Manscape? Use Deodorant? Not On Your Life!

Manscape? Use Deodorant? Not On Your Life!

Roving through soft news on my AOL home page, I came across an advice post from “Men’s Health” magazine on essential grooming tips for guys. A few made sense like flossing daily or clipping your nails, but viewed from the perspective of a leather/levi guy who digs other leather/levi guys, most of the rest of them were strictly metrosexual, mainstream effeminatization bullshit. If my kind of guys adopted them, we’d be instant box office poison.

Like manscape. Huh? I’m pretty furry, and while I realize and respect that there are guys – and gals – who don’t like all that hair, and younger gay guys who actually get it permanently lasered off, I think body hair on a man is the epitome of masculine sensuality. And so do my admirers, furry and smooth. Nothing gives me a woodie quicker than seeing thick chest hair sprouting from underneath a guy’s tank top. We fur fanatics can’t get enough. And running your fingers through it – shit – let’s stop right there. I wanna get this post done.

Shave. I’m letting my beard grow longer until somebody thinks I’m homeless and slips me a buck the next time I walk out of Wal-Mart. If a guy ain’t got some facial hair, I don’t care what he’s got between his legs, but if he sports a goatee, he can be six foot, hundred and fifty pounds soaking wet, and smooth as a baby’s butt, he’s got my dick growin’.

Shower, use deodorant. Since I retired, the only time I use deodorant is when I go to see my dentist. That’s because he’s up close and personal, but not in the way I’d like. Me and my guys, we dig man scent and sweat so much we’d shower in it if we could. Hell, do you know how fucken sexy sniffing and licking a ripe armpit is? One of the main characters in my last novel, “The Czar of Wilton Drive,” whom my protagonist Jonathan eventually falls in love with, is so into sweat he won’t have sex any other way.

And when a guy I’m hooking up with says, “I want you like you just came from the gym,” about the only spot I make sure is squeaky clean is, you know, that hole down there in case he wants to stick his tongue in it. (Unless, of course, he insists otherwise.)

Ditto with changing under wear every day. Sniffing crouch odor, piss stains and some pre-cum from playing with Mr. Peter at three in the morning on a guy’s jockey briefs is more potent than Viagra. And I’ve had more than a few virtual buddies ask me to send my unwashed underwear to them as a souvenir of our seven minutes of smartphone sex.

Like I’ve said before, what’s gauche in Straight Land is hot in Gaydom.

Now come over here, buddy, stick your nose deep in my armpit and breathe in.

That’s better.

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