Gay Vintage Blog

While I'm not certain of the date, I am sure if Instagram had been a thing then, he would have hoards of followers. And in a sense, through the web of physique magazines at drug stores and red light district shops plus plain brown wrapper mail order, those fans would be equally anonymous as an Instagram follower is now.

I hope he put himself through college with his impressive looks, getting a psychology degree and opening a practice to support wayward homosexuals with whatever the opposite of conversion therapy is.

The appointments would primarily consist of the modeling poses you see here, except he'd be in a tweed jacket, bow tie and wire-framed glasses. His care would have been covered by all the major insurance companies, because the people who used to control insurance company arrangements were utterly and consistently homosexual. 

You can't prove me wrong.

I suspect that's not an official wrestling move. The hanging sack is a clue. The facial expressions of proud, sexually competent smile on the left and relaxed arousal on the right, are evidence. There will be no medals awarded here.

Though I'd be happy to bestow each with a medal. Not of gold, silver, or bronze but another substance. One might consider it a temporary medal, in which the giver and recipient are both winners.

I am greatly concerned about the lack of neck support for the guy on the couch. And he's also at risk of his pelvis being crushed by the weight of his thick cock. I hope someone provided him the cock and neck support he needed as he looks like he could do with some assertive help.

"The Origin of Love" from Hedwig and the Angry Inch is in my head because I watched a video of Neil Patrick Harris as Hedwig at Wigstock 2018. Thank you, YouTube. I officially don't need to ever actually go anywhere. So this is the origin of butch.

Minus the two pics in the top row because that guy's in the forest and is posing in a very faun-like way that is neither butch nor fem, whatever those mean. Well they do mean something to whoever chooses to take on those labels.

So probably the football guy is butch, though judging by his hand choreography, he might be in the middle of lipsyncing "Stop In the Name of Love" by the Supremes. As the photo does look very 1965 when that song came out. But he's holding a football and in a bikini bottom so who knows.

This guy is totally gossiping about cock with one of the guys on his college soccer team. While his friend from the football team hangs out with him in bed. That is the obvious conclusion.

And when he's finally off the phone, he'll recount what the other guy said because there's no speaker phone here. That also allows for some fun, sexual exaggerations, the basis of phone sex. Plus the combination of phone sex plus in-person sex is a blending of fantasy and reality that wins in any era.

Or at least that's what I imagine is going on, so I'm right. Meanwhile, the three photos on the right are the same guy who looks very modern but is in fact from early physique model days, (as there was an early magazine cover in the grouping). He's giving a French vibe to me and I have no idea why, beyond that his hair is shaped like a croissant. 

Out of all these dicks, there's just a couple you can't fully see. One is because the guy is bent over and his cock shaft is partially hidden by his sack. So that's a good excuse.

The other is a guy doing his best to protect us all from a dicksplosion. The guy at the bottom left has covered the cock with his mouth, in a heroic act equivalent to diving on a live grenade. If there is a blast, he promises to keep the force firmly enclosed in his oral cavity. Let's just hope he lives to suck another day.

That's thick cocks, thick muscles, or thickheaded. Now that's super rude of me, calling a vintage model thickheaded, but when it comes to objects of lust, I have to find some imaginary flaw. As perfection is a dull myth. 

Though they all have the same major flaw which is they are not here right now. That's what dreams are for.

And I can still bring them into my life in different ways. For example, the guy in the jacket and sneakers and nothing else is clearly modeling what should be my new running outfit. What it lacks in zip pockets and testicular support it makes up for in the potential stampede of sexual popularity that may ensue. Plus I like his hair.

What direction had the photographer given that pair of naked, reclining young guys? I'm guessing something like "Okay fellas, now I want you both to stare passionlessly yet suspiciously at each other." 

Nailed it.

Eye contact or the purposeful lack of it are quite important in the gay world though. Imagine the guy in the steam room who undoes his towel, spreads his legs and closes his eyes. His lack of eye contact promises he's not going to try to catch anyone staring, which makes you free to stare. Yes, I'm speaking from personal experience. 

Also, my eyes are more attuned than straight people's when it comes to steam vision. It's simple queer genetics, born from millennia hiding out in steamy swampland.

Remember John Connor from The Terminator? You think he had it rough running from that time-travelling terminator unit. The John Connor in Sperminator has even bigger problems, the Sperminator fucks like a machine and leaves him exhausted and helpless. This 1993 release is porn star Randy White's first attempt at directing and he succeeds with a good mix of humor and sexual intensity. It's a cheesy bit of fun with some lots of hot sex.

Just one posing strap guy here and we may never know what exactly is underneath. But at least we no longer have to imagine what is underneath the Spock knockoff's pants. The blue top means science/medical and Spock was the most popular back then. 

So sorry Dr. McCoy, who also wore blue, that's a Spock boner, not a Bones boner. "I'm a doctor, Jim, not a porn model" is something he never said.

You've been waiting for it, and as the tennis porn pic attests, it's here. Ted Swanson Revisited. I guess he was busy winning Wimbledon. Or at least leaning against a wall just inside an alley in whatever the cruisiest neighborhood in England was at the time.

Because clearly we couldn't have been lucky enough that he was based in the U.S. We didn't deserve him.

Okay, I'm being an ass about it because he's clearly from an alley in Los Angeles and actually played tennis in college. And by tennis I mean anal sex and by college I mean the cruisiest alley in Los Angeles at the time.

Sure, this entire college swim team is gang-bang ready in their trunks, making those suits an excellent accessory that showcases physiques and bulges. And sure, the fully-dressed team assistant or trainer or whatever he is certainly has an amazing job assuming it gives him locker room access. And maybe he is on towel-cleaning duty and gets their towels a bit messier before he puts them in the wash. And then the team captain catches him in the act and sexual hi-jinks ensue and the guy's face ends up pasted with ejaculate. And then...

What was I talking about?

Oh yeah, accessories. It's the cock that make the bulge in the first place. And the cock that's normally hidden that makes porn need to exist at all. Which brings us to the innocent looking guy in the top row and second row left. Whether he's posing in a sweater and slacks, a fishing net (WTF), or a sword (yeah, I don't get why either), he's making magic happen.

Or I'm going to pretend they were superstars because that makes everything better. I'm going to pretend they won international acclaim in the form of lavish homes, diamond cuff links, and public praise from national newspapers to randoms in the grocery store. 

Because really their stardom was in the form of folks rubbing out sperm loads in what were probably quickie, furtive masturbation sessions under the cover of darkness. Or in the morning if the guy called in fake sick to work for a masturbation day. As some things never go out of style.

But if I say they are superstars, then they can be included in that question of what historical figures would you invite to a dinner party. And I'd like all these muscles and cocks at my next dinner party.

Especially the thick cock at the bottom right. He would make a lovely dinner guest and I'm sure is a stellar conversationalist, right up there with monosyllabic Jeff Stryker. 

The key phrase would be "Suck my dick."

The guy doing face pushups seems to be a total mannequin, right down to the plastic hair. His appearance is as surreal as whatever the guy on his back is thinking, which I'm betting was "How did my life take me here?"

As face push-ups go, doing them on a bed can strain the wrists something awful, so I hope he had a good health-insurance plan, one that covered fellatio-related incidents.

Personally, I'm in the mood for a fellatio-related incident, one that's gossip worthy like I run into 30 in-the-mood vintage porn stars when I'm in the laundry room and they've time traveled right to me and are raring to go.

This guy absolutely had the movie star looks to be in a Hercules movie or at least Hercules, Jr. And if knew his stage name (which may have been different than his modeling name), I could check IMDB to see if he'd ever even had a bit part.

He could have been Policeman #2. Or Cowboy in Bar #4. Or Nerdy Accountant #7. Probably not that last one.

Maybe he was one of Mae West's bodybuilders for her stage show in which she kept a bevy of muscle beauties for the audience's (and her) pleasure. I hope so.

Do you think the creators of Gay Marriage Guide Vol. 2 had any idea that same-sex marriage would be legal someday? I'd like to think yes. And that this was their effort to assure such marriages didn't result in less sex for the participants, as some marriages do. But rather plenty more. 

But it begs the question if twinks are too young to marry. Shouldn't they at least have one year of community college under their belts before they join at the hip? Because gay marriage has a lot of responsibilities, like being like having naked gay sex on the couch.