Friday, May 4, 2018

Abs: A Man's Third Best Feature

Big pecs and biceps are the stars of the male physique, but abs are a close third.  They're much harder to develop, not about size but about definition, so they're the signature of the well-developed man.
















There are actually four sets of muscles on the trunk:
The rectus abdominus in the front, which give you the "xylophone" effect
The serratus on the upper sides, which connect the abdomen and the pecs.
The transverse abdominus
The obliques on the lower sides, the biggest of the abdominal muscles.

Everybody tries crunches and sit-ups for their abs, but they are almost impossible to do effectively.  I suggest the plank (reverse push-up) and side twists.








And cardio: since abs are a matter of definition rather than bulk, you need to get your body fat down.

The definition is most noticeable when the abs are hairless.













But hairy abs have a charm of their own.




A thin line of hair going down the abdominal ridge is called a "glory trail," since it draws the eye to the crotch.  Charlie McDermott made the glory trail famous by displaying his in nearly every episode of The Middle.

More after the break.












Thursday, May 3, 2018

Nude Photos of Tony Sansone

Here are the nude photos of Tony Sansone (1915-1987), the early bodybuilder and gay icon.

1. A Valentino look by Earl Forbes.














2.  A classic pose.


















3.More bulk, with abs, by Edward Townsend.



















4. Charles Atlas and Tony Sansone holding hands.


















5. An artistic light-and-shadow display.

The full post is on Boomer's Beefcake and Bonding

Wednesday, May 2, 2018

The Blind Boy with the 12" Penis Finds His Way into Fred's Bed


Rock Island, December 1999

After my ex-boyfriend Fred broke up with Matt, his partner of ten years, in the spring of 1996, he almost immediately started dating Jester, a blind boy with a very buffed physique and a gigantic Kovbasa++++.  They were together for about five years.

Not his usual type: Fred was drawn mainly to the slim femme boys with sallow chests. And he was constantly bragging about his extra-large package, so he wouldn't want anyone bigger.

What was the attraction?

I didn't find out until December 1999, when we both returned to Rock Island to spend Christmas with our families (Jester stayed in San Bernardino).  We went out to dinner and to JR's to look for a guy to "share."

"There probably won't be any buffed blind guys with gigantic penises available," I joked.  "You'll have to settle for less."

"Oh, please, buffed and hung guys are a dime a dozen," Fred said.  "That's not what I saw in Jester.  I'm attracted to the White Knight dynamic, charging in on a horse to save you from the dragons of doubt and despair.  Like Matt, who was all kinds of crazy.  Or Boomer, who was trying to overcome his fundamentalist childhood, scared to drink wine or dance, or do anal."

"I wasn't too scared to go down on you five times in one night!" I exclaimed.  "Remember our first date?"

"Ok, let me tell you the story of Jester, and then you'll understand.  But be warned -- it's not fun or sexy."

I gulped.  "Go for it."


Redlands, California, October 1988

The boy was 15 years old, skinny, swishy, and miserable.  He was living in Redlands, a small town near San Bernardino, with parents and older brothers who were sympathetic but didn't understand him -- at all.  They spent all their time hunting, working on cars, and watching sports, especially Nascar races, and didn't see how you could like music and art and chasing butterflies and still be a boy.  For Christmas and birthdays he got sports equipment.  On holidays he was forced to go camping in the...ugh...wilderness.

School was worse.  He had no friends. He was bullied and abused constantly.  He was punched, tripped, called a "fag," shoved into oncoming traffic, while the teachers looked on and did nothing.

Church was much worse.  The preacher hated homos, and took out some time in every sermon to describe their filthy lifestyle -- they would not only have sex with anybody anywhere, men, women, children, animals, they would kill you as soon as look at you.  90% of all murderers were fags, 80% of all kidnappers, 100% of terrorists.  They were utterly unclean, despicable in every way, deserving of death, as God's Word commanded.

The boy didn't think he was capable of having sex with everybody and everything, or murdering or kidnapping people.  But he knew that being a fag was like a cancer.  It would fester inside him, grow and grow, until he became a monster.

One day at a Renaissance Faire the boy met a man dressed as a Medieval jester, who bowed deeply and said "Good morrow, sirrah."

He was fascinated.  Jesters were free to do and say anything they wished; they weren't restricted by rules like "boys must work on cars" or "fags are despicable."   When he went home, he started calling himself Jester.

It was a secret name, a bulwark against the pain of the world, against his future as a despicable fag.

But it wasn't enough.  One day after a particularly vicious round of bullying, the boy came home from school, took off his coat and hung it in the closet.  He saw the shoebox on the shelf where his father kept his gun, always loaded to defend the home against intruders.  The boy took the gun to his room, aimed at his head, and fired.

Gunshot wounds to the head are fatal 90% of the time.

The boy lived, but was completely blind in one eye and could only detect light and shadow in the other.

After a few months of recovery, his parents sent him to the California School for the Blind in Fremont.  It was a boarding school, far away from the bullying and rednecks of Redlands.  He decided not to hide anymore: from his first day there, he was Jester, a gay boy, swishy, skinny, and out.

He soon discovered that every guy at the school was gay or bi, or at least willing to accept a late-night blow job.  And his above-average bulge made him very popular.  He began lifting weights and developed a buffed physique, which made him even more popular.

The School for the Blind taught not only Life Skills 101, how to read braille and find your way around with a cane, but a full range of high school courses.  Jester excelled in French and history, joined the debate team, and was elected class treasurer.  He graduated in 1993, and enrolled at Cal State San Bernardino as a history major.

He thought that all Christians were homophobic, that you could not both gay and religious at the same time, but in the spring of 1996, he heard about a gay-friendly Disciples of Christ Church right in San Bernardino.  There were several gay couples in the congregation.

He and his friend Cody visited, and met Fred, an incredibly attractive and well-hung mental health counselor, who had just broken up his partner .  He was in that big apartment all by himself, and looking for a roommate.

Cody offered to become the roommate.  He moved in a week later.  Soon Fred and Jester began dating.






Rock Island, December 1999

"You weren't a White Knight!" I exclaimed.  "Jester saved himself long before you even met.  He was out and happy when he walked into that church!"

Fred looked at me.  "I didn't say that I saved Jester.  He saved me."

Suddenly I understood.  Fred wanted to be a minister his whole life, but even after getting a doctorate in theology, he couldn't find a church.  He lost his job as a youth pastor in Fresno, and had to go back to being a mental health counselor in San Bernardino.  And then Matt dumped him.  Alone and miserable, despairing, he met Jester.













Spectacular physique, sure.  Gigantic penis, sure. But what attracted Fred was his upbeat attitude, his optimism, his unshakeable belief that things will get better.

See also: Jester, the Blind Boy with the Footlong; Matt's First Night with Fred and His Brother

Monday, April 30, 2018

Island in the Sky: My First Boyfriend

Rock Island, February 1969

Just after Christmas in 1968, when I was in the third grade, a boy named Bill, short and deeply tanned with black eyes and small hard fists, suddenly started to chase me across the schoolyard to my house every afternoon, threatening to pound me for some offense. But I proved too swift, and my house  too close by, to make pounding feasible, so Bill took to walking next to me instead, pointing out the other boys he had pounded or planned to pound.

This isn't him, of course.  This model is well over 18.  But it will give you an idea of his arms, shoulders, and smile.


The "pounding" attempts went on for a month or two.  One day in February, when we reached the chain-link fence, Bill announced, “I’m gonna go to Dewey’s and get an ice cream cone.” Dewey’s was a store in a white building on 20th Avenue, facing Denkmann to attract rich South Side kids as they walked home with allowance money bulging in their pockets.  It sold mostly kids’ treats: ice cream, candy bars, Hostess Twinkies, little bags of Lays Potato Chips.

“It’s too cold for ice cream,” I said.  "Anyway, a Mean Boy named Dick hangs out there."

“Ok.” Bill turned abruptly and walked away, his boots crunching loudly on the ice-encrusted snow. But after a few steps, he turned back. “They have other stuff, too,” he said in a low dismal voice.  "Uh. . .you know, if you want, you can come with. I got money.”

Finally I understood, and I almost laughed. Bill was asking me for a date! For all his tough-guy posturing, he was shy and nervous when it came to talking to boys. Maybe this was why he became a bully – they rarely dated anyone. They substituted pounding for hugs, pointed out faults to avoid being rejected.

“That sounds cool,” I said. Bill had muscles, and he was forceful, always in charge, so we could play adventure games and Bill could rescue me and I could exclaim “My hero!” And it would be fun to date a bully; imagine the stares and double-takes when we played together at recess!

After buying a Milky Way for me and Hostess Snowballs for himself, Bill suggested that we eat at his house instead of staying at Dewey’s, where the fat man behind the counter always glared at kids and muttered about long-haired hippie freaks. Besides, Captain Ernie's Cartoon Showboat would be on in a few minutes.

Bill was rich.  He lived in a gigantic house with lots of levels and an arbor out back.  He and his brother and sister all had their own rooms. There was a separate dining room, and a family room with oak panels and chairs shaped like barrels and a piano in the corner.

We spent the rest of the afternoon in the family room, watching Bugs Bunny and The Three Stooges on Cartoon Showboat and drinking Squirt from thick, heavy glasses, the first I had ever seen that were actually made of glass, not plastic.

Bill’s family kept rushing in, all bubbly and excited. His Mom, a squat brown smiling woman, invited me to stay for dinner. His Dad asked what I was studying in school and lent me a book on the ancient Aztecs. His older brother, a high schooler named Mike, mussed my hair and called me “Bud” and offered to drive us places.

Later I found out why everyone was so excited – Bill had never liked a boy before! This was the first time he had ever invited a boy over as an actual date!

This photo is not really of him; I only have a few photos of me and Bill together, and most of them make us look like little kids (that's really his house, though).

After that Bill invited me over to his house almost every day after school, and on weekends he always thought of something fun to do: miniature golf, hiking at Black Hawk Park, a “young people’s” concert at Augustana College, a trip to the Putnam Museum in Davenport to see Egyptian mummies and a huge Aztec calendar stone.

Sometimes Bill asked me to sleep over, and if it wasn’t a school night we got to stay up as late as we wanted, even later than his big brother. We lay propped on thick starchy pillows on Bill’s bed, eating Lay’s Potato Chips and listening to “Chicken Man” on the radio and reading comic books. I had only a few comic books of my own, donated by uncles or traded with cousins, but Bill had hundreds, of every type imaginable: Superman, Tarzan, Archie, Donald Duck, Little Lulu, Casper.

One of the Casper comics was so beautiful that I begged Bill to let me keep it. The cover showed the ghost-boy scaring a superhero. In the story inside, Casper flew an island in the sky called The Elysian Fields. There he met the gods of Greek mythology – Zeus, Apollo, Ganymede, Hyacinth – all with beautifully sculpted muscles. They lived together, eating grapes, throwing a discus, playing horseshoes on a unicorn horn, their idyll threatened only by the mischief of a green-faced trickster god.

They lived together – that was the most important part, the reason I asked for that comic book out of all of Bill’s hundreds. I had never heard the word "gay" before, but I knew that this was proof positive that grown-up men got married and lived together, and maybe when we were grown-ups, Bill and I would get married and live together  too.

The comic book reappears, when Darry and I search for it during my senior year in high school, and when I write a story about it during my freshman year in college

L

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