The following was posted July 2, 2009 | by homo superior | No Comments

Rough fuck

All natural beef: One quite butch, the other twinky, although thankfully unshaved. Dig that hairy hole.

Click the pix to watch more.

Click to watch this rough fuck.

Twink and butch boys kiss

Twink plays with butch bulge

Twink sucks butch boy's cock

Butch plays with hairy twink hole

Butch boys pounds hairy twink hole

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The following was posted July 2, 2009 | by homo superior | No Comments

A real gay pride shirt: You can see my dick from space

Printed with glow-in-the-dark ink!

This one is still my favorite of T-Shirt Hell’s recent offerings.

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The following was posted June 28, 2009 | by homo superior | No Comments

Straight naked Cherokee thug

Ducky is fresh thug b Cherokee born so he b quick 2 scalp a bitch. He b 18 & already he tower 6′2″ & he ain’t done growin’. If u think he tall just look at dis dudes big thick as fuck dick & low hangin’ cum filled nuts cause they big too. He intend 2 b around SNT 4 da long time, so drop ur pants & watch dis thug grow.

Click the pix for more straight thug dick.

Straight Cherokee thug

Straight Cherokee Thug

Straight Cherokee Thug

Click the thumbnails to open the gallery.

 

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The following was posted June 28, 2009 | by homo superior | No Comments

A really nice Latino cock

Armando flexes

Thick uncut Latino cock

Latino stud flexing

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The following was posted June 28, 2009 | by homo superior | No Comments

Piss Sex at the Fire Hydrant

Ripped hottie Zack Randall and smooth gorgeous Jayden Taylor take it to the fire hydrant! Zack hoses young Jayden down before the two swap blowjobs in the sun. Jayden gets on all fours for a hot fuck doggie style and Zack creams his ass and hole! Afterwards, the two kick back and let their piss fly while they make out!

Piss Sex at the Fire Hydrant

Piss Sex at the Fire Hydrant

 

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The following was posted June 25, 2009 | by homo superior | No Comments

flickr photo of the day: Mis cagaditas

Self-tats by one of Art Factory’s featured graffiti artists. Caption: Autodidacte.

A loose application of cagaditas might be “bloopers,” but literally it means, I think, “little mistakes.” But Louis is just being modest.

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The following was posted June 23, 2009 | by homo superior | 2 Comments

The Misiones Boy, Part 2

For the first part of this story, click here.

Marcello, The Misiones Boy

“Oh, god! How I missed your filthy gay talk!” Martina said as she toasted me, for maybe the fifth time with the same cocktail, while at the same moment trying to wrap both arms around me in a big, messy, Irish-girl hug.

I don’t remember what it was I said to elicit such lovely praise, but it probably had something to do with the Indian boy in the sleeveless tee I had been gawking at all night long, particularly when he lifted his shirt to wipe his brow with the ragged hem.  I could see his all then:  One small nipple, smooth, brown skin, a bit soft around the waist, and with a tiny wisp of  happy trail. I must have said something about that particular feature to Martina, since it’s one of my favorites. And whatever sentence I said probably contained the words “lick,” “tongue,” and maybe, “pubes” or “cum.”

Use your imagination, I guess. Martina did.

The bar closed. We were asked to, please, finish up our drinks and cigs, and leave. It was around 5 in the morning. Or maybe 6. The Indian boy had lost his games of pool, at some point, and had been loitering in our room, across from us, drinkless and alone, but still keeping an eye toward the bad-boy room. At one point, I thought he had noticed me. I certainly was making it very clear that I had noticed him. But, he only gave me a brief look; if in fact, it was a look specifically in my direction at all.

Martina was the most drunk of our lot. Still, she got tired of my fruitless, incessant ogling of the Indian loner in the sleeveless tee and took things into her own capable hands: As we all lined up to exit La Puerta Roja, Martina slipped over to where the boy was standing, a bit to the back, where he was hoping for some last-minute… what? Who knows? No one else was paying the least bit of attention to him. Putting her face up next to his, she chatted him up a bit and invited him over.

He didn’t have a clue, I could tell.

A pretty Irish girl, who spoke so-so Spanish, had asked this Boy From the Provinces to come along with us crazy, backpackin’ foreigners to wherever it was we were going, and then she abandoned him, off to the toilet, or for one last cocktail. I can’t remember now. The boy looked over at Bryan, first in line, who laughed but ignored him, then at the cute Belgian guy, who was way-too involved with, and way too close to, the vivacious Argy gal to even recognize what had been happening; and then he looked over at me as I pushed past everyone else, met my eye, shrugged and smiled, shyly.

So I spoke, and asked him if he wanted to come along with us. He said, I don’t have any money.  (So much for my pool-shark fantasy.) I said, no problem, I will buy you a couple beers. He said, Okay, but still looked confused: Where was the cute girl? Who are you people? Am I still going to get laid? None of which he said aloud, but all of which I guessed he was asking himself in his head.

I had an answer for that last question, but it would take a couple hours to answer it properly.

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The following was posted June 23, 2009 | by homo superior | No Comments

Todos nosotros, tenemos hambre

Puerto Madero; Reserva Ecológica de Buenos Aires; jueves, junio 04, 2009

All along the concrete border between hot

pavement and dry pampa, thin white

clouds of chori-smoke and carbon roll

over the heads of puffed-up pigeons huddled

on the balustrades. One bold, samples and pecks

at a bowl of salsa criolla, only one in a buffet

of condiments outside nearly every carrito,

lined up like prostitutes on the esplanade:

Su Parrillon, CHORIMOVIL, Tu Parrillada.

Opposite one, a stencil on a concrete

pole states: YO DECIDO, emblazoned on a big pink

ass. But typically, Mi Parrillon is closed.

Farther along, middle-aged men paddle

a fluorescent ball back and forth, on a dirt

court, trading laughing taunts and jibes,

pausing for a sip of mate after every

short shot, after every cursed fault scatters

the chalk-line . Past it, a black and white dog writhes,

exults in the good, funky

smells in the grass. I take a break,

smoke a menthol, watch the overdressed gay

men file past me one by one, in

and out, alone among the anonymous

green. Wiping my mouth clear of chimi,

I watch a skinny, shirtless boy

in trackies jog by. He winks, happy

trail sweating under

a daylight moon.

-

-

-

Originally posted on my moribund BA blog, but since only around 10 people a day read it, I decided to repost it here.

I think this is a decent poem, despite the fact that it was blasted out in about ten minutes.

Mind you, a Pulitzer-prize finalist prof once called me “a real poet” and described one of my poems, circa 1986, as emblematic of  “as good as poetry gets.” However, he probably doesn’t remember me from any other fag he ever taught, but there ya’ go.  (Thanks, Rodney, also for introducing me to Stephen Dobyns.)

But I can’t make a living writing poetry, now can I? Particularly not fag poetry.

(James White Review does not have a Web site, I just discovered. Oh, but I do.)

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The following was posted June 23, 2009 | by homo superior | No Comments

Sittin’ on Wolf’s dick

As always, when in doubt what to do: CLICK THE PIC FOR MORE DICK.

Muscle boy Jesse sits on Wolf's dick

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The following was posted June 21, 2009 | by homo superior | One Comment

flickr photo of the day: Flexing, hairy fighter

Shaves his pits, though. Otherwise, perfecto.

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The following was posted June 21, 2009 | by homo superior | No Comments

Bulge of the day: Big one in blue briefs

Big cock bulge in blue briefs

Also, a really nice happy trail.

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