The hottest ass in West Hollywood

It was a work of art. Perfectly sculpted, perfectly shaped, and perfectly borne. I knew this even though I couldn't see most of it... only to where his khaki shorts began. Upto where that tiny bead of sweat had trickled, all the way down his smooth, sinewy spine, to land and settle among the few wisps of hair at the small of his back. Just between the two fleshy mounds that disappeared under his shorts. He was wearing no underwear (this I knew because the top 2 buttons of his shorts were undone, exposing ample amounts of curly pubic hair on an otherwise smooth torso).
I'm not sure which was cuter: the small ketchup stain on his front side pocket, or the two crumpled flaps on his back pockets - one pointing up and the other down, very much like the ears of a curious, happy, little beagle. His shorts were effortlessly held up by its firm, convex mounds. When he shifted his posture, the cheeks flexed ever so slightly.
He was half way across the bar, but in my mind I was caressing it, and feeling it up against me, naked, both our shorts down at our ankles.
(click here for more on our LA trip: the French Market; the hotel)

The Glory of Love in Grade 10

Drew arranged my first date with Sandy.
A bunch of us were at his place watching 'The Karate Kid'. His parents and brothers were away for the day so we had the place to ourselves (how cool was that!). All I could do was stare at Sandy as she watched the movie. She was so HOT. She had dark curly hair, beautiful eyes hidden behind gold-rimmed glasses, and was very petite. She was wearing a red skirt that stopped at her knees. Whenever she put one of her feet up on the coffee-table I would stare, hoping desperately her skirt would ride up a little. It never did.
We started 'officially dating' the next day, when I mustered up the courage to buy her a little card that declared my undying love for her. And, we 'lasted' for about four months.
Years later the three of us would have a good laugh. Drew and I would officially come out to each other. And Sandy would admit she always figured I was gay ('Drew was a surprise, though!').
Funny, since Drew and I were having sex with each other all the time during high school. But it was just sex. It wasn't dating. Or being gay. And that made perfect sense to us: the sort-of-gay ('questioning' is what they call it these days), desperate-to-fit-in, sex-crazed teenagers we were.

Excuse me, but are you guys into 4-ways?

"Dude, he's way too Castro-clone for me."
"What about him - over there?" I ask.
"Much better. I think he lives in the Sunset. If he does, I hooked up with him once last year."
Spike and I are on our third drink at the Mix, and busy discussing the meaning of life, spirituality, collective social responsibility and other such weighty topics. We're having one of our heavy, philosophical nights.
"What about this guy?" he asks.
"Yes, as a matter of fact." I say, watching as a guy with a buzz cut and a really cute ass walks by.
"He's hot," Spike says.
"So is his friend over there. He's more your type," I say.
The two of them are standing together looking over at us. The shorter buzz-cut one looks vaguely familiar.
"I think I know him from the gym," I say.
Spike laughs out loud. "Dude, you say that about every cute guy."
(more on Spike: Spike Officer on Nifty)

Boxer-briefs & Beethoven's 14th

We're making out on his sofa when I ask him about his piano.
"Yeah, I guess I'm pretty good, just a bit rusty. Here, let me show you."
Still shirtless and clad only in his boxer-briefs (which I notice are a little tented), he takes his seat at the upright piano in the corner. He opens an old music book to Beethoven's Sonata #14, stretches his fingers & hands a little, and starts playing.
I stand there, in total awe, as the sounds of Moonlight sonata fills his cozy, 1-bedroom apartment. His long, delicate fingers move over the keyboard, effortlessly producing one of the most beautiful melodies ever composed. I watch the muscles in his broad shoulders and his back as his body lifts and falls with the rhythm. His right foot gently works the pedal beneath, and his eyebrows rise periodically as he deciphers the notes on the sheet in front of him, turning them into music. Tears begin to well in my eyes, at the beauty of not only the Sonata, but also of the man playing it.
I applaud wildly when he finishes, and he bows graciously.
"Wow! Noone's ever played just for me before!" I say, still a bit misty-eyed.
"And noone's ever given me a standing ovation in their boxers before," he says. He draws me close, and we continue making out.

Miguel

It was the end of summer, 2001. The Santa Cruz Boardwalk won't be open for much longer this year, Ernest kept reminding everyone.
Miguel decided he'd come along with us. Afterall, he was feeling great... for someone with almost no T-cells left. He had a solid 5 months left to live (but none of us knew this then, of course).
Ernest loves rides. Miguel and I can't stand them. So, after dinner, from the safety of a park bench, Miguel and I watched Ernest go on the rides - back and forth and up and down and sideways and front - wildly, giddily, dizzyingly, almost nauseatingly.
A lady sat down beside us, but then got up quickly, recoiling at the sight of Miguel. She looked almost as horrified as the waitress back at the restaurant.
"You don't look that bad" I said to him.
"No, I didn't think so. They should have seen me a couple months ago, when I had that intestinal - "
"DON'T remind me." I said, cutting him off.
We both laughed. Miguel was funny that way.

Speedos, hairy legs and a heatwave on Castro Street

"You like that?"
"yeah...."
"Faster?"
"ooh.... umm... just that way. yeahhhh...."
"All the way?"
"No not yet... ah.. ahhh... oh, yessss... all the way, please!"
"And this? like it when I do this?"
"Ahhh... AHHH"
"Oh yeah"
"mmmhhh... mmhhh... "
"that's the way!"
"mmmfffffffffffffffffhhhh"
"don't hold back... let it all go..."
"..."
"yeah?"
"..."
"Yeah?"
".....AHHHHHHHHHH.....mmmmmmmmUUUUUUUgggghhhh"
"Ohhhhh... yeah." :)

WE DO! WE LOVE FRUITCAKE!!!

"Nobody likes fruitcake." That's what blogger Dean. S. Planet (self-described "Entertainment News: I get right to the good shit") has to say about Mark McGrath performing with Shania Twain in Party for Two.
Ya.
I guess he hadn't heard of our recent poll ("Who would YOU party with, Mark or Billy?"), where Mark is winning over Billy, albeit by a slim margin.

Tell me a story

"You're the story-teller, not me!" Phoenix says, laughing. It's a cold night, and the electric blanket has just kicked in.
"Aww... please? Please???" I beg and plead until he finally relents.
"OK. I'll try. Once upon a time there was a handsome soldier..."
We're curled up together and Phoenix has his arm around me. My head is resting on his chest.
As the story unfolds, his soft voice rises and falls in cadence, and I find myself getting sleepier and sleepier.
"...and the young prince said..."
I stifle a yawn. His hands are lazily caressing my body. I am doing the same to his, although I'm slowing down... drifting...
"Uh huh," I say periodically, barely awake. I reach up and kiss him, afraid I might fall asleep before long.
"... and the brave soldier set off to find..."

The next thing I know it is 7 AM and sunlight is streaming through the windows of my bedroom.
"Good morning, Andrew!" Phoenix says, stretching. He's just woken up too. I find myself recalling a dream, about a handsome prince from Arizona and a soldier carrying a rainbow flag across a busy street intersection, in a land far, far away.

Anything to see Derek's bright, straight-boy smile

"Yo, Andrew!" Derek bounds towards my cube with his usual Tigger-like enthusiasm.
He sits on the edge of my desk, asking, "So how's the progress on..."
All I can think is that his ass is inches away from my coffee mug. I desperately want to reach out and grab it. He's wearing tight, flat-front khakhis, and I see the outline of his carkeys in his front pocket. His blue polo-shirt with horizontal red stripes, unbottoned and just a tiny bit frayed, makes him look like a 30-something year old teenager.
What color boxers is he wearing, I find myself wondering.
"I'm almost done. I should have a first draft by tomorrow," I lie. I haven't even started on it.
"Cool, dude!" He smiles brightly, with that squeaky-clean, straight-boy affability that makes me swoon. "I'll set up a one-on-one... you free for lunch tomorrow?"
(more Derek posts: Derek's boxers, Derek's blue sweater, Derek's ass)

At the French Market in WeHo

"Now these ones are singularly FABULOUS!" says Ernest, holding up a pair of pink, glitter-coated sunglasses, the rims shaped like large Chanel handbags.
"What about these?" I say handing him a pair with large blue rims shaped like wings. Ernest puts them on, and suddenly looks like Dame Edna.
"Andrew these ones are you!" He hands me an extra large pair covered with deep red feathers and velvet and shiny sequins.
"Oohh that one has a matching boa!" shrieks James, the shopkeeper, eagerly rifling through a box behind the counter. "Here it is!" he delightedly holds up a long, red boa. "You can't buy such preciousness for 6 dollars!"
"Hey try these ones on!" I'm holding up a pair that have martini-glass rims, replete with olives and stir-sticks. Ernest turns around to face me, wearing a pair of dark brown shades with very large lilies attached to one end.
"Are these a bit too... umm...Billie Holiday?" Ernest asks, with a theatrical flourish.
"Oh please! You MUST take them!" James gushes. I think he is about to pass out with giddiness, "Noone else has ever done that pair such justice!"
Between Ernest and James, I'm suddenly beginning to feel a bit camped out. I feel the urge to go watch the game at a sportsbar or something. Good thing Francis and Miss Keith aren't here, I think.

Taking care of Andrew's drunk ass

So here we are, at 2 AM driving up and down Hollywood Boulevard looking for a hotel. Rather, I (Ernest) am driving. Andrew's fast asleep (Is that snoring I hear from the passenger seat?!?).
We should have made reservations days ago. Andrew never listens. "Don't worry, we'll probably hook up with someone in We Ho anyways!" he cheerfully dismisses the need for any sort of planning. "It's a vacation! Lighten up, Ernest!"
Ya.
He usually leaves these sort of details to me when we travel together. Not that I'm complaining, really. He's fun to travel with, and does indeed often end up hooking up and getting us both a place to stay.
The sign on that hotel up ahead says... yep. VACANCY. We might just be in luck. I flash my headlights at the group of people sqabbling in the driveway - a Latina prostitute wearing way too much cheap makeup and costume jewelry, her pimp, and an elder Japanese couple. They move aside, gesturing apologetically.
I survey the hotel. Certainly not my first preference of lodgings, but will do quite nicely for the night. It's not like Andrew will notice. We'll be lucky if he wakes up for our 10 AM brunch thing.
(click here for more postings on the LA trip: Santa Monica Boulevard )

Until the sun comes up over...

It's nice to be back after such long reprieve. We're driving down Wilshire ... through Westwood & UCLA, past Beverly Hills to West Hollywood, and here we are... Santa Monica Boulevard. Gorgeous summer weather, a distant, smoggy orange sunset, gently swaying palm trees and immactulately beautiful people driving expensive convertibles. And boys. Everywhere. Lots and lots of them. With muscles, great hair and year round tans.
It's good to be back, I think to myself. I find parking right in front of the Abbey.
"First round's on me!" I say, nudging Ernest, "C'mon! Let's go!"

Eric & Dave on Vacation - Chapter 4

Here it is, y'all,

Eric and Dave and their girlfriends are back. Find out what happens on their last day in Mexico.

Alone with Eric and Steph, I felt a sense of overwhelming contentedness. My beautiful girlfriend Steph, whose smile made my heart melt, and my best buddy Eric, the most handsome guy I’d ever known...

Click here to read the full story - Eric & Dave on Vacation, Chapter 4

Hope you enjoy it, and, as always, let me know what you think! Either e-mail me, or post a comment here!

Party for Two: who would you choose - Mark or Billy?

No, it's not my party. It's Shania Twain's. She has two versions of her 2004 music video and I just recently discovered the Billy Currington version. The boys go absolutely crazy at the Midnight Sun when they play either... And seriously, you've got to be straight not to like atleast one of them:
Click here for the one with Mark McGrath (your gorgeous, LA-style hottie)
and here's the Billy Currington version (your hunky cowboy stud)

Who would YOU party with?

Goblin Market by the Bay

Rows of stalls with brightly colored flowers - chrysanthemums, irises, sunflowers; baked breads, cheeses, jams & preserves; ripe fruit - peaches, plums, strawberries; fresh summer greens, asparagus, squash & artichokes; herbs - basil, chives, sage, lavender. Lavender... its clean, florid scent perfumes the air. Local artists display their wares, while small groups of musicians performing around the grounds lend a festive atmosphere to an already summerful sunny Saturday morning.
We mill through the stands, talking to vendors, sampling food, selecting fruit & vegetables to buy.
We've become characters in a Christina Rossetti poem, I think to myself, Phoenix and I.
His hand feels warm in mine, and the lightest of spray carried by the breeze off the San Francisco Bay is cool against my skin.
(more on Phoenix: this weekend; he kisses like Trevor)

Happy Hour on the Castro

I admit I am drunk... But not so drunk as to not notice a beautiful thing in front of me, or that raw, masculine, musky smell I know only too well. Moving down, I close my eyes. Gently, yet very firmly, the hand on the back of my head provides a steady rhythm. My forehead is now pressed up against a hard, tight landscape of muscle and smooth skin, with only a sheath of sweat separating us. I hear guttural moans of approval. I am smiling, inwards and outwards, as our rhythm picks up...

Work harder, you lazy top!

Anyone other than Keith would have gotten thrown out of my bed. But I can't help just cracking up when it comes from Keith. Actually, it's his Miss Keith persona that gets away with being as saucy and bitchy and campy as she wants....
"And could you please wash the sheets between tricks? "
"But, I usually do!" I say, laughing.
"And this?" he asks, imperiously. He's holding up a condom wrapper. "I suppose this came from the dryer?"
If I wasn't laughing so hard my sides hurt, I probably would have been embarassed.

It's only for a month...

"... and you can always come and visit. I'm driving down to Boston for a few days but the rest of the time I'll be in Brooklyn, working away on my manuscript," Paul says.
"Still. I'll miss you," I say, putting my head on my buddy's shoulder. New York is 6 hours and $500 away from San Francisco.
I don't want the evening to end, but it's past 11, and they've already begun closing up. Marco (the tall one with the blond highlights) is wrapping up the pastries and tallying cash at the register. Jose (the short, hunky one sporting a Giants baseball cap) has already put most of the chairs up on the tables and is sweeping the floor. He has just changed the sign on the door from OPEN to CLOSED and is looking over at us.
Paul puts an arm around me.
The next 30 seconds belong to Paul and me - silent, fleeting, and wistful. I feel like a teenager saying good-bye to a best friend just before the summer holidays.
"I hate to do this guys," Jose's baritone voice sounds regretful and a little tired, "but we're closing up..."
(more posts on Paul: 'The California Coast & Arthur Hallam')

Got next weekend for me, hotstuff?

"I'll be in town again," says Phoenix.
"I'm all yours," I reply, already feeling all warm and mushy inside. Woo-hoo! Another weekend of Phoenix!
"Cool," he says. "So you been busy with that tight body of yours?"
"Umm... no... umm... I've been saving it all for you..."
We both laugh at my joke.
Phoenix really knows how to make a guy feel sexy. Whether we're in bed together, or out of bed, he's always mentioning my hard muscles or my tight waist, or my six-pak. He holds me like he thinks my body is the sexiest thing he's ever been with. This, of course, works wonders on my ego, and more importantly, makes me hornier than ever.
(more posts on Phoenix: "he kisses like Trevor"; "missing Keith's party")

A gallon of chicken soup and a nice hot bath

"IN the chicken soup??? I prefer bubbles and rubber duckies myself," I respond, tongue in cheek.
I hear something that sounds like Philip chuckling, through a dense haze of allergic gunk clogging his nose and sinuses. He was calling to cancel our dinner plans.
"You realize you brought it on yourself, right, Philip?" I say. "You work too hard. What you really need to do is play too hard. Like me. It makes getting sick every now and then worth it."
"You do have a point there," Philip says.

Great advice from my trick last night

We were just waking up this morning. We'd met at Badlands the night before, stumbled back to my place, fell into bed, did the deed and passed out. The roomie's gone for 5 days, yippee! Not that it really matters, of course.
I wanted to get on with the day and couldn't be bothered with a shower or shave.
"Don't sweat it... in this town you can be as skanky as you want, it's still way sexy. I mean, so long as your hair looks good, that is," he says.
What awesome advice, I think, gelling my hair into place. I need to listen to 23 year olds more often.