Tightly Wound Boy.
Royal Ballet principal dancer Edward Watson
One late night ballet reblog because I looove Watson.
Tag: muscular
…and he never touches the ground.
Dancer: Marcelo Gomes
Photo by NYC Dance Project
One late night ballet reblog because…well look at him.
Kirk had lost track of how many times they’d had sex. This wasn’t like those countless times other mornings they spent together in bed, naked and intimate. Something was different. The air was thicker, headier. Kirk swept his hand over the knot of Ben’s shoulder muscle, over his collarbone and up his neck to cup his jaw. He gazed deeply into the eyes of the sweet man that captivated his attention and time. Ben looked up at him inquisitively, his own hand massaging Kirk’s bulging pectoral. Kirk moved in to kiss him, and Ben submitted to his lips. Kirk took a deep breath and nuzzled his boyfriend’s jaw. He knew right then of something that he’d been unsure of for a long time – that there would be nobody else.
“I love you, Ben Miller,” he murmured, jostling the words loose from his tight throat.
Ben paused exploration of Kirk’s body at the declaration. His mouth fell open, then closed tight. He swallowed. His lower lip trembled and he began to weep.
_________________________________________
Text is fictional. I think this is from Sean Cody.
Famed ballet dancer Roberto Bolle photographed by Giampaolo Sgura
I’m partially convinced Roberto Bolle doesn’t actually exist. There is no way a man could look this beautiful, this fit, this handsome, this stunning, and do it in ballet slippers.
Andrew sighed and cursed under his breath as he examined his racket. “Broken string, I need a break.”
It was just a local tennis match between two regional teams, but a small crowd had populated the stands. They began to murmur as the announcer called for an interruption. Andrew’s tennis partner was happy for a water break.
However, repairing the racket took longer than Andrew thought. The crowd began to get restless, so the ball boy decided to take matters into his own hands. He’d gotten the job of fetching errant tennis balls and cleaning up the locker room from a friend of a friend, and he thrived in it – he liked being useful and getting recognized for it. Joseph didn’t know what a houseboy was, or a faggot, what BDSM was, or any of those fancy words. What he did know was that he had a massive crush on Andrew and wanted him to know he existed.
Joseph walked out to the court. He took off his shirt first – which got a lot of applause from the ladies – and then his shorts, which got whistles. He tried not to blush. The jockstrap didn’t hide much. By now the crowd had gone quiet and were watching him. Joseph put his hands down on the court and brought himself up to a handstand. He used to be a gymnast, and although he stopped in college, he hadn’t stopped going to the gym and was still in top shape. For the next fifteen minutes, he entertained the crowd with impressive handstands, splits, balancing tricks, and standing backflips.
After nailing one of those, Andrew walked over and swatted him playfully on the ass with his fixed racket. An announcer stated the game would commence. Andrew held up Joshua’s hand and he got a standing ovation for saving the day. Joshua was trying not to freak out that Andrew was actually touching him, acknowledging him! He flushed under the recognition from the audience. He nearly fainted though when Andrew whispered in his ear, “I hope to see you in the locker room later.”
Joshua was floating on Cloud 9 for the rest of the match. When he got to blow Andrew in the shower later, he was convinced he’d died and gone to heaven. By the end of the season, Joshua was following Andrew around like a loyal dog and was happy as a lark.
__________________________
Text is fictional. Source is unknown.
One late night ballet reblog for my readers. So much tension in this picture.
Dancer: Eldon L. Johnson
Photo by Peddecord Photo
He wasn’t expecting me back so soon from my jog – and I hadn’t intended to be back this early, except I was sure I’d sprained my ankle. The sight of him gyrating in our bedroom took all the pain away as the blood making my ankle swell shot back up my leg to my crotch. Javier was lost in the music. He had the most incredible hips, this tiny little hourglass waist and a big hunky torso, pythons for biceps, a very kissable mouth.
When I saw him dance like this, it reminded me that I was dating a stripper and a go-go boy. Well, no, I’m not dating that boy. I’m dating Javier. That boy flirts and reveals his gorgeous body and cut cock to strangers, he lets them grope his ass and shove money into his underwear – but I get to fuck Javier. I get to cuddle with him, I get to encourage him to give me roadhead when we’re stuck in traffic. I get to see this candid side of him in my bedroom.
The state of my cock is obvious in my loose running shorts. Javier’s own cargo shorts fall to the floor and he steps out of them, wiggling in a circle. When Javier rotates towards me, he sees me and startles, clutching his chest in momentary panic. My faces contorts in sheepish guilt. He rips out the earbuds.
“Shit, you scared the fuck outta me! I thought you was on a jog, baby!”
“Sorry! Sorry hot thing, I was. I twisted my ankle and decided to just come home. Please don’t stop, you’re so fucking sexy.”
Javier glanced at my foot hovering a little off the ground, but quickly he was distracted by my boner. “I did that to you?”
“Fuck yeah you did, shake your ass for me, hot thing.”
He grinned and his persona slipped out. He put his earbuds back in and danced for me. I began to play with myself as Javier shimmied and shook his butt to a song I couldn’t even really hear. I knew what he was listening to though because Javier translated it perfectly with his body.
____________________________
Text is fictional. No idea who this is.
Artist: Mirko Köckenberger
Photo by Robert Pater
Here’s something you haven’t seen before. Mirko is a handstand artist. You read that right – his specialty is performing and posing on his hands. Translation: you could break a 2×4 over his abs. He has a Vimeo channel with only one short video, but Youtube provided some more interesting things like this. He hails from Germany, and his website is here.
Not exactly a ballet dancer; more of a circus thing, really, but that photo is too gorgeous not to reblog before I go to bed.
An amalgamation of alabaster, ruby, and grace.
(Source. “New Zealand School of Dance student Kase Craig was awarded second place in the National Ballet Award.”)
Being in prison is not fun. The food is awful, it reeks, fresh air is a high priced commodity. Some snitch ratted me out for attempted murder of our guild’s leader, but I don’t regret it. That man was evil. He stole from his own business, funded corrupt politicians, underpaid his staff, beat his wife, and ignored his children. He tried to rape my best friend, who is also a high end call girl, and that’s what I had enough. I snapped. It’s a shame he lived. My trial is in eleven days, but I’m sure I’ll get out – or escape if I’m sent to jail. My crew was loyal, they’ll come through for me.
That said, my time in prison hasn’t been entirely awful. One of the guards here is sex on legs. He’s a young man, with lush dark hair, gorgeous rippling muscles, long legs poured into calfskin boots, and his torso is often naked except for his codpiece. Getting to look at his ass makes the days past faster. Sometimes when he walks by with the whip, it turns me on so much that I have to masturbate.
It didn’t take long for him to notice my attention towards him. Sometimes, late at night, he’ll come down here to check on things when it’s dark and most everyone is asleep. He’ll come up to my cell, unstrap his codpiece, and press his cock through the bars for me to suck. It’s thick and meaty, and I’m always hungry for it. He grunts and his eyes roll back into his head as I swallow him and all his cum. He likes having a cock sucker, I can tell. He shows it in other ways though – fresh bread instead of stale. Clean water. Ripe fruit that I share with everyone. My birthday passed while I was incarcerated and that devil even smuggled in a piece of apple tart!
Perhaps I am falling in lust, or in love with this guard. I’m rather happy I have eleven more days of our forbidden relationship to enjoy. I often wonder, if I get out, if our relationship would still be the same. I would still get on my knees, push his studded codpiece aside, and suck his cock anyway…but he wouldn’t have the bars to hold onto. I would still let him chain me to the wall though.
___________________________________________________
Text is fictional. Source is Iván García Fuentes for The Fetish Glam Collection 2013. Alan Millan is the photographer.