Herbert Ritts (August 13, 1952 – December 26, 2002) was an American fashion photographer who concentrated on black-and-white photography and portraits in the style of classical Greek sculpture. Consequently some of his more famous pieces are of male and female nudes in what can be called glamour photography.
Herb Ritts, 1952 – 2002
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As a writer, I enjoy penning tales that celebrate male beauty, mind body and soul. As doctors and researchers, the folks in the psychology department at McGill University are concerned with how men evaluate certain features of their genitals.
In fact they are conducting research on this very subject in the form of an Internet survey, which I found to be an interesting piece of research in this era of size matters.
Enlightenedmale2000 currently gets around four hundred hits a day, most of which, I assume, are from men. And since men, gay straight, bisexual or otherwise, are critically conscientious of their genitals, this survey sparked my curiosity about what you would change about yours.
The following image is my perception of perfection. Not too much pubic hair or too little. The penis is not too big or too small and is accompanied by a nice low hanging scrotum, nearly hairless and weighted with a pair of well-defined testicles, all of which has appealing shape and color. I would trade with this guy.
So, given a chance to change something about your genitals, what would it be? A longer or thicker penis? More or less pubic hair? A straighter erection? A harder erection? Want your foreskin back, or get rid of the one you have? Larger or smaller glans? A mole or wart in the wrong place? Or maybe you’re among the fortunate few who are completely satisfied by how everything is hanging down there.
You are about to read an epistle written by Antinous to his dear friend Lysicles, in which he describes a carnal encounter with the much older Cyprias, as it might have read if it actually existed.
Presented by Sir Richard Wadd
Lysicles
Though he endeavours often to keep me close to him, there are times when sensitive affairs of state preclude even my own eyes and ears from learning certain things that doubtless press heavily upon Hadrian’s shoulders. When, however, we are later reunited into each others’ arms, I do my best to help him forget – if only for a brief respite – the weight of those responsibilities upon him.
Such is my duty, and it is not one I take lightly. While Hadrian has made it clear that his sights are set on a lustrous future career for me, and that he shall do whatever he can to ensure that I achieve it, I have also made it clear to him that my present concern is only for his immediate comfort. And so, while I shall work hard to learn as much as I can from him concerning the business of administering a civil service, I shall also take pains to unburden him of its stresses when and wherever I see fit to do so.
It goes without saying that I will not knowingly add to his daily burden, nor bother him with the trivialities of others’ requests, petitions, or prayers.
At least, it used to go without saying, for it was always an unspoken understanding in my brain; something I intuitively knew without needing to articulate into private thoughts. Perhaps it was the shock of betrayal at the hands of Mordanticus; the sudden understanding that, simply by virtue of my proximity to Hadrian, I was in constant danger of being exploited by unscrupulous others as a tool to access his ear. That experience had the gradual effect of turning me into an extremely cautious fellow, to the point where I now find my defensive walls grown increasingly fortified when in the company of others – especially if Hadrian is not present.
Thus I was not entirely surprised to find the requests beginning almost immediately, mostly from those whom I know only casually. What is far more disappointing to me, however, is the fact that such petitions have also begun to come from my friends, or, at the very least, those with whom I have a friendly acquaintance.
The most painful event (for that it has caused the most grief in me) is the one that transpired a few days ago, in the company of Cyprias. I had gone to him to replenish my supply of soaps – both for me personally and for Vitalis who had officially replaced me as Keeper of Epeius. But I had also gone simply to visit, for I had not seen Cyprias since my ascension to Favourite and sensed that he was keen to see and congratulate me.
Indeed, he was quite effusive in his praise, and made clear his delight and pride in my new position. “No doubt,” he joked, “a small part of that success is owing to the enjoyment that Hadrian has consistently had from the fragrant cleanliness of his horse!”
I laughed, and was very gracious in agreeing with his somewhat farcical assessment. “May I pleasure you?” he asked me eagerly. His face was warm and sincere, and the desire in his eyes was genuine and loving. I thought of Hadrian, and of his schedule. He was very busy that day: he was at that moment taken on an arduous inspection of the Guard, and then we both shared the promise of a long evening of entertaining ahead. I resolved that, in our time together that night, Hadrian would likely not be in so demanding a sexual mood as on other, less strenuous days. The result was that I felt comfortable in my decision to share some pleasures with Cyprias. “But I will not be entered,” I warned him. “You may have my thighs: not my arse.” (For I was being cautious – just in case!)
This to him was quite amenable, and we fell into our familiar pattern: myself in his mouth to my climax, and then he behind me to his.
I have always enjoyed the warmth and wetness of capable lips around me – and it is all the more astonishing an experience when the mouth into which I am thrusting belongs to a man of stature above me. Gryllus, Cyprias, and Hadrian have all been such for me. (Decentius, however, has never taken me into his mouth, for he, at least, subscribes to the ancient fashion that demands of free men to abhor it.) Yet from these three, I have learned that rules are never so rigid as the cocks they would command, and human desires – expressed in their true and private authenticity – far outshine the dull and traditional edicts that supposedly govern them. That is why, though I am freeborn and a citizen of Rome, I may still have my backside opened and claim in truth to enjoy it. And that is why, though he is the emperor of the world, Hadrian may still take me into his mouth and happily swallow what my pleasure serves up to him. Such are the private exchanges of sensible people together, who share themselves beyond the glare of public scrutiny. And I am grateful for that, for it gives me hope that perhaps with Vitalis I may continue to share pleasures long beyond the end of our youth.
Ever wonder what it would be like to be this age again with the mind you have now?
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The Partisans: A review on Amazon by R. Herron
I just finished ready this novel and it was the most enjoyable reading experience I’ve had in a long time. It was brilliant the way Mr. Brant weaved an interracial gay love story and a war. As an African American gay man, it was great to find characters that embraced each other’s diversity and found they were more alike than not. This could be a great movie if someone was courageous enough to make it. The Partisans is truly a treasure. I’m recommending it to all of my friends. I’m looking forward to reading other books by this author.
From Chapter Three
“I understand,” said Jhan, producing a sympathetic smile. He looked back at Ethan. “My father’s an SS officer. He’s always been ruthlessly autocratic. Now he’s a brutal tyrant. My older brother is an ambitious bureaucrat, callously ambitious, and far removed from the intellectual he thinks he is. My lifelong best friend is a Jew, or should I say was a Jew, I wouldn’t know. Our friendship goes back to grade school, where we practiced the art of mischief together. My own brother turned him in to further his career. He laughed at me when I attacked him because of it. My mother is a nervous rabbit, ruined by an abusive husband and the effects of the Reich. So to answer your question, I’m not motivated by my moral objections—I’m driven.”
From Chapter Seven
Golden brown in the soft light, powerful and muscular, Jhan wondered how a man like Ethan managed to look submissive. But he did, with his hands up behind his head, body exposed, legs parted. It struck Jhan that something not so easily found would have seemed impossible just a week earlier; but right here in this remote barn, two men’s lives were changing. His gaze lingered, just to assure himself that this was for him, that it was real, that just now nothing else mattered. A gaze—quiet, contemplative, though more than enough to set the urges welling. How like a summer storm these things come over a man. Now, after so many years of loneliness, here was a man willing and waiting for his touch, someone like himself who understands the ache.
Available on Amazon in paperback or Kindle versions.
A codpiece (from Middle English cod, “scrotum”) is a covering flap or pouch that attaches to the front of the crotch of men’s trousers and usually accentuates the genital area. It was held closed by string ties, buttons, or other methods. It was an important item of European clothing in the 15th and 16th centuries, and is still worn in the modern era, ususally in performance costumes for rock music and metal musicians and in the gay leather subculture.
From the ancient world there are extant depictions of the codpiece; for example, archaeological recovery at Minoan Knossos on Crete has yielded figurines, some of which are clad in codpieces. Most of what is objectively known about the cut, fit, and materials of Renaissance clothing is learned from realistic portraits, clothing inventories, descriptive receipts for payments of artifacts, or tailors’ cutting guides. In the 14th century, men’s hose were two separate legs worn over linen drawers, leaving a man’s genitals covered only by a layer of linen. As the century wore on and men’s hemlines rose, the hose became longer and joined at the centre back but remained open at the centre front. The shortening of the cote or doublet resulted in under-disguised genitals, so the codpiece began life as a triangular piece of fabric covering the gap.
As time passed, codpieces became shaped and padded to emphasize rather than to conceal, reaching their peak of size and decoration in the 1540s before falling out of use by the 1590s. Armor of the 16th century followed civilian fashion, and for a time armored codpieces were a prominent addition to the best full harnesses.
Ever wonder what the masses really think about public nudity? You need to have Spencer Tunick around to discover the hidden truth. Somehow, in the name of art, he gets past our misplaced facades and reveals the very soul of human nature.
From www.pedestrian.tv; by Ash
Nudity, after reality television and Karl Stefanovic is the final frontier of human shame. Since childhood we’re conditioned to associate nudity with a lack of morals or promiscuity and unless you’re a stripper, model, streaker or Taylor Lautner’s torso only a handful of people should see you naked on any given day. This morning however, five thousand Sydneysiders threw clothing and caution to the unseasonably chilly wind for a nude artwork by American photographer Spencer Tunick – creating a soon-to-be iconic image and shifting the paradigm of public nudity in Australia in the process.
I mean, why is it acceptable for five thousand people to get naked for the sake of art but if five people tried disrobing at the Opera House steps tomorrow they’d be pepper sprayed like they abducted a bus-full of children? Or you could talk about how Tunick told strangers to kiss – with many interpreting his instructions as a spontaneous act of unity. Outside the context of high art – five thousand naked strangers making out in a public place would be viewed as the orgy precursor to the Apocalypse. But when framed by artistic intention some magical transformation takes place and nudity becomes a human interest story on the local news. Why is one illegal and one not? Who decides what’s appropriate and what’s not? And has the public threshold for nudity increased now that the SMH has posted a video with a thousand penises in it?
It’s something to think about and we’d love to hear your views but the more pertinent question might be how did this happen? I mean, it’s weird to think that one person can convince thousands of strangers halfway across the world to disrobe and blindly follow direction – but that’s Tunick’s M.O. exactly. After graduating from Art College in Boston, Tunick began shooting nudes in the late 80’s, gradually incorporating more participants and more iconic locations as his profile grew. In 2007 he shot 18.,000 nudes in Mexico City. This morning he shot a few thousand less at Sydney’s most recognizable Harbourside landmark. That’s the appeal I guess. To be part of something greater than yourself. To be immortalized in art. To forge a tangible record of your existence. Or…people just like getting naked and seeing other people naked. But you’d be wrong if to assume Tunick’s aim is to titillate. In his world human bodies are brush strokes and nudity a symbol for human homogeneity. From a distance we’re all the same says Tunick and looking at his photos you tend to agree.
What’s even stranger, considering the democracy of it all, is that Tunick remains fully clothed throughout the shoot’s duration. He barks orders from a microphone on a raised platform while racing against the light to conjure his magic. Pedestrian recently caught up with starkers participant Koots, 23, unemployed, for an insider’s view on taking it all off in the name of art.
Interview with Koots:
First question Koots – what compelled you to strip with a few thousand strangers?
It was just a chance to do something I wouldn’t usually do. Any other time legally, you’d get in trouble but all of a sudden it was cool to just strip off in public – it’s a pretty crazy double standard.
And was there much diversity in the crowd?
There were heaps of young people and a bunch of older people as well. It was pretty much 50/50 men and women – it wasn’t just like old dirty men. It was pretty even actually, all different people from all different backgrounds. From people you wouldn’t expect to crazy old men who were tattooed head to toe.
And how did it work logistically?
We got there at 4am and they organized everyone into different groups. Then they give you instructions on where to stand and how it’s going to work. Then they give the green light and thousands of people get their kit off and take their positions. Then he (Tunick) just goes through a variety of poses – facing one way, facing the other, lying down with you head in the crotch of the person behind you. There was one where he told everyone to kiss the person next to them regardless of whether it was a man or a woman – whatever. Then after that we went into the concert hall of the Opera House and he did another one where everyone was sitting down.
Where did you put your clothes?
Nebojsa Zdravkovic was born in Belgrade in 1959, he trained in the best art schools and graduated with a Masters Degree. He is now a member of the Association of Serbian Fine Artists.
He was granted a scholarship by the Spanish government for post-graduate studies in Madrid. He has won many prizes for his work in his own country and abroad.
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