“Tall and tan and young and handsome…”
I do love a leggy man.
*Posted in honor of BosGuy’s recent Brazilian tour.
“Tall and tan and young and handsome…”
I do love a leggy man.
For several years, Granny has had trouble managing stairs of more than 3-4 steps.
So, she is never on the upper floor of our house anymore. I have it all to myself.
At least, that’s what I thought.
Some things are best left unknown.
Because I now know that it’s time to invest in a baby gate for the stairs.
Yesterday I got home and asked Granny about her day.
“You’re going to think I am such a dummy,” she said shaking her head and chuckling.
She went on to explain that the cold weather was drying out her skin and she was out of lotion, so she had worked her way up the steps to my bedroom to find some.
There is no lotion in my bedroom.
“I found that out after I ended up covering my hands with that sanitizer. You should have seen me,” she howled.
I’m glad I didn’t.
Because that pump bottle is not hand sanitizer, either.
“I don’t like it very much,” Granny complained, asking me where I got it.
The fact is that I got it online.
“Well, I wouldn’t get any more of it. It’s awful. It didn’t dry up very fast. I had to wash my hands afterward.”
I’m glad she did.
Because that’s where she finally found some lotion.
In the bathroom.
While she was washing off the lube.
Christmas-themed memes have sort of been a tradition on my blogs. I looked back and combined some past ones into this meme. Answers to some questions have changed on some over time, but most are pretty constant. If you have a blog, please feel free to post your own answers and leave a link in comments.
The Attorney does, proving my point. ↩
In darts, a double bullseye refers to the “smaller, inner circle.”
I have a few other names for that spot.
Since it’s basically impossible to hit two in one throw, I guess one of them is going to have to wait his turn.
This is a rerun post from my original blog, Largetony Blog. It was first published December 15, 2005 with the title “Pining.”
You ever considered how picking out a Christmas tree has similarities to cruising for dick? There you are, checking out the ranks, on the hunt for that perfect specimen: a big, thick, sturdy one that you think just might hit the ceiling. Be careful how you handle it in your fists or your hands might get all sticky. You might even get the gunk on your clothes. It’s safer to use a glove. Next, you drag it home and pop a tight ring around it’s base. Then, next to a roaring fire you lay on your belly underneath it, and screw and screw and screw. You take a break, get it upright again, then screw and screw some more. Oh sure, it keeps you happy and satisfied for a while, but eventually the magic wears off and you toss it out and hunt for a different one next time. Even if it’s not a real one, you hide it away until you have use for it again.
Well, I went cruising for a tree tonight. It’s a little late for me this year. Even though Christmas is not a big splashy deal at my house (when there’s only two of you and one has lived almost nine decades, there’s not much call for an overblown holiday), the one thing I really do get into is the tree. It’s always been my thing.
When I was kid I was always the one to pick out the tree. It wasn’t like some family ritual to let the baby choose the tree. Please don’t imagine me as a bean-pole Cindy-Loo Who from “The Grinch.” It really made no difference to my father. His only interest and obligation to the tree was getting it standing. The pines and spruces didn’t hold much interest for my brother, either, until after Christmas when he would take it outside and see how fast he could a still partially green tree to burn. (No matter what you got for Christmas, no toy can excite a redneck kid like a book of matches.) My mother focused on the making it pretty, so (with her help) the selection fell to me. By the time I had come to live with my grandparents, they were happy to let a teenager handle the effort.
Over the years, I have gotten trees just about every way you can, besides growing your own or stealing one. There were trees bought at tree lots, trees bought at grocery stores, trees bought at nurseries, trees cut in the woods (okay, that might count as stealing because I’m not sure we always knew if it was on someone’s property), and trees from tree farms. But the one thing I have never had is a tree from a box. Never had an artificial tree. I don’t think I ever will.1
I will admit that there are a lot of really beautiful fake trees out there. And a lot of people are switching to them because they are easier to put up and they don’t leave the trails of pine throughout the house. (Face it, after a few days in the house, a fresh cut tree is like having a long-haired cat that you decorated with tinsel and bells.) And as re-usable tree become more popular, the perishable kind gets more and more expensive. But I’ll paythe price, because fake Christmas trees also don’t leave the smells of pine throughout the house. And that is the best part of it for me.
I really don’t get all that into the decorating part. I mean, I enjoy it, but I’m not all that good at it. You won’t ever see one of my trees in Martha Stewart’s magazine. But decorating it is all part of producing that potent woodsy sweet smell of pine. It may be just something I create in my mind, but I swear that once the lights start giving off heat, it makes the smell stronger. You don’t have a nose as big as mine and not become a smell-oriented person.
When I brought my big boy home tonight, Granny lit up. She enjoys Christmas as much as I do, and although I’m sure she has been seeing holiday images and stuff on TV the last several weeks, I think seeing the tree made it really register that Christmas is coming. She sat and watched me, giving me advice on where to remove excess branches without ruining the shape. When I was cleaning up, she took a little sprig from the cuttings and put it in a glass of water. She told me she wanted to have the smell in her room, so she put the glass on her night table.
We didn’t decorate tonight. That’s probably gonna come on the weekend when I have more time. Besides, when you have a tree that’s been sitting out in the cold, it needs a good day or so to warm up so that the branches relax. Too many times I have decorated a cold tree, only to have the ornaments dumped on the floor as the limbs softened. But before the weekend, I’m gonna go by the tree lot and look for another fir (I like short needle trees. We always had long needle trees as a kid, but it was like trying to decorate Velcro). Granny’s sprig in the glass inspired me to surprise her with her own little tree for her room. Nothing big. Maybe three feet or so. And also like a dick, it doesn’t have to be a big one to be satisfying.2
The latest meme in Just A Jeep Guy‘s TMI series:
KISS THE COOK!
1. How good of a cook are you?
Pretty damned good.
2. Who taught you how to cook?
Granny, of course.
3. Who does the cooking in your home?
Little ol’ me. Granny sometimes helps with minor things like chopping vegetables and stuff. Guess she’s like my sous chef. When The Attorney is around, he does the same. His OCD makes him handle a knife like a surgeon. He can chop anything perfectly.
4. Do you cook more or eat out more?
My family has never been big eat-out people. Basically only special occasions. But, The Attorney and I always go out for burgers on Friday nights. Otherwise, I pretty much cook daily.
5. Are you more of a cook or dessert maker?
Just because granny can’t eat sweets much, I don’t do a lot of desserts. But I do love to bake cakes and cookies. Often I give them away.
6. What was your worst/funniest cooking moment?
The only thing that quickly comes to mind is when I forgot about a pot of pasta boiling on stove. All the water evaporated and it burned. I can’t remember a worse smell.1
7. What’s your best dish?
I make a really great pork tenderloin on the grill. And our family recipe rum cake.
8. Is revenge a dish best served cold?
While I can hold a grudge with no effort, I don’t tend to act in a vengeful way.
9. Is the best way to a man’s heart truly through his stomach?
If you start at the sphincter and work your way up into the lower chest cavity. It has nothing to do with food.
involving food. ↩
Good shoulders. Nice ass. Scruffy face. Playing in the water.
These are some of my favorite things.
But, you know what I like best about this photo?
He seems like the quiet type.
I know it sounds weird, but quiet guys really turn me on.
Besides seeming more approachable than the life of the party, the quietest guys often turn out to be noisiest in the sack.1
And I like a nice loud fuck.
It’s like a challenge to see how noisy you can make them.
A holler is more than a place in the mountains.
I guess it’s a release of some sort. ↩
Two men meet at a lunch counter.
HIM: Did you see that parade last weekend?
HE: I heard about it.
HE: It’s just a way of celebrating.
HIM: Look, I don’t care what people celebrate in their own homes, but I don’t want to see it.
HE: You don’t have to.
HIM: You expect me to just ignore it? When they are waving it right in my face?
HE: It’s a Christmas parade.
HIM: They had him right up there on a float for everybody to see. All dressed up in red and shaking his jingle bells.
HE: You mean Santa Claus?
HIM: There were children there. That’s not right.
HE: Shouldn’t that be up to their parents?
HIM: I guess I’m different. I believe in traditional Christmas. The Bible says that Christmas should be between a man and Jesus.
HE: I don’t think the Bible says that, exactly.
HIM: Well, I don’t believe in Santa Claus.
HE: Who says you have to?
HIM: Those North Pole-loving types. You know how they are pushing their agenda. Even that so-called President is trying to make us believe in Santa Claus.
HE: I think all anyone wants is the right to believe in Santa Claus. Just like you have the right to believe what you do.
HIM: Make it okay to believe in Santa Claus and it’s just a slippery slope. Next they will be wanting to believe in the Easter Bunny.
HE: Do you really believe that?
HIM: I guess you believe in Santa Claus then?
HE: It doesn’t matter what I believe, as long as it doesn’t take anything away from someone else.
HIM: Yeah, right.
HIM: No. Rights.
Some of my best fantasies are black.1
openly gay NFL free agent Dorien Bryant. ↩
The Attorney and I have sort of a standing 11PM phone call during the week.
To say good night to each other.
That’s generally when he goes to bed. For me it’s at least two hours later.
Last night he called about an hour earlier than usual. I was about to head to the store to pick up a few things before getting some of the prep cooking out of the way for Thanksgiving dinner.
He asked me if I wanted help cooking. He figured he could get here around the time I got back home.
There was not a whole lot to do. So, I didn’t want him to drive all that way.
“What if I want to come?”
You can’t really argue with an attorney.
Plus, I like having him around.
Even if the focus of our time together is not on us.
Actually, those are some of our best times.
Together, but doing our own thing.1
Sort of being alone together.
On paper, we’re a weird couple.
For seven years we have mostly had only weekends together.
Not necessarily every weekend and often not the entire weekend.
Even today, he will go spend the holiday with his mother.2
We have obvious differences in education and socio-economic status.
We both have very particular OCDs about the same things.3
He is as refined as I am lacking.
We’re almost of different generations.
We’re not supposed to work.
But, we seem to.
For the most part.
It’s kind of like wearing a silk tie with a wifebeater.4
It looks pretty crazy.
But, if the wearer feels comfortable and likes the fit, does it matter?
I love the fit.
That makes me thankful.