Lonnie
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The new Pete Buttigieg documentary reveals a gifted politician struggling with how much to reveal of himself.
Two and a half years after his run for president, Pete Buttigieg has managed to hold America’s attention and fascination. | Courtesy of Amazon Studios
By RUBY CRAMER
11/08/2021 12:35 PM EST
- Ruby Cramer is a senior staff writer for Politico Magazine.
The first voice you hear, somewhere off-camera, belongs to Jesse Moss, the filmmaker.
“Anything you want to make sure that I ask him?”
By this point, Moss has spent 11 months with his subject, filming him backstage at events, in his home, in his car, at the airport, in every session of debate prep he held with his campaign advisers. But as the new documentary “Mayor Pete” opens, the director is asking for help. The person seated across from Moss is not Pete Buttigieg, but his husband.
Chasten, holding the couple’s one-eyed puggle upright in his lap, tells Moss to ask Buttigieg about his identity. “He did everything to climb every ladder without being his authentic self,” he says. Buttigieg didn’t come out of the closet until 2015, when he was 33, already mayor. “You spent so much of your life hiding who you really were — did you feel like you were able to be your true self on the campaign trail?”
“Do you think he’s ready to answer that question?” Moss asks. “Can he answer that?”
“He should. You can try.”
Buttigieg walks in the room. Before he leaves, Chasten turns to his husband.
“Don’t bull---- us, Peter,” he says.
Two and a half years after his run for president, Buttigieg has managed to hold America’s attention and fascination. Roads and bridges have apparently never been so interesting. The beat-like coverage of his arrival in Washington this year — of his new kids, his aides, his role in the Biden administration, his presumed future presidential run(s) — is not typically commensurate with the job title of transportation secretary. Now a feature film by Moss, director of the 2020 film “Boys State,” aims to fill the lingering curiosity gap about a candidate who has shaped his own unexpected political identity, first in South Bend, Ind., and now in Washington. But peeling back the layers, Moss found, could feel like an impossibly frustrating task.
The proposition he interrogates in the film, built on cinéma vérité-style footage from inside the 2020 campaign, is that when it comes to Buttigieg, what you see is what you get. In one sense, this is proven true. For 96 minutes, in scenes ranging from public events to the privacy of his own home, there is Pete, acting like Pete: reserved and calm, a sweet husband, a nerd (“Did someone say pivot table!?” he asks in one scene, exuberant at the chance to help format an Excel spreadsheet), an introvert. He does not, by his own admission, have the “gregarious charisma” of Bill Clinton. You can sense there is constant activity happening, not on screen, but somewhere inside his head, far off and out of reach. At points, Moss says, he felt confounded by his own subject, turning to Chasten to bring Buttigieg emotionally within arm’s length.
“I was very stymied by that,” Moss told me ahead of the film’s release this Friday. “There were moments where I threw up my hands in frustration and despair.”
The beat-like coverage of Pete Buttigieg's arrival in Washington this year is not typically commensurate with the job title of transportation secretary. | Courtesy of Amazon Prime Video
And that’s the underside of Moss’s premise, the dilemma in his film on constant display: It’s not exactly that Buttigieg is “bull----ing” us, as Chasten says in the first scene, or even that what you see is not, in fact, what you get. It’s the feeling of an inaccessible interior — of watching a person who is still becoming comfortable with himself and doing so on the biggest stage imaginable. The real drama that unfolds on screen is not about the ups and downs of a campaign, or even Buttigieg’s political prospects, though he states plainly in the film’s final scene that he could run again: “Time is on my side.” What you see instead is more basic: a story about personal identity in politics — a man, then 37, a presidential candidate, a breakout star, now the most prominent member of President Biden’s cabinet, who at every turn was unsure of how, or exactly how much, to share himself with the world. Always, he erred on the side of less rather than more. Always, it was against the urging of his own husband and campaign team.
The sharpest moments of tension come when Chasten and campaign aides push Buttigieg to open up, including about his identity as a gay man. In one subtly heartbreaking scene, Chasten is in their Des Moines hotel room, watching live coverage of the Iowa caucus returns. Bernie Sanders is on TV, speaking on stage surrounded by his wife and family, when Chasten says from the couch, “You’re gonna be the only candidate that didn’t have your spouse standing next to you.” Buttigieg doesn’t really respond. In a seated interview for the film, Chasten recalls the early days of their relationship. “I would say, ‘What’s going on in that head of yours?’ And he’s grown a lot, being able to verbalize. I think he’s learned to allow personal narrative to have more impact,” he tells Moss. “Opening up.”
In debate prep sessions, when Buttigieg rehearses his response to a police shooting of a Black man in South Bend, his senior adviser Lis Smith says, “He’s comin’ across like the f---ing tin man up there.” When he talks about his experiences as a gay man, she tells him it’s like he is “reading a f---ing shopping list,” she says. “You’re not, like, f---ing, an anthropologist here.”
“This is, like, a thing that you feel,” she says, as if literally reminding him.
It was only late into the project that Moss discovered he was watching a candidate’s “journey” to express himself in a more fundamental rather than political way. That journey is the invisible framework of the film, and you have to look carefully for signs of the scaffolding as the camera tracks Buttigieg moving swiftly through the benchmarks of a national campaign, from his launch in April 2019, to his rise via CNN town halls and debates, to the night he wins the Iowa caucus and, just four weeks later, stares down the reality that “the numbers” are “just not there” with Black voters. But what Moss does manage to reveal between the action tells us more about the man himself, and his limits.
“Sometimes people who participate in documentaries don’t fully consciously know why they do it,” Moss told me. “There is a complicated relationship that is formed with the filmmaker, and there's a need that you fulfill.
“The film may have functioned as a part of that self-questioning. It may have been wrapped up in what Chasten recognized to be the larger project that Pete was on — to open up.”
The first time I met Buttigieg was at a Sheraton in Phoenix in January 2017. He was still mayor of South Bend, a city of 100,000, a new entry in the race to become chair of the Democratic National Committee, his first introduction to the national stage. As an aide led me up to his suite, she told me he was “the next John F. Kennedy.”
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‘He’s Comin’ Across Like the F---ing Tin Man Up There’This being a DNC candidate forum, an unglamorous and musty affair, it was quite the claim. Inside the room, I asked Buttigieg about how he wanted to lead the party, and he quickly steered us into a conversation about what it means to lead a city with “values” — specifically, he said, the values of trash pickup services.
"The values of trash pickup?" I said.
“Yeah. It’s connected to the meaning of life, in the sense that whatever the meaning life is —”
"Trash pickup?"
"Yeah,” he said, “because what's the meaning of life for you?"
I stammered.
“Whatever it is, whether it’s your professional growth, or faith and family, or you’re building a business, you will not be able to meet that life of your choosing if there’s not clean, safe drinking water for you, or a road to get you where you’re going — or if the trash isn’t getting picked up.”
Buttigieg, a skilled narrator, is President Biden’s most prominent messenger, on the Sunday shows nearly every weekend. | Courtesy of Amazon Prime Video
Buttigieg could do that, even back then — turning a mundane question into a larger-than-life answer. He could sell his record in South Bend as a national model. His view of politics was philosophical, esoteric. He presented voters with a view of one era bleeding into the next — the New Deal era lasted for 50 years, he’d tell voters, then came the Reagan era, and he wanted to define the era that came next. As transportation secretary, he is President Biden’s most prominent messenger, on the Sunday shows nearly every weekend, talking up the infrastructure bill that will finally become law after a vote late Friday. In policy and politics, he is a skilled narrator.
The film “Mayor Pete” documents the way his personal narrative, on the other hand, boiled down in the Democratic primary to a collection of outré biographical data points that delighted reporters at every turn: Maltese American, left-handed, gay, war veteran, Episcopalian, mayor, millennial, fluent in eight languages (including Norwegian), reads French poetry, loves James Joyce, prefers blue Paper Mate Flair Felt Tip Pens (medium point, 0.7mm), played a minor role in a possible bread price-fixing scandal in Canada and so on. “People want to fix you onto a spectrum and find a box to put you in,” Buttigieg once told me before he ran for president. “I spent Thanksgiving in a deer blind with my boyfriend’s father. Identity buckets aren’t comfortable places for me to be in.”
Buttigieg had only just launched his exploratory committee when Moss, still editing “Boys State,” approached the campaign, then just a team of a few people. His producer had pitched the idea. Buttigieg was interested. Moss was skeptical. “I said no, actually,” he says. “It sucks to cover campaigns.” After watching Buttigieg on a CNN town hall, an appearance that helped incite “the overall fascination with Pete,” Moss told me, he reconsidered. “I said, ‘Well, if the access is really there, and Pete’s really willing to give it, even though he’s not going to go far and this might be a foolhardy effort, I'll just go out and start filming, and we'll see how it feels.”
As he trailed the campaign in 2019, Moss found that although his film crew of one had access no other journalist enjoyed — to his campaign headquarters, his marriage, his living room in South Bend — Buttigieg could present an inaccessible front. The first time they met was on a train to Washington, D.C. Moss introduced himself. “I’m like, ‘I’m Jesse.’ And he’s like, ‘I’m Pete.’ And then he was back to work. I sat down on the empty seat next to him and waited for the small talk to begin, and it didn’t.” He stayed for “two awkward minutes,” he says, and then returned to his seat. “A very awkward first day.”
Weeks later, Moss remembers filming him from the passenger seat of a car. Buttigieg was in the back, reading or dialed into a call, Moss watching his face. “It was placid. I wouldn’t say blank — that’s not the right word — but it was impenetrable,” he says. “And yet I found it fascinating because I thought, what is going on? He’s juggling a lot of balls in the air here. He's obviously containing a lot — emotionally and intellectually and tactically — and all of that was concentrated right there in his face for me.”
“There’s an experimental version of the film, which is just him thinking,” he laughs.
“But that’s also not great dramatic storytelling, right? He is so restrained. He’s a difficult, dramatic protagonist. In some ways, he's so comfortable in front of the camera, at least in certain environments. And yet, he wasn’t uncomfortable privately. But he was not revealing.”
Moss’s wife and filmmaking partner, Amanda McBaine, advised him at some point “to get Pete drunk or something.”
Buttigieg rationalizes his restraint in his own words, late in the film, quoting a poem by Carl Sandburg, written from the perspective of a father giving advice to his son: “It says, ‘Tell himself no lies about himself / whatever the white lies and protective fronts / he may use amongst other people.” Everybody “has thought about that,” Buttigieg tells Moss. “What’s the difference between the faces the world makes you put forward and your shifting understanding of who you actually are?”
At points, filmmaker Jesse Moss says, he felt confounded by his own subject, turning to Chasten to bring Buttigieg emotionally within arm’s length. | Courtesy of Amazon Prime Video
Moss learned to rely on Chasten. Really, the two colluded in the project. At one point, Moss is trying to interview Buttigieg — “and I could see he was slipping into this mode of like, ‘I'm talking to any reporter,’ and it’s just unusable.” So he asks Chasten to step in as the questioner. “I've never done that before with a documentary interview, and it felt a little transgressive, but we immediately got more interesting. I thought, ‘My God, now I'm filming them talking about this campaign together.’” Chasten sits down at their dining room table, behind a portrait of Kennedy propped up on a small piano. “How do you know how to do what you’re doing?” he asks his husband.
Buttigieg, in particular, laments what he calls the “gamification” of politics, but it’s Chasten who is constantly pushing up against what he feels are the boundaries of the campaign. When he wants to start telling audiences about the couple’s difficulty having kids — “it’s something very real and felt by a lot of people” — a staffer tells him it’s a bit too intimate to bring up publicly. The two briefly debate the question before the staffer says, “If you want to make it a part of ‘the narrative,’ we can have that conversation.”
Moss believes he wouldn’t have been able to make the film with just Buttigieg. “You couldn’t,” he says. “I think that I was really struggling. I thought, ‘Oh my God, I can’t make a film.’ Chasten allowed me to kind of short circuit what would normally either be impossible or take forever.”
You do see intimate moments in “Mayor Pete”: In March 2020, after dropping out of the race, you watch him return from the campaign trail, changing into sweatpants and slippers before taking calls from President Obama and Joe Biden. At home, he does laundry, brews Keurig, types on his iPad, wrestles with his dogs on the floor, takes Chasten on a “date night” to Dairy Queen (“Can we eat the ice cream before the chicken gets here?” he asks), plays dominoes with his family and works at the mayor’s office in South Bend. “Oh, Mr. Bill, Mr. Regular Bill, sitting here, on the mayor’s desk,” he hums in a singsong voice to a stack of paper, chipper as he signs each page with his fine blue marker. “This is how a bill becomes law!” he declares when an aide walks in. “Mhm,” she says, walking out.
There are notable absences in the film, too. Moss documents Buttigieg’s struggle with the police shooting of Eric Logan, a Black man in South Bend, but the film leaves out the tensions over race and inclusion that divided his own campaign staff. (Rather, Moss presents the operation as a small, home-grown family, where aides are expected to “be really, really kind,” as campaign manager Mike Schmuhl tells staff early in the film.) You also don’t hear Buttigieg talk about his father, who died just before his campaign launch, around the same time Moss began filming. Buttigieg didn’t discuss his grief on the campaign trail, and he doesn’t in the film. Moss says he didn’t want to overload the documentary with too much early biography.
“My way of coming at the world, the stronger the emotion is, the more private it is,” Buttigieg says. “And it is a strange thing, because politics is an emotional pursuit, of course.”
Chasten’s question for his husband — were you able to “be your true self on the campaign trail?” — is at the center of every run for office, and of every documentary that tries to reveal the harrowing gauntlet that is American presidential politics.
“Journeys With George,” Alexandra Pelosi’s home-movie-style film about her time embedded with the 2000 Bush campaign, shows the candidate as viewed from inside “the bubble” — a daily, rote exercise in following him from one place to the next. As reporters slip and slide across a frozen tarmac in Iowa, waiting to watch the candidate arrive, Houston Chronicle reporter R.G. Ratcliffe yells over the drone of jet engines, “This is insane! The only reason we’re out here is in case Bush comes out, slips on the ice and falls down — because we’re vicious predators.”
A more recent political documentary series, “Hillary,” shows a candidate looking on from the other side of the bubble: “I am a private person, but I think it’s important to be a private person if you’re in public arena,” Clinton tells filmmakers, “because the crushing intensity of total wall-to-wall coverage, the expectation that you share your innermost feelings with people — is there anything left if you’ve basically lived everything out in public?”
“Mayor Pete” presents viewers with something in between. The audience is neither on the outside looking in, nor fully inside. If Buttigieg was able to be his “true self” on the campaign trail, or in the documentary project he invited into his home for a year, the question is left open by Moss. “I'm always interested in the faces we put forward to the public and then the private self,” Moss says. “It does articulate to me a central question of Pete’s journey through the campaign and his own growth. It’s the question every candidate goes through. For Pete that has particular meaning, because he’s a gay man.”
Now a father to twins, Buttigieg has not participated in the promotion of the film. The only staff member interviewed in the documentary, the campaign manager, Mike Schmuhl, declined to discuss the project, too.
Moss did share a rough cut of the movie with Buttigieg and Chasten earlier this year. They both watched it. Buttigieg only offered one piece of feedback: Why wasn't there more policy? “It may just be that they’re processing. It’s sort of hard to see past their own lived experience to what the film represents,” Moss says.
“Mayor Pete” is less of a political document than films like “Mitt” or “War Room.” Moss says he’s enjoyed referring to it as “a love story.” | Courtesy of Amazon Prime Video
“Mayor Pete” is less of a political document than films like “Mitt” or “War Room.” Moss says he’s enjoyed referring to it as “a love story.”
By the end of the documentary, we see Pete and Chasten backstage before an event in New Hampshire. He’s just won the Iowa caucus and backstage in a small hold room, when Chasten asks Buttigieg if he would ever say: “To that kid, cracking the door open, wondering if it’s really safe to come out in this country, I say, ‘Look what we can do.’”
“I don’t know, maybe,” says Buttigieg, seated at his iPad.
When he goes on stage, he gives his own version of the line and chokes up.
If you can see Buttigieg’s growth in the film, Moss says, this was it. “I think what they were negotiating, in the relationship, and then on the stage, both together and separately, was how to live as themselves. How much of myself do I offer?”
“Are we left with a similar feeling of unrequited knowledge with Donald Trump? Probably not. We probably know everything and more than we need to know. What is it about Pete that creates that sense that there’s something elusive? And is that a valuable thing to have?”
Moss, against his own interests as a filmmaker, offers one possible answer.
“Maybe we need more political leaders who offer us less of their personal selves.”
- stevenkesslar, Pete1111, Ruthrieston and 2 others
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Strictly Come Dancing viewers were moved to “tears” on Saturday (6 November), after a “spellbinding” and sensual rumba from Johannes Radebe and John Whaite.
The show’s first-ever male same-sex dance partners performed the rumba to “Shape of My Heart” by Sting, and came in third, scoring 35 points out of a possible 40.
Viewers were overwhelmed with emotion after the performance, and many revealed that they had broken down in tears.
One wrote: “In tears watching Johannes and John. I bloomin’ hate the rhumba but the fact that two gay men are dancing this together on prime time Saturday night BBC is everything.”
Lib Dem councillor Mathew Hulbert added: “Tears. Couldn’t take my eyes off John and Johannes during that dance. Beautiful.
“They may not know just how much seeing them dance together means to so many.”
While Whaite and Radebe having been blowing fans away since they first stepped onto the Strictly dance floor in September, many declared that the rumba was their best performance yet because of its sensuality and raw emotion.
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6 hours ago, Alaskabear said:
What exactly is this Bangu place
Its a cruising area: https://www.gays-cruising.com/en/bangu/rio_de_janeiro/brazil
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While much attention has been paid in recent years to heterosexual prostitution and sex tourism in Brazil, gay sex tourism has been almost completely overlooked. In Tourist Attractions, Gregory C. Mitchell presents a pioneering ethnography that focuses on the personal lives and identities of male sex workers who occupy a variety of roles in Brazil’s sexual economy.
Mitchell takes us into the bath houses of Rio de Janeiro, where rent boys cruise for clients, and to the beaches of Salvador da Bahia, where African American gay men seek out hustlers while exploring cultural heritage tourist sites. His ethnography stretches into the Amazon, where indigenous fantasies are tinged with the erotic at eco-resorts, and into the homes of “kept men,” who forge long-term, long-distance, transnational relationships that blur the boundaries of what counts as commercial sex. Mitchell asks how tourists perceive sex workers’ performances of Brazilianness, race, and masculinity, and, in turn, how these two groups of men make sense of differing models of racial and sexual identity across cultural boundaries. He proposes that in order to better understand how people experience difference sexually, we reframe prostitution—which Marxist feminists have long conceptualized as sexual labor—as also being a form of performative labor. Tourist Attractions is an exceptional ethnography poised to make an indelible impact in the fields of anthropology, gender, and sexuality, and research on prostitution and tourism. -
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3 hours ago, Pete1111 said:
I was delighted to read that Kal Penn has come out.
Kal Penn Comes Out as Gay, Announces Engagement to Partner of 11 Years
The actor has been in a relationship for 11 years and recently got engaged.
Kal Penn, an actor known for starring in the Harold & Kumar film franchise and who worked in the Obama administration, has come out as gay. The actor made the revelation in interviews surrounding the release of his tell-all memoir You Can't be Serious.Penn has been in a relationship with his partner Josh for 11 years, according to People magazine. The couple celebrated their anniversary in October and are engaged. While Penn said he has let those in his life know about his relationship, he has never spoken about it to the general public. Penn told People that Josh doesn't "love attention" and shies away from the limelight.
Penn worked in the Obama administration for two years in addition to his career as an actor — he worked on projects like House and Designated Survivor. On his first date with Josh, which came while he was working at the White House, the pair watched NASCAR and drank Coors Light. There are multiple paparazzi photos of the pair together, particularly at basketball games, but Josh was only credited as a guest.
"I discovered my own sexuality relatively late in life compared to many other people," Penn told People. "There's no timeline on this stuff. People figure their sh-- out at different times in their lives, so I'm glad I did when I did."
To promote the book, Penn also posted a series of photos on Instagram. "Kicking off book launch week on CBS Sunday morning today!" he wrote in a caption. "So excited to share my stories with you."
In one of the photos is Romen Borsellino, who he created the show Kal Penn Approves This Message with, reading beside an oversized dildo.
The dildo may have come from a hosting gig that Penn had. In 2019, he toured a sex toy production line in the Amazon docu-comedy series This Giant Beast That Is The Global Economy.
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Mykonos Nights: Omar Sharif Jr. on the Gay Getaway's Sexual Allure
The activist and grandson of the Hollywood legend details his first gay sexual experience in his new memoir, A Tale of Two Omars. Read an exclusive excerpt here.
October 28 2021 7:42 PM EDT
Before starting college in the fall, my cousin Mikey and his friends had planned a ten-day backpacking trip through Greece to launch their next life chapter. As we’d always been close, Mikey invited me along. Mikey knew I was always up for an adventure, and I wanted to spend time with him before he went off to school. My father agreed to let me go and covered the cost of my trip. One of his friends, Naldo, gave me a thousand euros for spending money, and Grandmother Faten and Aunt Nadia added heavily to the fund, telling me to have a great time.
I flew from Cairo to Athens a day ahead of Mikey and his friends, Lindsey and Rob. When they arrived, the fun began. We went sight- seeing, enjoyed traditional Greek dishes, and hit the bars and clubs. The next thing on our itinerary was a ferry to Mykonos, one of the Cyclades islands. When the ferry docked, I couldn’t wait to explore. We walked the narrow streets, spent time on the beaches, grabbed lunch, and took everything in. It didn’t take long before I realized that Mykonos was an alluring paradise for gay men. People were carefree and happy—I’d never seen anything like it. No one had to hide—they were out in plain sight, holding hands, kissing, and showing affection for one another. It didn’t matter where we went—there weren’t any shadows.
I was sure by now that Mikey had heard rumors about me, but my cousin didn’t mention them or even hint at anything. Mikey didn’t judge me. He just let me enjoy being myself and free. After we went to a couple of straight bars that first evening, I ventured off solo so I could discover more. For the next few nights, I could feel myself breathing serenely.
After leaving Mykonos, we took the ferry to Santorini, another of the Cyclades islands. The rugged landscape was shaped by a volcanic eruption, and the city was built on a downward slope facing the Aegean Sea. There were charming and picturesque homes, white with blue rooftops, resting on the cliffs. The colorful sunsets were painted with the most perfect strokes I’d ever seen. Its breathtaking views made Santorini the ideal place for lovebirds and honeymooners. But even with all its beauty, it didn’t compare to Mykonos. Mykonos felt like a community—a home I’d never known.
The next day, the four of us were in line to board a ferry to the party island of Ios. Our plans were to enjoy a few days there and then head home. I glanced around, observing my surroundings while we waited, and a small waterplane caught my attention. The sign in front of it read MYKONOS. I turned to Mikey with the widest grin imaginable and said, “This isn’t my island . . . that’s my island,” pointing excitedly at the sign. I gave Mikey a big hug, said bye to his friends, and without further explanation, I slung my large orange and black backpack over my shoulder, jumped out of line, and made a dash toward a makeshift booth near the airplane. Sounding as though I was trying to escape someone, I asked the middle-aged guy behind the counter, “Do you have room for one more?” Folding the newspaper he was reading, he said, “You’re the last.” I paid him fifty euros, took my ticket, and boarded the plane. I was going back to paradise.
I didn’t have a hotel reservation or a place to stay, but I knew I’d figure it out. I hadn’t planned to return, but the island called me back like a siren beckoning a lost sailor. When I arrived, I went from one hotel to another, looking for a room until I found one. I checked in, put my backpack in the comfortable seaside room, and set out on adventure. I stopped at the receptionist’s desk and asked him where to begin. He pulled a small flyer out of his pocket, handed it to me, and pointed. “I recommend that you go here. There’s a party at Super Paradise this afternoon; I’m sure you’ll make some friends.” I rented a Vespa and drove toward my destination.
I parked the Vespa, followed the music toward the beach, and removed my sandals as soon as I stepped off the paved path. The vibe was chill and relaxed, the way I wanted the rest of the world to be—whole and one. There were gay and straight people partying together on the beach and sexuality was a non-issue. People didn’t stare or point, whisper or gawk. Everyone was equal—LGBTQ and allies alike.
After taking a swim in the bay, I laid my towel on a lounge chair as my toes sank into the pebbles of sand. I stretched out to bask in the warmth of the sun, but before I was settled, a slim, toned guy wearing a dark blue Speedo helped himself to the other chair under my umbrella. Until then, I’d only seen other guys wear board shorts, but when I looked around, I realized I was the only one wearing them on this beach.
“G’day, mate.”
“Hi,” I replied.
“I’m Adrian. And you are?” he asked, seductively scanning my body.
“Omar.”
“Nice to meet you, Omar. So, what brings you to Mykonos?”
I wanted to say, “The same thing that brought you here,” but I didn’t. I said, “Initially, I came here to hang out with friends.”
“Initially? Are they still here with you?” he asked, looking around to see if anyone was approaching.
“Not anymore. My cousin and his friends went to Ios, and I decided I wanted to be here. I like this island,” I admitted, as I watched the ocean spill onto the shore with its own rhythm and timing.
“I like it here, too.” After a brief pause, he added, “You’re quite handsome.”
I didn’t respond, because that wasn’t something I was used to hearing. Adrian was handsome, Australian, in his early twenties, and built like a soccer player. I listened to Adrian tell me about himself and his job as a flight attendant for Emirates. He seemed to be worldly, friendly, and good-natured. When he spoke, it was refreshing to hear him talk openly about whatever he wanted. He didn’t have to say he was gay, because there was no reason to hide or explain it. He wasn’t shy or uncomfortable with his sexuality, either—at least not on Mykonos. Unlike me, Adrian didn’t appear to be hiding a secret at all. At sixteen, I hadn’t reached that level of comfort, and I wasn’t sure I ever would. But the island didn’t have closets, and until I left, I was free to explore being me.
“How old are you?”
“Seventeen,” I lied. “But I’m going to university soon,” I added, realizing I had just admitted I was a minor but failing miserably to make myself appear more mature.
Adrian suddenly got up and said, “Let’s go!”
“Where?”
“You’re on school break. It’s hot out here, right?” I nodded in agreement. “So, let’s get some ice cream and explore.”
As the day progressed, I grew more comfortable with Adrian. He bought us some ice cream, and we walked the beach until the heat became unbearable, forcing us to take a swim to cool off. When we emerged from the ocean, we stood there with the waves flushing over our feet. Adrian moved closer to me until I could feel his breath on my lips—as if he was asking for permission. With the warmth of the sun on my back, I leaned in, and he kissed me. I abandoned any thoughts I had and really let myself go for the first time. We went back to my hotel, and long story short, we found out exactly what I was willing to do for a Klondike bar . . . and it was wonderful.
The next morning, I headed down to the lobby to ask the concierge if he knew about anything exciting happening on the island that day. Thoroughly prepared for my question, he recited a variety of activities and parties taking place on the beaches and at some of the local bars. When I turned around to leave, I ran into a group of guys who were staying at the same hotel. After some casual conversation, they asked if I was with someone. When I told them I was alone, they invited me to hang with them and explore the island. After getting to know them, I gravitated toward Rayan, a good-looking Jordanian in his late twenties. He told me a lot about himself, including that he worked as a dentist. The more we learned about one another, the more drawn to each other we became. I think it was mostly because of our shared Arab background, but his brawny and rugged appearance wasn’t a deterrent, either. A few hours later, my phone vibrated. I glanced at the message, realizing that I’d forgotten about Adrian.
He invited me to hang out with him, but I didn’t know what to say, because I was exactly where I wanted to be at that moment. I really liked Rayan and had wanted to get to know more about him since he’d captured my attention—and when I looked up at him, he still had it. I put my phone away without sending a reply. Following a long day of activities, dinner, and dancing, I was sure I wanted to spend the night with Rayan. And that night turned into another.
I found myself in an emotional triangle with both Adrian and Rayan. My interest was unquestionably in Rayan, but I didn’t feel right ignoring Adrian’s message. I wanted to be polite to him, as he was the first guy I’d met on the island—and the first guy I’d ever slept with—so I agreed to hang out with him again.
On the fourth night, while Adrian and I were heading into a restaurant for dinner, we ran into Rayan, and his disappointment was palpable.
“Hey.”
“I tried to reach you,” he told me.
“I was planning to call you tonight.”
“I’m sure. It seems you’ve been enjoying the island today,” he said, eyeing Adrian.
“We were just sightseeing. Nothing else, really.”
Rayan tucked his hands into his pockets, kind of shrugged, and then he was gone.
In the end, nothing worked out with either Adrian or Rayan. I didn’t expect to leave Mykonos with a boyfriend, but I accomplished more than I’d ever thought possible. I had discovered and freely explored a whole new side of myself. Maybe I didn’t find love, but I did find within myself permission to love.
After I returned to Egypt, Dad and I went to see Omar in France before I flew home to Canada. In my world, I’d become a little more comfortable with who I was, although no one knew any different.
Excerpted from A Tale of Two Omars: A Memoir of Family, Revolution, and Coming Out During the Arab Spring by Omar Sharif, Jr., courtesy Counterpoint Press.
- Ruthrieston, Pete1111, TotallyOz and 1 other
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On 10/12/2021 at 3:40 PM, Lonnie said:
Naked, enlarged, charged, aching to get sucked,
Oh My..I'm getting the vapors.
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On 10/28/2021 at 4:54 PM, Novarunner said:
what it symbolizes
Triangles Pointing Upward
The opposite of the double triangle pointing downward is the double triangle pointing upwards. The upward triangles are, of course, the symbol of males. This is a powerful indication of masculinity, parenting, the ferocious fire element, the sun, and a sub cosmic world.
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5 hours ago, BlkSuperman said:
They try to kiss, but I don't kiss AT ALL unless its my hubby.
Thanks for the information BlkSuperman that you always generously share. I guess you're the wrong guy to ask about kissing skills.
I travel alone and am afraid I would never have the confidence you show in approaching good looking strangers. Do you fell you would
be so bold if you were traveling all alone?
The tip about taking a picture and "sending to a friend in the DR" sounds like a very good precaution. One I will use.
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On 10/15/2021 at 8:31 PM, BlkSuperman said:
The cop actually allowed me to record him fucking me in his uniform
Oh my BlkSuperman ...a fantasy of mine is to suck and get fucked by a sexy cop in uniform...lucky you. Were either of the cops good kissers? That would send me over the edge.
I won't mention my other fantasies that in the past you have scolded me for. 😀
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1 hour ago, Riobard said:
Then I can volunteer to assess the Lagoa trends in situ there over that period
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1 hour ago, PeterRS said:
Ah, but I did not say that
No you did not...I'm guilty of putting words in your post, sorry. I should have said $15 to $25 dollars per glass 🍷 or more are not uncommon for splurge restaurants.
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Suhring looks great! As you said wine by the glass not overpriced.
WINES BY THE GLASS
Vintage 125 ml
SPARKLING
2015 Sekt Riesling Jour Fixe Immich-Batterieberg 420
NV Champagne 7 Crus Agrapart 900
WHITE
O 2016 Riesling Orange Melsheimer 490
O 2018 Chardonnay Bourgogne Blanc Domaine Sextant 700
2015 Grüner Veltliner Single Vineyard Sohm & Kracher 770
2018 Riesling GG Kirchspiel Groebe 820
B 2018 Chassagne Montrachet La Maltroie Bruno Colin (Coravin) 1700
RED
2018 Spätburgunder Iphofer Hans Wirsching 500
B 2017 Blaufränkisch Moric 500
O 2015 Sankt Laurent Dogma, Pittnauer 520
B 2016 Saint-Emilion Emilien Château Le Puy 940
B 2015 Gevrey-Chambertin Ostrea Domaine Trapet (Coravin) 1600
SWEET 75 ml
2017 Riesling Heerkretz Auslese Wagner Stempel 590
B 2013 Maury Op. Nord Terres de Fagayra 1100 -
One more...looks like it's been around awhile.
https://thailandeventguide.com/blog/2020/10/14/krubb-bangkok-thai-lgbtq/
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11 hours ago, JKane said:
That article seems like clickbait bs to me.
Yes...you are right and I'm the sucker who clicked it.
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- Popular Post
- Popular Post
We feel compelled to reprint the entire thing, just because we never had any idea that W.H. Auden wrote an unbelievably filthy poem about an anonymous blow job.
According to the editor’s note, Auden wrote the poem in 1948, and copies were circulated among friends and fans for years, before Ed Sanders printed an unauthorized version in 1965. Auden publicly denied authorship, which is why we can reprint this without permission and with impunity (as does the anthology, which doesn’t include Auden’s poem on its copyright page). Enjoy!
The Platonic Blow
W. H. AudenIt was a spring day, a day for a lay, when the air
Smelled like a locker-room, a day to blow or get blown;
Returning from lunch I turned my corner and there
On a near-by stoop I saw him standing alone.I glanced as I advanced. The clean white T-shirt outlined
A forceful torso, the light-blue denims divulged
Much. I observed the snug curves where they hugged the behind,
I watched the crotch where the cloth intriguingly bulged.Our eyes met. I felt sick. My knees turned weak.
I couldn’t move. I didn’t know what to say.
In a blur I heard words, myself like a stranger speak
“Will you come to my room?” Then a husky voice, “O.K.”I produced some beer and we talked. Like a little boy
He told me his story. Present address: next door.
Half Polish, half Irish. The youngest. From Illinois.
Profession: mechanic. Name: Bud. Age: twenty-four.He put down his glass and stretched his bare arms along
The back of my sofa. The afternoon sunlight struck
The blond hairs on the wrist near my head. His chin was strong.
His mouth sucky. I could hardly believe my luck.And here he was sitting beside me, legs apart.
I could bear it no longer. I touched the inside of his thigh.
His reply was to move closer. I trembled, my heart
Thumped and jumped as my fingers went to his fly.I opened a gap in the flap. I went in there.
I sought for a slit in the gripper shorts that had charge
Of the basket I asked for. I came to warm flesh then to hair.
I went on. I found what I hoped. I groped. It was large.He responded to my fondling in a charming, disarming way:
Without a word he unbuckled his belt while I felt.
And lolled back, stretching his legs. His pants fell away.
Carefully drawing it out, I beheld what I held.The circumcised head was a work of mastercraft
With perfectly beveled rim of unusual weight
And the friendliest red. Even relaxed, the shaft
Was of noble dimensions with the wrinkles that indicateSingular powers of extension. For a second or two,
It lay there inert, then suddenly stirred in my hand,
Then paused as if frightened or doubtful of what to do.
And then with a violent jerk began to expand.By soundless bounds it extended and distended, by quick
Great leaps it rose, it flushed, it rushed to its full size.
Nearly nine inches long and three inches thick,
A royal column, ineffably solemn and wise.I tested its length and strength with a manual squeeze.
I bunched my fingers and twirled them about the knob.
I stroked it from top to bottom. I got on my knees.
I lowered my head. I opened my mouth for the job.But he pushed me gently away. He bent down. He unlaced
His shoes. He removed his socks. Stood up. Shed
His pants altogether. Muscles in arms and waist
Rippled as he whipped his T-shirt over his head.I scanned his tan, enjoyed the contrast of brown
Trunk against white shorts taut around small
Hips. With a dig and a wriggle he peeled them down.
I tore off my clothes. He faced me, smiling. I saw all.The gorgeous organ stood stiffly and straightly out
With a slight flare upwards. At each beat of his heart it threw
An odd little nod my way. From the slot of the spout
Exuded a drop of transparent viscous goo.The lair of hair was fair, the grove of a young man,
A tangle of curls and whorls, luxuriant but couth.
Except for a spur of golden hairs that fan
To the neat navel, the rest of the belly was smooth.Well hung, slung from the fork of the muscular legs,
The firm vase of his sperm, like a bulging pear,
Cradling its handsome glands, two herculean eggs,
Swung as he came towards me, shameless, bare.We aligned mouths. We entwined. All act was clutch,
All fact contact, the attack and the interlock
Of tongues, the charms of arms. I shook at the touch
Of his fresh flesh, I rocked at the shock of his cock.Straddling my legs a little I inserted his divine
Person between and closed on it tight as I could.
The upright warmth of his belly lay all along mine.
Nude, glued together for a minute, we stood.I stroked the lobes of his ears, the back of his head
And the broad shoulders. I took bold hold of the compact
Globes of his bottom. We tottered. He fell on the bed.
Lips parted, eyes closed, he lay there, ripe for the act.Mad to be had, to be felt and smelled. My lips
Explored the adorable masculine tits. My eyes
Assessed the chest. I caressed the athletic hips
And the slim limbs. I approved the grooves of the thighs.I hugged, I snuggled into an armpit. I sniffed
The subtle whiff of its tuft. I lapped up the taste
Of its hot hollow. My fingers began to drift
On a trek of inspection, a leisurely tour of the waist.Downward in narrowing circles they playfully strayed.
Encroached on his privates like poachers, approached the prick,
But teasingly swerved, retreated from meeting. It betrayed
Its pleading need by a pretty imploring kick.“Shall I rim you?” I whispered. He shifted his limbs in assent.
Turned on his side and opened his legs, let me pass
To the dark parts behind. I kissed as I went
The great thick cord that ran back from his balls to his arse.Prying the buttocks aside, I nosed my way in
Down the shaggy slopes. I came to the puckered goal.
It was quick to my licking. He pressed his crotch to my chin.
His thighs squirmed as my tongue wormed in his hole.His sensations yearned for consummation. He untucked
His legs and lay panting, hot as a teen-age boy.
Naked, enlarged, charged, aching to get sucked,
Clawing the sheet, all his pores open to joy.I inspected his erection. I surveyed his parts with a stare
From scrotum level. Sighting along the underside
Of his cock, I looked through the forest of pubic hair
To the range of the chest beyond rising lofty and wide.I admired the texture, the delicate wrinkles and the neat
Sutures of the capacious bag. I adored the grace
Of the male genitalia. I raised the delicious meat
Up to my mouth, brought the face of its hard-on to my face.Slipping my lips round the Byzantine dome of the head,
With the tip of my tongue I caressed the sensitive groove.
He thrilled to the trill. “That’s lovely!” he hoarsely said.
“Go on! Go on!” Very slowly I started to move.Gently, intently, I slid to the massive base
Of his tower of power, paused there a moment down
In the warm moist thicket, then began to retrace
Inch by inch the smooth way to the throbbing crown.Indwelling excitements swelled at delights to come
As I descended and ascended those thick distended walls.
I grasped his root between left forefinger and thumb
And with my right hand tickled his heavy voluminous balls.I plunged with a rhythmical lunge steady and slow,
And at every stroke made a corkscrew roll with my tongue.
His soul reeled in the feeling. He whimpered “Oh!”
As I tongued and squeezed and rolled and tickled and swung.Then I pressed on the spot where the groin is joined to the cock,
Slipped a finger into his arse and massaged him from inside.
The secret sluices of his juices began to unlock.
He melted into what he felt. “O Jesus!” he cried.Waves of immeasurable pleasures mounted his member in quick
Spasms. I lay still in the notch of his crotch inhaling his sweat.
His ring convulsed round my finger. Into me, rich and thick,
His hot spunk spouted in gouts, spurted in jet after jet.
The nightmare of testing positive on arrival
in Gay Thailand
Posted
This one's a real nightmare: