But, You’re Not Gay, Are You? SF Pride 2012

Youre not gay are you pride 2012 26431711_324945921325726_5713852386963881984_n

This gorgeous man was walking arm-in-arm with an attractive lady friend at gay pride 2012.

There were several other women with them, so I asked the entire group if they would pose for a snapshot.

The women were delighted, and quite rambunctious if not inebriated.

After about a dozen shots, I summoned the nerve to ask “the handsome man” for a few more shots by himself.

Only briefly hesitant, he stepped right up to the challenge, his rowdy posse cheering him on.

He put his hat and sunglasses on, but I guess that wasn’t what I was focusing on.

This image is heavily altered. I had almost as much fun manipulating it as when I originally took the photo.

You can see the original unaltered version, and hundreds more like him in my virtual gallery:
Photojimsf’s Pride 2012 SF gallery

 

The 2012 SF gay pride gallery and gift shop will be on view until the end of July 2018.

Here’s a few teaser pics:

Photojimsf’s Pride 2012 SF gallery

The 2012 SF gay pride gallery and gift shop will be on view until the end of July 2018.

 

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Island of the Gods

Greetings
Bali is a very spiritual place.   There’s a temple or two every half a mile or so, and a shrine every 50 feet.  Statues and statues and statues everywhere, at doorways, bridges, street corners, businesses, and anywhere one will fit.  The people live in cemetery like structures made of elaborate brick and stone work.  A catholic man I met from West Timor said that the Balinese practice Hindu, and that they worship not God but goats (ghosts).
I rented a motor scooter for a week ($35us!), and I am convinced that there is a god or ghosts or some form of higher power protecting me and everyone here from killing each other off on the roads.
We drive on the left side, and there a no stop signs or traffic lights.  The roads are very narrow, and every ride is a game (hundreds of games) of polite chicken as the hordes of motorbikes compete with minivans, bemos (small public transit vehicles), and god forbid the occasional cement or vegetable truck.  People often ride 3 and even 4 to a bike, and carrying everything from flowers, to vegetables, luggage, furniture, and even grandma sitting sideways in her traditional skirt.

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I had to fork over a 250,000rp on the spot bribe to a polisi ($25us) for going the wrong way on a one way.  So was everyone else but I was the only tourist.  Otherwise I might have had to “take care this in Denpasar”, where the fine for driving w/o international license is two million rupiahs ($200us).  I was very apologetic and promised to be careful.  Later everyone said I could have gotten off with 10,000 to 100,000.
Needless to say I did not renew the rental and just stayed mostly on the side gangs (little side alleys) from the hotel to Callego Massage and Warang, at Ganesha Beach.  A religious joyride in itself, the trip there is about two miles down a long, narrow road that winds and snakes through the high walled compounds of the high end resorts from Legian to Seminyak.  Speed bumps keep the pace comfortable.  There are plates of woven banana leaf filled with flowers, fruit, rice, fragrant oils, and other offerings to the spirits left at every statue and shrine (about every 20 feet).  There’s a Buddha statue shop with chickens and roosters pecking about.
At the entrances to the big resorts, there are usually two or more security guards with dogs and mirrors checking each entrant for bombs.  Big, strapping, hunky men in midnight blue combat uniforms, these guys watch every passer by with suspicion.  It must be awfully boring looking for terrorists all day every day.  I nodded and waved at one that was glaring really hard one day and his face lit up with a big happy smile.  So every time after I did the same and got warm responses every time.  Is this another entry in the cheap thrills contest?  I got the nerve to ask for a picture once but they politely refused.
After a left turn here, another windy road and a right turn there (no street signs), past the public beach and down a country road through a rice paddy with a trash fire here and there.  The road becomes a bumpy dirt road, across a narrow wooden pedestrian bridge that crosses a babbling brook, and there’s Callego’s.  There’s already 20 or 30 motorbikes parked in the dirt parking lot, and two cow sized goats (real ones) tied to a tree and munching everything green in sight.
Next, you walk through a not so well tended garden with about 15 Buddha and Ganesha statues, past the restrooms, and to the left is a much more immaculately manicured garden with 20 or so tables on one side and 20 or so beach lounge chairs on the other.  30 or more statues including one of a big penis with a monkey climbing up the side.  On a busy day the place is filled with really, really good looking mostly local guys, all looking and flirting and giggly.  Very nice waiters attend to your food and beverage requests, and the beach is just past the palm tree lined fence that keeps the annoying chachka sellers out.
For just 60,000rp ($6us), you can get a one hour massage.  90,000 for an hour and a half.  The most sublime experience as I listened to the symphony of the waves, birds, insects singing and chanting to Ganesha as I laid face down, a bowl full of semi fragrant flowers just beneath the hole in the massage table.  The masseurs are very good looking too, very competent but strictly non sexual (I was told they were straight).
After wards I would enjoy a fresh grilled piece of tuna with veggies, or a salad nicoise, and watch the sun go down with a bin tang beer or iced tea, all for less than $5!  Some cutie pie would always manage to join me at my table and sometimes end up in my bed back at the room.  Not a bad way to experience mid life crisis, eh?
Namaste,

J

Robinson Crusoe and Man Friday

Selamat Melang (good evening)!
Sorry so long since my last trashy tale, the inter-net connections here are slower than molasses in January.  It’s hot enough to fry an egg on the seat of the motor scooter I rented.  I’m mostly staying in the room w/ac and two pools at the Kumala Grand ($20 a nite!).  Or at my favorite massage and warang (open air restaurant) called Callego, right on Ganesha Beach, the gay beach.
Am having a blast (no pun intended) here in Bali.
There is much to like, and then there is much to dislike here in the Kuta Beach area.  As soon as you step outside the airport, you are greeted by hundreds of screaming “taksi” touts.  It seemed I was the only one who knew about the official taxi counter, just 30 feet to the right, thanks to the Lonely Planet Guide.  For 50,000 rupiah (five dollars!) you can get a hassle free ride to the beach resorts.
The older gent was dressed in traditional shirt and head scarf–how did he not sweat to death?  Pleasant and conversational, he sadly pointed out the place where the bomb went off as we passed by on the way.  The roads are very narrow, zig-zaggy, and crammed with motorbikes.  He came close to my destination and had to ask a shop keeper the exact location which was 100 feet or so down an even narrower “gang” (small side alley).

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Russel Guesthouse was a hell hole.  The website advertised AC, jacuzzi, and it must have mentioned 10 times “gay man massage” and “just minutes from gay nude beach”, none of which were true.  I pulled the rope that rang a bell, the “Russell’s Place” sign was so faded one could barely read it.  Five minutes later the driver is asking if I needed to find another place, and I should have, but finally a very cute attendant who looked about 19 answered. “Oooh jess, d-d-d-Roossell tell me yoo combing.”
He apologized for the place being so dusty, “busyness veddy veddy bad long time now.”  I must have been the first person to stay there since the bombing 5 years ago.  The plumbing and electrical were well below code, the AC did not work.  To flush the toily one filled the red bucket and poured in by hand.  He showed me where the fuse box was and which one to push to turn on the pump , a noisy machine just outside my window, if I wanted a shower.
He chased a huge hornet out of the room with a broom stick, and apologized again.  I’m guessing that the owner Russel may have abandoned the place and went back to Europe, leaving the place to his young lover to look after.  I barely saw him again as it seemed he was too busy messing around with his suspiciously under-age looking girlfriend who I spied/heard in the next room.
Working up a sweat just laying on the bed in front of the fan, I decided to take a walk, a long, sweltering hot, 25 minute walk to the beach.
I arrived at the famous Double 6 Road area, and my eyes just about popped out of my head. A glorious, fiery sunset was the back drop for quite the beach scene, eye candy as far as one could see.  A group of god-like, rich, velvety chocolate skinned, sweat coated young men were playing a game of volleyball.  A few feet away a crowd had gathered around a fire dancing brigade accompanied by drums, bells, whistles, cymbals, and various other unique Balinese musical instruments.
I fumbled around with my new digital cam when one friendly cutie pie after the next spotted me and approached.  “Halloo sir, where you from?  First time Bali?”
“Ka-Lee-fore-nee-ya” (Ahnald style) I stammer, forgetting about the camera for now.  Not wanting to jump on the first opportunity, I chatted each one up for a bit and then politely excused myself until the next friendly but ever more aggressive cutie pie tried his luck with me.  What an ego booster for a lonely middle-aged leach like myself!
After a while the attention is getting to be too much, so I throw off my sandals, stick my toes in the water, and start heading north on the beach.  Past the bungee jumping tower where the occasional scream is carried by the balmy breeze, it’s just about dark by now.  I feel safe because I see plenty of other solo strollers, both tourists and locals, and everyone nods or says hello in one of many international languages.
I’m giddy and giggly, feeling this trip is about to get really fun, but I’m tired and exhausted from the plane ride and the heat.  I’m thinking how the hell–I mean heck, am I going to find my way back to the furnace–I mean guesthouse, when I spy yet another cutie pie in a white t-shirt and baseball cap lurking in the darkness.
He slowly approaches but is very shy.  “halloo, what’s your name sir?”  I asked him and he says “Ketut”.
“Too-too?  Tootsie? Cutie?”  I’m joking but really trying to get the pronunciation right at the same time.  A bit more small talk before I figure his vibe is friendly and that he’s not going to stab me and rob me on the spot.  I ask for directions back to Russel Guest House, and he offers a ride on his moto-bike.  I’m hemming and hawing, so he grabs my hand and puts it in his pocket, where something large, live, and stiff is throbbing, and that’s all I need to say “OK let’s go!”
Five hours, two orgasms, a nap and 4 showers later, he says he has to go, but we make one of three more dates which he actually shows up on time for!  A man of few words, this perfect gentleman was like my Man Friday come to save me from all the aggressive, almost cannibalistic touts, money-boys, trinket  hawkers and tour pushers on this beautiful, paradisiacal island called Bali.
Selamat tinggal (goodbye),
J