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Worse Finale Ever23 March 2009Okay, perhaps not the worst ever, but the finale of Battlestar Galactica was, to me, a let down. I can deal with the cliche of our ancestors being humans from another planet. The continual flashbacks on characters before the war I can accept. The idea of leaving the character of Starbuck resolved by mysticsm or religion...no. Writing in the sci-fi genre means resolving all issues in sci-fi: technology (fictional) not fantasy or theology. The crew who brought us this incredible series could have given a better explanation that aligned with the genre for such a favored character. What is most annoying is an explanation was obviously even toyed with: that Starbuck was the daughter of the lost 7th model, Daniel. Here, then, is my proposed explanation utilizing Daniel. First, accept that Hera, the Human-Cylon hybrid of Helo and Athena, is just a simple child with no special insight or powers. Wipe that away. The scene where she gives her drawing to Starbuck, that is music that is the coordinates to our Earth, is removed. She remains important only in that she is a Human-Cylon hybrid. Second, assume Resurrection technology, which is the transference of organic memory, can also create a new body as well as just transferring memory to an existing body. Human bodies are rather similar internally; the outside differs. Let the Resurrection technology be able to use the memories to shape the external body to the correct appearance but taking days, maybe weeks, to complete the task. The final five just made it more efficient by growing the bodies first, and the Cylons adapted that as their preferred method. Go back in time, after the first Human-Cylon war is over. The final five are creating the 8 models. Daniel, curious to humans, decides to visit the Colonies. While visiting, he falls in loves, marries, and has a child: Starbuck, the first Human-Cylon hybrid. He is a musician and he teaches his daughter to play the piano. Back at the Resurrection colony, John is moving on his plan to annihilate the human race. He captures, kills, and boxes the final five. Then, he dispatches skinjob Cylons to retrieve Daniel. John informs Daniel of the plan to attack the Colonies and wants all Cylons together. He tells Daniel what he has done to the final five and offers Daniel the choice of fighting with the Cylons or being boxed himself. John, arrogant as he is, even brags to Daniel how he plans to re-introduce the final five into the Colonies so they can suffer then repent at his feet once they each resurrect. Daniel decides to appear to cooperate with John while actually planning an escape. An artist, a musician, he modifies the final five's memories to include "programming" that would cause a certain tune to play in their head so they would realize they were the final five, or at least special from the humans. Then, Daniel takes a Colonial Viper that the Cylons had captured during the first Human-Cylon war—and which the Cylons had upgraded with Cylon navigation and jump drive—and escapes. His plan is to return to the "Earth" of the final five. On his journey, Daniel finds the planet where the Temple of Hope was built. It is he who incorporates what is necessary so that the image of the final five appears when any of the 8 models built by the final five is present. He then jumps away, continuing the journey, until he finally arrives at the devastated Earth of the final five. There, orbiting the planet, he finds the ship where the final five had the Resurrection machinery stored for their own salvation after the nuclear holocaust. It is still active and responds to any being that has the genetic code of a skinjob. Let Daniel then continue exploring, jumping across the stars, until he finds our Earth. When he eventually jumps back to his "home" of the Earth of the final five, Starbuck arrives. During the machinery's labor to recreate her, Daniel realizes this is his daughter. He scavanges the wreackage of his Starbuck's Viper to learn of the second Human-Cylon war, their journey, and the origin point of her voyage to the holocaust Earth. He decides to help, altering his resurrected daughter's childhood memories of learning to play the piano at her father's hand. The tune in her memory is changed to match the FTL coordinates to the new Earth. He also implants memories of her orbiting the new Earth. Daniel then puts his daughter in to his Viper and has it jump back to the Colonial fleet. Time passes in the series. Eventually, the fleeing Colonial fleet arrives at the Earth of the final five, and is disappointed. The fleet jumps away, leaving only the remaining 3—D'anna' behind. She is left alone, she believes, until she turns and finds her "brother." Daniel tells her of what he has done, and convinces her to journey with him to the new Earth to await the arrival of the final five and the Colonial humans. The finale of Battlestar Galatica can continue as it was aired. Hera is rescued, and Starbuck, haunted by the song implanted in her memories by her father, types in the coordinates that lets the Galactica's jump drive take the humans to new Earth. The only element of the finale that needs to be changed now is that Starbuck meets her father on new Earth, and goes off with him on the new planet rather than just vanishing. That is my proposed alternative ending. I'm going to keep that more as how it should have ended rather than what was aired. The new Battlestar Galactica was an awsome series. The ending needed to be as well. Post a reply by email at rosstaylor@worksbestnaked.comBuffett20 February 2009I received an email asking why I haven't written a blog entry for a very long time. Truth of the matter, I got distracted—inside joke to Daddy Tim in Ft Lauderdale: "Where'd the bunny go?"—plus there is so much happening it's hard to choose. For example: Illinois impeaches its sitting governor but not before he exercises his responsibility to fill the Senate seat vacated by the new U.S. President through appointing, despite his preference to choose Oprah but was concerned she would not return his call, a long–standing politician who is now facing purjury charges for his "evolving" story about what contact he had with said governor and aides. Unsuccessful Republican 2008 Vice Presidential hopeful Governor Palin returns home to face issues about her taxes as her unwed daughter, fresh from giving birth, grants an interview were she promotes abstenance but calls it unrealistic while her boyfriend—who looks awful in a suit but looks so hot as hell when sweaty and wearing his hockey gear that I'd like to suggest to the publishers of Playgirl they book him for cover and centerspread with accompanying "life–style" article—and father of the child continues to avoid the alter despite campaign rehtoric. House and Senate Republicans who voted against President Obama's stimulus bill are now asking for their cut of the money for the states they represent while continuing to refer to the legislation they dissed as the "spendulus" bill. Actress, former talk show host, and The View alumni Rosie O'Donnell's new variety show lasted one, count them, one airing. A woman, with an uncanny physical likeness to Anglina Jolie and possibly the same aspirations, with 6 children and gives birth to octuplets now believes she is qualified to be considered an expert in motherhood worth $2 million. The global economy is in the crapper. My father passed away leading to a wake and funeral during which mourners asked if I was a friend of the family, my religious zealout brother took the opportunity to use his eulogy to "save" the sinners in attendance rather than speak about our father, and together with my niece who I'd not seen for 10 years and is fucking gorgeous with a personality that favors her uncle instead of her dad cruised the former high school/college football star funeral director who looked like a larger version of Bristol Palin's baby daddy. Battlestar Galatica returned to finish up the story after leaving all us sci-fi faggots to spend months filling up the blogosphere with guesses on the identity of the final cylon of the faboulous final five, which is now eclipsed by the question of who and or what is tomboy Kara "Starbuck" Thrace (no, "closeted lesbian" is not the correct answer though it seems right). The citizens of the United States of America elect an African–American to its highest office, a first in the history of the "first world" countries. Oh, wait. The biggest distraction of all: the boyfriend. Post a reply by email at rosstaylor@worksbestnaked.comKennedy KomplexCaroline Kennedy, daughter of late President John F. Kennedy, and her uncle, Senator Ted Kennedy, both endorsed Senator Barak Obama earlier this week. The media trumpted the news with Ms. Kennedy’s Op–Ed column in the January 27, 2008 edition of The New York Times leading the charge. "I have never had a president who inspired me the way people tell me that my father inspired them," she writes. Her statement leads me to ask the question: to which people is she referring? The first President I remember is President Richard M. Nixon, and that memory is of sitting in the car next to my mother outside our church with WGN on the radio. The topic was Watergate. The next President in my memory is President Jimmy Carter. JFK, to me, is just a few pages in my history book from high school. The most I remember of him is he challenged America to go to the moon, the social programs he wished to have were implemented after President Lydon Johnson took office, and that he was assassinated by Lee Harvey Oswald. The years of Camlot when JFK and Jackie lived in the White House, so revered by those who were of age at the time of his presidency, I have no recollection, nor do those who are younger than me. My personal trainer is 25, a white male, married two years with his first child on the way. His wife is some medical type employed at a local hospital. Our last few training sessions, between the sets of torture he puts me through, he and I have discussed politics. This Presidential election in November will be the first he’ll cast a vote, and he’s concerned he may cast a vote for a candidate who will, when in office, make things worse. With the Kennedy endorsement in mind, I decided he’d be a great subject for a non–scientific test. Me: Who is JFK? Personal Trainer: What do you mean? Me: Who was John F. Kennedy to you? Personal Trainer: Well, he was President and was killed. Me: Anything else? Personal Trainer: Is there anything else? The Cuban Missile Crisis, Man going to the moon, Jackie, John–John (my personal trainer didn’t even know that was JFK, Jr.’s nickname), Camelot, none of this my personal trainer knew nor did he care. To him, the endorsement by JFK’s only daughter means nothing. My personal trainer, who leans Democrat, is considering Senator John McCain the best candidate for the next President with the only concern being the Senator’s age. My assumption is that the Kennedy endorsement of Senator Obama is to seal the idea that the Illinois Senator is JFK v2. I don’t understand the reasoning behind that. The only things I believe President Kennedy and Senator Obama have in common is youth and both deliver speeches well. President Kennedy’s experience in Congress spans 14 years with first being elected in 1946 to the House of Representaties then to the Senate in 1952 where he remained until he was sworn in as President on January 20, 1961. Senator Obama has 8 years experience in the Illinois state Senate followed by being sworn in to the U.S. Senate January 2005. President Kennedy joined the U.S. Navy in 1941 to become an intelligence officer then was transferred to a PT boat command in the Motor Torpedo Boat Squadron after World War II started. Senator Obama has no military experience. Senator Obama runs on the platform of hope for a better future. He wants to move on rather than return to the 1990 Clinton era or Bush 43 disaster. Given that one–third of the potential electorate have no memory of the "grandeur"—real or imagined—of the Kennedy Camelot, including Caroline Kennedy as she herself was too young to fully appreciate the times, I have to wonder why the Senator would embrace an endorsement from a past not everyone remembers. Post a reply by email at rosstaylor@worksbestnaked.comBig Barbra22 January 2008The writer’s strike continues leaving studios scrambling for new television content. Reality shows, which are easy to produce, cheap, and do not need writers, are filling more time slots during prime time. I have an idea for such a show, based on Big Brother. The name is Big Barbra in which 10 male porn stars—some straight, some gay, some bi—will live together in a big house with the show hosted the first and last show by Barbra Streisand with a different drag queen dressed as Barbra hosting all the shows between. This is a sure fire hit! The "Barbra" hosting for the week would act as referee and "house queen." Every other week, one of the porn stars would be voted off the show. He would know his fate when "Barbra" handed him a dildo of only 2 inches in length. The final show, the real Barbra herself would return to declare not only the winning porn star but also the winning drag queen: the one she felt portrayed her the best! It would conclude with Barbra singing "Enough is Enough." This would be a block–buster series. It has sex, muscle, good looking men, sex, more sex, and, of course, Barbra! Ratings would be through the roof, I’m sure, with advertisers lining up to take advantage of the huge of audience of queers who want to see the guys, the girls who want to see the guys, and the red neck Republicans who want to jeer at the guys. This has total cross appeal! No, I have not been drinking heavily before I wrote this. Maybe I’m a bit light–headed from low carbs for contest dieting but ... what? Post a reply by email at rosstaylor@worksbestnaked.comBake Sale6 December 2007Congress has deferred any vote on additional funding for the Iraq and Afghanistan conflicts until 2008. This move prompted the Bush Administration and the Department of Defense (DOD) to complain that such an action endangered the deployed military troops. The DOD, it says, is now in the awkward position of having to manage the funds in its military budget to compensate for the funding denial. Oh, my: having to live within the budget rather than be handed additional funds without any conditions. It’s doubtful any American household is going to feel any sympathy, and perhaps the Iraqi elected officials may take notice that—finally!—the US Congress does indeed have a say in the management of the military. I saw a saying when I was in college (which was just a few scant years ago ... hey, I’m feeling old today so just give this one to me), which goes something like this: "Wouldn’t it be great if schools had all the money they needed and the Defense Department had to hold a bake sale to buy a bomber." Actually implementing this idea boggles my mind. First, the sight of seeing Defense Secretary Gates side-by-side with Generals and Admirals on the street selling pastries they baked with their own hands is awesomely humorous. Second, the DOD and the Bush Administration would get direct feedback, through the actual dollar amount in sales, from the US citizenry on its opinion on the Iraq occupation. Third, the US would actually be investing money in its own future rather than that of another country. I have said before and will repeat that the US does retain responsibility for the security and well–being of Iraq and its citizens due to the invasion and deposing of Sadaam Hussein. Responsibility, however, does not mean the US has to forever fund Iraq along with the do–nothing Malaki government. Engage the United Nations, reach out to the Europeans, reach out to the other Arab nations. Terror aside, Europe and the Middle East are easier targets for violence erupting from a failed Iraq than the US shores. Bush Administration pride, however, I believe is in the way of reaching an agreement with other nations and governments for assistance. Maybe a crack can be put into that pride by some honest work in the heat of the kitchen. Post a reply by email at rosstaylor@worksbestnaked.comWanted: Naked Bodybuilders3 October 2007The few times I take to watching porn it has at least 1 man and at least 1 woman. That’s right: a guy who takes another man’s cock up his ass prefers to watch a man and a woman go at it. Flicks with an all–male cast do little for me. My preference for live action is a man banging a woman, or two woman eating each other out, or two women taking turns riding a guy’s cock. The few times I get in to naked men the focus is on still images with 90% of those being competitive–class bodybuilders. It’s finding quality images of that type that is difficult. Searching the web for sites that offer freakish, naked, ’roided muscle doesn’t reveal a lot of true choices. Many returns are made but just because the site uses the word "bodybuilder" in the title or in HTML keywords doesn’t guarantee a site with that content. Most feature twinks on their second cycle straining to curl a 30–pound dummbbell or bodybuilder wanna–be’s who sport over–sized smooth upper bodies with great abs but small legs and no calves instead of the serious heft neck–to–toes I seek. It’s men matching the physique and stature of pros like Jay Cutler who peel off the posers to flash their dripping hard cocks while bouncing their pecs and flexing their quads that get me to shoot my load. If I learn the man also seriously competes on stage, then I shoot even more. Talent who started as muscled porn stars but grew themselves into competitive bodybuilders such as Caesar or Tom Katt is hard to find in flicks let alone stills. Blue Blake does a decent job in bringing such men to his productions but not consistently. I could surely browse through my classic COLT Studio magazines with the competitors that Jim French convinced to drop trou but I prefer images on my Mac since that incident at O’Hare security involving my carry–on, a magazine featuring Carl Hardwick, and a female TSA agent thumbing through it (most Islamic terrorists, I understand, carry gay porn). MuscleHunks.com is one of the best, consistent sources of competitive bodybuilders who strip down, oil it up, and jack it off. Quality stills and short videos are available for almost each of the models. Sure, yes, it is a subscription site but so are most of the ones featuring the oiled up twink with the meth–abs. The price is worth it to those of us who like to see handsome, 250 pound monsters with 5% bodyfat at 5’7" in height wearing nothing but a smile and a hard–on. Take a look, check it out. P.S.: No, this isn’t a paid endorsement. Post a reply by email at rosstaylor@worksbestnaked.comHow Mr Fritscher Saved the Day12 August 2007Author Jack Fritscher’s novel Some Dance to Remember, published in the early 1990’s, is the tale of the rise of the San Francisco gay subculture in the 1970’s. I read a review of it soon after it’s release and purchased a copy. Since then, Mr Fritscher has remained a favored author of mine, and I usually shun literature with a gay theme. One of the ideas in the novel is of homomasculinity while another is homomuscularism. Two concepts that hit me when I was in my formative young adult years (no snickering; I’m not that old). Raised in Farmtown, Illinois, no "gay" role models, my first vision of a naked male from a Playgirl. I could have been lost if that had been my only source of what was considered a "hot" man. Fortunately, I found the art of Tom of Finland soon after, and I was saved. Tom of Finland’s art, though, only provided me with the images with which I wanted to identify; it was Mr Fritscher’s novel and his ideas that gave me the words. Words, well–used, have a profound effect on me, more than images, the reason being that my undergraduate degree is in English Literature. Last week, I took up my electronic pen and wrote to Mr Fritscher, asking about the concept of homomasculinity. My purpose was to learn if he truly believed in it or was it just a plot device. I never truly expected a response. Yet, it arrived this past Saturday. I was honored, flattered, and thrilled. The letter, if had been sent by post and signed, I would frame so to hang on my wall it means so much to me. For reasons that escape me, my blog entry "The Big Shave" about shaving off my body hair has circulated the internet, producing some notable feedback. I’ve received phone calls and emails from friends reporting seeing it reproduced on some rather well–known sites. David, the moderator of the Yahoo! group Ross Taylor, and probably my biggest fan—and one of the few people outside my close circle who knows my thoughts and a great deal of personal information—went so far as to start a poll to garner support to convince me that my body hair should remain exactly as it has always been (current poll results: 19 responded to the "No way! He has to keep his hair - he's so gorgeous with it! I wish I could lick it one by one over his all body." option whie 2 voted for "Yes, what a wonderful idea! At last, we can see those big muscles." You’re probably asking what the fuck does Jack Fritscher have to do with my blog entry. Below is an excerpt from Mr Fritscher’s email: By the way, your performance-art erotic work is known to me, and I congratulate you on your brilliant look which certainly fits into the homomasculine Platonic Ideal of what a man should be. If I were still shooting as many one-man features for my Palm Drive Video as I did before Bush and Cheney and their Justice Department, I'd certainly be talking to you about working together to co-create a dynamite film portrait. He wins. The hair stays. I suspect anyone—if anyone does read it— who reads my blog is saying "Huh?!" The answer partly lies in reading Mr Fritscher’s Some Dance to Remember or visiting his site to search and read about "homomasculism." The other part is to understand how my warped, fucked–up mind works. Good luck on the latter, though on the former, well, stop reading my idiotic ramblings in favor of reading something that will challenge your concepts of being, well, a stereotypical fag and/or a man in general despite sexual preference. You move along in life and sometimes forget to thank people who help make you realize who you truly are as a person. For this particular instance, besides Mr Fritscher, I thank the following:
I may add others as I remember (okay, I am old and forget things). Post a reply by email at rosstaylor@worksbestnaked.comThe Big Shave9 August 2007I’ve decided to shave all my bodyhair. The more I look, the more I notice that—despite this supposed Renaissance of the more natural man, the man with hair—men with smooth bodies showing the muscles underneath remain the ones who get the best deal. DVD box covers and movie posters in the industry feature the men who use the razor. One fan wrote me that I should "embrace my bodyhair." Why? I train at the gym regularly, my diet is geared to building muscle, I’ve been on the competition stage. All this hair just covers what I’m looking to build and define with the hours and the sacrifice. If taking the Gillette to it results in my getting cast by a mainstream studio, if it gets some photgrapher’s attention, I’m all for it even more. I will be just like all the other men in the industry, I’ve been told, by taking it off. But isn’t that what is wanted by the guys who rent or buy the DVDs and tip the strippers? Studios only produce a product that the market will buy. I want to be in that market, and everything I see and everything I’m told is that the hair needs to go so the muscles show. Hell, even the cover model on a 2007 calendar for a studio that features primarily hairy guys is almost totally smooth. That is a powerful message. Nab those pictures now of me with bodyhair, if that is how you like my look to be. It’s about to be the past. Post a reply by email at rosstaylor@worksbestnaked.comUnclassified3 August 2007A user on-line IMd me, indignantly asking how a pro-bodybuilder, whom is a good friend of mine and has been very helpful in my bodybuilding, can continue to claim he is "straight." His reasoning is that this friend pro-bodybuilder is often hired for private posing, strips at men-only clubs (I also know he strips for women), and does live webcasts to an audience that is primarly male. I blasted this person a new asshole for his negative comments on my friend bodybuilder then blocked him, which is something I rarely do as I believe in open communication. I have a saying: "There is no gay, there is no straight, there is no bi; it’s what gets you off sexually, as long as it doesn’t trample on the rights of others or involves children." My point is that physical pleasure, sex, and what works for some and not for others, is very complex and meaningless in the overall scheme of life. Does it matter if a man gets off sucking cock while also fucking pussy? Is a woman lesbian because she eats out another woman while taking a cock not only in her cunt but also her ass? I’m "sure" the on-liner who accosted me was simply commenting on the hypocricy my friend pro-bodybuilder was committing by claiming to be straight while letting himself being hired by men for private muscle worship. His sexual preference aside, my friend pro-bodybuilder has brilliant business sense marketing himself as sexually only liking women: what faggot doesn’t get hard thinking about the chance of "having" the epitome of straight masculinity right under the nose of the man’s wife? (My friend pro-bodybuilder does have a wife who is beautiful, blonde, built, very nice, and damn! I’d fuck her if the opportunity presented itself!) If such a tactic can get me $300 an hour, I’d employ it, too! Our subculture often raises its collective voice when we are segmented from the rest of the population, denied our rights, due to our sexual preferences. I agree: sexual preferences and activities should not deny to anyone the rights of all members of the socity. Yet how many times does a faggot cringe at the thought of themselves or of a friend having sex with a woman? Or even smirk at the "odd" fetishes some of our own have that get them off? There’s hypocricy. Post a reply by email at rosstaylor@worksbestnaked.comWho Am I This Time?
I read Kurt Vonnegut's short story "Who Am I This Time?" when I was a teenager in high school. It is the story about a non-descript, bland man who, when cast as the male lead in a local play, becomes the exciting character in which he is cast on stage. Once he steps off the stage, he returns to being ordinary. There are days, many days, when I feel the same as this character. Twenty or so professional photographers have shot me in my career. I’ve never understood the interest. The photographs are developed and either I receive a few, or I see them printed in some magazine or flyer, or view posted on a website, and I ask myself "Who is that hot man?" Honestly, it’s not the man I see in the mirror each morning. It’s not the guy with hair that becomes more grey each day, with a new wrinkle or blemish in the skin that I try to stave off with Clinique skin products, with a few new stray hairs in unlikely places, with the brain that loses another memory each day, with the answer of "Let’s just say I’m somewhere between legally drinking and death" when asked his age. The man in those images of light so cunningly crafted and captured by the photographer, it can’t be me, the guy who pulls on a black Gap t-shirt each morning to look slimmer and wonders when those damn MuscleTech Hydroxycut pills are gonna kick in so I can lose some fat. "Ross Taylor," whoever that is, is the man in those images that inspire men (and women, I’ve learned) to play with themselves while running some hot, nasty, sexual fantasy flick in their head until orgasming with a satisfied sigh. It can’t be the man who, while inhabiting the same flesh as "Ross," actually writes these blog entries that try to make some sense of the political and social events of his time. It can’t be me because I don’t see the man who make men go "woof" as he passes by or stare or try to grab to get his attention. That’s a fantasy, and believe me: I wish I was that fantasy. Days there are that I feel fat and sloppy, as when I was a teenager. Other days, I feel skinny and weirdly shaped, as in my early twenties. And all days, I look in the mirror to try to decide what hair cut, what style of facial hair, can I change to that will make me see myself as hot and desireable as are all those COLT Studio models I grew fantasizing about or the porn stars I cruise on BigMuscle.com. Sure, I have modeled for COLT Studio and can and do put "COLT Man" in front of my name, but I don’t feel as if I truly am so as I sure as hell am not Carl Hardwick. I can put the term "cover model" in front of my name as my first public exposure to the porn industry was the cover of Honcho, but I figure I got the cover because the editorial staff was desperate that month. "Porn star" is a term that can be tacked on to me as I have performed in nearly 15 videos, but I reason I was cast so to make the other models look better and hotter by comparison (a la the pilot episode of ABC’s Ugly Betty when artfully-bitchy receptionist Amanda asks new Mode employee Betty Suarez, "Are you the ’before’ [picture]?"). So, I don’t know. I wish I could look into the mirror each day and see staring back at me the same image as the one I posted at the top of this blog entry. It would make me feel very happy, make it seem as if the time I spent in the gym lifting weights or hours I spent on the stairmill or the gallons of protein shakes I’ve downed while avoiding carbs worthwhile. For one day, just one single day, I’d like do as I imagine every hot, oustandingly masculine, sex-oozing male porn star I’ve jacked a load out does each morning: look in the mirror, smirk, grab himself and say to his reflection, "I’m the hottest man walking this earth." I just smear on some more Clinique anti-gravity cream to lift the sagging skin. Post a reply by email at rosstaylor@worksbestnaked.comA Trapped Democrat1 March 2007My original thought on this entry was to discuss who would I prefer to be the Democratic candidate for President: Hillary Clinton or Barak Obama (keep in mind I’m born and raised in Illinois and Obama is a native son). I thought and thought, then came to the conclusion I wasn’t thrilled with either. Both I like, both I think have qualities that make them excellent leaders, but I’m unsure either would be an effective President. Part of that comes from their personal qualities and another part just my opinion on how the US of A's electorate thinks. Is the US citizenry ready for a female President, and is the world ready for a female US President? Is the US citizenry ready for a President of African-American decent? I’d say no, and my response concerns me. I believe one of these two will win the Democratic nomination but yet neither, I also believe, can span the gap to the moderate, registered Republican electorate to win the election. I feel trapped as a Democrat as the only true alternative—a Republican—I just cannot stomach since the current incarnation of the Republican party is so tied and indebted to the minority Evangelical Fundamentalists that I would be inviting pain upon myself. Whether the candidate be McCain, former New York Mayor Giuliani, or some other rising star Republican, the merciless, blinded Evangelicals will doubtless wish to extract their pound of flesh in return for helping the Republican candidate win the White House. That pound of flesh will come from everyone who lives counter to the Evangelicals’ view of how a person should "be" in our socity. My only choice, then, my only choice so my rights as a US citizen not be eroded any more than they have been under the last 8 years of W’s Administration, is to cast my vote for the Democratic candidate. I may not feel that said candidate is the best qualified but my primary thought is my own personal survival. It just shouldn’t be like this. Post a reply by email at rosstaylor@worksbestnaked.comHow to End a War5 February 2007The New York Times headline article Republicans Block Senate Debate on Iraq Resolution in today’s edition inspired me with the solution to ending America’s neverÐending entanglement in Iraq. I actually hold the opinion that we, as a nation, do have a responsibility to leave slowly rather than just hit the road; a sudden departure only increases the probability Iraq will plunge into civil war. A scaled reduction is the best bet but our elected officials in Congress seem to be once again dragging their feet. I believe my proposed, simple legislation will assist: all children, between ages 18 and 40, of elected officialsÑwhether currently in office or now a private citizenÑwho voted to invade must report for some type of war duty in Iraq. Child of Democrat or Republican or Independent, it makes no difference. If mom or dad said "Yes!" to the invasion, you go. Sorry, Chelsea Clinton, you, too; perhaps touring with the USO can be your fate. Male children: boot camp time with your new best buddy, the M-16 rifile (or whatever version is handed out today) with eventual deployment to the sands around Baghdad. Vice President Dick Cheney’s pregnant, lesbian daughter: think about birthing that kid in an Iraq hospital. The only exception would be President Bush’s twin daughters, Jen and Barb, for whom a special piece of legislation will be passed, akin to the one Republicans attempted to pass in the Terri Schiavo case. A special task they should be legally bound to provide: touring each US military camp in Iraq and personally servicing every soldier’sÑmale and femaleÑsick, twisted, deviant sexual desire. That’s right, Mr President: your prized daughters are going to literally give their all for your war. (Kinda makes you really rethink the effort on part of the Republicans to remove hunt down and discharge all gay military personnel, as with gays the worse your daughters could expect would be a really bad makeover.) Simplistic: yes. When those who voted, promoted, or preached about this war are suddenly forced to sacrifice, it will end. Post a reply by email at rosstaylor@worksbestnaked.comThe Women’s Room2 February 2007The original thrust of this posting was the discrimination men experience at gyms where there is an area stocked with cardio and weight training equipment exclusively for women. Then, I read the column "The Romano Factor" in the February 2007 issue of Muscular Development, in which the columnist details the growing tendancy of gyms to shun the hardcore bodybuilder. He specifically cites an incident at an east coast Planet Fitness where a member, who happens to be a correctional officer, was "Escorted out of the club for grunting while working outÉwhich is not conforming with the rules of the establishment." My opinion now is that all gyms needs to have such a room but renamed "The Wusses’ Room" for those who can’t handle using a gym. I'm trembling in my custom Nike’s right now at the thought that tomorrow, when my sadistic trainer is putting me through a heavy leg day at the Gold’s Gym in Bothell, WA, my ass will be tossed out the door. Actually, I’m kidding. That gym welcomes bodybuilders and promotes the sport, especially since the Seattle area hosts the Emerald Cup. Yet, it seems that the Planet Fitness trend of anti-bodybuilding is becoming more prevalent, even at some Gold’s Gyms. Planet Fitness itself, by claiming on its website of being a "judgement free zone", is hypocritical. The testimonials speak for themselves. Read a few. I’ve trained at many gyms in the US of A and never found a gym where there wasn’t a diverse crowd. Who are these people giving these testimonials? At which gym were they so terrorized? Or is it just vestiges of being bullied on the recess yard while in grade school? Planet Fitness has judged men and women like myself, who push the limit in training and muscle building, undesireable. I have respect for everyone’s training routine, and expect that same. My only focus at the gym is my own routine. One being intimidated by someone just because the person is large and muscular is one’s own issue. Get some self-confidence. Failing that, remove yourself from the environment rather than ridding it of the other person. Sounds like the same actions non-smokers employ by getting legislation created to ban smoking in a democratic, capitalistic society rather than actually approaching the owners of restaurant and bars with signed petitions (see "I Like Ainsley Hayes" posting below). Have someone else do the dirty work. Cowardice. Post a reply by email at rosstaylor@worksbestnaked.comOlympics with a Disco Ball Overhead1 August 2006Done and over, I’m not entirely sure of the point of the Gay Games Chicago, affiliated with the Federation of Gay Games, held mid-July 2006 in Chicago. The idea is for athletes, who may or may not been able to compete in Olympic-style sports, to compete in a regulated environment with the overall theme being "personal best" rather than just winning. Yet the week-long event focused more on money and party events than on the athletes, without whom the Games have no purpose. Or, at least, that is what one would naturally assume. I registered for the Physique contest. It was an opportunity I saw as to see if I had the steel to complete a 16-week training program that featured 6 times a week of intense, 45-minute cardio sessions (I now cringe at the sight of a StairMill), 6 days of weight training (as "Jim, the Boy" of Ft Lauderdale put it: "lifting’s a blast," which it is so I am okay with weights still), and a diet in which my only carb of oatmeal (which I like but eventually despised on the last day of the 16 weeks) was barely enough to keep my body fueled. My sleep was limited due to a full-time job that I had to keep along with all the training. I had to learn to pose correctly, tan, keep a good mental attitude, keep a constant watch on my diet and the necessary changes as the competition date approached, keep my strength at an even level when weight training, and the topper of it all: paint on a tan (twice). Hindsight: I survived, survived well, and am planning to do it all again in 2007 for another competition. Overall, a great experience, a great learning experience not only about my mental strength, but about my body and how it works, where to find support, and realizing priorities in my life. Most would not know that each competitor, regardless of event, had to pay a registration fee of over $100 plus an additional flat charge for each event in which the individual wished to compete. On average, it cost over $200 just to compete in a single event. It is worthwhile to note that the fee to compete in an amateur competition is $50 or less. In return for the registration and event fee(s), besides the opportunity to compete in the event, each individual received a participation medal, corporate-sponsored branded products such as the Gay.Com backpack, a CTA pass, and little else. Participation in your local Team, such as Team Chicago, necessitated another cost to buy the t-shirt or other apparal to march with the Team in the opening ceremonies. As my interest was only the Physique event, I didn’t worry about Team Chicago even though I received numerous emails, including souvenier sales, from the group despite my request not to receive. Over 50 emails I received from the date I registered, December 31, 2005, to the final date of the Games. Only 4 of those emails had anything to do with my particular event. The rest were advertisements for the opening ceremonies with spectacular effects, closing ceremonies featuring major celebrity talent, parties that were to die for, souveniers that I could not live without, and that tickets for all events and parties were still available...and still available...and still available (NOTE: my neighbor worked for the Games until she was informed last minute that ticket sales and distribution were her responsibility, a task on which no work was done and at that late date impossible to engage TicketMaster due to the hefty fee). The 4 emails I received pertinent to the Physique contest held little useful information. It seemed that as a competitor, I was being asked to give more money to the Games over the $200+ I had already paid to compete. All this evidence makes me draw a few conclusions:
I have no idea how many emails individuals who were not competing but signed up for the Games mailing list received. I’m sure just as many or more than competitors received about ticket sales for athletic events, parties, the opening and closing ceremonies, and souveniers. So what was the focus: athletic competitionÑopen to all who registered regardless of skill and readinessÑin a fair environment, or Circuit Party? You play the math game and let me know. Post a reply by email at rosstaylor@worksbestnaked.comFinding the Balance7 May 2006I’ll spit it out: I’m heavily involved with two men who have been partners for nearly 5 years. Yes, our threeÐman relationship is serious. My admission is a bit of a risk. Readers may not see immediately but I can explain. My first video, Jacked Up by Titan Media, was filmed in a body shop. The director used black tape to alter the license plate number on a car that would be filmed. I asked why. The answer: some porn fanatics are so intent on learning everything about a shoot, about the models, about their personal lives that any item of information is fair game. There is a model with whom I worked once, Mark Magnos, who came home to his condo with a fan waiting in his lobby. I feel revealing the fact that I am dating two men puts them more in the public light than I want or they need. I am committed to this relationship. I am also committed to our privacy. I continue to appreciate eveyone’s messages, and enjoy meeting face to face, either at a personal appearance for a studio or just out at the bars. Meeting men who appreciate my "work" is always awesome! You all walk up, a bit shy, stutter a "hi," introduce yourselves. There is a slight line now, tho, so please respect it. I’m in love, and not in the mood to fuck it up. (Yeah, that’s it. Short blog entry. Sorry it wasn’t titillating.) New Years at Steamworks8 April 2006The Steamworks bathhouse, which receives high ratings from its many out-of-town patrons, I don’t frequent as usually it is a waste of time and money. Most visits I end up walking around, sitting, walking, cruising, watching, sitting, avoiding, and end the evening jacking off alone. Yes, I am selective with whom I have sex. My visit on New Years weekend this year turned out to be quite the except to the rule. I finally settled, after doing my usual tour, on a bench positioned across from the gloryhole boothes on the third floor. Sitting there naked with my white terry clothe towel hanging over one leg obscuring my hard dick that I was gently stroking, two guys walked past. A few minutes later they walked past again in the opposite direction. The third time they stopped a few feet away. I could see them in my peripheral vision looking at me, talking. Eventually, they walked over and entered the open boothe directly across from where I sat. Leaving the door open, their towels dropped to expose some very nice fat cock. What the hell. I joined them, shutting the door. These gloryhole boothes barely have enough room for two people let alone three. It worked for us, though, as the bald one was on his knees taking my cock down his throat and mercilessly pulling on my big balls so hard I was wincing while the tall one used his mouth alternating working my pecs. My own hand was stroking his throbbing cock. Then they changed positions, with the tall one kneeling to suck me for all his worth, the bald one standing up to start pinching my my nipples as I pinched his, our lips mashed together. I happily took a turn on my knees, happy to have two fat dripping cocks now inches from my face. I grabbed one to stroke while the other I swallowed whole down to the balls. Damn it felt good to have my throat and mouth so fucking stuffed with cock and another leaking in my hand, me smearing the precum around the engorged head and down the shaft. Then the cocks switched places as I chowed down on the second one and jacked off the other. Above I could hear them moaning between kissing. I was brought to my feet. The bald one turned around and bent over, his round ass right there with my dick pointing directly at it. An invitation it was that I happily accepted by sliding my cock deep inside him, enjoying the feeling of his tightening down on my shaft. Oh fuck. I grabbed his traps and started pounding. Do not ask me to slow down, do not ask me to be gentle, do not ask me to make it a slow romantic fuck when offering me your ass. I get to use it as I see fit, and that means pounding. The sound of the slap of flesh, the friction of my shaft in a hole, the grunts from the guy I’m pounding only make me go harder and faster. Months it had been since I had ass so I was doing it my way. He didn't seem to mind, and his boyfriend was getting off watching his partner take it hard and yelp occasionally. Maybe it became too much since he pulled away. It didn't matter, though: the boyfriend took his place, letting me continue my rough ride in a fresh ass. He was a loud one, and he got louder when his bald boyfriend got down to suck his cock while also working his nipples. The sounds just inspired me more, pounding harder, almost shaking the flimsy walls. He was a good fuck. Damn. Turnabout is always fair play with me, so I bent over, my head pressed against the wall as a fat cock invaded my hole. I guess revenge was on the mind of the bald one since he slammed in and didn’t stop. Hard is how I like to take it, hard and fast. Make me grunt, make me wince, make pound my fist. Punch my hole hard, make it hurt a bit, and we’re rocking. He pulled out, slapped my ass, and the boyfriend’s dick slammed in my open hole. Again, a revenge fuck, one I not only deserved but craved. Sweat dripping off me, his sweat dripping on my back, my cock in a hot wet mouth, all that logic and sense I have daily replaced with just the exhiliration of direct fucking physical pleasure with no fancy overture. Bathhouses are like that: made for pure sex with no false pretense. Go there, find your man or men, work your cock your hole your mouth your fetishes, and pump out a load. There I was in that environment, not caring who I was, where I was, who they were. All that mattered was the feeling of my ass being pummeled while my cock was swallowed whole and massaged head to base by the talented muscle in a man’s throat. The cum was incredible. It shot out of me like a rocket and the relief it brought spread from my crotch through my entire body. My ass rider took a few more hard pounds in me to remind me he was still there before he yanked out to deliver his load on my back, mixing with his and my sweat. The bald one got off his knees and the two of us each took a nipple while he jacked his shaft. I jammed two fingers up his ass and pulled them apart to spread his hole. He shot. We got our towels, opened the door, and went our ways. No thank you’s, no invitation for a future repeat. A slap on the ass or a twist on a raw nipple is it. This was a bathhouse: dirty, nasty, no regrets, no thanks, just simple raw fucking pleasure with other men. Fuck that’s good. Post a reply by email at rosstaylor@worksbestnaked.comDancing at The Cuff4 April 2006I went dancing at the Seattle, WA club The Cuff. It was an awesome time. The club I thought great: the crowd was a good mix, the two vodkas I had were poured nicely, and the dance floor was open and spacious. It’s sprawling size is what surprised me most about the place, especially after I stepped into the main bar. All this plus the fact that one of the images associated with the bar is a blackÐandÐwhite drawing of a shirtless muscular man in leather cap meant I would like it. (I tried to find a t-shirt with this image to purchase but had no luck.) My friends repeatedly tell me I dance badly. It was always my thought that dancing was about having fun. Okay, maybe I don’t have the footwork of Kevin Bacon or Beyonce’s smooth hip movements but when my shirt comes offÑand it did: a very tight black Adidas brand tank topÑeyes shifted from my stumbling feet to my bouncing hairy pecs and eventually to the slightly lowered waistband of my jeans as the button had somehow come undone and the zipper went down a bit to reveal the lowÐrise jockstrap beneath and the very top of my crack in the back. Okay, you go with your best assets. I think I dance well, and the two hot men I was with also thought I danced well. There were no reported injuries, as opposed to the first time I twoÐstepped, so I guess it went over well. It was a good mix of men, and the female count was very low. Why women see the need to hang at a men’s bar never made sense to me. Chicago bars are many times racked with women with their "boy pals," as I call the men who have them tag along. My preference is the company of men. Jack Fritscher’s novel Some Dance to Remember introduces the concept of homomasculinity. It is more than the idea of just men who like men (sexually) hanging out together. It is simply men, not necessarily of a sexual nature, who just prefer the company of men over women. I work with women, I respect women as I do any other person, but socially the extent of my interest is getting naked and just banging. So I can be a pigÉlike every other man. Once I got on that dance floor I did not want to leave. I was moving, I was playing, I was flexing, I was sweating, I was dancing! It’s odd at times for me. Most of the time I don’t see myself as attractive to other people. Nearly each day I downplay my physique by concentrating on only what needs work. Sure, some of you reading this are shaking your head in disbelief, yet that is how it is for me and many others. But sometimes, and that nite at The Cuff was one of those times, everything about myself felt right. It could have been the alcohol, it could have been the attention of the two handsome men who took meÑand who also took me the next morning in bedÑ, it could have been my seeing glimpses of my sweating naked torso reflected in the mirror against which the dance floor abutted. All of it, none of it, I felt like what I was told I was like. It was brilliant. I’ll be back at that club. The nite was too awesome not to try for a repeat. Post a reply by email at rosstaylor@worksbestnaked.comBodybuilding
Monday 20 March 2006
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