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FRIDAY, june 29, 2018 



AS THE ASTUTE CWS MAY BE AWARE, I am in the practice of routinely posting somewhat lewd, frequently risqué, and occasionally concupiscent pix of men on Tumblr. I view this as an adjunct to my... shall we say... creative writing efforts.

I have thus amassed over 2,000 "followers" on Tumblr (follow me!), a feat for which I owe all gratitude and appreciation to those wonderful—if misguided—souls who willingly trail behind me as I lemmingly lead them over the precipice. I truly enjoy making the sthenolagnic's heart go thumpity-thump, whether by writing smut, or posting muscle men in various positions & enjoying various activities.

Which brings me to the subject of today's blog, and of this weekend's massively wonderful POLL. I am curious as to exactly what kind(s) of gay porn turn you on. Admittedly, much of what I post on Tumblr isn't actual pornography, per se. Much of it features muscle men who are fully clothed (at least around the important areas), often simply flexing their muscles for my enjoyment.

Yet, no matter how much I try to convince myself of my wholesome motives, I do have to admit that the random picture of men engaging in all manner of salacious activities that would never be mentioned in the Church Bulletin... well, these photos occasionally make it into my Tumblr feed, not to mention the very website you are now enjoying. Thence, my curiosity: Do you prefer basic, non-obscene pictures of muscle men? Or... are you at the other end of the spectrum: more interested in the sinful, homosex kind of stuff?

I request that you (the Curious Web Surfer) let me know. Clickage HERE will link you to the aforementioned POLL. Said poll will actually give you a spectrum on which to plop your marker. Thanks for your feedback!

[OH, and new (old) stories will be added this weekend. Smutty stuff from other authors as well.]






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THURSDAY, june 28, 2018 



HIS MOM KEPT YAKKING AT HIM as he ascended the staircase; he tried to ignore her, and actually did a pretty good job of it, until she got to the part where she said, “…and clean up the spare room. Your cousin Drake will be here on Sunday for a few weeks. That room needs to be clean for him.”

Had he actually known the import of what she had just said, he would have stopped dead in his tracks.  But as it was, he just kept walking, mostly just to irritate her with his indifference.  Freakin’ cousin Drake, that’s all he needed to make his summer really “special.”  His mom knew the exact recipe for misery.

“Did you hear me Travis?” she demanded as he tried to escape from the staircase into the upstairs hallway.  “Travis.  Answer me.”

He stopped halfway down the hall and his shoulders slumped, out of his mother’s view.

Oh God, I can’t wait until I can move out of here.


“Yeah.  I heard you.  Clean the extra room—for cousin Drake.”

Downstairs, his mother pursed her lips in authoritative satisfaction.

Travis was not moved in the least.  As soon as he closed the door to his bedroom he leaned back against it and sighed, looking up at the ceiling.

Travis had just graduated from Hembrist High School—barely. Despite his never-ending partying and skipping classes.  But graduate he did, and he was looking forward to a summer of leisure, fun, and– most of all– drunken pleasure with his buddies.  What he hadn’t figured into his summer plans was the meddling, crooked, pointy-finger of his control-freak mother.

He sighed again.

This summer was turning out to be more of a nightmare than a dream.

Cousin Drake.  Shit.  Last time Travis had seen Drake, his elder cousin was just leaning into his adolescent years.  Travis hadn’t seen Drake in nearly eight years, so as far as Travis was concerned, Drake was a complete stranger.  Drake’s family lived in Texas, and Travis had never been to visit them.

Travis had weathered the journey toward adulthood with quite a few scars.  He could only imagine the pencil-neck that his cousin had grown into.  That’s all Travis needed: A geeky, dorky cousin to tag along for his graduation summer.  Travis sighed again. Drake was five years older than Travis– should be 23 now.  Supposedly, Drake was in grad school, studying marine biology, or some such boring subject.  What fun it was going to be, trying to occupy his older cousin whilst also raising hell and partying with his buddies.

Better get that spare room done before the Witch swoops down to inspect, Travis thought.  The room was pretty clean already.  He vacuumed, and then straightened up the blankets on the bed, making sure to fluff the pillows.

He returned to his room and stripped.  Within a minute, he was in bed with all the lights off, naked– jerking off to an imaginary image of a overly-muscular bodybuilder.  He had this thing for muscle men.  His semen blanked his sheets with globs of white, wet jizz.  Maybe it was the stress of graduation; maybe just the overbearing nature of his mother– Travis didn’t really know– but regardless, it was one big orgasm.







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WEDNESDAY, june 27, 2018 


SSf2Cou3A FEW YEARS BACK MY MOMMY announced that my somewhat long-lost cousin was gong to be spending a few weeks at our place. It was a visit to which I was not looking forward.

Until he arrived. And then all boner-hell broke loose.

Anyhoo, I ended up writing a little ditty about it, and I will root around tonight and see if I can dig it out so's I can re-post it for your reading pleasure tomorrow.

Until then, I'm posting a picture of my neighbor. I took it this morning while I was innocently rooting around under his dining room window. Seems I keep leaving things in that very exact spot. Funny how that happens.

[OH, hey. I've been adding some new, previously posted, stuff by the author JOHN. Check it if you wanna. More to cum, as they say.]






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SUNDAY, june 24, 2018 


2018sfaaTHE PAST THREE BLOG ENTRIES have been remarkably long (not to mention fantastically extensive). Today's post will be a lot shorter. 






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SATURDAY, june 23, 2018 


0623manTODAY WE’RE GOING TO ENJOY one of my favorite activities: dissecting a muscle picture. This is where your Webster invites you, the muscle-hungry CWS, to delve into my attmitedly expert evaluation of a specific muscle picture, curated especially for this exercise by the aforementioned Webster.

Since this is such an enjoyable pastime, I think it should have an actual name. That way, next time, when it’s time for another MPA [see, I already named it!], we’ll have a handy, useful, easy-to-understand label for said exercise. Thence, I’m calling it Muscle Picture Analysis, or MPA (The astute CWS will notice my affinity for acronyms). Interestingly, I was tempted to use the word “Assessment” instead of “Analysis”. Yet, even though ASSessment might be apt, I figured ANALysis also works. (The thought also germinated that I should use “Selfie” instead of “Picture”, but it was determined that might be too limiting.)

Anywhoo, we’re already on the third paragraph of this little ditty, and what have we accomplished? Absolutely nuttin’, as far as our MPA assignment. So, let’s get to work.

Today’s man, who shall remain nameless (and thankfully, shirtless), is understandably proud of his magnificent body. So, understandably, he took this selfie so he could netcast to the world that he’s got some fine lookin’ muscles. And he does. Not to mention other "assets." If'n we were simply evaluating the man himself, this Webster's keyboard would have shorted out by now, and the reader would be left without my admittedly expert MPA.

Normally in an MPA we won’t actually ANALyze the man’s body or clothing (as tempting as that may be). [Yet I reserve the right to deviate from that practice (just a tad) today.] In an MPA we’re analyzing the room, the background—the setting in which said photo was snapped. Invariably, muscle men who post such (often drool-worthy) pictures, do so with the proverbial blinders on. All they can see is their own muscular, delicious body (a perspective, by the way, for which I have the utmost empathy). And most observers of these ubiquitous pics have no idea what said muscle dude has unintentionally included in his self-portrait, inadvertently communicating to the world many things that shed light on so much more than just his mere muscles. The astute CWS, and Webster are quite aware of this. If you are not thus aware, allow me to elucidate you.

So, now that we’ve entered the sixth paragraph (but who’s counting, right?) of today’s edition of Saturday Night on the Web, let’s start ANALyzing this particular picture.

First, (and OMG): the bed. Dude, what were you thinking? I’d venture a guess that this guy is not—nor has ever been—Military. Those are definitely not hospital corners. And while I myself will be quick to admit to the occasional lapse in my own bed-making ritual, I am currently the habit of at least pulling the sheet and blanket up so the bed at least loosely resembles something flat and orderly. Certainly, if I were predisposed to take muscle selfies (and I actually have done so, back a few years—please don’t send in requests; they're lost to the ages), I would make the bed first. Or find another room. This bed's disorganization screams way too much about the muscle subject in the picture.

Moving around the back wall: what the hell is hanging on the door?

Um, no.

That’s really not a good look on a room. The purpose of all that fabric (is it a curtain? on a freakin' door?) escapes me. I’m hoping there is at least a modicum of utilitarian use for this display of blatant queerness (and I mean "queerness" in the early 20th century, and possibly more British, context. First definition, HERE). Heaven forbid that he was actually going for a specific “look”.

And speaking of looks, one of the few things I do like about his room is the wall color. Earthy, relaxing, manly (not unlike his muscles and gorgeousness); it’s a somewhat uncommitted hue, with husky, lush overtones and a subtle mossy aftertaste. Hints of greek olives (possibly suggesting the subject's ethnicity?), virdent masculinity, and just a whisper of unaproachable mystery. Yes. It has potential.

Unfortunately, there is virtually nothing covering those nice-colored walls. The right wall (stage left for you thezbian-types) displays the only attempt this man has made to provide any visual stimulation (other than his physique, which, although stunning, doesn’t really qualify as decor). This lone, diamond-shaped (and woefully inadequate) slab of whatever, is simply dismal. It might come in handy as a trivet, but that's a utensil that would find little use in a bedroom. Obviously, from our perspective it’s impossible to determine what the hell is on that sideways square thing. But I don’t hold much hope.


[Since this is a long blog entry, I'm re-posting the pic here, for ease of reference.]

I’m going to guess that his mother gifted him that hideous lamp shade when she re-did the living room (from the 1970s Mediterranean/Velvet-Poster look that the house came with). He would have done well to re-gift the lamp (or at least the shade) to his ex-boyfriend (although with this guy’s decorating skills, one leans toward the assumption that—given the standard stereotypes of the average gay man’s ability to be absolutely woooonnnderfuuuul!, in the spruce-it-up department—today’s Mr. Muscles could not possibly be gay. Okay, give it to your ex-girlfriend then. Whatever. Third choice: dumpster. Keeping it is not an option.

That plastic laundry hamper. Yeah, he’s definitely not gay.

I will say: the fact that the hamper is partially covered by his dirty wardrobe makes it a tad less offensive. (A very small tad.)

That, um, occasional table? Well… I want to say it has potential, but that would be a stretch. It is, however, appropriate that the lamp is sitting on it. The combination of the two (1970s Mediterranean and Modern Vomit) is eclectic, if nauseating. Since it is an occasional table, I suggest that it be a table less often. Like maybe it should be a table almost never, instead of occasionally.

As far as the “knickknacks” on the table, it’s difficult to diagnose exactly what malady this indicates. The phone recharge cord obviously represents a utilitarian factor again (the more I analyze this room, I’m inclined to think Utilitarian is probably the look he’s going for—and with limited success, mind you). Maybe just tuck it away instead of letting it dangle so.

Before we get to the polka-dot elephant in the room (and yes, I am going to give you more than you're paying for today, as I delve into what he’s wearing) let’s take a look-see at the flooring. Hardwood floors are always in vogue. You’ll see how he’s protecting the floor with that adorable (not!) pad he placed under the please-stop-being-a-table thing. Suggestion: Go with something like this under each leg instead, honey.

At the bottom left of this selfie we see an attempt at a throw rug. Doesn’t do anything for me (anything positive that is).

Now: that sock. This is the only indication that makes me question the man’s orientation. I mean admit it: his foot-covering is 🎶 MARVELOOOUUUUUUS! 🎶 And honestly, what straight man would really be caught dead wearing polka-dot socks? (Or are they jelly-beans?) Yet, given the aforementioned evidence his bedroom just shrieks, I’d have to say the dude is most likely straight. The socks, however, do indicate he might be amenable to a blow job from a male CWS, if you tell him to close his eyes.

One thing I can say about Mr. Adorable’s room is this: At least it is coordinated. In a haphazard sort of way, everything gels: Admittedly it’s an I-don’t-give-a-fuck kind of scheme, but there is some gel there. It works, in that respect. And only in that respect. Oh, I take that back. His phone. Obviously the dude knows his phone brands. This is definitely a redeeming quality in the grand scheme of things.

So, yours truly is giving this picture an MPA rating of 2 out of 10 (one point for the sock, one point for the husky, roll-in-the-grass wall color, plus 8 points for the phone, minus 8 points for everything else = 2).

[OH hey. If you have a picture what needs an MPA (whether you just found said pic on the web, or maybe it’s of YOUR muscles, and your room?), please send it in!]

[OH, oh hey. Have you taken this weekend’s poll? It’s mandatory.]







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FRIDAY, june 22, 2018 


MarioHervas1WELL AFTER YESTERDAY’S TRIP TO SAFEWAY, and the subsequent, requisite “recovery” from all that “shopping,” I decided I deserve a break today. And not the double-arches kind. It was more of a concerted effort to not think about Austin.

How’m I doing?

Yeah, whatever.

Not to suggest that today's muscle hunk wouldn't go a long way in helping me think of other things. I mean, really.

So anyway, even though I had that little encounter with the box boy stud yesterday, I did manage to get up another chapter of “Emery” (among other things). I hope you enjoy it. As you’ll read (if you haven’t already), our protagonist is easing into a really nice relationship with his muscle-crush.

(And BTW, if you haven’t read yesterday’s blog post, you’re required. I put a lot of work into that little yarn.)

OH, and the results of our first POLL are up. (See? I told you I had other things up.) And I have presented, for your poll-taking pleasure, another important polling question. Please click on the afore-blue-texted link. Take the new poll, then scroll down and peruse yesterweek’s results.

I was actually fascinated with some of the results from last week. Said fascination centers on how many of my CWS visitors are virgins! Whoa! I was surprised! (Please don’t tell me it's because these are under-aged visitors. If YOU ARE under-aged, you are most definitely NOT supposed to be here! Go away till you’re old enough!) But really, I was actually surprised to learn about our—apparently many—virginal visitors. I would love to learn more about y'all.

So, as an adjunct to last week’s poll, I would like to ask you VCWS to email me and tell me about yourself.

You're required.







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THURSDAY, june 21, 2018 


AustinSafewayI WENT TO THE GROCERY STORE TODAY because, like, I need to eat sometimes. And admittedly because there’s this really, really hunky box boy there who is more buff than you can imagine. Cuter ’n snot too.

It's funny; ever since Austin has been working there I find that I keep running out of things at home. Like just the other day I realized I didn’t have any more Cocoa Puffs. And everyone knows a serious bodybuilder like me shouldn’t ever be without Cocoa Puffs. So, yeah, I made a run.

Today, though, was my main weekly shopping trip. So I called the Safeway and made sure Austin was working today, and since he was and everything, I decided to shop. List in hand, I drove to the store.

OMG he was in fine form today. It was hot out, so he was wearing this rich blue tank top that was exquisitely skimpy. With all those muscles of his, there was more skin showing than shirt. God his back is fantastic. And everything else about him.

So anyway, when I entered the store he was bagging groceries for a little old lady. But when he glanced up and saw me, a big grin broke out over his square-jawed face. “Hey, Mr. Scott,” he called. “How you doin’ today?”

I keep telling him to call me Seanny, but he’s all hometown and corn fed, with extremely good manners.

“Great, Austin!” I smiled. “Good to see you again. How are you?”

“Awesome! Strong as ever!” And with that he raised one arm and flexed it all hard like. The thing is so big and rippling that it needs permits from the county inspection department. Even from halfway across the store it was overwhelming.

Obviously, I made a hasty retreat to the avocado (or whatever it was) aisle, what with my raging hard-on threatening to explode right then and there—and fox paw of fox paws, I wore my spandex biking shorts today. Waaaaaaaay too revealing. Whatever. But as I ran like a girl away from him, he called out, “Hey, Mr. Scott, as soon as I’m done helping Mama Smurf here load up her car, I’ll help you with your shopping like usual.”

Without looking back, I waved one hand in the air to signal my approval. I had to get away.

Austin found me in the toothpaste aisle a few minutes later and greeted me with, “Hey, Mr. Scott, how can I help you today?”

He stood really close. I could feel the heat coming off his body. (It’s a known scientific fact that muscles throw off more heat than fat.) “Well,” I said, trying to conceal my boner by standing real close to my shopping cart, “which brand of toothpaste would you recommend for teeth sensitivity?”

He studied the many choices, stroking his chin with thumb and forefinger (—which only made his arm bulge again. Holy, holy fuck. I think he totally realizes what he does to me.). “To be honest,” he mused, “my teeth aren’t that sensitive.” Then he leaned close and said softly, “Actually, it’s my tongue that’s sensitive.”

“Really?” I asked. “I’ve never heard of that before. Sensitive tongue?”

With total, innocent seriousness he added. “My ex-boyfriend broke up with me because whenever we tongued, I had to pull back.”

“No way.” I made a special effort to display shock on my face.

“Hand to God.”

“That’s horrible. I’m so sorry, dude.”

Suddenly he lit up. “Oh, it’s okay. The guy—my ex—was a douchebag. And actually, after douche left I started going to a physical therapist. He’s been helping me get over the sensitivity. It’s been a long road, but I’ve been making great progress.”

“No kidding…” I said, concerned.

“Yeah. I’m actually supposed to practice with someone every day, and well, it’s been great.”

I just nodded, lifting my eyebrows just the right amount.

“Truth be told,” he continued, “Even though it’s pretty easy to find guys who are willing to help, it’s hard to find someone who’s patient enough. The therapist says I’m good to go as far as short frenching; but I really need to concentrate on endurance now.”


“Yeah. Like over an hour at a time.”

“Yeah? Wow.” My voice was trembling almost as much as my knees.

Austin turned back to study the shelf of toothpaste again. Then, with all that youthful enthusiasm of his, he jerked when he saw the right brand. “Hey, here you go, Mr. Scott,” he smiled. God, his teeth. He certainly didn’t need the whitening brand. “Here’s a brand that might work for you.” He grabbed a box of Sensodyne® and handed it to me.

“Thanks,” I squeaked.

He bounced on his toes, all excited to be of assistance. “So, what’s next on your list, Mr. Scott?”

I love his enthusiasm, but god, he makes me feel old every time he calls me Mr. Scott.

My hands shook and I almost ripped my paper shopping list in half. “Uh…” Goddamnit. All I could think about was that square jaw of his, and those breathtakingly gorgeous lips, and what it would be like to help him with his tongue therapy. “Uh…” I repeated, “Let’s see. I think the next thing is, uh… lube!”

At first he looked skeptical. Then a grin moved across his face.

“I mean… cube! Ice cube. Or, no… I meant tube. Thank you for this tube. Of toothpaste.” I absently waved it.

He was so fucking innocent and cute. He looked at me with genuine confusion. Then he smiled. “Yeah, we got the toothpaste covered. Where to now?”

I couldn’t answer. I’d already totally embarrassed myself with the Freudian slip.

But then he got all serious again. He leaned close. “Funny you should mention lube, though.” He looked both ways on the aisle, to make sure there were no stray ears. “I had to stock up on extra lube at home because when guys come over to help me with my therapy… well, sometimes one thing leads to another, you know?” He poked his elbow into my ribs with a grin. “You know what I’m talking’ about?”

God, did I know. I mean, I wanted to know. I could only imagine.

“Carry-out at check stand eight. Austin, can you come to check stand eight, please?” The PA blared.

Austin’s countenance dropped. “Dang. Another blue hair, probably. They're nice enough—the old ladies—but I like you a lot better, Mr. Scott," he said. "Well, I gotta split.” He turned away and started jogging toward the front of the store—a vision that will stay with me till my last breath. He stopped, looked back over his shoulder and said, “But I’ll be right back to help you finish shopping, 'k?”

I nodded, then he turned away.

He was actually back in a flash. We spent nearly an hour shopping together. Seems I needed a lot of advice. He bagged my groceries then put on his sunglasses and pushed my cart out to help load my stuff. Of course, when he was done, as usual he asked, “Hey Mr. Scott, do you want to see my arm again?”

“Sure, Austin! Let’s see what you got.” I’d somehow relaxed after spending the whole hour with him.

He lifted his right arm, while he looked right at me. Holy fuck the thing was enormous. And rippling with vascularity and sexy, huge bulges. “What d’ya think?” he finally asked.

“Whoa! Austin, you’re getting bigger every week!” I could actually feel my blood pressure rising. My heart pounded. This guy was the best thing I’d ever seen. So much for being relaxed.

He relaxed and smiled. “Thanks, Mr. Scott. I’m glad you like it.” He went to grab the shopping cart to return inside, then stopped suddenly. He looked at me with a subtle frown. “Hey Mr. Scott, you wouldn’t possibly be interested…” He stopped himself and scoffed, turning away. “Naw. You wouldn’t. Never mi—”

“Be interested in what?” I stopped him. It couldn’t be, could it?

“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t even bring it up. You’re a busy man, I’m sure.”

“Austin, please. You’re always so helpful to me here at the store,” I insisted. “How can I repay your kindness to me?” OhPleaseOhPleaseOhPlease.

He looked at his feet while he scuffed the pavement with his shoes. Then he looked up at me, all innocent, demurring, like he was imposing. “Well, if you’re busy, don’t worry about it, but… I was wondering… I get off in a half hour, and well, I was wondering if you might at all be interested in helping me… with my physical therapy? You know, with some endurance stuff with my tongue? I could flex some more for you too, if you want.”


[OH, and for those of you in the Northern Hemisphere, HAPPY SUMMER! It started this morning at 3:07am, Pacific Daylight Time. OH, OH! Don't miss "Emery" Chapter 2, just posted! It's in the list, after the jump!]






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MONDAY, june 18, 2018 



...ON MY BACK. I can only imagine what you're thinking. You people are shameless. No, I was referring to when I'm trying to go to sleep. Seems that often, when I lay-me-down-to-sleep, as soon as I'm done saying my prayers to our Lord, and I attempt to greet Mr. Sandman, my brain goes absolutely nucking futs.

Brain: I see you're attempting to flag down the Sandman, but it's not working. Here, allow me to list all the things you need to do in the next week.

Me: No thanks, brain. I think I'll just put out some more flares. Apparently Mr. Sandman is having trouble seeing the runway.

And so, my brain does its best to keep me awake. To be honest, I almost always lie awake for at least a half hour. Usually an hour or more.

O'course, brainy knows the absolute best way to keep me up is to fill my mind with images and scenarios involving very muscular men. Frequently, I find myself trudging down the stairs (trying to tiptoe around the sleeping vagrants and homeless people I so altruistically take in), and find myself firing up the computer. I can only imagine what people outside my home think when they see the blue computer screen lights flash and move from around my mini blinds.

But the only thing better to induce sleep than a dose of melatonin is a good dose of climax. The afterglow, you know.






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SUNDAY, june 17, 2018 



BEEN A BUSY WEEKEND, WHAT WITH Father's Day and all. Not to mention the fact that I finally finished my review of Tom of Finland, the movie. The prudent CWS will want to avail himself of said review. It's really quite elucidating, fersher.

So unless you happen to be engaged in activities similar to the two gentlemen at the right, please enjoy the review. If you are engaged in such activities right now, please put your phone down and return to your blow job.

Oh, I also added a Tom of Finland gallery as well.

Since all this business has pushed me close to the drinking point, today's blog post will be limited. In fact, it's going to end real soon. Like, right... now.






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FRIDAY, june 15, 2018 



WELL HERE WE ARE, AGAIN ON THE VERGE of having another weekend. How are you going to spend it? Me, I’m gonna do some working out, maybe read a little bit. (Yes, I do enjoy reading. I’ll post about that in the future.)

Then of course, I’ll do some TV watching. As a matter of fact I just got done watching “Tom of Finland” oh Hulu, and I plan on writing a review for y’all. I’m sure the CWS is waiting with baited breath to know what I think. Right? Right.

I have more pictures to post in the galleries too. And of course, more chapters need to be added to “Emery” and “Sir Nathan”. The work of a web’ster is never done. But you already knew that.

Whatever you are doing this weekend, make sure not to hurry. Life is too short to hurry. (Flip side of that bromide is: This blog post is too long to linger on.)






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THURSDAY, june 14, 2018  Happy Flag Day, US!  gifUSflag

CompressionNOTE: Today’s blog is best read whilst Michael Bublé’s rendition of “The Way You Look Tonight” is playing in the background. Just a suggestion. Today’s guy is obviously the person Michael is singing about. (If you click on the afore-linked link, don't pay attention to the video part. Just listen while you read. Although that sax player is kinda cute, if you're in to twinks. Which I'm not.) Shall we blog then?:


IT SHOULD BE ILLEGAL for really muscular and delicious men to wear loose clothing. If I ever run for office, that’ll be one of the primary planks in my platform. That, and masturbation should be legalized so we don’t all have to hide in dark rooms in front of our computer screens while we do it.

One of the nicest examples of non-loose clothing is the compression shirt. I’ve just been introduced to this concept, even though I’ve benefited from these shirts for many years (my eyes and my dick have, anyway). Compression shirts are the ultimate in muscle-hugging wear. Obviously, not all men can pull this look off. You have to have something underneath that’s worthy of compressing.

Yet, the beauty of these handy little shirts is that they don’t actually compress the body (in the sense of making it smaller). They merely highlight things. I’m sure today’s guy looks absolutely stunning without his compression shirt. Of course, that begs the question: “Muscle men should go shirtless whenever possible."

Perhaps that’ll be the second plank in my platform: Shirts should never cover the muscles, unless absolutely necessary.

“Seanny for Office!” I might run for dog catcher or something.

The Way You Look Tonight

Some day, when I'm awfully low,
When the world is cold,
I will feel a glow just thinking of you
And the way you look tonight.
You're lovely, with your smile so warm
And your cheeks so soft,
There is nothing for me but to love you,
And the way you look tonight.
With each word your tenderness grows,
Tearing my fears apart
And that laugh that wrinkles your nose,
Touches my foolish heart.
Yes you're lovely, never, ever change
Keep that breathless charm.
Won't you please arrange it?
'Cause I love you
Just the way you look tonight.
With each word your tenderness grows,
Tearing my fears apart
And that laugh that wrinkles your nose,
Touches my foolish heart.
Yes you're lovely, never, ever change
Keep that breathless charm.
Won't you please arrange it?
'Cause I love you
Just the way you look tonight.
Just the way you look tonight.
Darling, Just the way you look tonight.

Songwriters: Dorothy Fields / Jerome Kern
The Way You Look Tonight lyrics © Universal Music Publishing Group, Shapiro Bernstein & Co. Inc.


[OH! And did you see the first chapter of "Emery" yet? I Just posted it yesterday. It's a BSNnever before seen or posted—story, for your masturbatory pleasure. Wield your mouse (or finger if you're phoning this) somewhere on this site what says: SEAN'S MUSCLE STORIES. Like right there for example.]






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Tuesday, june 12, 2018 

Phone1ONE OF THE BESTEST THINGS about living in the 19th year of the 21st century is that there is a plethora of cameras out there; you can't throw a dead chicken across the street without hitting someone with a camera phone. Peeps love taking selfies.

I'm thinking my favorite kind of selfies are those of muscle men. IYGIFI, I always say, and muscle studs the world over never seem to tire of photographing themselves. To the benefit of sthenolagnites everywhere.

Take today's guy. Please!

If anyone deserves to be photographed, it's this locker room stud. God, I love cameras. I don't mind this guy's body either. And that thing bulging inside his shorts is... well, it makes me weak. This guy is the total package (pun intended). All those perfect muscles, that bulge, and a gorgeous bald head to boot!

Oh, and you gotta love the phone he's using. Wonder where he got it. (Clicky on the picky to see the brand. Yeah, we have a lot of diversified interests here at MuscleStimulus.)






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