Have a fallout with your pink1 sword?
Try Red Sword.
They’re “meat resistant.”
Have a fallout with your pink1 sword?
Try Red Sword.
They’re “meat resistant.”
When I first saw this photo I was rendered speechless.
Besides obvious thick-thighed, meaty-assed splendor that fills virtually every pixel of the image, my pecker filled with blood and my brain flooded with memories from my youth.
Memory upon memory of car sex.
Call me juvenile, but it’s still my favorite place to do it.
Maybe because the first time I messed with a guy, it was road head.
Actually we were parked.
But he started giving it attention while we were still on the road.
Perhaps that event imprinted something deep in my libido that just the thought car sex fills my jeans with a few inches of anticipation.
In fact, if you told me I could either have sex in a five-star Parisian hotel on 800 thread-count sheets or the bed of an old Ford truck parked behind an abandoned K-Mart, I’m likely to answer “Gimme the keys.”1
I’m all about any opportunity to drive a stick.
It’s been a few while since I rocked four tires. The Attorney and I had an awkward session in the back of his SUV one night in the garage of his office building. But, 6′-3″ and 6′-5″ don’t fold up that well in a closed up space.
I’d prefer under the stars in the open air of the bed of my truck. But, he’s not as adventurous in that way as I am.
But, I’ve turned his thinking around on other things over the years.2
There’s still time.
And I intend to make the most of it.
Thanks to BosGuy for sharing the image. He knows what I like.
It is popular belief that I never/have nevered bottomed.
But, one night The Attorney and I got a hotel room…
I always thought it was odd when people have birthday celebrations for babies and toddlers.
What do they know of birthdays and setting a slab of eggs, butter, and sugar on fire?
At that age, the parties are for the givers, not the recipients.
I think it’s sort of the same at the other end of your life.
Even though you’re old enough to understand the concept of birthdays, you’re also old enough to have reached a point where birthdays just don’t mean as much to you as to those around you.
At 97, I think it’s that way for Granny.
Some recents years, she has even had to be reminded that it was her special day.
So there’s always the question of how far to go.
What do you even do to honor the 97th?
By that time the honoree is so close to 100 that you kind of want to save the best ideas for then. But at same time, when you’re that close to 100, each birthday on the way be the last.
A Twitter friend suggested I get her 97 of her favorite flower. Her favorites are African violets, but they grow in clusters. 97 pots would be overkill and even enough pots to come up with 97 blooms seemed like it would be a bit much.
Her second favorite are tulips. I would have needed to have thought ahead enough and planted 97 bulbs last fall.
And do you know what 97 cut tulips cost?
More than you’d think.
More than I thought, anyway.
So, I decided to go with daffodils.
I don’t know that they are a favorite. But I know she likes them. We have a ton of them growing on our property.
She doesn’t go outside a lot anymore. So, she’s only been able to enjoy them through the window.
Why not bring some in?
So, now there are eight vases, each with a dozen stems, throughout the house.
One more stem, the 97th, will be served tonight with the traditional birthday pound cake.
Here’s hoping she understands what it means.T
Why do size queens get such a bad rap?
The term “size queen,” itself is generally used in a derogatory manner.
I’ve never really heard it used in a positive way.
Only as a put down.
“That Chris is such a size queen.”
Why is that? What’s so wrong with liking a man who puts a little more meat on the table?
Big Love is such a stigma that some guys are embarrassed, or even unwilling, to admit to it.
I think it’s unfair.
What makes your dick hard, makes your dick hard.
For some people it’s a plus-sized cock. For some it’s big booties. For others it may be hairy torsos.
Nobody is throwing shade at fur queens.
I’m guessing the disrespect comes from guys who may be a little less gifted in the britches.
So, a plus-sized hang is not your feature. Big deal.
I don’t have an ass, but that doesn’t give me the right to hate on guys who do.
In fact, I love them.
I love size queens, too.
And they seem pretty okay with me.
If you’re a size queen I say embrace it.
I’m behind you all the way.
You ever wonder where your taste comes from?
Not, what you taste like.
But why you like what you like.
The former is probably mostly diet, hygiene, and chemistry.
The latter is probably mostly just chemistry.
Or general science.
You know, magnetic poles and stuff.
Taste, as in attractions.
Recently a buddy made a remark about me liking older men.
And my first thought was, “I don’t like older men.”
Meaning that I like more than just older men.
Age has never been factor in what butters my biscuits.
But, I will admit that since being with The Attorney I do notice older men more than I used to.
I’m not so sure that’s a change of taste as much as a sliding scale.
Like most people, it’s probably most accurate to say that I tend to like guys in a certain range on either side of my own age.
Given the number of times I have been referred to as a “daddy” in the last couple of years I must be sliding into “older man” status, myself. And, all things being relative, I guess my tastes are sliding along with it.
Maybe it’s like how as a child, you love anything involving ketchup because of the sweet taste, but as you grow older, your tastes expand as you are exposed to more.
Could it be that all these years with The Attorney has given me a new appreciation for older men?
Or was it always a latent tendency that he finally brought out in me?
Either way, I guess that makes him responsible.
Just like my discovery of an attraction to very tall men.
With extra long legs.
And a wide grin.
And arresting charm.
That’s the way I like it.
How lucky am I that found someone who suits my tastes.1
And who likes the way I taste. ↩
I know I have been sort of MIA the last couple of weeks. Mostly because I haven’t had that much to talk about. And what free time I’ve had lately, I’ve been working on T-Shirt ideas for Shirts and Grins. We’re slowly but surely getting some traffic and a few sales, so I’m trying to crank out new ideas.
Above are my four most recent: Woody’s Surf Shack, inspired by 70′s surfer culture; Gents, inspired by Victorian restroom signs; Happycock Snacks1 and Hot Ginger Sauce2, both take offs on product logos. If you click through the thumbnails and then click again, you can see the details better.
You can even buy each of them without even leaving the blog!3.
If I start getting more sales, maybe I’ll have more time to write! :-)
We take this commercial break to bring you the latest shirt being offered by my T-Shirt shop Shirts and Grins.
You can buy it right here through the blog, or if you want to see the other seven color options, you can View Color Options and buy.
But even better, if you go directly to the site, you will be offered a 15% off coupon for selecting an option to follow Shirts and Grins on Twitter or like us on Facebook.1 It’s a great way to help me spread the word about my shirts and save on that first shirt(s) I know you want to buy!
Invite your friends and followers to go to the site to like and follow, and they’ll have access to the coupon, too.2
I’d truly appreciate it.3
After the Attorney left, following a weekend stay at our house, Granny said to me “You make sure you treat him right.”
I was a little offended that her concern was for how he was treated rather than how I, her own grandson, was.
“I know he treats you right. You’re always happy.”
She wanted to be sure he was happy, too.
“Since you were little,” she went on, “I’ve always worried if you would be happy.”
Her worry mostly stemmed from how I handled the loss of both my parents in my teens. She said it turned my brother mean and turned me sad.
“And you being like you are…”
I didn’t know what she meant at first. But, as she kept talking I realized she was referring to my sexuality.
I’m not sure she has ever used the “G” word. Not to me, anyway.
She’s aware and she’s cool. But, I can’t remember her ever actually saying the word.
Like many people of a certain age, Granny worried that being gay would be a sentence of isolation and loneliness.
“I’ve seen so many live their lives without anyone.”
It was strange to hear a woman who never speaks of homosexuality, speak with familiarity.
It made me ask if she knew folks or had friends.
She looked at me like I had a horn on my head and asked if the sky is blue.
“Nobody has ever walked this earth that doesn’t know folks.”
I guess you don’t get to be 97 years old1 and not.
And apparently I was one of those folks she knew even before I knew it.
“You weren’t ‘sissyfied’ or anything,” she said.
Her busting out old school Southern vernacular made me laugh. ”But, you were always up under your mama. There’s something to boy like that.”
She reminded me that she doesn’t have a lot of time left, but said that it will be a lot more peaceful for her to go knowing she didn’t leave me by myself.
“So you be good to him so you don’t lose him.”
Here I thought I’ve been looking after Granny for the last 15 years or so.
Turns out she is still looking after me.
next month ↩