Monthly Archives: August 2016

Men: The “Cloning” Phenomenon! (Does My Cock Look Big In This?)

Disclaimer: Opinions expressed in this article are based on observation, not personal likes, dislikes or desire.



A person who imitates or copies another.

Source: [1970’s]

The standardized gay male appearance. In the 70’s the look included a mustache, short hair, muscle shirt/flannel shirt and Levi’s, good muscle definition. The late 80’s -90’s included short hair, long sideburns, white t-shirt, shorts/jeans and Doc boots with gray socks.

Source: [1970’s]”

I hate to diss on my own sex – I reckon they get enough unwarranted stick as it is – but what the fuck is going on with men at the moment! Being male myself, I know what battles have been fought over the last three or four decades to break away from the ingrained social and familial stereotyping that constricted and confined us in regards to behaviour, self-expression, language, grooming, dress,  and emotion. We have, up until more liberating times, been automatons, never being ourselves, nor allowing ourselves to be perceived as weak, or dandified. Now, all that has changed – but have we taken it all too far, and created a deadly trap that will be difficult for many of us to get out of?
In the very early 80s, a trend appeared on the gay scene. Gay men were dressing in uber masculine styles – Levi 501s with white, black or navy Bonds tees; flannelette shirts; leather vests; construction gear; cowboy hats; Bonds navy or white singlets; moustaches and buzz-cut hair. The look became known as the “Clone” look, as all the youngish guys were dressing this way. There was a backlash – largely ignored – from the older gays, who had lived much of their gay life at underground parties, dinner parties, saunas and beats. They were not “out” regarding their sexuality, and found it intimidating that others could be so overt. What they failed to see was that the Clone  movement was driven by LGBT people fighting against the oppression and sublimation of gay culture and lifestyle. They were outrightly saying we are not the portrayed limp-wristed fairies, we are not effete, we don’t all speak with lisps, nor are we all window and hair dressers. We are men; we are sexual beings, and we want to rejoice in it, yet at the same time, we are very much like everyone else. This style of radicalism, this uber masculinity, is happening again at the moment, though sexuality isn’t at the forefront.

Bring on the Clones!

The trend – and it is big – is noticeable on several fronts: overly toned, physique obsessed bodies; the proliferation of tattoos and piercings; fashion, and grooming. It is virtually impossible to look at a movie, a television advertisement, a magazine, go to the beach, or to your local gym to see the body obsession. It is now at a very unhealthy level! It is all about weights, and more weights. Slim the waist, pump up the pecs and biceps, work on that 6 or 8 pack stomach, get to the lowest possible body fat percentage – and spend a lot of time checking out other guys…and checking yourself out in every mirror or store eindow that you encounter. Guys are no longer content to just be fit! It is not all that long ago that we decided to tackle the obesity problem that has become a national disgrace. The trend turned towards fitness – losing excess weight, developing a healthy body through exercise and diet, and maintaining an active lifestyle. The message seems to have gotten mangled somewhere along the way. Now, the problem I personally have with slim, heavily muscled guys covered in tatts is that…I like it – at least to look at. But that doesn’t mean I can’t see the bad side of the trend, and acknowledge that there is going to be – if not already – a negative side to it. The obsessive nature of reaching this goal is already having repercussions. In a recent chat with a mate who, by his own admission, had been obsessed with building the “perfect” body – and boy, he did look really hot when he achieved it – showed the dark side of this obsession. He was attending the gym 2-3 times per DAY -which on its own is very dangerous, as the body has no time to rest up, and repair damage. There was the over-use of supplements, including pre-workout, with no regard as to what they may obtain. His personal and family life were affected, with his partner feeling she was powerless to intervene. It was, in his own words, a deadly obsession.

The dream!

The other real problems associated with the body obsession is that if guys feel that photos don’t show them in the light they want to be seen in – hey…photoshop it! Photoshopped images are very obvious due to their “plastic” look – well, to everyone except those doing the tweaking, anyway! The really concerning aspect though, is the young ages of many men following this trend. You now see 15-18yo guys with bodies that just don’t look right – and at that age, you don’t need heavy workouts, as most are already lean, and just need a small amount of muscle work, as building muscle is easy at that age. Body dysmorphia is becoming an ever increasing problem, along with low self-esteem, setting unrealistic goals, dietary problems due to the cutting out of essential food groups, and setting themselves up for a fall. Sustaining these types of bodies is, for most, improbable in the long term. No one is thinking – what’s going to happen if I get ill, or get into a relationship that doesn’t allow time for heavy workouts, or what if I have kids, or change jobs, or move to areas where regular access to a gym is not possible! Workout from home? Yeah sure – judt look at how much home gym equipment is sitting under beds, is on Ebay, or goes out with the next clean-up! What happens is…all that muscle becomes fat. And what about the guys who go above and beyond with supplements, into the world of testosterone injections, HGH, or steroids! The future health implications are very serious, with heart and renal problems that can – at the very worst – kill you. The price is way too high for just looking like a super-human!
All this has further led onto other strange, uniquely 21st century phenomena. Guys have started removing all body hair (I so want to lick their smooth bodies all over!) by laser, cream depilation (Veet has a depilatory cream out just for men) or body shaving. This often includes either severely cropped genital pubic hair – or its total removal. Personally, I hate body hair, and both shave and depilate regularly. My pet loathing is thick course body hair, especially on the back, shoulders and bum. Many love it…but to each their own. Which leads onto – tattooing.

Tattoos used to be looked down on, but now it seems that they have earned a degree of respectability. But not the simple, single tattoo that I have on my arm – these are full-blown torso, and full sleeve, tattoos! Many of which are quite elaborate, and works of art in the true sense of the word. How guys can afford them is beyond me, let alone find the time to have it done. Guys are even getting their cocks tattooed! It is now very much a case of monkey see, monkey do, as the phenomena is widely spread. Add the proliferation of body piercings, and you have a case of individuality going out the window! I lovetattoos, and find them very erotic, but even I question why so many men are going all-out to cover themselves in body art. Straight men have become the new gay Clones!

The problem is, guys, that if we line you all up…you all look the same!

And what is it with things like top-knots (man-buns) and tiny pony tails! Thankfully, the fashion didn’t last long, but while it did they seemed to be everywhere, including on a lot of men they didn’t suit. Then we had everyone growing beards! It is all just strange!

Double up – beard & man-bun!

Fashion at the  moment is pretty cool, I have to say. Amazing tee-shirts and shirts, great shoe designs, and I love the lean look of slim cut chinos, jeans and shorts. Men have finally got daring with colour and pattern, and are not afraid to show some bare ankle under a roll-cuffed chino. V-neck tees show off defined bodies, and jackets and hoodies have once again become proper fashion accessories. Handbags (I HATE the term “man-bag”) and satchels have given us an excuse to no longer have bulging pockets. And just as you ladies have under garments that “lift this; squeeze that; push that down”, so to has mens underwear moved into narcissism territory! In some cases, as below, it has truly gone overboard! It’s bad enough that there are “fitness” products promoted as taking the work out of exercise, and exercise from the “comfort of your own home” – welcome to the lazy world of those who want to look good, but without the hard yards – but this padding to look like muscles takes it to an even lower level! Add this to the line up of compression tops to pull the fat in, underwear with padded bums, and a host of underwear designed to make your cock look bigger…and you have to wonder if we are living in a world of delusion, one where your true self is made unavailable to other people! Individuality would appear to be well and truly out of fashion. 

I run a Tumblr feed (with 1,200 followers) – yes, like all other men I do look at porn – and the most notable thing about it – apart from all the sucking and fucking photos from blogs I follow – is the obsession with HUGE cocks. I’m sure there is a lot of Photoshopping going on, as some of them are so huge it is actually funny. If their cocks are really that big, I feel sorry for them, as there is nothing you could do with it that could be deemed pleasurable, and it must be very difficult to not only hide, but do anything…including sitting…comfortably! In this boys world, anything over 71/2″-8″ is just wasted. I don’t get the fascination, and frankly I’m bored with it. My blog is very popular, and surprisingly because most of the guys have clothing on – in one form or another. Okay, it is a fetish  blog  for guys into Speedos, aussieBums, jockstraps, tattoos, footy shorts and military, but there is an absence of full on nudity, and little sex. Seems there are a lot of guys bored with basic porn, who like hot guys with clothes on, male couples showing affection, the erotic appeal of swimwear, jockstraps and uniforms. Sometimes, there is a lot to be said for subtlety!  

You would need to be a little bit scared of picking anyone up with this lot on!

So guys, it’s time to reclaim your individuality. Start thinking of working out to get toned and fit, not as a competition against every other guy in the gym. The body you build today will need to be maintained for many, many years to come, so don’t make it a chore. And while you are at it, balance your diet. By all means, get body art, but like your bodybuilding…think to the future. You are not going to have taught skin forever, and will it affect your chances of getting the job of your dreams? And try to follow a theme. Avoid names – divirce happens, you know! As for head & facial hair, don’t look at yourself through rose-coloured glasses. Every fashion that comes along doesn’t necessarily suit everyone! As for bodily enhancements via clothing – just don’t! Be proud of your butt, and your cock. I love ordinary sized cocks, and agree with the adage that it’s not how much length you’ve got, but how you use it! Sex is about pleasure, not a challenge 
False advertising!

What happens when you avoid leg day!

Tim Alderman (C 2016)

Dean Koontz’s “Book Of Counted Sorrows”

For all those Dean Koontz fans, who always wonder about the snippets of poetry at the beginning of many of his books.

The Book of Counted Sorrows was originally a nonexistent book “quoted” in many of Dean Koontz’s books. Koontz subsequently wrote a book of poetry by the same title.[1]

The Book of Counted Sorrows was originally a nonexistent book “quoted” in many of Dean Koontz’s books. Koontz subsequently wrote a book of poetry by the same title.[1]

Non-existent book 
For many years Koontz fans everywhere searched for this elusive book.[citation needed] Many librarians were frustrated in their attempts to locate it,[1] because it did not exist. This was confirmed by a librarian from Cedar Rapids Public Library who corresponded with Koontz regarding this mysterious book. Koontz himself stated that he received up to 3,000 letters per year inquiring about it.[1]
In a letter dated August 10, 1992,m Koontz stated:
Actually, there is no such book. I made it up. The way you made up footnote sources for fabricated facts in high-school English reports. Oh, come on, yes, you did. Sometimes, when I need a bit of verse to convey some of the underlying themes of a section of a novel, I can’t find anything applicable, so I write my own and attribute it to this imaginary tome. I figured readers would eventually realize THE BOOK OF COUNTED SORROWS was my own invention, and I never expected that one day librarians and booksellers would be writing from all over the country, asking for help in tracking down this rare and mysterious volume![2]
Koontz went on to say that he would publish such a book in a few years, when he had enough verses to fill a volume. He included a history of the poems in the beginning of the book, followed by the poems, some having never been in any of his books.[1] According to Shannon Presley of Harvest Books, “Koontz himself wrote the poems, attributed to a Stephen Crane…you can find the collected poems at”

Second non-existent book 

In the beginning of a very few books (such as Odd Thomas), Koontz quotes from The Book of Counted Joys.

Actual Book

In 2001, The Book of Counted Sorrows was published in an e-book format offered exclusively through Barnes & Noble;[3] It was the first book published in Barnes & Noble’s launch of its first-ever list of books from its newly formed electronic-publishing division, Barnes & Noble Digital, and “quickly became’s best-selling e-books of the year.”[4] Barnes & Noble Digital’s premier 2001 edition is no longer available.

Later that year, Charnel House published two limited editions of the book: a 1250-copy numbered edition and a 26-copy lettered edition.[5] Both editions quickly sold out from the publisher.[citation needed] In the summer of 2009, Dogged Press issued a 3000-copy hardcover edition.


Greenberg, Martin H.; Gorman, Ed; Munster, Bill, eds. (1994). The Dean Koontz Companion. New York: Berkeley Books.


  1. a b c d Dean Koontz. Podcast Episode 25: Book of Counted Sorrows 1 (Podcast). Retrieved July 9, 2011.
  2.  Bauch, Chelsea (December 10, 2010). “When Real Books Inspire Fake Books”. Retrieved July 2, 2011.
  3. “The Book of Counted Sorrows 1”. Retrieved 1 February 2013.
  4. DSN Retailing Today 40 (21). November 5, 2001. p. 6!xrn_1_0_A79867442?sw_aep=frlopacplus. Missing or empty |title= (help)
  5.  Stefko, Joe (2001). The Book of Counted Sorrows. Retrieved July 2, 2011. Illustrated by Theresa De Perez
  6. Charnel House Press Ki

From Wikipedia –

               In the fields of life, a harvest 

                  sometimes comes far out of season,

                  when we thought the earth was old

                   and could see no earthly reason

                   to rise for work at break of dawn,

                   and put our muscles to the test.

                 With winter here and autumn gone,

                   it just seems best to rest, to rest. 

                    But under winter fields so cold,

                  wait the dormant seeds of seasons

                  unborn, and so the heart does hold

                   hope that heals all bitter lesions.

                    In the fields of life, a harvest.

               Life is a gift that must be given back

               and joy should arise from its possession.

                It’s too damned short, and that’s a fact.

                Hard to accept, this earthly procession

                  to final darkness is a journey done,

                 circle completed, work of art sublime,

                 a sweet melodic rhyme, a battle won.

                  Death is no fearsome mystery.

                   He is well known to thee and me.

                    He had no secrets he can keep

                   to trouble any good man’s sleep.

                 Turn not thy face from Death away.

                  Care not he takes our breath away.

                  Fear him not, he’s not thy master,

                     rushing at thee faster, faster.

                    Not thy master but servant to

                   the Maker of thee, what or Who

                     created Death, created thee

                       and is the only mystery                   


                           In the real world

                            as in dreams,

                           nothing is quite

                           what it seems.


                         Life without meaning

                          cannot be borne.

                          We find a mission

                        to which we’re sworn

                         – or answer the call

                        of Death’s dark horn.

                         Without a gleaning

                          of purpose in life,

                         we have no vision,

                           we live in strife,

                           or let blood fall

                          on a suicide knife.

                      Nowhere can a secret keep

                    always secret, dark and deep,

                      half so well as in the past,

                      buried deep to last, to last.

                    Keep it in your own dark heart,

                     otherwise the rumors start.

                    After many years have buried

                    secrets over which you worried,

                     no confidant can then detray

                     all the words you didn’t say.

                      Only you can then exhume

                     secrets safe within the tomb

                       of memory, of memory,

                     within the tomb of memory

                          In the real world 

                            as in dreams,

                           nothing is quite

                           what it seems.

                         Vibrations in a wire.

                             Ice crystals

                         in a beating heart.

                              Cold fire.

                          A mind’s frigidity:

                            frozen steel,

                        dark rage, morbidity.

                              Cold fire.

                          Defense against 

                             a cruel life

                          death and strife:

                              Cold fire.

                      Living in the modern age,

                     death for virtue is the wage.

                     So it seems in darker hours.

                     Evil wins, kindness cowers.

                      Ruled by violence and vice

                     We all stand upon thin ice.

                     Are we brave or are we mice,

                    here upon such thin, thin ice?

                    Dare we linger, dare we skate?

                     Dare we laugh or celebrate,

                   knowing we may strain the ice?

                     Preserve the ice at any price?

                         Faraway in China,

                      the people sometimes say,

                        life is often bitter and

                         all too seldom gay.

                        Bitter as dragon tears,

                    great cascades of sorrows flood

                         down all the years,

                      drowning our tomorrows.

                         Faraway in China,

                         the people also say,

                       life is sometimes joyous

                         if all too often gray,

                      Although life is seasoned

                       with bitter dragon tears,

                       seasoning is just a spice

                      within our brew Of years.

                       Bad times are only rice,

                      tears are one more flavour,

                      that gives us sustenance,

                       something we can savor.

               Those who would banish the sin of greed

                embrace the sin of envy as their creed.

                Those who seek to banish envy as well,

                only draw elaborate new maps of hell.

               Those with passion to change the world,

                look of themselves as saints, as pearls,

               and by the launching of noble endeavor,

                  flee dreaded introspection forever.

                     Evil is no faceless stranger,

                   living in a distant neighborhood.

                Evil has a wholesome, hometown face,

                  with merry eyes and an open smile.

                 Evil walks among us, wearing a mask

                    which looks like all our faces.

                   Beaches, surfers, California girls.

                 Wind scented with fabulous dreams.

                   Bougainvillea, groves of oranges.

                  Stars are born, everything gleams.

                   A weather change. Shadows fall.

                  New scent upon the wind – decay.

                  Cocaine, Uzis, drive-by shootings.

                  Death is a banker. Everyone pays.

                 Under the winter moon’s pale light,

                   across the cold and starry night,

                 from snowy mountains soaring high

                    to ocean shores echoes the cry.

                 From barren sands to verdant fields,

                   from city streets to lonely wealds,

                   cries the tortured human heart,

                   seeking solace, wisdom, a chart

                   by which to understand its plight

                  under the winter moon’s pale light.

                   Dawn is unable to fade the night.

                    Must we live ‘ever in the blight

                  under the winter moon’s cold light,

                  lost in loneliness, hate, and fright,

                  last night, tonight, tomorrow night

                 under the winter moon’s bleak light?

                Winter that year was strange and gray.

                The damp wind smelled of Apocalypse,

                and morning skies had a peculiar way

                  of slipping cat-quick into the night.

               At the point where hope and reason part,

               lies the spot where madness gets a start.

                 Hope to make world kinder and free –

                  but flowers af hope root in reality.

               No peaceful bed exists for lamb and lion,

               unless on some world out beyond Orion.

              Do not instruct the owls to spare the mice.

                 Owls acting as owls must is not vice

               Storms do not respond to heartfelt pleas.

               All the words of men can’t calm the seas.

                Nature – always beneficent and cruel –

                  won’t change for wise man or fool.

              Mankind shares all Nature’s imperfections,

                 clearly visible to casual inspections.

               Resisting betterment is the human trait.

                 The ideal of utopia is our tragic fate.

               Those who would banish the sin of greed

                embrace the sin of envy as their creed.

                Those who seek to banish envy as well,

                only draw elaborate new maps of hell.

               Those with passion to change the world,

                look on themselves as saints, as pearls,

               and by the launching of noble endeavor,

                  flee dreaded introspection forever

                      All of us are travelers lost,

                     our tickets arranged at a cost

                   unknown but beyond our means.

                     This odd itinerary of scenes

                    – enigmatic, strange, unreal –

                     leaves us unsure how to feel.

                    No postmortem journey is rife

                     with more mystery than life

                     Tremulous skeins of destiny

                         flutter so ethereally

                     around me – but then I feel

                      its embrace is that of steel.

                      On the road that I taken,

                     one day, walking, I awaken,

                  amazed to see where I have come,

                   where I’m going, where I’m from.

                    This is not the path I thought.

                    This is not the place I sought.

                    This is not the dream I bought,

                    just a fever of fate I’ve caught.

                   I’ll change highways in a while,

                   at the crossroads, one more mile.

                    My path is lit by my own fire.

                    I’m going only where I desire.

                    On the road that I have taken,

                     one day, walking, I awaken.

                     One day, walking, I awaken,

                    on the road that I have taken.

                 Hope is the destination that we seek.

                  Love is the road that leads to hope.

                 Courage is the motor that drives us.

                 We travel out of darkness into faith.

                   Holy men tell us life is a mystery.

                 They embrace that concept happily.

                   But some mysteries bite and bark

                   and come to get you in the dark.

                 Darkness devours every shining day.

             Darkness demands and always have its way.

                   Darkness listens, watches, waits.

               Darkness claims the day and celebrates.

                Sometimes in silence darkness comes.

              Sometimes with a gleeful banging of drums.

                 We can embrace love, it’s not to late.

                 Why do we sleep, instead, with hate?

                    Belief requires no suspension

                   to see that Hell is our invention.

                 We make Hell real; we stoke its fires.

                  And in its flames our hope expires.

                  Heaven, too, is merely our creation.

              We can grant ourselves our own salvation.

                  All that’s requires is imagination.

                  Is there some meaning to this life?

                 What purpose lies behind the strife?

              Whence do we come, where are we bound?

                These cold questions echo and resound

                 Through each day, each lonely night.

                  We long to find the splendid light

                   That will cast a revelatory beam

               Upon the meaning of the human dream.

                      Courage, love, friendship,

                      Compassion, and empathy

                    Lift us above the simple beasts

                        And define humanity.

               To know the darkness is to love the light,

           to welcome dawn and fear the coming and night.

                 Night has patterns that can be read

                  less by the living than by the dead.

                      Where eerie figures caper

                       to some midnight music

                       that only they can hear.

                 Every eye sees its own special vision;

                 every ear hears a most different song.

              In each man’s troubled heart, and incision

                would reveal a unique, shameful wrong.

               Stranger fiends hide here in human guise

                   than reside in the valleys of Hell.

                But goodness, kindness and love arise

                 in the heart of the poor beast, as well.

                     Pestilence, disease, and war

                        haunt this sorry place.

                      And nothing lasts forever;

                    that’s a truth we have to face.

                    We spend vast energy and time

                    plotting death for one another.

                    No one, nowhere, is ever safe.

                     Not father, child, or mother.

                  Is the end of the world a-coming?

                 Is that the devil they hear humming?

                 Are those doomsday bells a-ringing?

                  Is that the Devil they hear singing?

                 Or are their dark fears exaggerated?

                  Are these doom-criers addlepated?

                Those who fear the coming of all Hells

              are those who should be feared themselves.

                          There’s no escape

                       From death’s embrace,

                        though you lead it on

                           a merry chase

                          The dogs of death

                           enjoy the chase.

                          Just see the smile

                        on each hound’s face.

                         The chase can’t last;

                         the dogs must feed.

                         It will come to pass

                        with terrifying speed.

                       The hounds, the hounds

                      come baying at his heels.

                      The hounds! The hounds!

                     The breath of death he feels.

                      Numberless paths of night

                      wind away from twilight.

                  Something moves within the night

                   that is not good and is not right.

                       The whisper of the dusk

                      is night shedding its husk.

                   Holy men tell us life is a mytery.

                 They embrace that concept happily.

                   But some mysteries bite and bark

                   and come to get you in the dark.

                 A rain of shadows, a storm, a squall!

                 Daylight retreats; night swallows all.

                   If good is bright, if evil is gloom,

                  high evil walls the world entombs.

                Now comes the end, the drear, Darkfall.

                 Darkness devours every shining day.

              Darkness demands and always has its way.

                   Darkness listens, watches, waits.

               Darkness claims the day and celebrates.

                Sometimes in silence darkness comes.

              Sometimes with a gleeful banging of drums.

                We can embrace love; it’s not too late.

                 Why do we sleep, instead, with hate?

                    Belief requires no suspension

                   to see that Hell is our invention.

                 We make Hell real; we stoke its fires.

                  And in its flames our hope expires.

                  Heaven, too, is merely our creation.

              We can grant ourselves out own salvation.

                  All that’s required is imagination.

                   To see what we have never seen,

                    to be what we have never been.

                    To shed the chrysalis and fly,

                    depart the earth, kiss the sky,

                    to be reborn, be someone new:

                     is this a dream or is it true.

                   Can our future be cleanly shorn

                   from a life to which we’re born?

                    Is each of us a creature free – 

                    or trapped at birth by destiny?

                   Pity those who believe the latter.

                  Without freedom, nothing matters.

                          In the real world

                            as in dreams

                           nothing is quite

                           what it seems.