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Two Trains


I officially put the 37th year of my life behind me this weekend.

And started number 38.

Life is a process.  Constantly changing and growing and moving.

And with it, so are we.

Over the years I have fallen into a sort of birthday morning ritual.

I get out of bed, and before I do anything else (except maybe take a piss) I stand in the mirror.

Naked as the day I was born,  I examine the man I have become.

The most obvious assessments are physical.

While the years have gradually slowed my metabolism just enough that I’m not the bean pole I had been for three-fourths of my existence, they are still a long way off from effecting my posture.

I still stand tall and strong.

In every sense.

I still have have big ears.  But there’s more gray in my beard.

From a spill I took at work, my left shoulder now has less range of motion than my right.

And I still don’t have much of a chest.

But the internal stuff is harder to nail down.

How far along am I on the way to where I’m supposed to be?

Determining that is kind of like those equations where two trains head toward each other at different speeds and you have to figure out where and when they will cross.

The ultimate destination isn’t as important a factor as the points along the way.

That hit me later that afternoon while I was floating in The Attorney’s pool.

I was watching him pull himself out of the water, his wet trunks digging so deep into his crack that I wished they were me.

How did I ever come to this place in my life?  To not only have access to a such a sweet, loving, devoted, handsome, and sexy man who can soften my heart as easily as he can harden my cock, but to also be able to call him mine.

I can’t solve the equation.

But I do know that somehow, traveling along their respective lines, those trains didn’t just meet.

They collided.

In an intense and explosive crash that left a beautiful wreckage so entwined that the strength of a thousand men will never pull them apart.

[ fin ]

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I’m 37 years old today.

The temperature is supposed to hit over 100. (AGAIN.)

So, I intend to spend it naked and in the pool.

Only in my world the big blue water toy is my pecker and the guy fella riding it is The Attorney.

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Hugh Sigh



I think this is my favorite picture ever of my celebrity obsession HughJack.

The beach.  The thighs. The pecs. The scruff.

Plus he likes to read!

He’s going to play The Attorney in the movie version of my life.

It’s comforting to see that he’s also good with having a nice firm hand on the back of the neck.

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Forest Hills – NSFW



I’m not trying to steal the thunder of BosGuy’s ongoing Furry Friday feature, but this is one forest that, thick as it is, could use some planting.

With a sequoia.

The kind you find in East Tennessee.

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Private Hole


A reader told me to go jump in the lake.

But, he meant it in a nice way.

He meant it literally.

In response to my recent post about swimming, he pointed out that yesterday was the first day of summer (and therefore the longest day of the year) and suggested I spend some time at a secret swimming hole that I enjoy.

He must be a long-time reader because I first wrote about it in a post on my original blog that inspired the title of my second blog.

So I took his advice.

It’s been a long time since I have been out there.  Partially because I just haven’t had the freedom, and partially because it’s no so private anymore.

But, yesterday evening I grabbed a towel, put on my trunks, got in the truck, and headed for my little pool of paradise.

I don’t know if it was the time of day or the day of the week, but when I got there it was deserted.

So quiet.  So peaceful.

So mine.

I did my best to not disturb the sun-dappled perfection, easing the first toe in.

No big splash.

I just walked until I was chest deep, then bent my knees and went under.

Under a spell that left all the cares of the day on the shore with my truck and my trunks.

I re-surfaced, fourteen again.

That was about the age I was when I first made the discovered the spot.

I have swum that hole hundreds of times in past twenty years or so, but at first break I am always, if only for a moment, a boy again.

It’s so rare to find this kind of privacy and solitude anymore so I took full advantage of the opportunity.  I didn’t do any hard swimming, but I stayed out long enough wear myself out, prune up a bit, and shrink to a respectable stat.

On wobbly legs, I walked back to the truck, where I sat, wrapped in my towel, looking back down the path to the lake, wondering when I would be back again.

I don’t know when the next time will be.

But, being a creature of habit – and a bit of a romantic -I know where I’m going to spend my summer solstice from here on.

In my private hole.

[ fin ]

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Michael and Me


Michael Phelps of the US Olympic Swimmin

Everybody knows I love the water and that I love to swim.

I’ve been talking about it quite a bit on Twitter lately (@largetony).  Someone the other day responded that I brought to mind Olympic medalist Michael Phelps.

People have said that to me before.  Although he is a better looking man, I can see the similarities – tall, skinny, water babies – particularly when he is wearing a goatee.

They say everybody has a doppelganger of some sort.

But Michael an me are primarily just the same physical type. (His more developed.)

I remember reading once that most of his 6′-4″ height is in his torso and that he has comparatively short legs.  I suffer the same problem at 6′-3″.

And we both have monkey arms and big feet.

These extremes supposedly are big contributors to him being a great swimmer.

Maybe they’re also why I’m a pretty darned good one.

We also share the same birth date.  Exactly ten years apart.

What if we’re different versions of the same guy living in some sort of matrix-y semi-parallel universes?

In one, he’s a super-athlete.  In the other, he’s packing his trunks.

If he’s wearing any.

[ fin ]

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Chocolate Swan



Maybe it’s from the elegance of The Attorney’s stride when he runs, but I’ve really developed a thing for guys with graceful bodies.

What a shame I never banged a dancer.


Figuring Father


He was no Ward Cleaver or Mike Brady or Cliff Huxtable.

He was a rascal.

Best known for his hair and his smile.

He was tall.

And big-shouldered.

There was clear evidence of Cherokee blood in him, made even more clear when the summer sun tanned his sinewy arms.

According to those who were there, he was the most desired young man in the neighborhood.

With a lubricated charm so powerful that it was dangerous.

Women dreamed of having him and, ultimately, having his babies.

Legend is he had many women.

But, only my mama had his babies.

She got him.

And he lost himself.

It’s hard to look back, piece the stories together, and figure things out. But I think my father was married before he intended to be.

Long before.

I have no evidence that he did not love my mother.  In fact, I only hear how crazy they were about each other.

And it would be unfair to imply that he never found any happiness or joy in fathering and raising two sons.

But, I think it killed him that he couldn’t do it the way he would have planned.

It all just happened too soon.

He tried, but he stumbled and fell.

And couldn’t seem to get up again.

By the time I was 17, he was gone from alcohol and drugs.

The potion that had given him so much charm is the same that destroyed him.

You often hear folks say that when somebody dates or marries someone significantly older that they are looking for a father figure.

I never took much stock in it, but given we are fifteen years apart in age, it does make me wonder sometimes whether that is part of my draw to The Attorney.

The physical similarities between he and my daddy are there.

Tall.  Big-shouldered.

The smile.

And the charm.

Oh, so much charm.

A charisma that is palpable.

Do I see in The Attorney what I figure my father hoped to be?

Successful.  Loving.  Sober.

Or is it what I hoped my father to be?

[ fin ]

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I think if Michelangelo had a camera instead of a paintbrush or a chisel, he do something like this.

I know I would do him.

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Grin Cycle



Several month ago, I mentioned that I have a fascination with washing machine sex.

Or maybe I should say “had.”

Because I don’t have it anymore.

The fascination, that is.

Not the sex.  I still have plenty of that.

But not the washing machine kind.

I can’t.

It makes me giggle.

I tried.

But I couldn’t keep a straight face.

Neither could The Attorney.

Don’t get me wrong.  Fun and laughter can be great during sex.

As long as no one is pointing.

But it’s a lot more fun against the wall next to the washer, than on the washer itself.

And there’s no need to attempt the dryer.

We’ve got the tumble cycle down.

[ fin ]

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