Another President’s Day weekend has passed, the last three-day holiday weekend until the Memorial Day holiday in May. This year was no different from the recent one’s here – Aaron (my spouse) and I were invited again to the mansion that is home to a friend of ours who lives in Loudoun County, Virginia, a suburb of Washington, D.C. To read last year’s post on this outing, please click here. As we’re in the dregs of winter, our friend uses this three-day weekend as an opportunity to have his same gender loving bare friends over for an aquatic weekend and a brief respite from winter.
Before anyone goes ballistic, allow me to explain that this post is most definitely not referring to bath-houses but rather the simple practice of taking a leisurely bath, in your own home or his, with the man who you love, or at least are attracted towards. I can also state here that, for the record, I have never visited a gay bath-house and wouldn’t even begin to know how to write about that experience. By the time that I reached adolescence, gay bath-houses had been outlawed in the Commonwealth of Virginia in response to the HIV/AIDS epidemic.
As a teenager, I was always fascinated and probably borderline obsessed with the exotic men that I met and/or observed around me. As Alex, my identical twin brother, and I had accepted and acknowledged our same gender attraction since our early teen years, I thought nothing out of the ordinary about this fact. I felt it was simply part of my sexual exploration and self-discovery. One culture that I particularly remember having fantasies about were the Polynesians of the South Pacific Ocean. These included the men from Samoa, Tonga, Hawaii, the Marquesas Islands, the Maori (the indigenous peoples of New Zealand), Tahiti, Tuvalu, Kiribati, Tokelau and other islands. The Polynesians are noted for their seafaring skills as well as their intricate body tattoos.
When I initially published a “Silly Summer” post last month, it was a one-time only deal. Since then, I’ve discovered some photographs that I really liked and so I’m sharing yet another “Silly Summer” post this month, as well. Upon reflection, I’ve become comfortable with both the title and theme and it may be a regular seasonal feature here on ReNude Pride. After all, if we can’t be both bare and silly during the Summer, then why do we even have to season at all?
In case anyone is expecting a steamy, graphic and definitely all-adult rated recounting of an intimate interlude between my husband, Aaron, and myself; look elsewhere. The title is also the name of a mixed alcoholic beverage. This post is the recipe for that intoxicating refreshment along with a tale of how my better-half (read: Aaron) seduced me the first time we met. Our second wedding anniversary is in a few weeks, and this is in honor of the both of us and our love.
In case you didn’t notice, I borrowed this title from Mr. William Shakespeare. I don’t think he’ll mind too much, as he’s already famous for his original work. That, and the fact that he’s been dead for centuries. Come to think of it, his work is entitled A Mid-Summer Night’s Dream whereas mine is A Mid-Summer Night’s Fantasy. Similar, yes, but also different. So I received my inspiration for this post from the Bard of Avon, instead of borrowing. I feel somewhat better now.
The often asked question – with a myriad of responses, some valid and others plainly based on conjecture and/or myth. Does the size of a man’s flaccid (soft, non-erect) penis really matter? Is it all really that important? In a completely asexual world, the answer is probably no. However, we live in a very sexualized world that is very much attuned towards all things physical. That being the case, then more than likely the question’s reply changes to a very emphatic “yes!” Size definitely becomes a primary factor in determining how a man is perceived in the world and, most importantly, how a man sees himself .