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Silverfoxesclub-digest In this issue:
-Re: The unsighted Bocelli (3)
----------------------------------------------------------------------
Subject: Re: The unsighted Bocelli (pic attached)
Ben and group, I love Andrea's voice, and have the same cassette as you,
Ben. I also like "my prayer" that he sings with Selin Dion. (sorry,
can't spell). I feel proud that a blind person is so popular, and is so
talented. I wonder how he manages the movements on stage, or facial
expressions, or gestures, because if I could sing, I wouldn't know how to
do those.
I was moved by the interplay between you, Ben and your lover. Taking a
shower with a guy is wonderful, especially when you're a big guy, like me,
and you get soaped up all over!
When I was a young boy, I wanted to meet Helen Keller, but she wasn't
meeting people by then: she was too old. My mother did have me meet
Robert Smithdas, who was the second deaf-blind person to go to college, 50
years after Helen Keller. My mother got a card with the manual alphabet,
and every evening, after supper, she would teach me a few letters so I
would be able to talk to Bob.
I think with amazement of the many things my mother did for her blind son:
she let me touch everything, even when people made comments. I touched
the windows of a subway, and learned how to open them. I touched cars,
and tried to decipher the names, written in raised print. I remember once
in a coffee shop, I had ordered a piece of chocolate cake and was eating
it, using my finger to gently feel that the cake was on the fork. This
woman, who probably didn't know I was blind, said to my mother, "Why don't
you teach your son how to eat properly? He's old enough not to be making
such a mess and using his fingers. What's wrong with him, anyway?" And
my mother said, very quietly, "He can't see, and anyway, fingers were here
way before forks and spoons." Of course the woman was mortified and
apologized and apologized and apologized and apologized, and the whole
thing struck me very strangely, because I knew I was blind, but wasn't
quite sure of all the ramifications of blindness.
I think Andrea had sight and became blind. I also read somewhere that he
had studied law. Too bad he's not gay, but we all can't be perfect!
As a change of subject, have any of you heard of the pianist (sighted)
Gereck Olsen? Is he good?
Hugs,
Subject: Re: The unsighted Bocelli
Bob:
John
Subject: Re: The unsighted Bocelli
I have to explain: John visited with me when I went to Columbus, and he
took me and my blind friend Dan out for dinner. We had a really wonderful
time; John really guided both of us quite well; we must have taken a lot
of room: two big guys, John, and two Labradors! The Chinese restaurant
tried to get me to eat vegetables but I valiantly resisted! I am sure
that my poor eating habits have kept me going! And I hear now that
chocolate has antioxidants. Who would have believed it?!!!
Hugs,
Subject: Merry/Happy
Best wishes for an environmentally conscious, socially responsible, low
stress, non-addictive, gender-neutral, winter solstice holiday, practiced
within the most joyous traditions of the religious persuasion of your
choice,
but with respect for the religious persuasion of others who choose to
practice their own religion as well as those who choose not to practice a
religion at all; plus
A fiscally successful, personally fulfilling, and medically uncomplicated
recognition of the generally accepted calendar year 2001, but not without
due
respect for the calendars of choice of other cultures whose contributions
have helped make our society great, without regard to the race, creed
color,
religious, or sexual preferences of the wishes.
Disclaimer: This greeting is subject to clarification or withdrawal. It
implies no promise by the wisher to actually implement any of the wishes
for
her/himself or others and no responsibility for any unintended emotional
stress these greetings may bring to those not caught up in the holiday
spirit.
Try to have a Merry Whatever and a Happy New Something.
Subject: Hot young men of soccer, and toreros and Flamenco dancers!
Not one for team/contact sports in general, I have, however, always enjoyed
watching soccer. A classic fag, I like the exposed bodies of those hot young
men. My partner goes nuts over coaches/referees and anybody older on the
football field, baseball diamond or basketball court. So I guess we are
where we belong -- in the Silverfoxes Syndrome, which seesaws the
generations.
I will NEVER forget a game of soccer I saw played years ago in what was then
Southern Rhodesia (now Zimbabwe). France was the guest team, and this
fabulous Frenchman took a tumble under a stack of Rhodesians. I was not sure
how it happened, but in the melee, he was stripped naked below the waist,
and when he got up from the ground, his big ol' uncut dick was standing
tall. He was so embarrassed he could prolly have died on the spot. I heard
later from a Rhodesian pal that word had spread in the home team that "the
frog was queer," so a couple of them worked him over for the hell of it. The
French team, thoroughly pissed, whipped Rhodesian ass after that and
finished the game far out in front.
That was even more fun than the time I watched this hot torero (bullfighter)
strut around the bullring in Barcelona, waving at the ladies and completely
unaware that the bull's horns had snagged the seat of his pants and his
beautiful bubble butt was hanging out of the rear of his magnificent "Suit
of Light."
Don't get me started on toreros and Flamenco dancers! When I lived in Spain
as a young man, they were my cups of tea -- chocolate, really, because the
cafes of Madrid featured five or six varieties of hot chocolate on the menu
in the style of various countries, ranging from thick as pudding to watery.
There was a cafe on the main thoroughfare, a boulevard known as the Avenida
José Antonio, but more popularly known as the Gran Vía (in the same context
that New York's Broadway is called the Great White Way). This cafe had
several balconies around a central floor. At least two of the tiers were
gay, not in an obvious way because this was the time of Franco and his
military regime, but quite apparent to trained observers like me!
Many of the toreros and Flamenco dancers in the country called in at this
cafe while fighting or dancing in Madrid (some soccer players, too). As a
matter of fact, I saw Breno Mello there once, whose face was known all over
the world at that time for his appearance in "Black Orpheus," the
magnificent French/Brazilian film set in Rio at Carnival in a retelling of
the Orphic legend. It is still one of my favorite films. Except for Pele,
Mello was the most famous soccer star in Brazil then. He was mobbed by the
Spanish guys in the cafe, but he seemed to be with a terrifically handsome
young man who guarded him like a watch dog.
It was in that cafe that a very slim fellow caught my eye, less for his
beauty than for the long bulge running down his inner thigh. I was never
exactly a size queen, but I couldn't take my eyes off it. It did not cross
my mind to introduce myself because he was surrounded by men who seemed to
know who he was, but I picked up on an unmistakable glance from him in my
direction. It was simmering. Still, I steered clear, unwilling to brave his
admiring mob of what I figured were guys who knew he had the right stuff!
When I decided to leave a little later and started for the door, I felt a
tap on my shoulder from behind and a deep, masculine voice that said, "Hola,
guerito!" (Hi, blondie!) At the end of long fingers dangled a business card,
and at the other end of the long fingers was the hand attached to the arm of
the Spaniard with the ten-foot dick (not quite, but what the hell!). "A
medianoche, en punto!" he said. (On the stroke of midnight!) By that time,
the departing crowd had jostled me out the door, and he had returned to his
friends.
I looked at the card. It was the address of a tablao, or authentic Flamenco
club, in Old Madrid.
The capital observed the classic siesta of Spanish lore. Most businesses
closed down in the afternoon, when it was time to take a nap or cruise
around and pick up someone to "love." I used to go to an American-style
diner on the Gran Vía, called the "California," during the siesta and suck
on a thick, California-style milk shake and check out the Spaniards who
cruised in looking for an American lay. I lived then at a hotel across the
street, so I spent many a siesta learning about Spanish gay culture from the
crotch up.
What the siesta did, in effect, was to divide each day into two parts because
there was a morning schedule separated by a nap time from an evening
schedule, when the stores opened again, and restaurants opened for dinner
about nine, and theater performances began at 11, etc., and the bars were
jammed till 4 a.m. I loved it. It slowed down time, sort of doubling your
life. I have always liked living in countries which honor the siesta, and
there are many. It trimmed the killer pace of American life for Americans
like me and made us appreciate other, more civilized dimensions of time.
I did not know what to expect, but at midnight "en punto" (on the dot) I arrived at the
tablao and found it to be very simple, with informal chairs and small tables
arranged in an intimate grouping. I sat alone near the barely elevated stage
backdropped by a scrim painted to suggest a Gypsy encampment with a fire
blazing at its center. A beautiful, black-haired woman classically coiffed
with a chignon gathered at her nape danced in harmony with the tapping and
clapping and high-pitched, emotional singing traditional to Flamenco, while
she clicked the castanets she held gracefully in her fingers.
Flamenco is a native art form rather than merely an entertainment, which has
its origins in many sources but is a distillation of them all. The "Canto"
(song), and "Baile" (dance) and "Guitarra" (guitar) are its elements,
blended from Andalusian, Gypsy and Moorish influences during hundreds of
years of Spanish history.
Flamenco is so sensual that to be caught up in its mood can be a sexual
experience. I looked around. Several of the men, many of them silverfoxes
steeped in this ancient tradition, swayed in rhythm to the music, some of
them with eyes glazed, hinting at inner forces isolating them from
everything except the image of the woman and the haunting songs that swayed
her body in dance.
She danced off the stage, and in her place appeared the pencil-slim figure
of the man from the cafe that afternoon. I was not surprised because his was
the form of a classic Flamenco performer, but I was stunned by his beauty
now, as I had not been before, because in his black felt hat, black,
figure-hugging, lightly spangled suit and snowy white shirt peeking out at
the collar, and his narrow, black boots, he presented a dark vision of pure,
unadulterated sex.
He was not so young as I had thought, seeing him now under the spotlight of
the stage. There were deep crow's-feet edging his eyes and, with his face
set in the ecstatic, proud, tight-jawed grimace of a serious Flamenco
dancer, there was also an element of maturity unnoticed when he had smiled
broadly among the crowd of young admirers in the cafe. I realized that he
might have been in his fifties.
That big sausage hanging down his leg was still there, though, a real
splitter. His dancing was regal, yet sexy. His feet pounded the stage floor
in syncopated clacks. His lifted palms slapped together sharply, like
stinging commands. His self-assurance was almost tangible. A sense of power
emanated from him as he moved in studied cadence in circles around the
stage.
I had read that "You have not listened to authentic Flamenco if not in a
juerga with a small group of friends, at midnight somewhere in the South of
Spain, when there is nothing around but the voice, the guitar and the body
of a dancer moving in the moonlight."
This was the essence he projected. He captured us all. I glanced at others.
Women in the audience bit their lower lips in sexual tension. One girl had
her hand on her boyfriend's crotch in the semi-darkness, while he had an arm
draped around the back of her chair with his legs spread apart at the knees.
His jacket, spread over his lap, covered the action I perceived. I glanced
at his face from time to time. His eyes were always closed. Hers were always
on the dancer, her nostrils flared with the excitement the performance
engendered -- both her performance on her boyfriend's cock and the man's
dancing onstage. The young man flinched when he came and inadvertently let
out a cry of ecstasy. Massively embarrassed, he got up with his jacket
covering his dick and hustled his girlfriend out the door. Her gaze lingered
on the dancer as she was pushed outside. I knew where her fantasies lay!
It was all I could do to keep from stroking myself as well, and at the
climax of his dance, I thought for a flash I might have an orgasm of my own,
but the number ended and saved me from wasting a three-day load in my pants.
He looked at me when he bowed to the applause, and the simmer I had detected
at the cafe was clearly still there. I interpreted a slight twist of his
head to mean that I should go outside and wait. I was right. Within a few
minutes, he was at my side on the street.
"Vámonos," (Let's go) he said in that deep, gruff voice of his, and led me
to a small car parked in an alley around the corner.
There was no talking in the car. I was grateful because I had no wish to
disturb the effects of those sensual moments in the club. We drove through
the darkened streets of Madrid to a relatively fashionable part of town. He
parked on the street, got out and clapped his hands, a standard signal to
call the neighborhood's night watchman from his rounds so that he could open
the door to the apartment house where the dancer lived, in exchange for a
tip.
We went inside. It was a small place, hung with posters of his performance
tours, filled with Spanish antique furniture of dark wood in heavy Iberian
design. Hardly speaking, he poured me a strong sherry and retired to the
bathroom. I heard him humming a Flamenco tune in the shower and almost
joined him, but I did not. I had bathed before I went to the club, on the
off chance that the evening would come to something like this.
He came out with a towel wrapped around his waist. I noticed he had a bit of
a pot belly which had been artfully concealed by his clothes. The suggestion
of age was more apparent in his naked body, but his slimness -- de rigueur
for a Spanish dancer -- allowed for no sags. I waited for the unveiling of
the great piece between his legs, but the sly fellow sat beside me on the
sofa at a distance and joined me in a drink.
He told me something of his early life, telling me of minor exploits on the
losing side in the Spanish Civil War. He said that he came from a village
not far from the one where the gay poet and playwright, Federico
Garcia-Lorca, had been shot. I had just seen a play in Madrid by
Garcia-Lorca, called "Yerma," and quoted some lines. He was a fan as well,
and launched into a stirring rendition of a Garcia-Lorca poem about the
death of a torero "a las cinco de la tarde" (at five o'clock in the
afternoon).
At that point in my life, I was a devotee of Vascongado pronunciation, an
elegant form of Spanish. When he murmured, "Ah las theenko de lah tarde," in
that almost gravelly voice, I got a cock stand that was so obvious he could
not help but notice. I guessed it was the ice-breaker he had been looking
for. He reached over and grasped it. I damn near swooned at the touch of his
fingers.
Now, I thought in a rush of savage heat, it's my turn!
I reached for the towel covering the object of my desire, but before my
fingers could come into contact with his hidden dick, he grabbed my wrist
and held my hand away -- not roughly, but in a distinctly determined manner.
"Todavia no," he said. (Not yet).
It was obvious, however, that our time had come. He kept hold of my wrist,
pulled me up from the sofa and led me into the bedroom, small and dark and
absolutely filled with bed! He closed the door behind him, I could hardly
see a thing. He pushed me down on to the bed and stripped away my clothes
with precise movements.
Then, in the dark, he knelt over me to sniff my body from head to toe. What
he smelled must have pleased him because his mouth retraced the route of his
nose. Every inch of me except for my cock and balls-- between my toes, the
crack in my ass, my armpits, inside my ears and nose, fell victim to his
moist and silky tongue.
I was beside myself with passion by then and arched upward in a vain
struggle to press against him, but he was lithe and strong and anchored me
with his hands and his knees. Through it all, I never saw or felt his dick.
Having thus aroused himself, I supposed, he seemed ready for something else.
He straddled my belly, facing me. I could feel that he still wore the towel.
He leaned over me in the darkness, fidgeting with objects on the bedside
table.
A scratching sound, a sulphurous smell, and I realized he had struck a
kitchen match to light a large candle which sputtered, then flared, then
settled into a soft, golden glow which probed the dark corners of the small
room.
The walls were hung with a collection of elegantly finished Spanish guitars
of obvious value. A low table along a wall displayed silver-framed
photographs of my dancer with famed Spanish personalities in the arts.
He was looking down at me from his perch across my middle, his hands on his
knees, his ass pressed against my raging hard-on which I could sense had
already drenched my stomach with pre-cum. He smiled. Oh, what a smile! What
teeth! What a face!
In the flickering candlelight, he presented the picture of magnificent youth
blending gracefully into age. I felt I was seeing him at 16 and also at 85.
They were all there, all the ages of man.
It was then that his fingers unknotted the infuriating towel. What unfolded
before me brought one of William Shakespeare's "dark" sonnets to mind, poems
written to a man whom he adored, number 20, in which the poet says to his
male beloved:
"And for a woman wert thou first created;
Till Nature, as she wrought thee, fell a-doting,
And by addition me of thee defeated,
By adding one thing to my purpose nothing.
But since she prickd thee out for womens pleasure,
Mine be thy love, and thy loves use their treasure."
The "one thing" added by Nature to defeat Shakespeare's purpose was, of
course, his lover's penis, but that was no obstacle to me! The line came to
me as "Mine be thy love, and thy love's use MY treasure."
And it WAS a treasure, that huge dick standing straight up like a king cobra
and looking me in the eye. Spanish gold! But it was so big, I wondered what
in hell I could do with it!
It would have killed me by strangulation had I taken it down my throat or
drowned me when it came. Up my behind was out of the question. I had no wish
to puncture my guts. What, then?
He left me no time for an answer. He reared up on my lap, tossed away the
towel, rubbed my dick with spittle and slipped it inside him with a long,
deep sigh. I could see by the blissful look on his beautiful face that I had
thus made him a very happy man.
My size was no more than standard, but it found within him new depths. He
churned gently and moved it around among his dark inner corners. His buns
were not fleshy and I was slim in those days, so penetration was total. We
were joined to the max.
He seemed in no hurry and talked little, preferring to lean down for long
kisses punctuated by soft sighs of sheer pleasure. His stupendous cock
knocked against me like a satin baseball bat when he bent forward. Despite
the delicious sensuality, I could have lasted forever, but after 20 minutes
of so, he increased the speed of his movements and sat upright to pump his
joint with his hands.
He also needed mine. I obliged with an overhand movement from the base to
the middle. His left hand grasped the top of the shaft, his right cupped the
foreskin-covered head and squeezed it in rapid, pinching motions. My
perception was that getting that thing to cum was a highly developed art.
As pleasure overtook him, he threw his head back and closed his eyes, his
hips grinding down on me till I felt his asshole had swallowed me whole.
Tight and rhythmical, it clutched my cock like a fist. Together, we
meanwhile pumped his prick until I could actually feel his cum canal
swelling as the juices rose through it to unload.
I lost control. The sensations were too exquisite to bear. I flung my hands
to the sheet and tore at the fabric with clenched fingers, unable to contain
any longer the semen boiling up out of my balls. I grunted in heaves,
watching him go wild with jerking himself to the end.
At the instant of orgasm, he lifted himself off me. My cum shot far above
his ass in jerky shots that sprayed my huge load over the top of his head as
we discovered later when we found his hair matted with my cum.
He leaned far forward, crawling up my chest. I instinctively lifted my head.
Lips parted (in those blissful days before AIDS), I took his volley full in
the mouth from a considerable distance away. I came to my senses a few
seconds later with his cum dribbling down my jaws and cheeks, some even in
my nose, and the taste of it like rich custard as I licked it from my
palette.
He rolled away panting, gasping for air. We fell asleep immediately after
that and slept most of the following day.
I saw his performance several times after that, and we usually had sex
afterward. He introduced me to a few friends, and we once watched three of
them have an orgy together while I tried to take him up my ass. It was
impossible, actually being so funny we fell apart in laughter as did his
friends when they saw what was going on.
One of them swore he could handle the dancer's big cock, but the dancer was
not interested in him and told me later that he needed a stiff dick up his
ass to make that thing cum. As a youngster, he had masturbated while sitting
on the handle of a broom and thought perhaps he had formed a pattern which
he could never break.
Our pursuant sexual adventures were wonderful, but none equaled that first
time. I am sure they could have, but we only entwined our bodies, not our
hearts. That, to me, is the difference between having good sex and making
great love.
The first feeds the senses. The second feeds the soul.
Subject: Do you recognize the artist?
Hi All
As all the Foxhunters know, it's very hard to find artworks featuring mature
men.
I saw copies of the picture artwork in a conference center here in London
and would like to find out who did the originals, since they wanted $750 for
a copy!
Does anyone recognize the artist? Follow this link for images.
Pewit
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End of silverfoxesclub-digest V1 #74
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|
Rivaldo (Brazilian, on the left), Zinedine Zidane (French, in the center) and Luis Figo (Portuguese, on the right)
were the nominees for the coveted Fifa World (Soccer) Player of the Year
2000 award. Zidane won for the second time in his career.