Category: Other photos

On any other Sunday, I’d have written something incredibly filthy about the photo above.

Maybe I’d have pointed out the way my legs are spread wide on the sofa; my body ready to be pushed gently forward till my arse is in the air, exposed and free for someone to play with.

Or perhaps I’d have focused on the epic impact of marathon training on sexual stamina; how we went at it hammer and tongs for over an hour the other night, our bodies still hungry and eager at the end of it.

Those stories will have to wait for another time though, because this Sinful Sunday I’m going to do something a little different…

Four weeks from tonight, I will go to bed early and pray that sleep comes quickly. When I wake up on that Sunday morning, I will eat a light breakfast, apply BodyGlide to my nipples and groin, strap on my knee support, and get dressed. I’ll wear a black vest and shorts, a green cap, and red-flecked running shoes. On the front of the vest, I’ll pin a race number; tied to my shoelaces will be a timing chip. I’ll be ready to go.

Over the last 11 weeks, I’ve run approximately 285 miles. I’ll add 13 to that total tomorrow evening, and maybe another 90 or so before race day. Chuck in the marathon itself, and I’ll have covered a little bit more than the driving distance between London and Glasgow; around double the journey from Boston to New York.

It sounds like a lot, but for the most part I’ve enjoyed it. I’m lucky enough to have started from a position of reasonable physical fitness; my feet don’t blister, my joints and muscles are in decent shape, and I am, according to any standard definition, able-bodied. I also get to run around a great city on most of my training runs, seeing lots of interesting things as I go; when I’m done I can come back to my nice, comfortable flat, have a hot shower, and settle down on the sofa with a decent meal and a glass of wine.

That’s a luxury a lot of people don’t have, which is why my other main aim in Berlin – alongside running a sub-4 hour marathon – is to raise as much money as I can for Shelter, the homelessness charity.

Shelter campaign on a range of issues related to housing and homelessness, including public investment in affordable homes, control on private rent rises, and welfare provisions that increase the risk of people losing their homes. They do really great work across the UK, and I’m proud to be running as part of their team in Berlin.

Between my two fundraising pages, I’ve so far raised a little over £450 in sponsorship. If you’d like to help me increase that total between now and September 27th, just click here. It doesn’t matter whether you live outside the UK – Virgin Money will convert from your local currency into £££ after you donate. Every pound raised will enable Shelter to do even more to fight homelessness in this country.

Thank you!

Exhibit A

P.S. The photo above is based on an image sent to me by Exposing 40 a few weeks ago (source: marlenboro.com). The only bits I couldn’t really replicate were the stripy sofa and enormous testicles!

I don’t do well in midsummer heat. I don’t really do well in any kind of heat.

I flush red, my skin glowing between the freckles.

I burn, inside and out.

I sweat.

I really fucking sweat.

I sweat till the individual drops collect and form tiny streams, running down my body and pooling in my collarbone, or my navel, or the dip of my spine.

I sweat till my shirts soak right through; till they’re plastered flat and translucent against my torso.

I sweat on people when we fuck. I thrust, and the stinging perspiration flies off my nose, or loses its tenuous grip on my chest hair, to splash down onto her back and arse; her tits and belly.  I pull her against me as she rides my cock, and we both laugh when she sits up again, skin shiny with the print I’ve left.

I sweat when I run. Obviously. Four miles. Six miles. 10. 12. 15. It doesn’t really matter how far I run – I still sweat.

I’ve done a lot of sweating this summer. A lot of running. Some fucking too. My back is always a map afterwards – glistening streaks and trails of whatever exertion I’ve just put my body through.

Salty. Shiny. Dripping with sweat.

It’s easy to give away a part of yourself.

It’s easy to show people your better side.

It’s easy to let them halfway in.

This is a story that starts with a black shirt. Black shirts can, as Maria Sibylla diplomatically put it, veer into “Johnny Cash territory.” In fact, I tend to avoid black as a colour full-stop – or rather, socks aside, I use it judiciously: a fucking sexy Ted Baker jumper, and a tatty old one from Ben Sherman, retained only for its sentimental value (ahem, ex-girlfriend, ahem); sports wear, though not always out of choice; work shoes.

And then there’s the shirt. It’s sartorial Marmite, like my fuchsia trousers, my Versace (for H&M) boxers, and my blue velvet shoes. Yes, really – I went there. Some people love all of those, while others just think I look like a dick…and I’m fine with both of those viewpoints. It’s a long time since I really cared about what other people think of my clothes – or rather, it’s a long time since I let the negative opinions bother me. As long as I like something, I’m happy, and if other people think it looks good too, that’s a bonus.

So the shirt went online, and was swiftly followed by a description of my full outfit that day. It was only when I went to the bathroom shortly afterwards to take this photo that I realised the underwear I had on was in serious need of replacement. Luckily, Twitter was on hand to help. One particular suggestion resonated, mainly because it felt like it brought the whole discussion full-circle – black boxers rarely appeal, but as soon as @ferns__ tweeted this link, I was taken with the idea of buying a pair.

And so I did.

What do you think?

(See below for other photos from this set)

Two fantastic anonymous submissions this week, very different in tone but both celebrating the joy that sex toys can bring to our lives, from the basic physical pleasure they provide, through to the ability they have to shape or enhance our sexual identity. Many thanks to the two people responsible, for their willingness to share them here.

Sweet Spot

For me, androgyny is the sweet spot between masculine and feminine. I’ve always thought androgyny was beautiful, but it was some time before I became comfortable playing with it. The first time I wore a strap-on, I felt like an idiot. I was too insecure and sexually inexperienced to embrace having a cock. Now I love the sweet spot. I love the surge of hyper-femininity I feel when I slip into a harness and the low, steady hum what I can only describe as masculine sexual energy that accompanies it. It isn’t something I indulge in very often, but playing in the sweet spot is a tremendous treat.

Untitled

Fickle pleasure, sometimes it comes so naturally, other times it’s just out of reach…

What to do when surrounded by mountains, snow, clear blue skies, generally stunning scenery, and, crucially, no people? Why, strip off and make a snow angel, of course!

…even if it does leave you looking you’ve just enjoyed a good spanking afterwards…

Last Friday, I bought new jeans. I’m a creature of habit when it comes to what I regard as functional items (shampoo, toothpaste, denim…), and I’ve worn the same jeans – brand and size – since I was in my early 20s. I find that continuity comforting, but it also serves a practical purpose: it’s what I use to track my weight.

As a man, I’m not under significant external/social pressure to maintain (or attain) a svelte physique. I don’t own a set of scales, and “Have you lost weight?” is a question that only my mother asks me; even then I suspect it’s pre-emptive justification of the fact that she’s about to force-feed me the contents of her fridge. I could tell you roughly what I weigh, but it’s not one of those numbers that stays burned into my brain, and as long as I can squeeze into my new jeans each year, with their 34″ waist, I doubt that will change.

That said, I’m still as vain and insecure as the next man. I suck in my stomach for photos, and avoid mirrors that give me even the hint of a double chin. I worry about my lack of chest muscle, my skinny arms, and my chubby cheeks. Like a lot of people, I find it much easier to be body-positive about others than about myself – it’s a tragic irony of modern life that most of us don’t even see the ‘flaws’ that our friends and partners obsess over, yet can’t help but apply that same forensic, critical focus to what we perceive as our own physical deficiencies.

Back in September, I wrote about feeling fat and lazy at the start of a new hockey season. Last Saturday, the season finished. Hockey has little impact on the bits of my body that make me feel uncomfortable: it doesn’t fill out my chest, or give me bigger biceps, and while playing/training twice a week may take some of the chubbiness out of my cheeks, the food and booze I consume the rest of the time quickly puts it right back in them.

On the other hand, as well as being immensely enjoyable (which should always be the #1 reason for doing sport), hockey helps to tone my body in ways that do make me happy and more confident. By the end of March, my legs and arse feel strong, and while my back may ache more than it does after a long, relaxing summer, the muscles around my core are pretty taut and solid.

I was thinking about that the other day, after taking pictures for this next week’s Sinful Sunday. As I scrolled through the camera reel afterwards, one photo in particular caught my eye. It’s not a staged shot: it was snapped casually as I scampered down a snowy slope, and under other circumstances I might just have deleted it. Right now though, after a long, gruelling season, and in a week when body image has been at the front of my mind, I keep coming back to it. I feel like it captures some of the things about my body that I am pleased with; and which look different – better – after six months of playing hockey twice a week.

Looking at that photo makes me feel happy: partly because I remember how exuberant and energised I felt when it was taken, but also because I see in it something about myself that I like.

I have a huge amount of admiration for anyone willing to show off the parts of themselves – physical and emotional – that they dislike, or feel insecure about. It takes a lot of guts, and one of the best things about the Sinful Sunday project is that people feel empowered to take that leap, in the knowledge that they’ll be offered support and encouragement, rather than abuse or ridicule.

Exposing myself in that way is still something I struggle with; I might not worry about my weight, but my overall body image is still complex enough that I find it easier to focus on the bits that I’m ok with.

There’s room for both, I think, and in the end that’s the key to Sinful Sunday’s general body positivity: it accepts both equally, without judgement. The people who dismiss it as a playground for narcissists and perverts are just as wrong as those who see in it the exploitation of the vulnerable and insecure. Instead, it’s a place to explore whatever side of your sexuality – and body image – that you find interesting, whether that comes from a happy, confident place, or a more conflicted one.