Intramuros, Fort Santiago and Erotic Progeny

The Spanish colonized The Philippines in the sixteenth century, leaving in 1895 to be replaced by the Americans, who in their turn departed in 1945.

Intramuros is the old central Spanish colonial quarter of Manila. It’s located at the intersection of Manila Bay and the Pasig River, and, as its name suggests, it is a walled city within the city. And Fort Santiago was the barracks within this quarter for the Spanish military garrison. The area was heavily bombed and mostly destroyed during World War Two by the Americans, though, for obvious reasons, the official version till recently had it as the Japanese. Intramuros is subject to on-going restored.

The entrance, suitably labeled:

The old Spanish residential quarter, still bustling with activity:

C16 stone stairs leading to the fortified walls:

The lichen-covered fortified walls:

Colonial buildings above the moat:

View out over the moat:

Fig calmly strangling the walls:

Mother cat and her brood, meditating round midday:

Calesa (carriage) in a torrential downpour:

Ornate doorway, with the Spanish royal coat of arms:

A quiet nook:

Greenery invading the walls:

The ruined army barracks:

Another cat, the Attendant of Ruined Walls:

A munitions building:

View out across the Pasig River:

Nice knobbly bamboo:

Bougainvillea:

A reward for hard tourist work:

Now, these guys are the progeny of some very bad and corrupt colonial administrators:

And these, the descendants of some sympathetic and reform-minded Spanish soldiers:

Can you distinguish between these two groups of after-bears?

Of course not - a triumph for the Behaviourist agenda!

Billy Brandt - Sex God and 'Enfant Terrible'

Now there are a zillion squillion of pics of Billy Brandt out there (all in your puter!) but I’m going to test your patience with a few more, the only justification being they are great as photos, and pretty erotic. Well, for me. And of course, Billy is a seminal and archetypal member the ‘Cute Hairy Blond Guys Club’ – if any other excuse is needed.

As you probably know, Billy is/was (?) the ‘enfant terrible’ of the porn industry. Unreliable and with lots of attitude. Didn’t feel he needed to be otherwise I guess – too beautiful and famous. But Father Time may have had his way with Billy’s good looks, as I haven’t heard anything about him for a while now.

This set has Billy at his apotheosis - displaying that amazing Boucher-like Baroque colouring of creaminess with pink highlights.

This first one presents Billy passively allowing himself to be observed, and adored. As gods do. And old-style American movie stars. To keep the focus on the deity (and to contrastingly spike up his blond colouring), there is a simple charcoal gray tarpaulin as background.

Now with a few ‘arty’ props thrown in, one being his fat juicy hardening dick:

Again, a bit of mild and disguised bondage in the jocks ‘restraint’:

From which, Houdini-like, Billy deftly escapes:

Ever seen ‘The Actor’s Studio’ on TV? Thespians are interviewed mostly about their ‘craft’. And you often get great insights into how they prepare for a role, or create various effects in performance, and so on. The program always ends with a set of questions devised by Bernard Pibeau, mythical theatre person - the answers to these are supposed to be cunningly revealing. Like ‘What profession other than acting would you like to attempt?’ followed by ‘What profession other than acting wouldn’t you like to attempt?’. And ‘What’s your favourite curse word?”. You get the idea. The final question is ‘If heaven exists, what do you think God will say to you at the Pearly Gates?’ – for me it will be ‘Billy Brandt’s waiting face down for you over there’:

Problem would be deciding whether to use my dick or my face first.

Rough Sexy

I started to think about a post for today and decided it might be a good idea to use photographs from a friend’s collection – one that he’d DVD-ed for me.

Now it’s revealing to look through someone else’s porn. You probably learn more about them than administering 20 hours of torture and sleep deprivation. So self-revelatory too!

Initially it occurred to me that my buddy had few decent pics. But then I realized that he just had very different taste. Which ran mainly to rough street-wise looking guys. In unposed shots. Often grainy and faded. No studio big budget studios, with controlled lighting and whatever.

The guys were often hot but not what I tend to collect. It then occurred to me that his ideas of what was a turn-on had been formed in the days of porn mags and the images he found there.

The bods didn’t need to be anything out of the ordinary as long as the dong was right. Definitely not many models here, with bodies worked out to within an inch of their lives.

Now there was another interesting angle on all this. There seems to be a delicate balance between being just rough and unappealing (all relative to me of course) and being rough sexy (and cock-hardening to me).

To prove the point, here are two examples of the former, which are the bulk of my friend's collection:

And a whole bunch of ‘Jarrad’ for the 'rough sexy' category:

So I am hopelessly model-bound and the worse for it, I can hear you mutter.

Except for the occasional Jarrad!

Tension between the Sacred and Profane in Porn

Just crazy bout the tension between this guy’s angelic face and his erotic crotch.

It’s the chiseled jaw and full sculpted lips, and big broad shoulders. And the butt hole sexed up with thick black hair.

The creamy-coloured flesh of his cock and its delicately pink head. That you know you could easily get up or into any orifice.

The sensitive eyes. And the fleshy mouthful of his balls.

The contrasts go on and on. And I get harder with every one.

Ultimately, he’s the kinda guy you want for a fuck buddy AND for domestic use. A very rare combination. The porn equivalent of the Tasmanian Tiger:

The last one died in a zoo in Hobart in 1936. Tiger, that is!

Though, inevitably, there have been lots of sightings ever since.

‘The Spirit of Delight’

Virginia Woolf speaks of visits by the ‘spirit of delight’, and my friend Carol Gibson of the same experience. As does my partner in ‘magic moments’. And I am reminded of it by Proust’s ‘madelaine’, the taste of which sets off ‘A la recherché du temps perdus’ (‘Remembrance of Things Past’). And I am occasionally and unexpectedly found by this seductive phantom. And wait and long for more.

Yesterday - remarkably - there were several calls.

The first was brought on by the perfume base of the cold cream worn by a tall slim elegant late thirty-something woman in a Cuban restaurant, ‘Café Havana’ in Malate, one of the districts in the former night life (i.e. sex industry) area of the city. Which is now re-constructing itself as a trendy hip Paddington (Sydney) Chelsea (London) Soho (New York) shopping, dining out and clubbing scene.

And then twice later in the evening in ‘The Library’, a gay karaoke-Comedy Café venue. Similarly evoked by the same scent.

The delight was in the intense and vivid sensations associated with passively imaging, in a random fashion, the very specificness of the ordinary day-to-day lives of each of these people. The actuality of the feel, colour and odour of their clothing, and of the objects in the rooms in their houses. The essences of their children, partners and lovers. The particular way they moved about. Their gestures. And the manner of conducting the events of each day in their social roles. Particular to and defining them.

There is no effort in undertaking this imagining and no need to consciously direct my thoughts. I am simply guided, unexpectedly this way and then that.

Curiously, and like a shape-shifter, the spirit assumes many forms, almost as many at the number of visitations. Which is integral to the pleasure it brings. At least for me. It has been the still recognizable smell of the paper of my first ‘John and Betty’ Reader in primary school. And the cool hard finger touch of the surfaces ad edges of the large cut-glass beads of my grandmother’s costume jewellery. I guess if there is any underlying continuity, it’s something visceral and emotional. But the sensation is not that first experienced – it’s the remembrance of it. And through the passage of time, the emotion has in some way been distilled and intensified. Like a good stock.

I need to be ready for these moments to be able to fully appreciate them. Cos they are so fleeting. Maybe five minutes if you are very very lucky. I drop everything and, perhaps like Bernadette of Lourdes, and many of the Catholic saints for that matter, drift into a near dream-like state to fully immerse myself.

Mmm. Better take my medication!

But seriously, do any of you know this?

To Market To Market

Walked past Guadalupe Market earlier in the week and have been itching to go in ever since. Today was the day. So into a tricycle … .

The entrance – promise of things to come:

Attracting attention:

Dead animal act (Birdie - 'All About Eve'):

‘Will you buy, some of my supply’ (Billy Holiday - 'Love for Sale'):

More ingredients for dins:

We’re so funny:

‘I’m not ready for my close-up Mr de Mille’:

'The eyes have it':

Something fishy going on:

More fishiness:

‘No guts please’:

‘Eggs-actly’:

We’re still pretty funny:

Heading back home:

A pleasant shop window diversion:

Now that guy obviously totally knows what to do with his mouth!

Emerson

I'd gone to the pub for a drink. It was a bit late to head out but I felt too restless to stay home waiting to get sleepy.

The place was packed. I pushed to the bar and got a beer. And, not seeing anyone I knew, decided to find a place on the wall near the juke box. And watch the crowd. In fact, this suited my mood perfectly. And I quickly drifted into feeling relaxed and contemplative.

After about 20 minutes, I noticed him. Long silky sun-bleached blond hair. Crystal clear hazel green eyes - rather hard and narrow. Framed with dark lashes. And thick naturally shaped eyebrows. Full sculpted lips that must be illegal somewhere. Or everywhere! And honey-coloured skin. Good body - slim but well-covered if the contradiction makes sense. Bulging pecs and buns. And just shorter than me. Black tee-shirt and faded 501's. Legs wide-apart. Thongs - square golden compact muscular feet – a delta of pulsing veins across their hairy tops. Real casual and blokey like I liked.

He was with friends. A bit drunk - loud and unfocused. Aggressive, arguing everything - for the sake of it. Though laughing a lot too.

Even more people jammed in. And I lost sight of the group.

Then Kurt came in. An old unrequited passion so I was happy to catch up for a bit. And then some guys from Gay Waves radio arrived.

…

Around 2, it began to feel the right time to leave. So I did my goodbyes round the room, slowly working my way to the door. But detouring slightly to walk near the blond. For a last glimpse.

And as I did so, he stumbled a few steps back away from his friends, falling against me. And momentarily holding onto my shoulder to support himself.

'Ta. … Hey, look guys, this is my old mate ... ?'

'Nick'

'Yeah, Nick. Why are ya going mate? It's still real early!’

'Just changing position. All the better to watch ... well ... you know. Little Red Riding Hood and all.'

’Oh ok. Kewl. So how bout a beer then?' And he was unsteadily off before getting a reply.

'Emerson's straight Nick. We know him from work. And he's just chuffed with all the attention.'

The workmate was back with the speed of a man who'd drunk only half as much. And now seemed calmer and sweeter. More focussed.

But he slipped his arm round my waist, with a laughing 'Now, Nick's been watching me all night guys. What do ya reckon it means?'.

'It means I miscalculated badly Emerson. No regrets – you were just too cute not to stare at! But I'm on my way now. Good to meet you guys. Maybe see you again'.

'Hey, look, I was only kidding. Sorry mate. Stay on a bit, eh?"

And I did. And he had more to drink. And everyone was getting on surprisingly well, considering all the seemingly conflicting intentions. But he wasn't contributing much by now. And beginning to look strained. He lowered his head a little and closed his eyes. And then sluggishly slid his arm round my waist. And lent into my body. To everyone's amusement. But mine.

'Ok guys. Who’s getting him home?'

‘Think you might be the best man for the job Nick!’

Peals of laughter. My rising irritation.

I didn’t want to get into this complicated scenario.

…

Emerson put his arm round my shoulder to support himself. And slurred:

‘I need to go home.’

I had his address from one of his friends. And got him out into the street. Into my car. And off to his Bondi Beach flat. A bit Ikea. But spatially well-organised. With big potted plants and vases of flowers dotted round the place.

‘Hey Emerson, do you just wanna crash or have a coffee to sober up?’

‘Coffee'd be great mate. Ta’

He was sitting on the couch, head down again, eyes closed. While I found my way round the kitchen and brewed a pot.

…

I decided to take back control and asked him how his girlfriend let him go out on the town with bunch of gay boys.

‘Haven’t got one at the moment’ – a bit defensively. ‘How bout you?’

‘Gay kinda means you don’t ever have one.’

Laughter. ‘Ok, ok, ok!’

And with that we began to chat more like friends.

…

Until ‘Look mate, I really need to crash. But why don’t you stay over. Got a spare room and I reckon I can trust you!’

‘Thanks, but I don’t know trust myself! You know, in the middle of the night, you’ll hear the floorboards creaking in your bedroom … blah blah blah’.

‘Don’t be stupid! Look, just stay – it’s 4am. And it’d be good to chat in the morning’

…

So I showered. … And jumped into my bed.

He followed me in the bathroom. … And then came in - to thank me for looking after him and say goodnight. He turned out the light on his way out.

But he didn’t seem to go beyond the door. And after a 10 minute silence, he padded slowly and awkwardly back. Stood for a few more minutes. And then sat on the side of the bed.

Crackling silence. Nearly fifteen minutes. And then he lay down beside me.

I imagined I could feel the warmth of his body. Then he moved closer and I could. But nothing more.

And then he quickly rolled on top of me. Grabbing me up hard in arms. Holding me down and burying his head in my neck. The smell of his still damp hair. And musky armpits. The feel of his silky dry skin. The big biceps. The weight of his body, heavy on me. His muscular legs agitating hard against mine … the sensation of thick wiry hair. And his cock, erect through his jocks and in my crotch.

I feverishly pulled his underwear down. His dick rubbed against mine and rolled round my crotch … for the few seconds before he blew. A big load - he just seemed to keep squirting. And then it began to slowly drip down my sides.

He lay silently on me, not moving. And then started to cry.

‘Look Emerson. It’s OK’. I stroked his hair and thumbed the lobes of his ears. And risked kissing him occasionally on the cheek. He was quiet now.

I could smell his cum and hoped it didn’t unsettle him as much as it excited me.

I held him in my arms. Stroked down the curve of his muscular back to the top of his butt. From the furriness there, his buns must be covered in the thickest hair.

I gently eased him off me. And sat up, putting my back against the wall. And lifted him into my lap, his body leaning sideways on my chest and his head on my shoulder. The smell of his sweaty legs and feet tingled in my nose. And got my dick burning hard. I began to finger the hair on his hard knees.

He was completely passive throughout. I said nothing.

I opened his legs to let my cock stick up between his legs against the base of his balls. I could sense my excitement rising. I collected some cum from his snail trail on my finger and tasted it. Too much. And I began to blow – the first big globs landing on his dick and balls. And then the smaller spurts on his inner thighs.

He giggled nervously and was out of my lap. And kneeling beside me, as turned me over onto my stomach. He climbed between my legs, opening mine with his. He lay on me, and got his cock between my buns. It was lubed enough with dribbling pre-cum to work into my hole. He pinned me down so I couldn’t move. And jack-hammered my arse. I could hear his balls slapping my buns. Till he shot, groaning ‘Oh fuck mate … ahh … shit’.

Another long silence. But he stayed inside. Rubbing the warm soles of his feet against my calves. And his face against my neck. His breath on my shoulder.

He started to apologise – ‘Look mate, I didn’t mean to … ah …’.

‘Hey Emerson, no, that was a really great fuck!’

Laughter.

And we subsided into sleep.

…

An hour later, I was awake again. Savouring his body still weighing down on me, and his cock inside. I got my legs outside his and my feet against the wiry hair on the tops of his.

He stirred … kissed the back of my neck … carefully pulled out …with ’Gotta take a leak bud’ … and padded off to the bathroom.

I anticipated watching him come back – to have more of a sense of his whole body.

…

Beefier than I had had him in my mind. His thighs and calves, in particular, heavier, more solid. The thick blond hair on his legs glowed in the dim light. His snail trail and bush were denser and darker. His cock was average length but thick. The head pink and smaller than the shaft.

He noticed my gaze - his dick began to bob side to side as it started to get up. Revealing large fleshy balls that were tightening up against his body.

A shyish smile as got back to the bed and lay on top of me again, wiggling his hips from side to side to get his cock back in me. He began to fuck again - now more calmly.

With his rhythm quickening, I arched my arse up to take more of his cock. And to jerk off on the sheets. But he pulled my hand away – ‘No, not yet mate’ - and pushed me down flat on the bed again. Held me harder – immobilizing me with muscular arms and legs. Slow solid pumping thrusts. Alternating with stirring his cock around inside my hole. Groaning most of the time.

‘Shit! I gotta cum babe. Oh Oooooh, fuuuuuuck. Yeah!’

He wasn’t moving at all, but pushing me down than ever as he kept pumping his load in.

He grunted loudly with each squirt – which with my cock rubbed against the sheets, got me over the edge.

I momentarily lost any sense of time and place.

…

Emerson slid his hand under my stomach and down to my crotch.

‘Did you cum! Fuck!’

…

And that’s how we began.