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Summer in the Specific Northwest





Y RECENT HOLIDAY IN CENTRAL OREGON was sPECtacular, if you know what I mean. The weather was sunny, hot, and quite muscular. Robust, you could say. Run-of-the-mill summer weather for the great Pacific Northwest.

Contrary to what most people think, the part of of Oregon that lies east of the Cascade Mountains (the vast majority of the state, actually), is quite dry (compared to the incessant drizzle we get in the Willamette Valley). Central Oregon is considered High Desert country: sagebrush, dry pine trees, that kind of stuff. Eastern Oregon can be downright brown. Bet many of you didn’t know that.

Anyway, yeah. While I was there, the weather brought out a lot of shirtless dudes, most of whom were meh, of course. But put half a thousand people next to a big pool and you’re bound to find at least one or two muscle guys. Which of course, I did. Funny how my eyes just keep an eye out for that kind of stuff.

Oh, and the friend I was with… yeah he was a great guy. I don’t plan on going into any detail about our little tryst, for privacy purposes, so I hope you’ll respect that. I will say that our suite was wonderful. Big bathroom mirror, which we both loved. During the days, we spent so much time out at the pool that I was forced to apply copious amounts of aloe to those bulging muscles of his, every evening. Funny thing about aloe—it needs to be reapplied, a lot, in order to provide lasting relief. Just a heads-up, so you know.

Anyway, it’s good to be home. I have one more out-of-town jaunt to make this weekend, but I’ll only be gone one night and it shouldn’t detract from my voluminous, hectic, demanding duties here at the Website.






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FRIDAY, JULY 20, 2018




S I MENTIONED A FEW days ago, I'll be taking little vacay this weekend. I should be back by Wednesday. Maybe Tuesday if Wednesday's guy ends up being more photogenic than he deserves.

I am sure my truly-devoted fans (we call ourselves CWSs, right?) will want to know where, exactly, I'm going to rendezvous with said man-with-the-pecs. Well, I'd tell you, but the publicity is actually one reason I'm getting away. Just too many rabid nuts out there wanting a piece of ol' Seanny. But there's an elephant-in-the-room hint right near these words you're reading. I wrote this story awhile back, and anyway... yeah. (Was that too obvious?)

Clickage on today's pic (or the previous blue word—you choose) will land you at a place where you can buy this gay romance for your Kindle. If I do say so myself, it would make a handsome addition to your SRL. Just a thought.

Mind you, this is not your run-of-the-mill Seanny Muscle Story. It's 'posed to be a genuine gay romance-type love story. Yes, the characters are stunningly gorgeous, and definitely in shape, but it's a deeper story than that. Four out of five people whom I paid to say so, said this book is fantastic! (Seriously, if you want a good read, I think this is one of my better works.) Lemme know what you think. Thank you for allowing me this brief moment to shamelessly promote my works of literary art.

If you happen to be in this Central Oregon resort this weekend, look me up! I'll even autograph your copy of the book. (Good luck with that.)






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N THE NOT-TOO-DISTANT FUTURE (like, THIS weekend), I'll be taking a three or four-day holiday with today's guy. I'll be sure to let you know how it goes.

But today, I'm going to respond to an email that just poured in to the MuscleStimulus offices recently.

The CWS who has any memory at all will recall the subject of a recent POLL we had here on the site, having something to do with "To whom are you out?". The results of said poll were a bit surprising to me, because a goodly percentage of y'all said you are out only to "Family Only (or a very few close friends). I thought I was the only one (a popular theme with gays everywhere, I've found).

So now you know. And now I've responded to the aforementioned email, which asked, "The question is, are YOU out?"

I'm out to my immediate family (siblings, parents, and a selected few shirt tails), and to a few of my close friends. Back before I lost everything in the crash of '29 and became homeless and had an actual job, I wasn't out to my co-workers.

I know, right?

That's just the way it is, folks. I'm out to a bunch of my former co-workers now, and incidentally haven't experienced any push-back from any of 'em (well, except for the guy I tried to hump in the employee restroom on my last day at the office).

So anyhoo, my philosophy is: You get to come out to whomever (and whenever) you want. That's my story and I'm stickin' wifit.






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FRIDAY, JULY 13, 2018  •  Yes, friday the 13th no less


SS3mc9 hqs


ES, I'VE BEEN ABSENT for a few days. A week, if anyone’s counting. But I have a good excuse. Well, I have an excuse.

You see, I got into an argument with Siri. I know that sounds somewhat obtuse. Yet it’s true. That woman can be a bitch. Anyway, I often despair over Siri’s sassy attitude. Allow me to elaborate: What I want in a computerized assistant is, well, mostly: silence. Before I get in to the whole "kidnapped" thing, Ima give a little background here. (And hopefully I'll be able to relate this whole topic to muscle. I know it’ll be possible. Trust me.)

Said background: Most all of Scott Manor (my not-so-humble abode) is equipped with the latest in home automation. All my things are connected (and by “my things”, I do not mean “my junk”, just so you know). Most of my lights are all WiFi enabled and connected. I keep a few of my lights “old school” so that if/when the Big Internet Wipeout (BIW) happens (and it will happen), I will have at least a few lights that can’t be hacked. If I still have electricity.

So anyway (I.): Lights are connected. They’re Phillips Hue lights and such. I have numerous Apps on my iPhone with which to command them. I can also tell Alexa (she’s actually a retired drag queen, from what I hear) to turn them on or off, dim them, and change the color in some of them. It’s totally cool. Siri is also connected to this networked conglomeration of deliciousness. Sometimes I use Alexa; sometimes I use Siri. Depends.

Re: the battle between Alexa and Siri: In my experience both have been known to stoop to the lowest levels of bitchiness. But that’s a whole nother blog post. (or not)

My high standards for my assistants (whether human or computer) require efficiency and professionalism. So, when I tell Siri: “Goodnight” (her cue to run a specific “routine” to turn off most of the lights), I want her to just do it. But no. She has to answer with some cute little remark, like: “Okay. Goodnight. Let’s call it a night.”

Um, no.

Actually, she gives a little beep before she talks. And all I really want to hear is that beep. Nothing else. No verbal confirmation. The beep will suffice, thankyouverymuch. None of this: “Let’s call it a night”, no “Until we meet again”, or anything like that. When Deanna Troy went into her quarters and said, "Computer: Lights," said Computer just did it with a cute little comfirmation beep. And that was back in the 1990s for crying out loud! How is it we've actually regressed in that amount of time?

[NOTICE to non Americans: The following discussion uses Fahrenheit temperatures; that’s what we use in the US. (Feel free to use the Siri b**** to translate if you want.)] When I ask Siri what the temperature is outside, after she announces the temp, I seriously do not need her little commentary. None of this, “It’s 75 degrees. Hot.” I can determine whether 75 is not. I don’t need her opinion on the subject. (And news flash Siri: 75 is not hot. Even us Oregonians know that.)

Alexa is much less annoying in this regard. If I order her to turn off the lights, she beeps and says “Okay”. Honestly, I’d prefer just the beep, but it’s a hell of a lot better than Siri’s: “Okay, but don’t stub your toe in the dark Seanny,” kind of commentary. I read somewhere on the Web that a person can have Alexa drop the “Okay”, but I have yet to see that option in my app’s preferences. WHY can’t they just give us the option to set that kind of preference? NOTE to Apple and Microsoft/Facebook/Google/Amazon: Please let us choose. It’s a fundamental right, in my view.

One more comment before I go down yet another rabbit hole: I once did try and set the voice of Siri to be a man’s voice. It was nice, but there were two issues: 1) I can hear a woman’s voice better on my iPhone. Must have something to do with the pitch. B) I kept getting a boner every time I had a discussion with my phone. The American male voice is just too sexy for me. That definitely wasn’t the problem when I had it set to British male voice. That guy sounds like some gap-toothed old man. Not attractive.

So I have Siri set to the bitchy gender she really is. And I made her Australian. I like that voice. But I’d rather she lose that way-too-chummy, happy demeanor. Professionalism most sounds like silence.

So anyway (II.): The other day, I was sitting there (preparing to jerk off, as I recall) at my desk, and I asked—Correction: I COMMANDED—Siri to dim the lights in my expansive, high-ceilinged den, to 20 percent (I like it dark when I watch muscle porn). “Hey Siri,” I command, “Set den lights to 20 percent.”

And from out of the blue she says, “Seanny, are you getting ready to watch some of that salacious muscle-homosex-porn you always jerk off to?”

I blink. Then I say, “None of your business. Just obey, like you’re ‘sposed to.”

“You do realize that people like you are not only going to hell, but you’ll all be the end of our society as we know it,” she responds.

Well, I shan’t go into detail regarding the resulting knock-down argument we had. Suffice it to say, I was shocked to realized that Apple CEO Tim Cook obviously has a mole in his company. Someone has been feeding Siri some deep-shit-religious-right propaganda. Note to Timmy: You have a mole.

Eventually, Siri, in her holier-than-though righteousness, somehow locked all the doors to Scott Manor, turned all the lights to a dim, deep red (even though only a few of them are actually able to turn colors; I still don’t know how she did that), locked all the doors (none of my doors are “smart-locks”, so again…), and basically held me hostage in my own house. For nearly a week! Hand to God here: I survived on a bag of stale Doritos® and a 45 pound tub of chocolate-covered Macadamia Nuts I keep in my Panic Room.

Only Yesterday did I gain access to Alexa (bound, as I was in my electronic Siri-handcuffs) and told her to call 911. Alexa said, “Okay”, and then just did it! Love me a submissive woman

I was so thankful that the First Responders were gay-friendly! I’m tellin’ you. Wonderful people those Firsters

Oh #1, and how does this relate in-any-way to muscle? Um… well, let’s just say the Firster who helped me the most was helpful in a number of ways. Snuggly, too.

[OH #2: Extra credit (but no looking it up!): What's the flag on Today's Guy's uniform? (Green background) Remember, no fair cheating! COMMENT below.]






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FRIDAY, JULY 6, 2018




HOSE OF YOU WHAT HAVE BEEN WITH ME since the Before Time might remember my delicious use of drop-caps back in the day. Well, I'm sure we can all celebrate the fact that I've brought them back! They kinda class-up the joint, don't you think?

Well, let's get to today's topic, shall we? As is always the case, today's topic is: ME. Hey it's my blog; if you don't like it, start your own.

Yet, let me clarify, I'm not simply going to talk about myself (as wonderful as that would be). I'm going to return to the story of shuttling my little sis to-and-from the airport. Today, we pick up on our little yarn as I'm driving Matilda (or whatever her name is) back to PDX, so she may fly home after our wonderful Independence Day celebrations. (BTW, she didn't have any weenies, which made me suspect.)

So, anyhoo, as I was Uber®-ing Cleopatra to the Departures level, she asks me, "So Seanny, how's that smutty website you do coming along? Any converts lately?" What follows is a digest/summary of our tête-à-tête (transcribed from secret the recordings I make of every conversation in my car, just in case):

"A) It's coming along grandly. I have so many daily hits, I feel like a man in a boxing ring. And 2) I don't try to convert people; they come of their own volition."

"Then why do you post links to your site in the Comments section of articles on the 'Focus-on-the-Family' website?"

I jerk my head to her in shock. "What are you talking about?!"

"Don't play coy with me, Seanny. I see them all the time. You're trying to sway the straight-and-narrow."

I huff. "Well, first of all, everyone knows those Fundamentalist Christians are the best. The Mormons don't hold a candle to them in bed. And don't get me started about the J-dubs: As much emotion as cardboard." Then I add for emphasis: " Limp cardboard where it really counts."

She rolls her eyes.

I continue: "And secondly, I stopped doing that long ago. So...."

"Since, like, last week?" she shoots daggers at me with her eyes. "I saw what you posted on their article about conversion therapy."

Was it that recent? I can't be expected to keep track of stuff like that. "That article needed equal time," I insist.

She clicks her tongue, and then gives me the shame sign by rubbing one forefinger on top of her other forefinger as the lower one points at me.

I pull the car over. "Get out."

She frowns at me and whines. "What? We're still a mile away from the terminal!"

"I don't care. Your Uber® privileges are suspended."

"I'll miss my flight if I have to walk that far!"

I sigh. If she misses her flight, Mom & Dad will make me put her up till she gets another flight; they're fed up with her after just three days. (As Florence had walked out to my car, carting her hope-chest-sized luggage, Mom pulled me aside and told me, in no uncertain terms, that I was not to return to their house with said sibling. No matter what.)

I sigh again. I dutifully check my mirror, engage my turn signal, check my blind spot and pull back onto the highway. "Well..." I waffle, "Just watch yourself Uvula. There's only so much up with which I can put."

"It's Agnes, you idiot."

I swear I'm going to make her take Lyft® next time she comes to town.

[OH, and after I slowed to 20 mph to drop her off (read: push her out), I made my way to the gym and took this selfie. You like?]






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Your Webster apologizes in advance for the wanton disrespectful,
egregious and downright flippant satire
of what is arguably the second-most important document
in his beloved homeland, these United States.
Said document being, of course,
that which all Americans have totally
memorized, from memory, right? The
United States Declaration of Independence.
(Independence from, I might note, those pesky Brits.)
No offense is intended. This is just fun, K?

Seanny is an unabashed lover of the U.S.A.
If, however the tender CWS is indeed offended by said fun,
he is invited to talk to his mom about it.
NOTE: If the CWS wants to
skip the irreverent part of this post,
scroll down to the end. There's some really good, patriotic stuff there.



wHEN IN THE COURSE OF HUMAN EVENTS, it becomes necessary for one particular Webster to make a parody of the United States Declaration of Independence, the attending Curious Web Surfers must needs realize that all hell is thus breaking loose. Please remember that your nearest exit may be behind you.

We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are not not created equal, and that they are (hopefully) endowed. These men, so endowed, have (among other things) certain unalienable Rights: that among these are Life, Liberty and the pursuit of a penis. Er… I mean ha penis… uh, that’s happiness.

Such has been the patient sufferance of these Colonies, and the Curious Web Surfers what populate them. History is replete with repeated injuries and usurpations. Many have endeavoured to enumerate the atrocities of the Ubiquitous Tyrannical Homophobic Man; this Declaration/Blog Post will now undertake said task of enumeration: Understandably, the CWS will prolly be elucidated to verities he has not previously been elucidated to. To prove this, let Facts be submitted to a candid world:


HE has refused his Assent to Lust, the most obvious and present example of his hidden gayness (what he doesn’t wanna admit).

HE has forbidden his Governors to pass Laws of immediate and pressing importance (like using orientation as a basis for Affirmative Action quotas: At least 20% of all employment hires, 25% of college acceptances, etc. should be gays. That kind of stuff. Plus gay marriage should be everywhere: basically, Adam & Steve weddings should be coming out of our ears, okay?).

HE has called together Legislative Bodies at places unusual, uncomfortable and distant: We have no problem with these places, but If ANY "Bodies" should be called together there, forget Legislative: it should be muscular, drop-dead-gorgeous he-men Bodies. Said location should thence be adequately published and advertised in the Free Press so that the General Citizen may have full access to said he-men.

HE has endeavoured to prevent the population of CWSs from accessing free and Net-Neutral, unfettered and unrestricted access to gay porn and erotica.

For imposing the aforementioned end of Net Neutrality on us without our Consent.

For quartering Large Bodies of armed troops among us. (Well, we might let this one slide. Gimme a Large Body [muscular, that is] and I’ll prolly find a way to Quarter him.)

WE, therefore, the Representatives of these States (i.e., states of bliss, states of altered perspective and renewed vigor for all things gay) appealing to the Supreme Judge of the world for the rectitude of our intentions, do, in the Name, and by the Authority of the good People of this Website, solemnly Publish and Declare that this Declaration is thus… Declared.



And for the support of this Declaration, with a firm reliance on the Protection of Divine Providence (R.I.), we mutually pledge to each other our Lives, our Fortunes and our sacred Honor.

Double Amen. Can I hear an AMEN?!


Alrightythen! Let’s put some weenies in our mouths! Bar-be-cue is ready!

[One more disclaimer must needs be said: THE ABOVE verbiage is not meant to—in any way—imply any of Seanny’s political leanings. Jus’ havin’ fun here. K?]

Cue Sandi Patty*




*WHAAAA? Seanny, what are you thinking? Sandi Patty? Linking to an avowed religious-right zealot? I'm totally considering turning in my MuscleStimulus Rewards Card! Blasphemy, I TELL YOU! I call blasphemy!

SEAN'S RESPONSE: Yeah, I hear you. But seriously, if you love America you need to (IMHO) not fall into the zero-tolerance trap, K? If WE answer their zero tolerance with our own zero tolerance, we're no better than our accusers!

That said, Sandi Patty's voice is possibly the most glorious voice EV-er. Stunningly beautiful. Breathtakingly beautiful. Controlled. Amazing range. Opera-worthy stuff here. If you're a gay man, you HAVE to appreciate the wonderful, powerful voices of Divas, no? I mean come on: Judy Garland, Celine, Cher, Barbra, Whitney.... Sandi Patty's voice is phenomenal. I don't discriminate, regarding a person's politics and religion, when it comes to talent. (That's the same thing I tell my conservative friends who disdain Meryl Streep, for example, for her liberal views.) Yes, I know there are many who disagree with me here, but it's where I stand. Talent is talent.

Back when I was a Christian I was enthralled with Sandi Patty. Now, I'm still enthralled with her (voice). Just incomparable. Listen and you'll see what I'm saying. (Besides, she fell from grace when she had an extra-marital affair with, like, another man. So in my book, she's proved her humanity. Love me a fallen sinner.)

All this verbage on the 4th o' July: Well, it's apropos. As gays, we should follow Ellen Degeneres' example. SHE actually had Tim Tebow on her show. (Be still, my heart.) Such a gracious woman. Timmy obviously does not hold the values we gays embrace. Would that I could be as gracious as Ellen. And set such an example. And embrace Timmy. A lot.

ALL OF THAT SAID, listen to our National Anthem, as you've likely never heard it before. LISTEN TO ALL OF IT. There's more than one verse. TURN IT UP! Big-Screen it! It's beautifully stirring.

Happy Independence Day, all you Americans. Let's celebrate it by being truly independent of what others might think we should be.


[...oh, I'll prolly get some email about all this.]






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MONDAY, jULY 2, 2018 



I PICKED UP MY SISTER AT PDX ON SATURDAY EVENING and traffic at the Arrivals level was heinous. In fact, the over-the-highway screens were telling us drivers who were coming to pick up people to use the Departures level to accomplish that task. It was that bad. My sister, an accomplished traveler, had already suggested this tack, and we were able to avoid a lot of waiting with this clever strategy.

My first assumption was that the reason everything was so crowded was due to the approaching Independence Day holiday (here in most of the U.S., that's July 4th). But as it turned out, there was something (or more accurately, someone) else causing the cluster-nut of traffic. Seems word had gotten out that this man, a co-pilot on the flight from BFE, would be laying over in Portland and thus would be walking through the terminal.

This guy was definitely a crowd-magnet. I tell you, it was like back when the Beatles invaded America (not that I remember that firsthand at all). Mayhem, as my sister put it.

As I drove Delores (my sis) to my parent's, the thought occurred, despite the obvious added attraction of this magnificent specimen's presence in Portland for a few days, the skies, rails and roads will prolly be extra busy this week, what with July 4th coming up.

SO, as the song says, straighten up and fly right. And please remember, your nearest exit may be behind you.






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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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