(Just a bit about the ceremony of the BFB, which is of course date-specific. But only a hint; my day has been a complete shambles, prominently featuring long intervals of narcoleptic sleep. But a small bowl of pesto posole for lunch; its name alone rolls off the tongue.)
(Warning: two hunky men in nothing but jock straps, bonding over a banana, so not to everyone’s taste.)
(… and Fuck Me socks — just another promissory Mary, Queen of Scots Not Dead Yet posting, but even so, it’s totally not for kids or the sexually modest)
I continue to live in an awful fever dream, except that I have no fever, and my hands keep cramping up so I can’t use them for long periods, and I am ravenously hungry for protein and umami, bring me salmon and edamame, but mostly I sleep like a stone. It will pass, but meanwhile you don’t get postings, only intimations of postings.
Like this one, just a teasing peek into the odd world of what I think of as Ruff Guys, hypersexual hypermacho anally hyperreceptive man-oriented men (with, oh yes, a fetish for sex machinery). In some paradoxical liminal world between actual leathermen and fantastical bdsm creatures. Just a peek. At Ruff Guy jockstraps: MVP Jocks in a Fort Troff e-ad of 9/12 (which I reproduce without editing):
Brief posting. My day has mostly been consumed by (finally) installing MacOs 12 Monterey (trouble-free but time-consuming), so this is just ripped from a Facebook ad this morning for a set of Xmas cards (12 of them) from the Mialylove company (of which I know nothing), featuring Day 3: Three French Hens:
If the stereotypes are good for the cock, they’re good for the hen, apparently; see my 10/5/22 posting “Zhock jocks at play” for the Frenchman stereotypes
Pungent cigarettes all around, a beret, a Breton striped shirt.
And — surprise! — a garland of garlic, standing presumably for both body odor and fine gastronomy. And proclaiming the vampirelessness of the hen house, I suppose.
Yesterday, the posting “Watch this space”. I’m still away meeting a writing deadline, and I have a medical appointment too. So this posting is another Mary, Queen of Scots notice that I am Not Dead Yet. Meanwhile, I offer you, as entertainment and for Gay History Month, a recent Daily Jocks ad featuring a rainbow bandana worn as a sexual-advertisement hanky (on the right, or receptive / subordinate, side):
(#1) Take me, I’m yours
(OED3 (June 2022) takes bandana to be the primary spelling; OED2 had bandanna, and for a long time that was my orthographic practice. But it’s clear that bandana is now far and away the most common spelling.)
Plus its use as an actual bandana (here in a unusual, but pectorally satisfying, barechested deployment):
(#2) I pulled my harpoon from my sparkling rainbow bandana…
In related developments (not illustrated here): rainbow bandanas as headbands and as dog bandanas.
Meanwhile, none of my sources on the meaning of colors for gay hankies says a thing about rainbow bandanas. Of the six colors in the Pride rainbow (R O Y G B P), only three seem to have been used with any frequency as hanky colors:
R for fisting; Y for watersports, light B for oral sex, dark B for anal sex
(Some sources on the other three say: O for anything (on left) / nothing (on right), G for hustling, P for piercing. Completely out of my experience, though I have seen black for S&M, and heard of brown for scat. You would have thought that one of the characteristically gay-signaling colors, like pink, lavender, or purple, would have been pressed into service to convey (generally) servicing a penis — wanting mine serviced (on left) / wanting to service one (on right) — but no. The elaborated hanky code is, or was, more an exercise of imagination than a practical scheme of communication.)
In today’s Wayno / Piraro Bizarro, the (somewhat idealized, but real) world of male athletes intersects with the (fictive) world of stereotypical Frenchmen via an imperfect pun:
(#1) In both worlds at once: the object that is a (symbolic) baseball bat in the sports world and also a (real) baguette in the French world (If you’re puzzled by the odd symbols in the cartoon — Dan Piraro says there are 5 in this strip — see this Page.)
The elements of my titular phrase Zhock jock (admittedly, a play on shock jock, though the cartoon isn’t about disc jockeys — jocks — or provocative, offensive humor — shock — or provocative, offensive talk radio — shock jocks): Jacques [žak] (with initial fricative, in both French and English, though with different phonetic details in the two languages) vs. jock [ǰak] (with initial affricate, in English). So we get these three hybrid guys, flashing signifiers from both the French Zhock world — details below — and the (American) jock world (football, soccer, baseball) — cleated shoes, football jersey, padded pants, sports shorts, baseball cap.
(Content warning: the F-word and the F-act (especially between men) figure prominently, though not vividly, in what is to come. So do hiphop clothing and tofu burgers, but if you’re uncomfortable with the harder-core F-stuff, you should skip this posting.)
Caught in passing on Facebook, a guy reporting something he heard from his FUBU, which baffled me; I was dimly aware of a FUBU clothing line, but this guy must have been talking about something else.
I realize that many of my readers will have recognized the (complex) acronym immediately and so think I must be dim-witted, but I had to go look it up. The acronym is a distant cousin of FUBAR, and its abbreviatum is something I have fairly often written about on this blog, but always spelled out in full.
(Content warning: men’s bodies, references to sex between men, not suitable for kids or the sexually modest. On the other hand, there will be some delightful birds.)
Yesterday’s Daily Jocks sale ad (for harnesses, plus accompanying jockstraps and athletic socks) via e-mail, featuring the model I’ve called Reggie. In the ad, we see Reggie in character as Thilopyrus flamminips, the fire-nippled flit, performing his mating ritual; note the characteristic cruising facial display (narrowed eyes, intense direct gaze) and the inflamed party plumage (rainbow harness and jockstrap), but especially the left nipple actually on fire (when both tits ignite, the flit spontaneously ejaculates, at the same time producing his climax cry, a fierce, drawn-out whoop: “Fuuuuck”)
(Below the fold, a hot guy flashing bedroom eyes in nothing but a white low-rise basic brief that leaves little to the imagination: a matter of taste.)
A Daily Jocks flash sale — their term — for the Labor Day weekend. Work it, thick Nipaman!
I post this here for Nipaman’s lean, muscular body (very much to my taste) and of course for his remarkable bedroom-eyes performance, but also as a playful release at the end of a 9/2 day that began with a 12:30 am automated message informing me that my adjunct appointment at Stanford (and my use of Stanford e-mail, library services, and more) would be terminated on 9/4 (actually, the library services — access to the OED! — had already been terminated on 9/1), setting in motion 8 hours of heart-pounding Woo(l)ly Mammoth Crisis Time, temporarily resolved by my department’s paying for a year of these services for me while the issue of my appointment by the dean is settled.
But now I am yours, Nipaman. Work your sex magic on me.
