Hunk of meat

I was rather struck by his biceps. And his abdominals, of course:

And then it was his gentle smile which sucked me in:

But once I had seen that smile I was hooked, willing to travel ever deeper into a tawdry world of smutty self-gratification with this lovely-looking man as my guide:

I can't honestly say it was a hardship to travel with him:

I mean, he is so lovely that any doubts could be quashed just by glancing at his finely chiselled features.

Yeah, I think that's probably all we need about this chap. It's not as if you're unable to come to your own conclusions, is it?

Olé!

My lovely friend N. paid an all-too-brief visit to London today, so here's where we had lunch:

(My Italian friends should skip this paragraph). Spanish food is my favourite national cuisine. And tapas is my favourite way of eating it -- especially with croquetas as exquisite as these:

Tapas also, of course, gives me a chance to indulge my delight in very cold and very dry sherry. Today was no exception.

But then, Salt Yard also offers this, some of the most delicious pork belly anywhere, ever:

The crackling alone is enough to make you die.

My friend N. and I had a delicious, uproarious lunch. And I can't believe I'm expecting you to read about it.

PS: I've just discovered that this is the chef at Salt Yard, a man called Ben Tish. He made my lovely lunch today, and I want to thank him.

Damn it: talented and sexy. Life's so unfair, isn't it?

Reviews of rubbish films: 1) Dogging

For reasons we needn't go into here I have found myself being tortured with low-quality British films. This one is an exercise in barrel-scraping: Dogging: A Love Story.

Here's my favourite review. In its entirety:

I can’t recommend this – it is entirely about grotty, voyeuristic sex in various Newcastle car parks – but it’s not as dismal as you might imagine. Luke Treadaway’s nosy journalist is a wet blanket of a hero, but Richard Riddell is riotously funny as his gross friend Rob, and Michael Socha also quite good as a happy-go-lucky pimp on the make. These are the silver linings in a feeble smut-fest of impressive tonal weirdness, which had me sniggering with it, at it, and in spite of myself.

He's dead right about Richard Riddell, whose slimy estate agent is an exuberant character of some genius:

The film, though, is a sprawling mess: I love it that the best thing the critic can find to say about it is that "it’s not as dismal as you might imagine".

In truth, despite my lustful thoughts over this Treadaway Twin (I'd do either of them, honest. Or both), it really is "a feeble smut-fest of impressive tonal weirdness".

And there's nowhere near enough sex in it.

PS: Someone's asked if there's full frontal. The shocking, outrageous answer is no, there is not. This is as close as it gets:

I mean, he's very cute and all, but couldn't we have at least had some cock? Or, at least, more than this next picture with the "is it or isn't it" shadowy beige blob:

For Treadaway knob the best source I can think of (assuming the twins are in fact interchangable) is Clapham Junction. Though, now I come to think of it, I'm not sure there was any Treadaway todger in that, either. Damn it all.

Overindulgence

He may not be your cup of tea, but he's certainly mine:

Just a warning, really: I had too much sherry at lunchtime so am now a little belligerent. Just be careful, alright?

What's in a name?

All the information you'll never need to answer the question "how many railway staff does it take to change a lightbulb?":

The scene at Crystal Palace station this weekend (and was there ever a place whose name gave such high expectations, only to cruelly dash them?).

Distortion

There's a porn company which produces images that are often distorted in interesting ways.

Like here, for instance, where it looks like some sort of odd lens has been used to create a wild and giddy feeling:

I think it's the same company that also uses very strong colours in the background -- often graffiti, for example:

But it's the acidic colours and weird distortions that get most of my attention:

Not that they're beautiful or pretty (in fact, they use a higher than usual proportion of very, very ordinary boys):

But there is something hyper-real about their porn, something that is almost palpable:

A sense of sweaty skin pressed together:

Something of the experienced, notwithstanding the rather painful-looking gymnastics:

But a lot of their stuff, perversely, also has a sort of dreamy, disembodied quality to it:

And, if you think about it, the very idea of disembodied porn seems like something of a contradiction.

At other times, there is hard-core action usually featuring the chap shown on the left and a, er, guest:

Here, there are no distorting lenses but, more often, strange and interesting angles:

I ought to point out that I'm not really going anywhere else with this post. It was just an observation and a, er, sharing.

I do rather marvel at the colours they use (where on earth would you buy a sofa like that?):

Something rather sickly about some of them, actually:

No matter how hunky the models are, in this pair.

Or, indeed, in this final shot: I am rather besotted with this fine-looking chap:

Er... Yes, well, that started well but rather ran out of steam, I fear. Sorry. Will try harder next time.

Clueless

One of the things that often mystifies me about straight porn is the propensity for women to be dressed to look like something out of a Carry On... film:

I never found the Carry Ons to be remotely erotic, so maybe I'm missing out: but to me these women look more like sexless panto dames than erotic figures.

This particular sequence has more perplexing things in store: do straight men (and women?) find it erotic to watch a naked man having a banana thrust into his back passage?

Certainly the man in these pictures does not seem altogether impressed, while the women make comedy gurning faces presumably in a desperate attempt to convey what they hope is at least a smidgen of sexual titillation:

There's much more tedious business in the full sequence, but let's end it here, after the victim has been spanked with a bat of some sort (no, I have no idea why, either), to leave him in the condition you see here:

I think that may well have been the least erotic sequence I have ever featured in a blog (including the post, below, on the Wigmore Hall). Must try harder.

Classic

I rarely go to classical music concerts. I find the audience too distracting, the seats too uncomfortable, and I prefer the silent perfection of my own sitting room.

Last night my lovely friend B. persuaded me out to the Wigmore Hall for an evening of Mozart piano quartets (nothing you couldn't hum along to), so I suppressed my hatred of the Coughing Fit Men who always seem to flock to these events and went along.

Hubris... nemesis... Last night, to my eternal shame, it turned out I was the Coughing Fit Man. It wasn't just the Wigmore's luxuriantly abundant floral displays, it was the lunatic in the seat in front of me who had seen fit to bring a bunch of daffodils into the concert hall.

My throat was squeezed shut, my eyes were streaming tears, and the tickly cough became overwhelming. I swear I have never before made such strange noises in public in a futile attempt to suppress my violently spasming diaphragm: that only made matters worse, and noisier. I can only apologise to the musicians and the entire audience for my appalling behaviour.

Not as bad as the geriatrics in the row behind, who insisted on opening individual boiled sweet wrappers at critically important parts of the performance. What is wrong with these people?? Mind you, they looked like they were fast approaching their eighties so I guess they don't give a fuck anymore.

Which is one of the big problems with classical music: it is dying. The average age of the audience last night had to be in the mid-sixties. The promoters have responded by trying to sex-up their offer, selling their musicians as sex gods. Alas, this does not often work:

No, I think they're going to have to find a different approach to that one.

PS: It was the Fauré Quartet, whose Mozart was technically flawless but whose best work was a dramatic little Modern number I had never heard before by (I think) Tim Kirker. I am rubbish at Modern Classical music, but this was utterly engrossing. Wonderful, stripped-down music, almost cinematic.

Joy

I'm sure I've previously commented on the aesthetic and sensual joys of what is vulgarly known as, I think, the "reach around":

It's nice to have it confirmed photographically, though. Joyful is the only word I can think of for that.

Initiation

A fistful of fun from a porn site whose owners had the genius idea of using a hazing theme.

There are endless opportunities for photosequences featuring very cute "straight" jocks forced to strip off and engage in "simulated" homosexual activities, all for the lads.

I find this immensely charming.

There's something about how rubbish they are at dressing up in drag which adds to their sexy vulnerability.

That and their cocks poking out, obviously.

What porn site theme has not yet been done? I may need a new career, and small winkies are the only thing I know anything about.