Another week, another photo from Luke Austin’s Butt book that caught my eye. Or caught someone’s eye, anyway.
Austin’s model is languid and light, but to me this felt like a darker image. I wanted pools of shadow falling around me as I lay there, waiting for someone to join me…ready for whatever they might need…
It’s been, for one reason or another, a pretty turbulent week. Lots of highs, a couple of real lows, and lots to process both mentally and emotionally. It culminated yesterday afternoon in a physically exhausting game of hockey, after which I felt broken in just about every sense.
When I got home, I cancelled my Saturday evening plans, opened a bottle of wine, put on some music, and chilled the fuck out. By this morning, I was feeling a lot happier – rested, if not fully restored and recharged. After tea and toast, I padded back down to my bedroom, just in time to see a beautiful patch of sunlight form across the end of my bed.
During the week, a business operates from the two windows directly opposite mine. For obvious reasons, that limits what I can do in my room when the curtains are open. On Sundays, no such restrictions exist. I shucked my dressing gown, crawled up onto the bed, and stretched out on my stomach. I could feel the sun warming my back; soothing the sore muscles in my arse and thighs. My cock was pressed between my stomach and the sheet, tight enough that it started to get hard without me even having to shift and thrust my hips.
I eventually rolled over, closing my eyes against the blinding sunlight. I arched my back and tensed my abs, letting my arms slide up the wall behind my head. Even though I knew no-one could see through it, the open window in front of me was somehow very exciting, especially when I pushed my legs apart and wrapped a hand around my throbbing cock.
In New York last weekend, I picked up a little gem of a book, by a photographer called Luke Austin. The title of the book – actually more of a super high-quality magazine – is Butt, and within its 60 pages are countless gorgeous images, all focused on the male arse.
I tweeted photos of a few of my favourites during the week, and have enjoyed flicking through it so much that it seemed only right to take inspiration from Austin’s work and make my own butt the subject of this week’s Sinful Sunday post.
In the stairwell that connects the two levels of my maisonette flat, there is a mirror. Actually to be more accurate there are 21 small mirrors, arranged in a 3×7 grid on the wall. I’m rarely a fan of my own reflection, but something about the way it’s broken up and spread across those 21 shiny discs often captures my attention as I move from one floor to the other.
Tonight I stopped to take a proper look at what they showed me; while I stood there, trying to decide whether I liked what I saw, I had the sudden urge to feel someone else’s eyes on me from above…pinning me down on their mental page, and studying my arse…just like I’ve studied Austin’s models this week.
Halfway through a leisurely brunch in a NoHo restaurant this afternoon, I got warm enough to peel off my jumper, exposing the shirt beneath it. My friend gasped, and clutched at my sleeve, dragging it towards her.
“You’re wearing cufflinks. Have I ever told you how sexy I find men in cufflinks?”
I watched her as she studied them, her face rapt. We spend hours styling our hair, doing our make-up, choosing our outfits, and tweaking a million different things about our appearance, with the aim of inducing that sort of response in a date.
Enough time and attention, in fact, to make us forget that sometimes it’s the little things that really count…
It is that time of the afternoon when the sun has arced its way down between the two buildings opposite my flat, and is throwing its rays directly through my bedroom window. You sprawl out across the duvet and bask in their warmth. We have been outside recently enough to know that the heat is a happy illusion; autumn is in the air, and its bite is as crisp as the windfall apples piled up in a bowl next to the bed.
I roll over to grab one. I love the relish with which you bite into them, and how little you care about the sticky juice that smears across your lips and chin with every mouthful. You eat an apple like it is the best and last thing you will ever consume.
I’m stopped by your hand on my wrist, a gesture so unexpected that I flinch when I feel your fingers brush over my skin. The lunge has pulled hair across your face like a soft, dark curtain, which falls away again as you roll and burrow up the bed, between my legs.
Rocking back into place, I stare down at you, unwilling to break the silence. Your face is hard to read, even as it tilts towards me, your cheek coming to rest on my left thigh. I think we are both surprised by how gently I rest the back of my hand against it. You are solemn, your eyes wide, and I respond by cupping your chin; it stills you, as if the pressure of my thumb and forefinger on your jawbone has placed the rest of your body in a vice.
Slowly, my other hand curls around my cock. It has been hard ever since you peeled off your vest top and I saw the sun bathe your tits in a sudden rush of golden light. Now I can feel it throb in earnest; there is nothing false or fleeting about this angry heat.
Your mouth opens unprompted, then clenches shut again, barely stifling a low moan. I jut my hips up towards you. I feel like I’m floating above the bedsheet, even as fierce lust gathers in my stomach like a lead weight.
“You don’t want an apple, do you?”
“No. No, I don’t.”
I wasn’t going to do a Sinful Sunday post this week. I was going to collapse for a couple of hours, post marathon, then go out with my sister and my friend to drink beer till I was ready to curl up in bed and sleep for a week.
I’m still going to do those things. However, a funny thing happened as I mooched around my AirBnB apartment earlier, looking at the sex swing my host had helpfully bolted to the ceiling. Suddenly, I wasn’t quite so tired any more. My legs still ached, but between them my cock had started not just to stir, but to tell me in no uncertain terms that I really should consider doing something about it.
I levered myself out of the lazy boy I’d been lounging in, and went over to sit in the swing instead, my cock getting steadily harder as I did so. What happened next? Let’s just say I had more energy left than I realised…
A couple of weeks ago I was chatting to someone at a party, and she mentioned Rule 34. I was unfamiliar with the term, so she explained it to me. Rule 34 of the internet states that:
“If it exists, there is porn of it – no exceptions.”
We were in the kitchen at the time, so immediately started looking around for something with which to test this maxim. One chap pointed at the kettle.
“Surely no-one’s made kettle porn,” he said. “Have they??”
Yes. Yes they have.
‘Young hot brunette teen teases & fucks her wet pussy with a kettle’ is the title of that video. I watched it so you don’t have to…seriously, some things just can’t be unseen…
Anyway, I thought about that conversation again this afternoon. My flatmate is away, and I was hanging out naked in my kitchen, making a cup of tea. I boiled some water, grabbed a mug, and just as I was about to pour, I decided to make my own contribution to the kettle porn genre – and to proving Rule 34.
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!
“Here comes the summer’s son
He burns my skin
I ache again
I’m over you”
I stopped going on family holidays shortly after my 17th birthday. Not because I didn’t enjoy them – on the contrary, camping in France provided some of my most treasured childhood and teenage memories – but because at some point (and much to my initial surprise), the appeal of three weeks in the house on my own overtook and outweighed that of beaches and BBQs; of packing up the car, slapping on the sunscreen, arguing with my siblings, and throwing myself fully into the joys and disasters of ‘family fun’.
The following year, aged 18, I stayed home again. I’d just finished A-Levels, and had money in my pocket from a summer job at Tesco – every day felt filled with sunshine and (largely unrealised) possibility. I slept in late, I drank my parents’ wine, and in the long, sultry evenings I danced around the living room naked, music pumping out at full volume.
One of the songs I played pretty much every night was Summer Son, by Texas. I loved its thumping, euphoric beat, and its super-sexy video, but most of all I loved Sharleen Spiteri. Even now, I love Sharleen Spiteri, but back then she was just something else. Scruffy, sexy, and breathlessly cool, she arched her back and sang about that ache – the one I hadn’t yet felt, but longed to know.
I still think about that song on hot summer days, and I still play it at full volume in my apartment – especially when I can dance around naked and feel the sun stream through the windows, onto my skin. Or just stand by the window and bask in its rays, the beads of sweat starting to gather and trickle down my body, as Sharleen’s voice arches its back and fills my ears…
(NSFW photos after the jump)
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.
