Monday, October 22, 2012

What is "Hot?" – Post #44





Against the run of the mill
Swimming against the stream
Life in two dimensions
Is a mass production scheme
                   
~ ”Grand Designs,” N. Peart ‘85



Monday, 10/22/12 10:14 AM
Astor Place Starbucks, sunny and warm

I saw Rush live in NJ, Saturday night.  21st time since 1982, and it was the best I’ve ever seen them.  This is why we love these guys.

Going again tonight.  Yayness.


Ö Ö Ö

Editor's note: I can't seem to get the Comments section to work. Thought I fixed it in Permissions, but alas.




What is “hot,” to you, anyway?

I recently posted some Before & After pictures of random guys, and polled readers as to which was hotter.  I purposely chose guys who weren’t overweight or significantly out of shape, as the poll results would have been obvious.  I wanted to see where I stood in relation to other guys, with regard to my proclivity for men who have a natural physique, as opposed to one that is contrived.  Those polls are a very small sample, but I was a bit surprised that most guys who responded felt the way I do.

Why?  I think we’re bombarded with media images and messages that gym bodies are hotter.  We see so much of it that we just assume that’s how most people think.  Someone recently emailed me, saying something to the effect that he likes built and super-built, “but doesn’t everyone?”  I replied that I wasn’t one of them, to which he answered that he actually didn’t feel that way, exactly, but that he thought that’s what everyone else thought. 

Now let me be clear: I’m not saying that there’s little or no distinction between Donald Trump and Brad Pitt.  What I am saying is that a naturally hot physique may actually (gasp!) be hotter to most guys than guys who strut in and out of a gym, five days a week. 

But why?  I can’t speak for everyanybody, but here’s the deal for me.  It’s almost as much about personality, as it is about looks.  Often enough, I see a guy I think is hot, then if he comes off as arrogant and entitled, I immediately lose my hard-on for him.  Seeing someone who’s trying so hard is not masculine to me, it’s feminine or “high school.”  My father was gorgeous, as was my mother, but all he had to do was throw on a shirt and slacks, while my mother spent hours in front of the mirror to look the way she wanted.  Teen-agers, of course, tend to me very conscious of how they look.  To me, men are men because we don’t have to try so hard. 

Maybe it’s just me.

Imagine a picture of a guy who’s posing, cheeks slightly sucked in and mouth pouting, peering seductively at the camera.  Now imagine a picture of a guy just standing there and smiling.  Which tends to be hotter to you?  The one who’s trying or the one who isn’t?  I believe that the media would lead us to believe in the former, while the reality may be in the latter.

I have a friend who’s been a gym rat for a very long time.  He’s got a great body, but he’s not a snob.  He doesn’t turn his nose up to anyone who doesn’t go to the gym. He’s a great looking guy, and a lot of fun, but what makes him really hot to me is that he doesn’t have an attitude about it.  He’s got his “type,” but he’s cool with anyone who’s cool with him.

Unfortunately, though, this too often is not the case with guys who spend a lot of time on their looks.  I think they feel like all their hard work entitles them, and that they’ve achieved a certain level of stature.  It reminds me of a Seinfeld episode, where Elaine is dating a med student; when he finally passes his exams, he ditches her, because, “I always knew that, once I became a doctor, I’d find someone better.  That’s the dream of becoming a doctor.”

I realize that there are gym rats who don’t think that way (like my friend Arne), but is it the norm?  Can a host really get a party full of gym guys, and still have “no attitude?”

Here are ten men I personally find very hot:





The guys at the top are Dan Butler, from Frasier, and Ed Harris.  You can see the similarities, eh?  To the left is NFL ref, Ed Hochuli. Incredible.  He strikes me as the type who likes to work out, but is cool about it, instead of using it as an "asset."



To the right is former baseball player George Brett. The question is what I wouldn't do to him. Such a MAN. 



Any idea who the man on the left is?  It's Jack Kerouac.  His wet shorts let us see more than we're supposed to.



Lee Majors, my first crush.  He played the Six Million Dollar Man, way back when, and even at a very early age, I knew what I liked.



Mike Rowe, of Dirty Jobs, is a good example of a man who's naturally hot.



That's Rock Hudson, the one on the left.  :sigh:  My friend Art played with him at a sex party in the 60s, in Dallas.



Scott Caan is James Caan's son.  Again, so natural.  So normal.  So unpretentious.  At least in this picture.  Google him to see the difference when he's posing.



To the right is William Holden, with the typical mid-20th century beautiful body.  I'd eat a mile of his shit to find where it came from.













With the exception of Ed Hochuli, they’re all natural looking.



I used to think John Slattery was hot, ‘til I found out he’s a jerk.  Not hot anymore.


So, what do you find hot?  What level of bodywork or lack thereof?  Is “no attitude” really more important to you than big pecs?  For the first time, I’m opening this up to comments.  Please be civil.

Ö Ö Ö


This has nothing to do with sex, but everything to do with affirmative living.

My friend Steve died on Thursday 10/18, after a 4-year battle with colorectal cancer.  He was not a member of our party circle; he wasn’t even gay.  He was, however, one of the most affirmative, positive, and funniest people I’ve ever met.  Steve was 53 years old.

I met Steve 4 ½ years ago, through my friend, Art.  The first time I walked into his Christopher Street apartment – the first time anyone walks into Steve’s apartment – I was immediately taken by how comfortable it was, and it reminded me of Jeannie’s bottle.  Almost every square inch of wall and surface, and even some air space, was occupied by funky conversation pieces. Plastic figurines of two women, arm-in-arm, on the mantle; walls full of CDs; funny 1940s advertisements; wicca thingamajigs; a mobile with superheroes dangling; strings of lights; and the obligatory large screen TV.  Many of the decorations were added by his friends.  Steve’s home was so invititing and full of kinship, just like Steve. 

He could imitate anyone, any character, and was especially good at imitating a proper English actor (even though he was from Queens).  To hear him do a South Park character would leave us all in stitches.  Especially his Mr. Slave, “Jezus Chriiiist.”

Even through all the pain, especially over the last year when he couldn’t sit upright, he was always Up.  He rarely complained and always lived his life as being worth living – giving up was never an option.

My last conversation with Steve, the day before he died, while I was loading up his iPod with Floyd, Yes, and the like, he told me that he’d arranged for his small business to be taken over by a close friend, and that his mother would continue to get the amount of money he’d been supporting her with.  It was the only comforting thing he’d had, at that point, and I could tell he was proud of himself for taking care of it.

When I walked through the doors to the Beth Israel hospice, next day, his friend saw me and told me that Steve had just passed away.  I waited for a little while before going in, giving his mother, Grace, and long-time girlfriend, Carol, alone-time with him.  But I did go in.  Seeing his mother stroke Steve’s sunken cheek, while whispering, “You were a good boy,” is something I will never forget.

Steve was my pot dealer.


The Örgy Guy