Wednesday, March 28, 2007

Painted naked for a game of twister

I'm getting the hots over guys stripping off for a public spectacle, and as usual I've been trawling to see what I can find. These pert dudes were taking part in some painting the body art nude forum....whatever, it looks hot to me and the close they get in that twister like game the hotter it looks.


Saturday, March 24, 2007

Anyone up for some naked hiking?

Albania clamps down on school of lust

Occasionally I read a serious news item and something about the way it's written convulses me in laughter. The following article appeared on yahoo. See what you think.

"Albania clamps down on school of lust
Reuters Friday March 23, 02:01 PM

TIRANA (Reuters) - Four Albanian teachers have been censured for drunken and lewd behaviour in a remote village school after they had sexual intercourse behind a classroom blackboard, local reports said on Friday.

The Education Ministry sacked two male teachers, replaced the headmaster and put a female teacher on probation after incensed parents in Xhyre, near the Macedonia border, locked the schoolhouse to stop the drinking and fornication in class.

"I saw them acting shamefully through the window and I told my friends and parents," fourth-grader Elton Cuka told the Shqip daily. "They saw me and threatened to expel me from school."

Xhevahir Hohxa, father of another pupil, was indignant.

"Would you call someone a teacher who drinks raki at ten in the morning and gets drunk and chases the schoolgirls?" he demanded on Albanian television. "

Friday, March 23, 2007

Naked mountaineering

Scotland isn't known for being that warm, but obviously Scottish lads have some hot blood. So meet Stuart, who roams buff bare round the Scottish mountains with his girlfriend. It is their plan to stand on top of every Scottish mountain over 3,000 (914 metres) high completely naked.

Sunday, March 18, 2007

Frat hazing

Dissecting hipster Seattle's most loathed,least defended figure: the frat boy.

The F-Word
Dissecting hipster Seattle's most loathed,least defended figure: the frat boy.

Through a basement door one floor beneath his downtown Ballard club's main stage, Sunset Tavern owner Max Genereaux and booker Kwab Copeland are putting the finishing touches on a major remodel of a large storage room that Genereaux refers to as his former "coke den."

Genereaux is a recovering substance abuser who has been sober for two years. His drug-and-booze-addled past is something he's very comfortable discussing. But his experience as a former rush chairman and four-year resident of the University of Washington's Zeta Psi fraternity in the late '80s? Not so much.

"In the music community, it's perceived as being a very negative thing," says Genereaux of his frat alum status. "I'd much rather talk about being in recovery from drugs and alcohol. Because [fraternity life] is so misunderstood, I just don't bring it up."

That's not because Genereaux has anything negative to say about his Zeta Psi experience. Quite the opposite, in fact: "I loved it," he says. "It was a great way to go to school. You lived with upperclassmen who could help you with class selection and tutoring. We were there to get an education, and there was a lot of that going on. The guys I was friends with, we all graduated. I'm not saying there weren't dumb guys there—there are dumb guys everywhere—but there were many quality individuals that I'm friends with to this day." Given the drinking problem that he already had, Genereaux says, "I can't imagine what I would have been like on my own."

Genereaux took over the Sunset in 2000, when he was still drinking. "I always joke that I don't really like music," he says. "I like the party. I was going out to see shows to get loaded and see people."

Eventually, the getting-loaded portion of that equation snowballed to the point where Genereaux, whose struggle with harder drugs didn't begin until well after college, sought treatment at a rehab center in Central Washington.

"I behaved in my 30s in ways that I'm far more embarrassed about than anything I did in college," Genereaux says, "because my addiction continued to progress to where I was behaving in some pretty sick ways. And that had nothing to do with my days in the fraternity. I've watched guys who are gutter-punk skateboarders behave just as bad or worse than any of the shit I saw go down in fraternities."

Genereaux's ex-Greek status puts him in the company of countless creative and literary stalwarts. Kurt Vonnegut was a frat boy. So were Jon Stewart, David Letterman, Larry David, Will Ferrell, Zach Braff, David Spade, Steven Spielberg, Harrison Ford, Ben Stein, Billy Crudup, David Schwimmer, Matthew McConaughey, Drew Carey, Jeremy Piven, Bob Woodward, P.J. O'Rourke, Dennis Miller, Brad Pitt, and Jim "Jesus" Caviezel (UW Sigma Chi, class of '90). Both Simon and Garfunkel were frat boys, as were R.E.M.'s Peter Buck and current alt-country darling Bobby Bare Jr., who was a Lambda Chi at the University of Tennessee–Knoxville.

"Because my dad is famous," says Bare, whose papa is Nashville royalty, "I had the opportunity to go to one of the rich-boy fraternities—but I didn't want to." Instead he went to Lambda Chi Alpha, which he says "was the biggest fraternity on campus because they didn't really turn anybody away. It was every yahoo. I hung out with lots of people from the most backwoods, out-of-the-way places that I would have never hung out with in other circumstances. I had a blast."

Yet Bare is quick to acknowledge that not all the stereotyping concerning frat boys is entirely baseless. "It's not that all people in fraternities were assholes," he says. "It's that all the assholes were in the fraternities."

Here in Seattle, the self-proclaimed capital of all things indie, the schism between creative types and supposed Greek conformists couldn't be more pronounced. "What do people think frat guys listen to?" asks Barsuk Records publicist Ever Kipp, before answering his own question. "Dave Matthews, John Mayer, and Jack Johnson: That's the antithesis of indie rock. The frat lifestyle wholeheartedly embraces the mainstream."

In college, Kipp was "sort of a weird goth dude" who did not belong to a fraternity. Yet there were moments of envy. "Sometimes I wished I could be at a party with 300 people, hitting on some hot blond girl," he admits.

This, of course, hints at a chink in the DIY community's anti-frat armor, which has been propped up in large part by broad pop culture stereotyping in movies like Animal House, Revenge of the Nerds, Van Wilder, and Accepted. "The whole point of those movies is that the outsiders are taking down the powers that be," says Van Riker, Kipp's colleague at Barsuk and a former Theta Chi at Syracuse University. "And Seattle is an outsider culture."

"Especially in this town," adds Kipp, "people in indie rock want you to think they sit around drinking pinot noir and talking about Chaucer." Some of the time they do, says Kipp. But more often, they act like frat boys. I ought to know: Like Genereaux, I'm an ex-Greek (Alpha Delta Phi, UW, class of '96), and have been privy to the behavioral patterns of both factions, which I've found to be more intertwined and similar than their perceived animosity toward one another might suggest.

A couple of summers ago, Johnny Utah (not his real name) sat at a bar in Dallas, Texas, cowering in fear. Joining him was a handful of fellow Seattle indie-rock luminaries, unwinding after yet another successful tour stop. Surrounding their table were approximately 50 male members of a local school's Greek system, embodying the very essence of the striped-shirt-and-Jägermeister frat-boy stereotype.

"We were all sitting there, talking shit," recalls Utah. "Even me, knowing what I know."

Turns out, Utah wasn't afraid of getting his ass kicked by the assembled Greek throng; he was afraid his indie-rock pals would unearth a skeleton he'd buried in the deepest corner of his closet: that he was once a frat boy, too. (So petrified of being outed as a former frat boy is Utah that he insisted we use a pseudonym and disguise other details before he'd agree to speak for this story.)

"There's shame in it," says Utah of his secret frat-boy past, spent at a small private college in the Pacific Northwest. "Not for something I did, but for what people assume."

As an adolescent growing up in the Mountain West, Utah held the stereotypes surrounding fraternities to be more or less true. "I remember seeing a lot of it and thinking it was totally ridiculous," he recalls. "High-school girls going to frat parties, and frat guys trying to date high-school chicks."

Utah enrolled in college coming off of "an abnormally fun high-school experience." Thus, his university-mandated first semester in the dorms was "fucking boring." So Utah decided to give fraternities a second look. What he found surprised him—and ultimately compelled him to pledge.

"It wasn't crazy big-school date rape," says Utah, evoking another well-trod Greek stereotype. "It was an outlet to have fun. And there's so much that lends itself to real life. Rush is like a job interview."

Granted, Utah also recalls "a lot of naked late-night bike riding" and the fact that he and his brothers all dressed in "the uniform": khaki pants, polo shirts, and baseball caps. But uniforms are not unique to frat boys, he notes. "You'll see four guys in a band who all look alike. Some of the people I work with all wear the same jackets."

Nor do frat boys have a monopoly on excessive drinking. "In the music business, your life is centered around shows and bars," adds Utah. "It's almost looked down upon if you don't drink."

"Everybody joins a clique or group—even indie-rock hipsters," says Jason Crume, who, like me, was a member of Alpha Delta Phi at the University of Washington in the mid-'90s, and who now sells fine wine for a living.

The roots of local tension between indie rockers and frat boys can be traced back to the early '80s in the U District. Fraternities were thriving during the Reagan era, just as the seeds that would spawn Seattle's grunge-rock explosion were being sown on and around University Avenue.

"The core of the Seattle punk-rock scene was on the Ave for many, many years," says Dave Dederer, 42, a founding member of the Presidents of the United States of America. "And, of course, a few blocks away is fraternity row. Those two cultures rubbed up against each other. If you went to Roosevelt High School and were a punk rocker, you were at risk of being called a fag and getting the shit beat out of you."

And yet, says Dederer, "We used to go to frat parties because there was music. There weren't a lot of places to see music if you were underage, and crashing frat parties was one way. The Young Fresh Fellows played tons of frat parties. They were sort of the biggest, most viable band in town at the time."

But when punks and frat guys would happen upon each other away from Greek Row, confluent hotheadedness would often prevail.

"I have one vivid memory involving frat boys and punk rockers," recalls Dederer. "In June of '82, I was at the Roscoe Louie Gallery [in Pioneer Square], which was a seminal place for punk-rock shows. The Fastbacks were headlining, and the Living [featuring future Guns N' Roses drummer Duff McKagan] opened. The bassist in the Living was Todd Fleischman, a big martial-arts ass-kicker of a guy. There were about 10 of us hanging out on the sidewalk after the show, and this whole frat-boy group came out of the J&M and started calling us faggots, basically angling for a fight.

"Fleischman ripped his shirt off and started running as fast as he could after these guys up Yesler, just screaming," Dederer continues. "They all scattered. It was a great moment."

Seated near a window at the Red Door Alehouse in Fremont, Mike Self ponders the challenges of resuscitating his (and my) former UW fraternity house at a time when going Greek is as unpopular as it has been since the '70s, a decade widely considered to be the nadir for all things frat. Our house, Alpha Delta Phi, ceased operating around the turn of the 21st century, after a highly publicized incident in which a pledge fell out of a second-floor window, and has rented its rooms to student boarders in the years since. Self, a 37-year-old hedge fund manager ("I guess if you're a hedge fund frat guy, you're really screwed," he quips) who lives on Queen Anne with his wife, Angie, is one of a handful of former Alpha Delts who've agreed to head up the chapter's "reboot committee."

"We're just a little unsettled right now as a country," theorizes Self. "[People are] very anti-establishment, and fraternities are very establishment. Recognizing the upside of being part of an organization like a fraternity is harder to see than in the '80s, when everyone—and I mean everyone—was wearing alligator shirts." (Of course, polo shirts came back in among the hipsters a few years ago, but ironically.)

Huddled over a pitcher of Rainier a mile and a half south at Targy's Tavern, Jason Crume is joined by his former UW classmate and fellow Alpha Delt, Kevin Erickson, who served as president of the fraternity during the mid-'90s. A few years after graduation, Erickson and Crume opened Bricco, a popular Queen Anne wine bar. Crume recently sold his stake in the business to Erickson, but the two remain close friends.

"Alpha Delts wasn't your average fraternity," says Erickson. "When I tell people [I was in a house], they're like, 'I would have never thought'—and I was the president. We, having gone through it, see it for what it is and not the made-for-TV date-rape special. It was a big fuck-off party a lot of the time, but there is stuff that makes you a better person."

"There's a lot of diversity in the Greek system, but we were all in this compressed echo chamber," says Pete Pedersen, an ex–UW cheerleader who was recruited to Alpha Delts by Self in the early '90s when the latter served as rush chairman. "Now, you're starting to see some of that diversity come out. The system probably suppresses it, and that's where the stigma comes from."

It was Pedersen, in fact, who compelled my Alpha Delt brethren and me to see beyond our own preconceived notions of what we thought male cheerleaders—aka "cheer queers"—to be. There were barrier-busting brothers like this in virtually every house. For every fraternity that appeared easy to pigeonhole personalitywise, there were four others whose membership crossed just about every imaginable societal boundary and presented a multifaceted collective face.

"You put 100 people together, and there're going to be all different types of personalities and outlooks on life," adds Genereaux, whose fraternity was across the street from Alpha Delta Phi on 21st Avenue Northeast. "That's exactly what happened."

"I get a kick out of letting people know what kind of fraternity I was in," says Crume. "We were all smart guys, and we were different. We pushed the rules and broke them a lot. If anything, it teaches you to be more tolerant."

Crume's observation rings true on many levels. Still, it's undeniable that UW's Greek system has historically been overwhelmingly Caucasian (just like indie rock). And I didn't know of any outwardly gay Greeks when I was in school. As with many male-dominated institutions—pro athletics most prominent among them—implicit homophobia ruled the day in the UW Greek system of the '90s.

Not anymore, says Alex Llapitan. Now in his sophomore year at Pi Kappa Phi, Llapitan didn't conceal his homosexuality during rush, a stance he assumed would result in belittlement and rejection. But that's not what transpired.

"Everyone in the house was a lot different than I thought they were [going to be]," says Llapitan. "I thought they'd be like, 'Oh, he's gay,' but everyone was totally cool with it. I break a lot of the stereotypes for a lot of guys."

As for the indie-frat chasm and the stereotyping therein, Llapitan's housemates are both aware of and relatively unbothered by the postgrad repercussions.

"There's definitely polarization between indie culture and fraternity culture," says Pi Kappa Phi junior Max Nazaryan. "I know fraternity members who are really indie in the way they dress and the stuff they're into, but if you're into the indie [rock] scene, if they're blasting rap music at party after party, it's probably kind of tough to swallow."

As for being stigmatized postgraduation in a town with a vociferous counterculture, Pi Kappa Phi sophomore Andrew Powell says, "I'm not too worried because people in the business realm understand that there's more to it than that. If they do feel [turned off], I'll bite the bullet. I'm not going to lie about it."

Trouble is, certain professions and subcultures take a collective view of fraternities that's skewed to the point where one's Greek letters might as well be scarlet. In my case, whenever anyone decides to denigrate me publicly (comes with the territory in this biz), the F-word inevitably gets trotted out—or at least some codified version of it, as was the case when a former colleague referred to me in a newspaper article as "sort of a backwards-hat type of guy." Insinuation noted, although anyone who knows me realizes that I never turn my bill around.

"Stereotyping is part of human nature; it's how we categorize things," says Mike Self. "But if you're being judgmental, that's something else."

Long Winters frontman John Roderick's most vivid frat-boy memory is a veritable memoir that doesn't involve actual frat boys—but may come closer to describing the sociological guts of the stigma than any that do.

"A couple years ago, I was at a party in a nearby town celebrating the completion of a new record by an up-and-coming Northwest band," says Roderick. "The party was an informal gathering of friends—all indie rockers—in the singer's backyard. The producer of the record, a well-known musician himself, was in a celebratory mood and became quite tipsy, eventually retiring to the upstairs bedroom to 'rest' while the party soldiered on.

"Looking for fun," Roderick continues, "I said, 'I'm going to go upstairs and draw a big dick on his forehead [with a] Sharpie marker.' I made a show of marching off in the direction of the house, but I was immediately swarmed by three or four concerned indie girls who grabbed my arms and shrieked, 'Don't you dare!' This doubled my resolve, and there commenced several minutes of drunken grab-ass as I tried to get up the stairs. When it became clear that they would never let me pass, I went instead to the rest room, where I discovered 15 rolls of unattended toilet paper. Where I grew up, leaving 15 rolls of toilet paper unguarded was like setting a tuna casserole on the floor to cool in a house of five dogs. It goes without saying that I immediately smuggled a dozen rolls out of the house and proceeded to TP the trees and bushes all across the front yard while the party noisily raged on behind the fence. I was discovered only when I threw the last roll of toilet paper high up into a tree. The singer-guitarist of the band in question looked me up and down when I returned to the backyard and said, with some effort to sound withering, 'John, you're such a...a...frat boy!'

"The insult was the equivalent of slapping my face with a white calfskin glove," Roderick goes on. "The term 'frat boy,' as he intended it, had all the connotations of beer-swilling, date-raping, jock, macho crap. I laughed, because to me, a fraternity boy was someone who sneered insults at people with sarcastic WASPy smugness. His knotted-sweater, white-collar disapproval was everything I associated with the Greeks.

"So here we stood, two indie rockers, faced off across a gaping cavern of American culture as defined by the term 'frat boy.' He dismissed my car-wreckin', prank-pullin', fire-startin', gun-shootin', whoop-it-up, call-the-cops American party-makin' with one word: frat. And I saw his sniffing, eye-rolling, weak-assed, big-vocabulary-but-not-quite-used-correctly tsk-tsking as more or less the same thing: fraternity boy. But in fact, we were both limp-wristed, lit-major indie rockers."

The operative words in Roderick's diatribe: "gaping cavern." The stigma associated with frat boys is not a one-size-fits-all-proposition, but has rather been expanded over time to signify anything that anyone might find remotely annoying about white heterosexual males.

I know, I know—poor little white boys. To that, I'll grant you that of all the oppressed groups in society, ex–frat guys should be low men on the totem pole. But like cheerleaders, gays, urban Republicans, white-collar defense lawyers, and Air Supply fans, we deserve to be out, proud, and freed from the shackles of prejudice, once and for all.

Source: Seattle Weekly

Saturday, March 17, 2007

Sniffing round the net again

I've been sniffing around the net thinking about my vacation again and I've found another interesting website. It's gay orientated and devoted to leisure- with outdoor interests that gay men will find informative. Any site where guys get naked in public has to be good. Enjoy.
Take a look at

Tuesday, March 13, 2007

A trip to the festivals this year...

The weather is warming now and it's time to start thinking about the summer. I gotta get me some new threads and all. This year I'm going to try and get to a Pride festival somewhere- I'm really crap about going. Anyway look at the pictures- I gotta go just to see the boys getting frisky and pulling their wieners out! Or maybe I'll finally get to Folsom...

Sunday, March 11, 2007

John Lennon- was he into cfnm?

Just found this cute photo of John Lennon and wonder- could he have been into cfnm?

Saturday, March 10, 2007

"I’m free – and it’s all because of men like John Inman"- Matthew Parris today

Matthew Parris writes in today's Times Online about John Inman the actor who died this week. For thos that don't know, John Inman was famous for playing the limp wristed retailer in Are you Being Served, and played it at a time long before being gay was part of the acceptable mainstream. It's a superb article and I copy it here in case you missed it.

From Times Online
March 10, 2007
I’m free – and it’s all because of men like John Inman
Matthew Parris

I raise a salute to that lifesaving human compromise, the open secret. I raise a salute to a band of comrades who, each in their different ways, were the keepers through a dark age of an open secret. My salute is to a dying breed: a breed whose ranks thinned again in the small hours of Thursday morning when John Inman passed away.

Hail to them all: the ludicrous old queens; the drag artists; the pantomime homosexuals; the florid epicureans; the indulgent priests; the sensitive young men in tight trousers; and the wan aesthetes. And hail, too, to their quieter cousins: the discreetly confirmed bachelors and “he never married” brigade, the don’t-ask-don’t-tell soldiers, and the dignified loners who just preferred to stay single and wouldn’t say why. Theirs — all of theirs — to protect and guard was a precious thing: the open secret.

For gay men in the 20th century the open secret was sometimes literally a lifesaver. It was the narrowest of territories: the half-acre that lies somewhere between absolute denial and outright confession, between dishonesty and disgrace. This was a hard place to be in 1970, a narrow line to walk. If our oh-so-modern, who-gives-a-damn, 21st-century gays, of whom I am one, suppose that these men were not brave, that they were not trail-blazers, not part of the struggle, then we don’t know the half of it.

And some of us, it seems, don’t. Already I hear the cry — “living a lie”, “set back the cause”, “self-oppression”, “an insulting stereotype” — from a gay lobby that has taken about five minutes to forget what a dark age England was for us, what light an Inman, a Kenneth Williams, a Danny La Rue or, from America, a Liberace brought into it, and how outrageous, how valiant, those people were.

About five minutes to forget, too, that the people who wanted these men taken off the stage, screen and wireless, were not the gay-rights campaigners but the bigots and guardians of conservative morality. “Sexual perversion”, they said, wasn’t entertainment: it was wicked and dangerous — and bad taste. The BBC, contemplating making a series of Are You Being Served?, tried at first to insist that Mr Humphries was removed.

How fast we forget context. Always a bit of a giggle to their own era, the Inmans, La Rues and Williamses of the last century are now disowned by their newly brave inheritors: the lately and boldly Out.

John Inman’s breath had barely left his body before right-on spokesmen for that imaginary thing, the “gay community”, were berating the “self-oppression” and “stereotyping” of homosexuals that Inman’s Mr Humphries helped to reinforce. His smutty innuendo, his jokes about fairies and handbags, his limp wrist, camp wit and simpering delivery are, they claim, everything we need to shed.

Yes, they are. Of course they are. They are now. But they weren’t then. Then they were a light in the dark. Between the words, these men insinuated a wordless language of their own; they made a nonverbal statement, a shyly comical way of saying: “This is who and what I am; this is my tribe — and, look, I’m famous and life is fun.” To anxious boys like me, who didn’t even know a tribe existed, the lives and careers of these men showed we were not alone. You may say it was a pity it had to be done by double entrendre. Yes it was a pity; but whether by single, double or triple entendre, it was entendu. You could imply it, at last, and at least you could imply it and nobody would lock you up. This was a huge step forward.

Remember before you sniff at the narrow caricature of a gay man conveyed by that old, camp guard, that these were the gays who didn’t retreat into abusive relationships, dirty little broom-cupboard secrets, guilt, suicide, hatred and shame — or surprisingly often the persecution of other gay men. They were the ones who didn’t ruin women’s lives with wretched sham marriages. Whatever the half-truths and timidities of their estate, they were in some deep way being true to themselves. In the manner in which they talked, dressed and even walked, they were refusing to hide something. There is an inner honesty in this which is perhaps stronger than the honesty of signing up to a sexuality on a dotted line.

Their great achievement was to find a way, however comedic, to be themselves without becoming outcasts; and to show the world. It was desperately important to be able to do that 30 years ago.

Have modern activists no sense of history — even very recent history? Instead of thinking simply of where the gay rights movement is going, they should think too about where it has come from. Read Peter Wildeblood’s Against the Law, a personal memoir of police harassment, public humiliation, distorted evidence, a ghoulishly sanctimonious press, dismissal and an 18-month prison sentence, published (at some risk: many bookshops refused to display it) by Weidenfeld & Nicolson in 1955 to great public excitement, and republished a few years ago to almost complete indifference. The book seems to describe another England, remote from ours.

You need to understand that backdrop to understand how quietly brave were men like Noël Coward (who would now be called “closeted”) to go as far as they did. Believe it or not, Wildeblood has some claim to be the first writer in the English language to say he was a homosexual (as opposed to admitting to homosexual acts).

In 1955! Inman arrived only 17 years later. When Are You Being Served? entered mainstream popular culture (and before it, on the BBC Light Programme’s Round the Horne, Kenneth Williams’s and Hugh Paddick’s Julian and Sandy), the idea that homosexuality might be an amusing, unthreatening and not uncommon oddity rather than scary — a moral poison and a mortal sin — was gaining ground. Such portrayals unsoured what it was to be gay. The point about this version of the Gay Everyman, surely, was that he was likeable. You’d be pleased if he moved in next door. As the 1970s went on, a few gay activists did begin to worry about the stereotyping, but this, I believe, was a sign of how fast the times were moving.

Music hall was probably where it started. At the showy end of the spectrum, men like Inman, La Rue and Liberace helped to tease this idea further into the spotlights. Not all of these men were necessarily gay, or exclusively so. Max Miller (“What if I am?”) was not gay but flirted with the stereotype because it was becoming rather popular: it sold seats in theatres. My Nana loved Miller, loved Inman, loved La Rue, laughed like a drain at all of them.

Nana would have loved Graham Norton, too. Julian Clary and Graham Norton are probably among the last exemplars of a breed that may soon seem awfully old-fashioned. The next age may not even see the joke, but if the day should come when a new generation watches those DVDs and wonders what campery had to do with being gay, it will be partly because of, not despite, camp comic turns. Clary and Norton are the last act in a show that has helped to turn what once was seen as shame into light entertainment. Thus did the shame and the ghetto depart, taking with them (but slowly) the tagging and the typecasting.

We gays can shed these stereotypes because we have outgrown them, because we have won the space and public respect to dispense with prison clothes and walk out of the virtual ghettos in which gay people used to bunch for mutual affirmation. We don’t need to belong to a gang any more, to drink in the same pubs, congregate in the same occupations or dress or talk in ways designed to help us recognise each other, and help the outside world to guess without the unpleasantness of having to ask. We are no longer under siege. Everything can be talked about today.

But yesterday, when things weren’t said, things had to be said without words. Men like Inman found the showbiz shorthand to do it. God rest their souls.

Friday, March 09, 2007

Naked chef can cook me some sausage

I couldn't resist this when i saw it. A horny well toned fit guy naked in the kitchen doing supper. Horny!

Thursday, March 08, 2007

Why not be a streaker and fulfil one of life's great ambitions?

Are you inclined to get your clothes off and wish you could run around stark naked down a busy street? Do you want to do it with someone recording the event? Do you want to do it with some buddies? Why not let us know- we'd love to film it, particularly if you're London UK based....

Wednesday, March 07, 2007

Wanna travel naked?

I've been thinking about the summer and that set me off browsing round the web. I came across this site called which kinda got me hot. The site is well worth a visit and here are a few pics from the site to entice ya.

Monday, March 05, 2007

CMNM- forced male nudity

It's a rugby social and somebody is stripped and displayed for the lads....

Sunday, March 04, 2007

Daniel Radcliffe in Equus

It seems that Harry Potter star Daniel Radcliffe is gaining a lot of attention for performing naked on stage at the Gielgud Theatre in London. These pics explain why.

Naked fitness in Holland

The so-called “naked fitness” is getting the increasing popularity in the world. Special sports clubs for fans, wishing to go in for sports without clothes, have been opened in the Dutch city of Heteren. The program developed for nudists, has caused interest not only in local residents: tourists from Germany, Belgium, the Great Britain and the USA, wishing to participate in such naked sport, come to Heteren.
Only the clients, who have reached the full age, can go info naked fitness. Each applicant will pass careful check which will allow protecting athletes from various distortions and sexually anxious people penetration into their numbers. The trainers spending employment by “naked fitness” will train the group of nudists dressed in sports suits.
It is necessary to note, that similar sports halls have already become popular in many countries. It is possible to see the naked men and the women assiduously stretching or rushing on a racetrack in hotels and resorts, intended only for nudists.
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