The first three are from a magazine called Deckhands, featuring Al Parker and Paul Barresi. It's an 'action' magazine, the photos taken from the mid-70's BRENTWOOD film Challenger. While Parker and Barresi don't appear together, it is Al's first film, and it's one of the few where Barresi is actually engaged in gay sex (if you call buttfucking a young smooth tattoed man, and having him eat your ass and lick your feet, gay sex). The fourth pic is from another magazine I must sell, called DUNE. It features the model shown, HAL DRAKE, and his partner CLINT ELY. Another 'action' magazine from a film, this one from JOCKS/FALCON, available on videtape (and no doubt DVD, I would hope) as part of FVP002 - Johnny Hardon & The Champs.

It was about 1pm this afternoon when I finally got back to the West Village to pick up my bike. Subway ride downtown from Hell's Kitchen, smile on my face, having had a good Gay Pride Day, realizing I was away from home for 22 hours, which is very very rare for me. Sunday had it's ups and downs, not the least of which was getting out of here so late in the day. I'm not so much tired and lazy about going over the day, as much as I am contemplative about what happened, the little annoyances, and the very nice pleasant surprises.

Did you know you're loved by somebody?

One of the many benefits of having gone to a Catholic grammer school in the early 70's was how the teacher's, including the handful of nuns, tried to incorporate pop music into our weekly class excursions to mass. One of the favorites for the teachers and us kids alike was Stevie Wonder. Some songs, like Heaven is 10 Zillion Light Years Away, were obvious choices to sing in church; but the teacher's often nabbed a love song like You Are The Sunshine Of My Life for us to sing, somehow making God the object of affection in the song. Or maybe it was this idea that God=Love / Love=God, and therefore love could solve all problems, all human pain and suffering. Sorta trippy and hip, but of course Catholic schools back then could only afford young women teachers, who at least in our school put up all those huge banners declaring LOVE and PEACE that were hung in Church for our masses, and singing these cool songs from Stevie Wonder and tunes like Be Thankful For What You Got. Anyhow, so the other night, I've got the various tunes in my WINAMP player cranking out, and Stevie Wonder's AS begins to play, just as I'm doing some searching for updates on Matthew Limon.

Remember him? Exactly one year ago, the day after the historic Lawrence decision, it looked like the young man who was sent to jail for having sex with a younger male teen might be getting out of jail when the Supreme Court vacated his sentence. But the case is still in the courts, Mr Limon having lost again in the Kansas Courts, and his next hearing on the matter isn't until at least August. And here he sits, in jail, a year later.

(Until the rainbow burns the stars out in the sky)

In the middle of the night, viewing those old webpages that (prematurely at best, wrongly so far, as of a year later) declared his freedom a year ago, and the song playing declaring the power of love, it seemed like his case must be mentioned today, GAY PRIDE DAY here in NYC. I was hoping to have one of those peppy "Celebrate Our Diversity" posts, to sort of counter the too many cynical 'been-there-done-that' 'it's-all-so-commerical' and 'I-hate-all-those-rainbows' posts that are just, well, too...... no point in putting anyone down in order to make my point, which was.......????

(Until the rainbow burns the stars out in the sky)

Ok, let me be frank in my not-quite sober, but waking up and trying to get this written so I can bathe and run off and watch shirtless men and forget I'm alone and lonely for a little while. I doubt this young man, who may or may not even be gay for all we know (some 'news reports' list him as 'bi') but who was jailed for having gay sex, would even want to go to a Pride March. But the rest of us, we get to chose. We get to decide if we want to remember the folks who've gone too early in life, or who are suffering injustice by being jailed for a common teenage sex act, or who have jobs where they fear coming out or being found out..... We get to decide if we want to remember them, honor them, and yes of course, celebrate the victories, and the progress that has been made, and the freedoms that many of us take for granted (which is OK), and yet know that there is a lot further to go. I just want to be part of that, regardless of how it is portrayed in a newspaper, on a televsion show, in a right-wing website or an 'over-it' gay blog. I know why I go. I go to remember, and to remind myself. In so many ways it's hard to belive how far we've come, and yet, envisioning that young man, having served several years already in jail for something we all do, (or want to do), having his youth taken away from him, his future scarey and uncertain, it overwhelms me with saddness, it makes me question my core belief that love somehow does matter, that love somehow can make a difference.

(Until the rainbow burns the stars out in the sky)

I rarely pray. And it's never in the form of one of the prayers we learned in school. And most times, it's not even to God. My prayers are usually to the person who's attention I want, who's heart I want to reach. And I pray that dear Matthew Limon knows that there are folks out here who are anxiously awaiting his freedom, his chance to get his life back, and I pray that he feels something in his heart today that gives him some hope, some little something that helps him get through the day, and reminds him that he is not forgotten, he is treasured for merely being one of God's children, and that he is loved.

As around the sun the earth knows she's revolving
And the rosebuds know to bloom in early may
Just as hate knows love's the cure
You can rest your mind assure
That I'll be loving you always

As now can't reveal the mystery of tomorrow
But in passing will grow older every day
Just as all that's born is new
You know what I say is true
That I'll be loving you always

(Until the rainbow burns the stars out in the sky)

I'll be loving you until the rainbow burns the stars out in the sky

Thank god for out-of-towners. (I realized after posting this that the previous sentence has nothing to do with what follows. But the thought did come, after the 3 of us did, kicked out of that dark corner, standing in the bright lights of the post-4 a.m. Cock as the bearded man explained they were from Seattle, and his goateed partner took a turn in the bathroom) I haven't woken up enough to get to make this completely coherant, but here goes. The evening began around midnight, with me stuffing my self into leather pants, figuring I'd head over to The Eagle and enjoy the privilege of being with the other hot leather men. (Notice I didn't put privilege in quotes? and that I said other, which implies... oh, never mind). Ouch, I've definately put on weight, and that last snap just almost wouldn't... here we go, just don't exhale 'til you get home. So I sit down to pull my boots on and POP! the top snap goes. Then POP! POP! snaps two and three goes, my belly blocking my view of my now-exposed crotch. Oh, we’re done for. We’re done for. We’re done-diddidly done for. We’re done diddily doodily done diddily doodily done diddily doodily done for! BJ! Snap out of it! I finish booting up, stuff some keys and money in the tiny pockets, stuff my humongous manhood back inside (it's this cock, not the beerbelly, that's grown since last I wore these), and decide I just won't sit, bend, or breath all night. I head out the door, down the stairs, and pass the huge mirror in the first floor hallway on my way out. Hmmm. I walk a few steps back, and figure, what the hell, maybe the extra weight has made these look.... mmmmm, nice ass, I think, then giggle.

muscle master?

did you exchange
A walk on part in the war
For a lead role in a cage?

Recipe for keeping it alive. Alcohol. Bad music. Unrequited love, er, lust, um, desire. Meaningless sex Sex that hasn't much lasting value, except to remind you that you'd rather be looking at a handsome man's face while having a conversation with him, and getting that high from seeing the smile you put on his face. Wake up hung over, play favorite depressing, contemplative song over and over cuz it's a familiar, comforting sort of depressing.

(The paragraph that was originally to follow has been deleted, as I am still thinking about the back of his hairy neck that I admired last night as I leaned against the jukebox, and he used all his powers to ignore my drooling stares. But in the unlikely event that someday we will speak, and he realizes I am not an ogre, and we have a pleasant, friendly conversation, I will give no more details, not even his BMB profile - not even a link to the goddamn site). So where the hell was I? Oh yes, complaining about my self-inflicted wounds.

The first clue was when they had no more $2.00 drafts. He handed me a $2.00 can, but it's fuckin' Pabst Blue Ribbon, and I hate beer in a can (but I am also cheap, so I took it, smiled, tipped). Returning from the bathroom a few moments later, some guy says a big HELLO. Which was nice, but then he turned into a loud-in-your-ear talker. You know, compensating for the loud music, some people can't decide whether to shout at you or talk directly into your ear, so they do both. And I know I was looking for company, but the (his) conversation dwelled on how yucky NYC is, how there are no cool places to go anymore, interesting people, etc etc fuckinetc. When he left to get a beer, I didnt leave the spot, figuring that's sorta rude. He didnt return right away, then I saw him in converation with someone else, so I figured it was cool to move around. Next I notice no nuts. NO FUCKIN' NUTS? And then it's Cher screaming about something thru a voicebox. I head for the bar, mention the NUTS situation to the bartender, who shrugs and says something like "How'd that happen?" And then I spot the man who would soon flee (OK, so maybe he didn't flee, he merely left the bar at some point after seeing me, which doesn't mean he actually saw me, or that seeing me had any effect, but when you are depressed and paranoid and drinking fuckin PBR's from a can, well, that's how your mind works.) Well, at least he saved me the torture of having to decide what cheesy stupid line I would use if I ever got up the courage to actually speak to him - knowing all along that the only words sufficient to describe the emotions swirling in my head are (embarrassing 2 paragraph tribute to his outer and inner beauty deleted by the few sober cells left in me). Some time near the end of the second beer, a Cher-wannabe song plays, and I decide to flee. The few blocks on the bike feel good, the breeze thru my hair (chinhair, that is) feels good, and I pull up and lock up in front of the next bar.

Another beer ordered up while standing next to the man who fled. This is when I see the back of his neck. Hairy, beautiful back-of-neck. I swoon, I drool. I read body language, I back off. I don't know how I managed to stay put thru this draft beer and the next, but sometimes a beautiful neck can do that to a man, forcing him to drink excessively, passively stradling the pinball machine, the jukebox, the barstool a mere 22 inches away. Finally realizing that in the unlikely event of a conversation, my drunkenness would prevent my true wonderful self from shining thru, I leave.

So now I switch to bottled water, and inhale the illegal cigarette smoke at The Cock. I see the man from 8 nights ago, the "Poker." We actually have a nice conversation, I still think he's handsome and take liberties with his chinhair. Somehow drugs come up, and his late-in-life enjoyment of partying; so between that and the poking thing, I know this will be a bar friendship at best. But he buys me my next drink, water; and he downs some sort of red-alcohol thing before leaving (apparently, some people have work in the a.m.) The music here is worse than 2 bars ago, and it's 3 a.m. My bike takes me downtown, but forgets to turn left at 6th St., and I think I'm going to the grocery store for salty snacks. But I pass 4th St., too, and turn right on 3rd, taking me all the way to the West Side (2nd Ave.)

House of Regrets. 10 bucks later, several rounds of pacing up and down, I spot a different beautiful man. A man with a bad (on purpose) haircut, poor choice of shirt (b/w camo?) and yet, such a handsome face. I've seen him before, been ignored before, so I know it's hopeless. Doesn't stop me from hoping. And pacing, and waiting, and finally giving in to some other man's attention. Nothing great, nothing bad. Just 3:30 in the morning this isn't what I set out to do but I'm doing it. I beg for his on me, but I don't. We smile, kiss, zip up. I leave the cubicle and wash up. Pacing pacing pacing. The man's face is still handsome, certainly the best looking man in the place, but I know better. Pacing pacing pacing. Another guy does the crotch-rubbing thing from across the tiny hall as I sit in my cubicle. I rub something or other that gives him permission to come in, he does, shows me what I knew he had cuz we did it about 10-15 years ago but neither of us talk, just some slurping and eventually some moans and then the slow zips up. He thinks he remembers me. I pretend not to. I don't want to go down memory lane, but this guy thinks my name is Costello. Soon we determine that I like Costello, and he seems ok that while I haven't actually acknowledged the past, I have.

On the ride home, I pick something up and carry it home. A policeman in his car stares somewhat puzzled at me at the stoplight until he figures out the thing in my arm is a rectangular shelf-like thing, not something illegal or dangerous. He turns, I go forward, and spend the next hour making/eating food, reading emails (thanks, guys), and hearing the birds do what they do at that hour, giving me that brief smile I waited all night for, finally falling asleep.

year after year, running over the same old ground. What have we found? The same old fears, wish you were here.

does this link work for you?

Heh ebo
ebo ebonettes

"You need the key. Behind you on the shelf. Take it with you so no one walks in on you." I say that now almost as much as I say "Will that be black, or pinto? Do you want guacamole with that? No, it's extra, 50 cents." It's been a week, and as the take-out space at the restaurant is being lost due to skyrocketing rents, we are all now stuffed into smaller quarters, and us take-out counter people stand near the bathroom. The teeny tiny space I work in is about the size of my bathtub, and there are two of us, one gets a chair, the other stands all night; right behind us is the counter for packaging the to-go bags, including the deliveries. The TV blasts, the stereo blasts, the kitchen guys have their own radio, restaurant customers get confused, trying to pay me instead of their waitresses, walk-ins who can't find their way over to us without knocking over a few babies, and then there's the challenge of actually hearing the folks on their shitty cell-phones calling up for delivery. (And they never know what they want before calling, it's always yelling into some other room - "Honey, do we want salsa? Honey, do you want black of pinto?" Doesn't the guacamole come with it already?). Ugh.

During all this last night, I sunk into a depression. It stinks. I mean, not just the specifics of the job at the moment, but that overwhelming feeling that my life is just rotten, and all my life choices have been wrong wrong wrong and I am just too damn old and inert to do much about it. So as I get ready for work, and try to put on my 'happy face,' I try to stick to the short-term hope that after work, if I haven't killed or been killed, I will have a couple of beers, and maybe see a couple of familiar faces, and possibly a new friendly face or two. I'm tired of settling for sex, and it hasn't been all that good lately anyway - I would like some serious companionship, and it's tough. But the music last week was surprisingly good, which makes me cynical about tonight's possibilities. Heaven 17, Big Audio Dynamite, a tune from Malcolm McLaren's first album.... it was right out of my album collection, but better yet, amongst some nice faces and hopeful possibilities. But I must set my sights low (no, not crotch-level); just be content to make it thru another night's work, have a beer, watch the crowd, and hope they don't play too many HEART tunes.

more stuff

selling my stuff

You really should check out Chas's video clip before he takes it down - be a good boy and do it - NOW!

To all the daddies (and a few boys), fictional and otherwise, who've been a part of my life, HAPPY FATHER'S DAY

profile du jour of the day

Name: NAME-JOHN
Location: NYC
Gender: Male
Marital Status: SINGLE
Hobbies & Interests: I ENJOY WORKING OUT,GOING TO THE GYM, HAVING FUN, ETC. I HAVE A GREAT BUBBLE BUTT AND LOVE GETTING, -UCKED I LIKE AGGRESIVE TOP GUYS TO WORK ME OVER,MAKE ME MOAN AND BEG THEM TO QUIT, WHICH THEY WON'T DO,CAUSE I SAID IT HERE.. ? TAKE A LOOK AT MY PICS.

This summary is not available. Please click here to view the post.

....in non-jockstrap related news, I am living dangerously here. I have the A.C., as well as the P.C. on, and am contemplating hooking up the V.C.R. so I can post a video clip/trailer. That could blow the fuse again, but sometimes you just gotta take risks in life. Of course, a little enouragement wouldn't hurt.

It's the thought that counts. And this might seem like I'm complaining, but I'm not. It's just another 'life lesson' - namely, don't lust after the married boys. But as you may remember, I asked for a jockstrap from some guy, he got permission from his BF, he worked out in it first, then sent it off. Yeah! But it hit a snag - he was unaware that UPS doesn't ship to P O Boxes, and then, with the Federal holiday last Friday, I didn't get my postcard notice til Monday. So yesterday afternoon, I biked thru the urban heat and humidity over to the westide office of UPS (and those stories of good looking UPSmens is just plain wrong), grabbed the package, and lovingly tossed it in my backpack for the ride home. Knowing I'd be venturing out last night, I was excited that I could get in a good sniff before work, and then wear it later, after work while chugging some Big Lug beers. But, alas, it wasn't to be. The sniffing part went off without a hitch (a week old, still held it's manly yet gentle fragrance just right), but then I tried wearing the dang thing.

Um, "youth large"??? what the.....? Ok, so you have a boyfriend and an impossibly small waist - did you have to rub it in my face? (And if I ask politely, will you do it again?)

"it gets a lot bigger"

I had to laugh. I wasn't concerned at all about his dick size. But I pulled him to me, kissing him, his mouth, and his ear. I was too lost in thought about my own dick not 'performing' that I wasn't at all focused on what his was, or was not, doing. But the fact that he was cool enough to actually say something out loud to me.....

i think this is when i fell asleep last night, writing after he left. He was smart; he had work in the morning, we'd both been drinking, neither cock got beyond the half-mast postion, so he said he ought to get home. We kissed at the door, I raided the fridge, checked email, let the mood music I had programmed in Winamp to play out before resorting to tv. I think I'm going for a record here - actual physical contact with other men, 3 nights in a row, two of them in my own bed, and no one gets an orgasm.

It's just that kind of day. That jockstrap that I was longing for is stuck at the UPS warehouse on the Westside (sigh). The line at the post office is so long there wasn't even room for me to get in line. The super and his assistant are in my kitchen, trying to fix the hole in the pipe in the sink (someone explain to me why they are using a drill); next they have to re-install the air conditioner that they installed upside down on Saturday. And if you saw this pair, there would be absofuckinlutely NO porno scenarios envisioned, believe me! I had only one beer last night, but it's making my head unhappy today. I tried the sexclub. It was, in a word, abismal (is that a word?) And I don't mean just because the few attractive men were only interested in each other. That's not unusul. But it was worse. Throughout the night, one or two guys seemed to feel the need to have loud boring monologues in the middle of the place, and only the occasional ridiculously faux moaning would drown them out. Monologues - you could never actually hear a conversation, just one loud voice talking about anything and everything. At one point, figuring there was no way to ignore this one loudmouth (tv shows, work, politics, grocery shopping, it was all in his monologue), I decided to just go see what the heck he's doing while reciting everything that has ever crossed his mind. Of course, a large can of Crisco and he has half his arm stuck up some guy's butthole, all the while talking about his plans for summer vacation, what he had for dinner last night, who he saw at the club last week, etc.,etc., etfuckingcetera. Hence the need to unwind with a beer after witnessing this hot sex scene. And my hed hurts, and I'm grumpy, and they're drilling under my kitchen sink.

OK, like what the HELL are they putting in beer nowadays??! I know better than to go out drinking twice in the same week, and I rarely go out on Saturday, but I knew one or two guys who would be going to NOWHERE, and my Gay Pride resolution was to be more social. So this morning I wake up with a guy in bed with me (still trying to poke me, the silly man), my brand new BIG LUG cap (first on my block, no doubt) and of course a hangover the size of my..... well, let's just say it's big and pounding. And I remember something about a room in back which was not a backroom. I just hope no one had a camera (not that a pic from last night could be any worse than this one I snapped this morning).

There is a temptation to talk about this national day of mourning, and then there is the temptation to completely ignore it, and just post more porno pics, or pornographic self-pics. I even began a what-should-Reagan-have-said speech in my mind, but nothing is quite coming together. I think I'll just post these two tunes from the RED HOT + RIOT Fela tribute album that was released in late 2002. Both tunes are fantastic, but each has a very different feel -

• By Your Side - a reworking of a Sade song, caught me quite by surprise, as I'm not a fan of her work. But it's uplifting and nourishing and the same time.
• Trouble Sleep is the amazing last track from the album, from Baaba Maal + Taj Mahal.

The power of both tunes together is that somehow, for me anyway, even when I can't understand the specific words, is that the vocals somehow speak to universals - mourning, friendship, love, loss, despair, hope.

Gosh, it's so hot and sticky. Doesn't it make you want to just grab some hot, sweaty, swarthy, hairy guy and piss all over each other and cool off?

He calls himself "BJ"...

(hehe.... they said BJ) What could be better than a porno mag saying some nice things about your little obsession, your website? Clearly, it's having a late 80's pic of one of the all-time most handsomest ever porno stars, Mr. Al Parker, accompanying the compliments, that's what!

I remember wondering why I was getting more hits on that page (a fairly poor index page, actually), and then a very nice guy instant messaged me about a week ago, telling me about it the UNZIPPED thing, and then offered to send me a copy of the mag so I could see for myself. Which was very nice of him - we all love free pron, don't we? And while it may sound like a shallow compliment, coming after the mag wrote the nice piece, but I have to say, that issue is packing some really nice meat!

....in other news

"Just got back from the gym and I rode it hard and put it up wet. And it's on its way...!"

I'm still trying to work out the kinks, so-to-speak, of my LEND ME YOUR BOYFRIEND program. We all know the old cliche' about how all the good ones are taken; well, I'm beginning to believe it. So I figure, in the spirit of community, in the spirit of Gay Pride Month, in the spirit of "hey maybe my clinker of a boyfriend is hot cuz these other boys keep hitting on him," I'm trying to work out this share-your-boyfriend idea. It doesn't have to be actual sex, or even anything actually in person. It could just be your boyfriend, going to the gym, working up a good old fashioned sweat, and mailing me, BJ, his jockstrap.

If you are a partnered-up gay man who wants to participate, or you have a BF you're willing to share, (even if it's just a naughty pic or some recently worn clothing) you know how to reach me.

No, I wasn't crying because the man died. I knew better, my gut told me not to pay attention to any of the coverage, and I've been pretty good about keeping the TV off (except the Weather Channel). But for some reason last night, I began parusing the blogosphere, and a few mentioned the dead president, of course. Wisecracks, dancing, odd pictorial tributes, silly recollections of being age 6 when the man was reelected, etc etc. Much of this left me unaffected - irrelevant, childish, or uninteresting - whatever the reason, I didn't expect a serious, well-thought out reaction to this event. And most of us who have these webpages prefer to entertain our handful of readers, anyway, so the wisecrack, or defiant cuss word, shouldn't surprise me.

But then I read somewhere that in the 10,757 word N Y Times Reagan obituary, there was one word glaringly missing - AIDS! I had to see for myself - and I will readily admit to not having read the thing thoroughly - but I did a good skim, plus using the old CONTROL F function to search, and it's not there. I called the "80's boyfriend" again, he had called me the night before after hearing the news, and I told him. I often tease him about his cynicism, but his response wasn't cynical at all, it was pure disbelief. When I mentioned it was a 4-page obit, he was even further shocked, something like - 'the worst public health crisis in a generation, if not more, under his watch, his delays and inaction costing incalculable lives, and they can't even find space for a sentence or two???'

And this is when they began, silently, to fall from my eyes. Realizing that history may well forget, and there are so few of us who seem to even care. It's not a simple matter of blame, or argument - the rationales, the conflicting priorities, the so-called other achievements - I understand and accept that what was the most important thing to me and my friends was not the most important thing to everyone, but to simply erase that there was any importance at all, that the immediate effect his inaction, delay, and silence had on tens of thousands of lives, and ultimately tens of millions, is just not mentioned - it's fucking shameful and unforgivable.

Specific names and faces popped into my head, my pal and I continued on the phone, he eventually returned to his usual cynicism, and me still in disbelief, eyes dry. After we hung up, I just sat in sadness, totally not expecting that this would churn up so much emotion. And there is no where to go with it. I don't want to read about how the man deserved the suffering he got later in life - I'm too familiar with folks who presume to know that illness and suffering is sent as a punishment from god. I don't expect a newspaper to have AIDS Criminal Dies At Age 93 as a banner headline. But isn't it reasonable to expect that in a lengthy newspaper piece on a public figure's life, when heralding his accomplishments, reminding us how 'the Great Communicator' inspired millions at home and abroad, that this piece should also include one of his most glaring failures, his lack of leadership on an important health issue that would affect millions for decades to come?

I tried flipping thru the channels, which is my major activity most Satruday nights, but it was useless. I knew better. But you know how when you have cable, and each time you get to a new channel, there's that display at the bottom of the screen, telling you the name of the show, the time, the network? So I get to the local FOX affiliate, the images flickering of an American ex-president on the screen, and the pre-empted program name below, Just Shoot Me. Indeed. I knew it would be pointless to try to watch any television for the entire weekend, if not longer, so I went out to rent some movies, to avoid the inevitable onslaught of god-awful oversaturation of this moment we knew was coming.

My "80's boyfriend" called later in the night, after he had gotten home and heard the news on the radio. Feeling much like me, not wishing ill of any human, but having survived the era together, we chatted for awhile. Before hanging up, he said "It's mourning in America" - to which I groaned, getting the bad joke, but worse, realizing we WILL be seeing that bad phrase, perhaps MOURNING IN AMERICA 2004 with spiraling graphics leaping out at us from the tube. I returned to one movie, the Bill Murray one from last year, which I liked. Then switched to Before Night Falls, a film I knew nothing about; but it was on the very top shelf at the video rental store - the Gay Section (odd, I had thought, in this day and age, in Manhattan, that R-rated gay-themed films are put beyond my 5'7" reach). Turned out to be quite fascinating, a gay Cuban writer, in Cuba thru the 60's, the 70's, poverty, imprisoned, torture, etc etc etc.... and finally escapes to America. I didn't see it coming. The wonderful shot of him and his friends in a convertable, driving thru Manhattan, mouths open facing the sky as it snowed. Gay man, Manhattan, 1980's. Finally, freedom. Then the scene of him, drenched in sweat in bed. Awwww crap, I thought. I was hoping to escape these thoughts.

The rest of the film was hard to watch. Don't get me wrong, it was well done, simple, poignant. Brief scene in the hospital, then the claustrophobic final scenes in his little NY apartment. But just too much of a reminder of growing into adulthood in my 20's, in the 1980's, during the Reagan Era. Turning the TV off, I fell asleep. But this morning I woke up angry, very angry. Remember the so-called controversial CBS film on the Reagans? He didn't really say that! Yes, the same people who give him credit for single-handedly ending the Cold War will argue that one man, even a president, couldn't have done anything about AIDS. Fascinating argument, one that tens of thousands of Americans will never have the opportunity to engage in.

America should be mourning.

I know it's tacky to scold readers, but um, how many of you saw this page yesterday with the "GAMES" pics all out of whack and didn't email me? HUH??? It looked fine in Firefox, but late last night, I happened to check with IE, and all 6 were stretched in one row across. GRRRRRRRRR!!!!!

GAMES

directed by: Steve Scott (1983)

Starring: Al Parker, Leo Ford, Giorgio Canali, Mike Davis, Johnny Dawes, Jim Rogers, Ben Barker, Russ Franklin, Brian Nichols, and Shannon.

I guess I'm on a bit of a Steve Scott binge here lately. For those of you curious to know, the "cameo cock" in the GLORYHOLE_LUV clip last week was none other than Al Parker in the final scene from Mr. Scott's Dangerous. Fitting that in the beginning of this film, Games, Parker is servicing a fat piece of meat thru a cardboard hand-held glory hole. It makes a fantastic opening sequence, which is interrupted by a phone call, beginning the plot of the film. Photographer Parker is assigned to cover the first San Francisco Gay Games. One of my all-time favorite porno scenes is the fantasy sequence between Al and uncut Giorgio Canali (aka: Rocco Rizzoli), both slurping on each other's fat cocks, stuffing their faces in each other's beautiful asses (Al's face in Gorgio's ass "gets me" everytime!), and of course, playing hide the salami. Some of you may recognize the music used for the trailer. Of course, specializing in vintage porno movies, Bijou Video does have this video.