END18 is an ADULT website.

There's nasty stuff inside.


By continuing, you afirm that you are of legal age
to view this smut.






FINITY IS DOING SOME WORK outside my luxurious condo today. They've sent a notice that says their Internet and TV service (to moi) might be interrupted while they place ultra-new cables and fiber-optic stuff on our street. 

So, if some of today's content is interrupted, you'll know why.

The up-side of all this, is that perhaps once the burly, muscled, contract workers (of whom I've been studying through my mini-blinds all day) will A) require refreshment and who-knows-what, and 2) somehow provide Yours Truly with even faster Interwebs service, so that in the future, your stuff will cum even faster!

Who knows!

See you when they stop diggin'.






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DMITTEDLY, IT'S BEEN A FEW days since I've posted here in my blog. But I've been busy doing other things. You gotta admit there has been some action going on here at So, even though I haven't been here to don my cardigan sweater, change my shoes, and gather y'all 'round the fireplace for some warm fuzzies, I've been hard at work, making this site everything a CWS expects it to be, right?

Right? (Can I get an "Amen"?)

Which reminds me, when was the last time you made the effort to send me an email, telling me how much you absolutely love me? Huh?


If it's been more than a week, I respectfully request you reacquaint yourself with your email client, and kiss up to me. I request no payment for all of the horrifically wonderful things I do here (for you, the CWS), other than the occasional email, extolling my wonderfulness.

Is that too much to ask?

No remuneration: No: Dollas, Euros, Yen, garage sale discounts, bartering, sex favors... Nothing! Except the occasional reminder that you think I'm wonderful. I really fail to see how THAT might be too much to ask. K?

Other than that, how have you been doing?

Me, just fine. 

God, I love summer. (Yeah, that was a terrible segue. Sorry.)

Here in the Specific Northwest, our annual weather usually includes about eight months of drizzle (and a few snow storms thrown in during the bleak midwinter), one month of drizzle-with-partial-sunshine, one month of sunshine-with-partial-drizzle, and (how many months are left? I lost count. Okay, I think I figgured it out...): two months of glorious, wonderful, summertime, delicious, to-die-for, non-humid (the Pacific Northwest does NOT do humidity), comfortable, and sometimes downright (temps in the 90s) passionately hawt and orgasmic OUTSTANDING summer weather (late July till mid/late September).

So that's what we're enjoying RIGHT NOW. It's the BEST. And of course, when it gets hawt in the PNW, the bods come out. Male bods. Male, fit, in-shape, muscular bods. Yeah, we have 'em here in the Northwest. You might want to familiarize yoursef with this little story of mine what I wrote a while ago. Muscle. At an Oregon beach. No charge 4-U-2 read this. Other than, perhaps, a passionate email of thanks.

Jus' sayin'.






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Dear Seanny,

MONDAY, AUGUST 6, 2018  




I have a boyfriend (let's call him "Harrison") who is simply wonderful. We've been together for three years and 18 days, and have lived together for three years and 22 days (it's complicated). Just last month, during Fourth o' July Fireworks, he popped the question. I'm elated, to be honest. Hank is every gay-man's dream: He's rich, he's gorgeous, he has a car (three-days-a-week), and he's been employed at the same place (DQ) for four months now!

There's only one problem. Homer and I live in Mississippi, and as you know, same-sex marriage isn't allowed here. Henry is adamant that we not travel out-of-state to make an honest man out of me, but whenever I bring up the sad fact that we can't marry here, he insists that we could actually ask the Postman to do the ceremony. (Our mailperson is a delightful cross-dresser who has agreed to help us out in any way possible.) Herbert says that as a federal employee, all officers of the Post Office can perform these kind of duties, regardless of the state they're in. Howard points out the fact that those cute little postal cars don't have to have any (state-issued) license plates as a supporting argument for his position.

So, Seanny, my Dear Seanny, please help! Is Horatio correct? Can our USPS delivery person consummate our marriage for us? If not, what should we do?

Desperate in Biloxi.


Dear Desperado,

First of all, let me say this: If you do get your mail delivery person to "consummate" your marriage, I'd love to attend. Mind if I use my phone's movie camera for that? I'm sure I could get some major clicks on PornHub with that kind of video! I'll be waiting for the invitation.

Secondly, and much more importantly (yet major-ly less entertainingly), do you people down in Mississippi get the national news or anything? Have you ever heard of the little case what went all the way to the U.S. Supreme court, called "Obergefell v. Hodges"? An easy click on that link will elucidate you to the fact that back in 2015 The Supremes made it required-like-legal in all 51 states to let us gays marry whomever we want (regardless of employment deficiencies). So yeah, you can have a regular old Justice o' the Peace, minister, or whomever consummate your marriage. (Another option, if the USPS doesn't work out, might be to ask your UPS driver. Those guys are HAWT!! God, what I wouldn't give to consummate something with one of them!


NOTE TO READERS: PLEASE SEND IN YOUR DEAR SEANNY EMAILS HERE: This email address is being protected from spambots. You need JavaScript enabled to view it. (Subject line: Ask Seanny)






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S72 xso2


LY-OLY-O. 🎵 OLY-OLY-O 🎶..." 

Back when I wore a younger man's clothes, Olympia Beer was a thing (is Oly still around?). It was brewed in Tumwater, Washington— which is a little hamlet right next to Olympia Proper.

Anyhoo, last night I actually slept in Olympia, which is about two hours north of my fair city, which resides in my fair state. One of my second cousins actually lives in Oly, and she-n-I have kinda become close over the years.

Anastasia (said cousin #2) is a beautiful, wise, wonderful woman, and I cherish the friendship we've developed; we're more than relatives, we're friends. We occasionally meet for lunch midway between our places, somewhere right off Interstate 5 (I drive up; she drives down). This weekend, however, I brought my dog (Fang) up to her fair city, and we both (Fang-n-me) spent a night at Ana's Thurston County Estate (all my relatives ooze money and have estates and stuff, as do I. So get used to it.).

It was a really nice time.

Last night, Anastase and I reminisced about family memories until nearly 1:00 AM. It was wonderful. That is, it was wonderful right up until I said that I should def hit the sack, since I had designs to hook up with Mr. Olympia the next day, and I needed some sleep to prepare for said hook-up.

Ana blinked precisely three times, tilted her head, and said, "Whaaa?" (Not in so many words, but you get the gist.)

I said, "Mr. Olympia. You know, Phil? Mr. Heath? Duh! Ima look him up tomorrow while I'm here in town, and see what I can see."

Again, Anastase said, "Whaaa?"

By this time I was getting impatient. I hate when I have to 'splain mysef. Dear Ana knows I'm gay. And she knows I'm hopelessly into Muscle. Actually, it was her nurse sister who was the first to diagnose me with Sthenolagnia! (Yeah, not so sure how someone gets that diagnosis, but in truth, it fit.) So, heck. Ana should realize that while in Olympia, you do as the Olympians do!

SPQO and all that, right? I mean, it's freaggin' OLYMPIA!

By this time, Ana was blinking continuously, like some kind of AI robot gone TILT: "I dunno what the fudge you're talking about."

I looked around the now-tackily-decorated room, as if I was searching for a solution to a problem, and said, "Ana: This is Olympia, right? Mr. Olympia has to live here, no?"

At this point she started actually getting angry. "Seanny, what the Fuck?"

I'd never heard my second cousin take the Lord's name in vain.

It was a bit disturbing.

Long (waaaaay too long) story short: After I packed my bags this morning and drove around Olympia for hours, I never found Phil. I was depressed. I stopped for gas on the way out of town, and was told Phil wasn't even "Mr. O." anymore.

Really, really depressing trip after all.

So I'm home now.

Fang is happy to be back hogging my bed. I'm happy to be letting my fingers do the talking on this here blog. Watching reruns of "The Brady Bunch" while I type.

What could be better?

Well, maybe Phil. Duh.

[OH! And have you taken the glorious WEEKEND POLL yet? Well, do it! (Please)]






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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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