that Sydney could not meet his needs. The usual arrangements were made to finance him out of debt and back overseas. And the mixed farewell at the door was preceded by the ubiquitous turning out of the suitcase to retrieve all those things that had quite unaccountably fallen in. Accompanied by the embarrassed giggles and implausible explanations.

A photo shoot with Scott Hicks, Director of the film 'Shine' (Best Actor Oscar won by Jeffrey Rush)

An aspect of this situation made me think of one of the main themes in the Edward Albee play ‘A Delicate Balance’. It is the limits of our obligations to others, and in particular, to closest friends. David had been a kind of boyfriend, well, as much as a straight guy can be, one who has lived with another guy for five years and called him his partner.

With William - Very Early Days

Being Silly in a Photo Booth

The main action of the play involves an older wealthy cosmopolitan couple, who are unexpectedly visited one night at home by their two closest friends, a similarly positioned husband and wife. The guests tell of being at home, and of the crisis they experienced of a rising, unspecified and acute anxiety. Their two best friends were obviously the only people to turn to, they say.

Then and in a quite matter-of-fact manner, the refugees begin to make the necessary arrangements for moving in - for the foreseeable future. They assume their friends share the same view of things, and that they are welcome. Mi casa tu casa.

But as the evening progresses, our initial protagonists realize they are not happy with this state of affairs, and they begin to question its thesis. Albee has set up the plot in rather extreme terms to explore the point. The couples, in various combinations of twos and threes and fours, investigate the issue, and come to the realization that there are unexpected limits to their obligations to their nearest and dearest.

Which brings me back to my prowler.

Photo from David's Advertising Flyer for 'Paris Planning' Model Agency, Paris

I remembered the play some contactless years later when David’s next phone call woke me early one morning. And having since moved, but retained my old phone number, I saw the potential of this new scenario. Not only of retracting from my duty but of making a complete break. I had a new partner.

In a strong supposed Russian accent, I declared I was the new owner of my old address and that I had no knowledge of myself or my whereabouts. There were some moments of confusion – probably due to the unconvincing nature of my impersonation. I finally rang off, red faced. And made all clear for my puzzled boyfriend.

I still feel uncomfortable about the manner but not the outcome of the break.

And a little disconcerted by such an epiphany. But Jean Paul Sartre exhorts us to make choices that did not involve 'mauvais foi' (bad faith) - choices that involve us acting simply as unthinking socialised beings. Actions should spring from us reflecting on a real sense of ourselves.

Another Two 'Three Graces'

Remember 'The Three Graces' in my 6 December 2006 post 'Is there Life after Leandro? (NO!)'?

Well, to refresh your memory, another take - this time by Sandro Botticelli as part of his larger painting 'La Primavera' (1482):


And another 'alternative' take:


Three somewhat different but equally aesthetic types of beauty.

Which are also absolute classics!

The Perfect Angle on the Bush !

The quest for the perfect bush shot is over! It was achieved in the 1960's by Richard Bennett in 'Les Demi-Dieux' ('The Demi-Gods'):


The angle's down the body so there's none of those really distracting body bits fighting for the viewer's attention. Better still, as here, when the torso's faceless and the bush has considerable volume.

I like the way the photographer has figure in a reverse of the usual orientation to the lens - head to the bottom, crotch at the top. And has the nearly overhead light catch the high points of the forms of the reclined body - the fronts of the thighs, the washboard of the stomach, the pecs and the left shoulder and arm.

And, from the set up of the figure and the reverse of the usual orientation to the lens, the way the eye is lead 'up' (i.e. down) the torso to the fully lit bush. Or if the eye is moving along the upper left arm and round and 'down' (i.e. up) the forearm, or if it is traveling up the right thigh towards the viewer ... every way leads to the off-centre crotch.

All of this is more powerful in that the body is not too manicured and gym manufactured.

A great photo!

Sacred and Profane Love

There are guys you wanna put on a pedestal. Look at and worship. And maybe touch a bit. Kissing would be ok too. But not much else. I'll call them 'Sacreds'.

And there are other blokes whose jocks you just wanna rip right off. And ya wanna fuck. And fuck. And fuck. Guys I'll name 'Profanes'.

An example of the first category would be Roman Prada:



And of the second, Ricardito:


Let's check the efficacy of this categorisation. Remember, you are determining which category a bloke is in by deciding whether your reaction to him is primarily between your ears, or between your legs. Let's try Roman first and then with Ricardito.

Ok, look at Roman's 'wood':




Well, I'm cool calm and collected below (sorta), and cerebrally up - how bout you? Both 'metres' are giving their appropriate readings.

Ok, the next check should be 'up-close-and-personal wood':



How are you doing? No comment from me!!!! Maybe a faulty diode. Or a blown fuse.

Ok, the ultimate test has gotta be 'the backwoods':



Oh dear, I really failed cerebrally! Very badly indeed - not registering anything at all on the metre. And my tree wants to be planted in the backwoods! NOOOOW.

Ok, to Ricardito's 'wood':

My non-cerebral metre has gone off the scale already. A complete success! And not a thought in my head. No need to check any further - just enjoy the rest of the photos:







So my categorisation pretty much works, metre-wise. But how can I explain the small glitch with Roman? Maybe he's half 'Sacred' half 'Profane'? Mmm. Not a very convincing explanation.

Hey! Just thought of failproof category check! From a photo, can you say exactly how the guy smells? How bout Ricardito? Mmm - acrid, musky, sweaty ... a positive delicatessen of aromas. A true 'Profane'. And Roman? Nothing at all. A complete 'Sacred' - no equivocation. Quod erat demonstrandum.

Queuing in a Sex-On-Premises Venue

It happened one Sunday afternoon, a year or so back. I was feeling horny and had thought about all the options. And decided on 'Headquarters', cos it was a naked sex party day - 2pm to 7pm.

I'd walked down Oxford Street to Crown, turned left and then, after a couple of hundred metres, cruised quickly into the club. Pushed through the heavy plastic curtains that separated the foyer from the check-in counter. And waited in line to pay the entrance fee.

I drew the stale mouldiness into my nostrils, a smell I'd originally disliked but which had been transmutted into something more erotic over many visits. Then I was at the head of the queue. And as usual, they refused my Am Ex card and I offered a Mastercard. And I made my speech about the former shoring up more Qantas Frequent Flyer points. The same nervous laughter on my part, the same more confident smile on that of the guy on the desk.

Down past the lounge to the change area to pull off my clothes with that bit too much haste. My heart beating faster with anticipation. But after a few moments, I relax again. And begin to plan where to be first. The largest dark room, in the basement? Always good for its big free-for-all orgy, but maybe later on. The cell block area towards the back on the entrance level? More light, but this can inhibit what people are willing to do. Or the cruising area upstairs? With its corridor of small rooms, leading to the sling area. And eventually a small group fuck room at the back, often busy when a naked party day begins.

This particular Sunday, I settled on the cell block.

It's packed. So almost in line, I wait to go in. It's a big space, with a cruising area and two cell rooms with bars and grill doors, one with a wooden exercise horse.

As I was saying, it was crowded. And hot. And we were all sweaty. That musky smell thick in the air. I was pressed up against a young bloke in the queue. Early 30's. Dark hair, white skin. A little shorter than me. Thick set but not heavy. Furry solid buns and legs. Just what I fantasize about. A lot.

I started to get a hard-on. Not the sort of thing that's a problem there. And cos I was so close, it was easy to let my cock casually rub up against his arse. He showed no reaction, either way. So I kept poking gently round his arse with my dick.

After a couple of minutes, I tentatively slide a finger between his warm moist buns. And, after another pause, began to work it over and round his hole. Again, no resistance or objection. A dolop of lube from the dispenser conveniently on the wall beside us. And I coated the rim of his hole. The tip of my finger moved to the puckered centre. I began to push. And then a bit harder. His hole pouted slightly so I slid in. Easily. Had he been fucked already? The idea excited me. It was hot and wet inside. He contracted his sphinkter muscle round my finger. And then again. The only signs - for more.

I moved closer. Hard up against him. And slowly got my arms under his and around his chest. Felt his warm full biceps grip mine. I took his furry pecs in my hands and then played with his nipples.

Pressed my crotch even more up against his buns. I moved my hips side-to-side, working my cock into his crack. And up to find his hole. I seemed to sense it with the head of my dick, and started to push, harder. And more. Felt his buns relax, and go softer. And his hole open. I gradually slid in, holding back as much as I could to savour the sensation. And started to fuck him. His head dropped back, slightly, his eyes narrowed shut. A slight smile? Nothing else. I felt his hairy muscular legs bracing against mine. He opened his eyes again and casually began to chat with his friend. And I kept gently and rhythmically fucking. No-one seemed to register anything.

I moved one hand down his body. Flat stomach and thick trail to a dense bush. Hard hot cock: shortish, thick, small head. He politely moved my hand away. Didn't wanna commit to cumming, yet - he'd just arrived. And was still only in the queue, after all.

One arm holding him tight into my crotch, the other free so I could finger the dribbling pre-cum across the head of his cock, I gave a few more small thrusts. My balls tightened. And I was at the point where I would blow my load. A moment of indecision. And then I slowly pulled out.

The chat with his friend became slightly more animated.

And my attention moved on, to a guy up against the wall, legs spread and apart, head turned around searching to make a contact. And have his arse filled. ... .

Funny the things you do to while away the time in a queue. When there's nothing else to do!

Shay Seaver - Cute, Hot and Intelligent !?

I'm not quite sure (actually, I have no idea!) who Shay Seaver is - but does it really matter?


The material point (in this context - elsewhere I would be written off as totally trivial for this!) is his hot hot trail and pits, and unblemished creamy skin, PLUS general overall cuteness.

I could go on ... and on ... and on. Oh well, if you insist, I will!!!

Love his trail where the hair goes from each side to the centre, darkening it, and then points upwards. The trail perfectly matches up with the full dense hairy pits. A totally erotic combination. No distracting gorilla chest hair - clippered down to just the right amount to keep the fur theme going.

Arms stretching up, slightly flattening his nipples. And big bulging raised biceps that prep you back to those hots musky pits.

The tee-shirt tucked into his jeans is a sexy touch! Teasingly pulling them down a tad on the right to show a band of his striped jocks - promises promises. Only promises, cos I can't find any other pics - even with a name.

BTW, the serious look in his eyes hints at an organ between his ears! Or he should go into acting.

The Moussaieff Red Diamond and Bira (The Rare Blond Fox)

The triangular Moussaieff Red Diamond (5.11 carats) was found in the mid 1990's by a Brazilian farmer. It was purchased and then cut by the William Goldberg Diamond Corporation. The diamond, in its present form, is the largest fancy cut red diamond in the world:


Bira is equally rare. He is the fabulously cute blond who is ALSO a totally hot fox:


As everyone knows, there are the four C's of diamonds: carats, colour, clarity and cut.

In terms of colour, I think Bira would be graded as a 'golden tan':



For carats, he must come in at around 70kgs - that is at least 10 red carats:




For cut, yes he is and a very nice job it was too:



Digressing for a moment, as we all know, a fabulous front view can often be accompanied by a reciprocally dissappointing rear: a droppy dropping butt, a telltale crease between the buns and the upper thighs - the litany of possible imperfections is endless.

But with Bira, back perfectly matches front - all wondefully full and perky, with not the slightest sign of sag or crease:


I like how the flounces of the awning mirror the colour and curves of Bira's arse!

He even does 'wet look' well - though maybe there is the slightest thinning issue (?):


I reckon this could be the one blemish that highlights Bira's perfection!

And this leads to the final 'C', clarity. Bira is 'almost flawless' (thanks Rodney!).