This site is not for the faint-hearted. It has been labeled NSFW ever since you got off your teething problems and well, discovered other earthly delights. Today’s extra special because Harold Anunciacion gets to show off his fine peach-alabaster skin and pearly white … uh, never mind, just gaze and be amazed.
Gratuitous nudity and sexy shirtlessness is the theme for this weekend. Not that it’s the theme all throughout the year in this wayward site. Today’s extra special, because – love him or hate him – he’s got a huge surprise for us all! We need more photos like these and they can’t be shared enough.
A photo like this deserves a post of its own. Sometimes we take a break from all the cock-and-balls postings, lest I’ll be accused of being too smutty for your aesthetic sensibilities (mind you, I only post the artsiest dick pics on this side of the worldwayward web, just wait until tomorrow or Friday). Where was I? Gerald Anderson is such a perennial cutie, isn’t he?
Mr. Big is back! This time, he’s showing off his nice, smooth legs. There’s no stopping Mr. Big as he takes on the internet with his impressive physical assets. Of course, the shirtless and underwear shoots are most appreciated. Happy weekend everyone!
To those with finite word-stock, each individual photo in this collage of penis-popping celebs, models, students and wannabes would have to be called a scandal. Of course, a scandal is defined as “an action or event regarded as morally or legally wrong and causing general public outrage.” There is no general public outrage in these, so we might have to call these huge (or little) nudefies as circumstances with prurient appeal. A quite-famous person’s pecker is definitely more interesting than your usual porn star dingdong. It’s the rarity, the unusualness. The thrill of looking at that prominent member. These are your Persons of 2015! No prudity. Oh yes you’re short to see. Gratuitous, gratuitous, gratuitous, gratuitous nudity!
Aah, the joys of waking up late on a Sunday! No work and worries, just the ultimate revenge against the early-morning rising and rolling of weekdays. Time was when Sundays meant being roused from sleep early by the church bells [we used to live near the town church], and mother was in her usual booming self. It meant the church bells were not the only ones pealing. So naturally, as a good Catholic boy, we had to get up and go to mass with the family, then a hearty lunch and then siesta. It was a quiet life. But then again, everyone grows up and leaves the family home. And nothing more peaceful can come close to Sundays, living alone and in bed at 3 pm, with 16 missed calls from mother. Nothing as placid as the lingering and most trivial of banal facts: the sound of the tick-tocking clock on the night table, the eerie hum of the airconditioning unit, the dark and gloomy room, the scent of night juices. Or maybe, if you are lucky, a boy-stranger like Richard Guebar beside you. Shining-smiling, like it’s still Sunday morning.
