Waitin' for the Weekend: World's Best Nude Gay Beaches

Your Head Trucker shows off his treasure trail on a Florida beach, 35 years ago.  
My summer lover and I spent nearly every weekend at one beach or another.
We got quite brown and had a lot of fun while it lasted.  A happy memory.

Something different for this Labor Day weekend:  Experienced travelers Andy and Trai take us on a tour of their favorite nude gay beaches here, there, and yonder.  I hope all my truckbuddies have fun in the sun with the one they love, wherever you are.

And if you can't be with the one you love -- love the one you're with. There are only so many summers, babe.

Update 9/5/26:  Wow, this post has gotten a shipload of views.  Overnight, the count went from 725 to 9530 14,828, and more all the time.  At first I thought - Damn, I was hotter than I thought.  Aw, but then I remembered the f*kn video.

Oh well.  If it's the vid you like, Andy and Trai have lots more to see on YT.  On the other hand, if it's the pic of me in my glory days (?) you like, just stuff a bill or two in my Speedo.  *Grin*

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Memories of My Grand Tour, 1976 - Part 2

This post continues the travel saga that I began two weeks ago.  Unfortunately, my old passport photo hasn't turned up yet.  But here's a picture of me a few months later, with the same hair and stache that I had when I toured London and Paris in August of 1976.  

By the way, I was still closeted at the time; I knew very well that I was gay, but coming out was several years in the future.

Your Head Trucker was strictly au courant on this occasion with the big plaid, wide lapels, platform shoes, and polarized indoor/outdoor sunglasses.

This photo was taken early in 1977 at a country-club get-together thrown by the Business Department of the university I transferred to after I finished junior college.  That was a practical choice, but it wasn't right for me; eventually I went to another university and felt very much at home in the humanities.

Back to the travel story:  I won't bore my readers with details of all the famous places I visited in England and France, which every tourist could tell you about.  Sure, it was thrilling to finally see in person the Changing of the Guard at Buckingham Palace (the Queen wasn't at home, alas!  Gone to Scotland for her summer vacation).  And there was Westminster Abbey, the Houses of Parliament, Big Ben (sadly silent - they were working on the bell mechanism); also, feeding the pigeons in Trafalgar Square, wandering through Windsor Castle (and enjoying a delicious afternoon tea at the hotel across the street), and Hampton Court Palace, and Kensington Palace, and walking the length and breadth of Hyde Park.

Unfortunately, Europe was having its worst drought in 300 years - nowadays, the British press refers to it as the heatwave of 1976, but at the time they spoke of the drought.  No fountains were running anywhere, and Hyde Park was one big carpet of dead grass, brown as toast - all except along the banks of the Serpentine, a lake that curves through the southern part, where the grass was thick and deep green.

I was there on a Sunday afternoon, when a military band played marches and popular tunes on a gazebo near the southeast gate, and you could rent a folding chair for, oh, maybe 25 pence or so.  It was lovely to sit under a shade tree and listen to the pretty music.  After the band finished up, around 4 p.m., I wandered over to a row of trees on a rise of ground paralleling the Serpentine and sat down on the cushiony grass.  There was a level field of the same grass about a hundred feet wide between the bank of the stream and where  I was sitting, and two teams of amateurs were having a jolly good time playing soccer - which the English insist on calling football.

It was a friendly, good-natured game that was pleasant to watch.  Those were the days when most young men sported long hair, moustaches, and beards, and I admired the hairy, sweaty guys as they ran to and fro, shouting and laughing, jumping up and falling down.  It made me a little sad, too.  Unathletic me doesn't give a damn about sports, but I would have liked to join in the game - to be one of the guys, for a change.  A wistful thought.  

A view across the Serpentine in Hyde Park, June 2007, via Wikipedia.

Most of those guys had very dark hair.  It seemed odd to me that there were few English people to be seen on the streets of London.  A great many Italians were working in small shops or cafes; the rest of the pedestrians were largely Indian ladies in their colorful saris or tall Africans in what we Americans called dashikis.  At least, that's how it seemed in the parts of the town I visited.

There was an Indian restaurant down the street from my hotel that I often passed on my way to the tube station (American:  the subway).  One day I stopped there for lunch - I had no idea of what Indian food was like, but in my naivete, I imagined that dishes from the exotic East must be something wonderful, like ambrosia of the gods, maybe.  The lunchtime crowd having departed, the nearly empty cafe was staffed by at least half a dozen young Indian men with thick accents, and it seemed half a dozen more were squeezed into the narrow kitchen, cooking food and washing dishes. 

The waiter brought me a menu, at which I gazed perplexedly.  I didn't recognize any of the items listed.  But hey, it's an adventure, right?  So I ordered Mulligatawny soup for the first course - that sounded vaguely Irish to me.  Then a main dish with chicken in it, and maybe some kind of vegetable.  What could go wrong?

I soon found out.  The soup was hot as blazes - both in temperature and spices.  The main dish was even hotter!  To my way of thinking, Indian food is very like Mexican food, nothing fancy but much hotter.  I didn't enjoy any of it, but I was too embarrassed by my stupidity to ask for something else, so I soldiered on through the meal, ordering Coke after Coke.  They had only the small bottles of Coke that we in America had long since abandoned for the king-size bottles.  They weren't cold, but even so, they gave relief to my five-alarm tongue.  I must have drunk six or seven bottles.

The waiters stood in the kitchen doorway, chattering excitedly and shooting glances at the crazy American who was drinking up their Coke supply.  I felt very conspicuous and foolish.  Somehow, I managed to down a respectable portion of what was served to me, paid my check, and left, faking aplomb outwardly, but inwardly vowing never again to order anything anywhere if I didn't know what it was.  

I tried a couple of other cafes in London, but the food wasn't to my taste, and the prices were higher than I wanted to pay, keeping a careful eye on my spending money, which had to last two weeks.  Fortunately, the answer to my food problem was near the tube station, under a pair of golden arches.  Who knew they had McDonald's in London, England?  Nowadays, it is common knowledge that American fast-food joints of all kinds have spread around the world, but it was a welcome revelation to me then.  

McDonald's was not my favorite burger joint - I was a Burger King man - but they kept me well-fed and happy, twice a day.  The amazing thing was that the burgers and fries tasted exactly as they did at home.  Only the drinks were a little off - I suppose due to the local water - but they were quite drinkable and icy-cold.  And the prices were cheap.  A tasty and most helpful discovery for this hungry young American.

To be continued . . .

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Old Fashioned Homo Love

I just came across two young fellas who have shared the story of their life and love in many YouTube videos.  They don't look gay, they don't sound gay, but they sure as hell are gay.  And so much in love.  Beautiful.

The vids I've posted below are the most poignant to your Head Trucker, who used to be a great romantic - before life knocked the stuffings out of me.  I always wanted the things you see in these videos - the rapturous love, the proposal, the wedding, the home, the happily ever after.  Someone to build a life with, a shared life worth living, not an empty string of one-night stands.

But wantin' ain't gettin'.  Sometimes, though, you get what you need.  Keep trying.  I had two husbands - as I like to say - before I met M.P.  Despite rosy beginnings both times, they didn't work out: one left and one died. There are no guarantees in this mortal life, none. You pays your money and you takes your chances.  (But it's better to try and fail, than never to have tried at all.  At least you lived and loved.)

There's not many pics of us together.  Here we are at Xmas 2010.
I'm not really that much taller than M.P. - I'd just come in from outside
and was still wearing boots, while he was wearing house shoes.

But then 18 years ago today, M.P. and I met for the first time, and we hit it off right from the start.  We don't do all that sloppy stuff like you see in these vids.  Been there, done that.  Finances are tight, so we don't travel, don't go to bars or movies. don't even eat out. But we think alike, laugh a lot, take care of each other in sickness and in health, and we're content with what we have, despite the ups and downs of old age. A quiet life in a happy little home is enough for us two old boys; it's all we need and all we want.  

As someone who well recalls a time when gay marriage was an impossible dream, it's quite touching to watch these young'uns start their life together, as I would have liked to do - a couple of regular guys in cowboy boots and hats getting hitched before a crowd of family and friends, heading off hand in hand in the prime of youth, in the pink dawn of love.  As all young lovers should, straight or gay.  Sweet.  Very sweet. 

A Ring for My Boyfriend (2016) (9:31)

The Proposal, Part 1 (2016) (10:25)

The Proposal, Part 2 (2016) (8:50)

The Wedding (7/11/17) (4;57)

Bonus: Zach has a deep, sexy voice, but I can't quite place his accent - it's Southern, but not quite Texan. It reminds me of Mark Collie's accent -- my first husband and I saw him in concert more than 30 years ago. Here's a song of his we used to dance to on cowboy night at the gay bar:

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That Look

A delicious flashback from a movie I'd forgotten, featuring my beau ideal of a man.

 

They don't make 'em like that anymore.

*     *     *     *     *

Another flashback:  Not in the same league, but I like pipes too.

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Waitin' for the Weekend

Clint Collide celebrates the male gaze.  Boy howdy!

Historical note:  The height of fashion when I was in high school, say from 1965 to 1969, is exmplified by the two young men at the :30 mark.  A very neat look:  the still-short hair parted on the side and falling over the forehead a bit; shirts tucked in, even when not in school; belt worn at the traditional waistline, instead of down around the hips; and tapered legs ending a couple inches above the ankle, the better to show off your cotton socks, which came in a rainbow of colors in the late 60s.  It was extremely chic to have your socks match your shirt, so it looked as if you were poured into your pants.  Though outside of school, it was de rigeur to wear your penny loafers without socks - and believe me when I tell you, there is nothing quite so enticing as the sight of a well-turned bare ankle, preferably tanned from spending weekends in the sun.  Seriously.

Contrary to careless artists' depictions, men and boys and even hippies did NOT wear bell-bottoms in the 1960s, at least not in the Deep South where I grew up - but go study some movies made in the 60s and you will find confirmation.  Girls started with the bell-bottoms in 1965 or so - a la Cher - but we guys had to wait until the fall of 1969, and even then, what the stores were selling were flares, not true bell-bottoms, which were hard to find, even in jeans.  I remember all this distinctly, since I was at the age when fashion first becomes all-important to a young (gay) man.  

The hair got a little longer year by year, and then in the fall of 1969, mustaches and mutton-chop sideburns were all the rage for those who could grow them.  I was still shaving just once a week or so, bummer.  Plus I was in a very strict, fundamentalist church which forbade long hair and all such sinful things (the Bible says!).  

(O/T)  But I made up for it later, after I left the church:

Junior college graduate, 1977

Ready for fun in the sun, spring 1979 - 
my arms and legs were hairier than they appear in the strong sunshine.

Another bright spring day in 1979, before I came out.
Twenty years later, I was getting a cowboy buzz cut.
(See photo under "My Story" in the sidebar > > >)
Nowadays, it's anything goes, I guess.

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Happy New Year 2025

M.P. and I are 2 down and 2 to go:  we had all the kids and kiddos over for Yule Dinner on Sunday the 22nd, and then after we recuperated from that feast, had our own Christmas Dinner on Sunday the 29th - which about did us in.  Now we are hoping to have a New Year's dinner tomorrow, and next week a Kings Day dinner if we are able.  No pics yet because M.P.'s so-called smart phone is on strike; maybe next week I'll have some photos to blog.

---  ooo  000  ooo  ---

The quiet days at the end of the year have always been a time of retreat and reflection for me.  This year, it seems the end of an era, not just another year -- for reasons obvious to all my truckbuddies, I'm sure.  This is the calm before the storm.

The world has been in a parlous state all my adult life, what with wars and rumors of wars, crisis upon crisis, rebellion here, revolt there, and no end of foolishness among the peoples and leaders of the world.  And yet, at some points there has been greater hope for the future than seems apparent just now.

Here at the beginning of my eighth decade, it is poignant to look back at myself at the dawn of manhood, and remember what it felt like, what I thought, what I hoped.  How strange to say that I can even show you what I looked like fifty years ago:  is that callow fellow really Me?

All grown up and still unkissed:  Russ in Jackson Square, New Orleans, 1974

It would have broken my heart to know then the cruel twists and turns that lay ahead in the road of life.  But they say that suffering develops faith and character.  If nothing else, it certainly turns your hair gray.

Well, leaving out all the boring details, of no interest to anyone but me - and even I'm tired of hearing the story - I have somehow lived through many years of light and shadow, joys and sorrows, to be a very old man.  Human life is always a mixed bag - win, lose, or draw, you have to play the hand you are dealt, and do the best you can.  Have fun, but don't be a prick.  Do your part, don't leave a mess, and mind your own damn business.

That's it.  That's the wisdom of the world, in a nutshell.  Take it or leave it.  There are other, spiritual truths worth knowing as well, but you have to find those on your own.

When I was a kid, I used to think it would be a fine thing one day to be old and wise.  Well, in a way it is somewhat satisfying to finally have seen through the world and all its illusions - to see things and people as they really are, not just what you imagine them to be.  

But at this late age, it doesn't do you much good.  Your body and your finances (unless you are exceptionally lucky) don't allow you to do much with all that wisdom.  And nobody wants to hear what an old man has to say.  So you just keep it to yourself, mainly.  

There are many things I've wanted to say these last few years about recent developments in the world and in this country in particular.  But what good would it do?  When the herd decides to stampede, you can risk your neck trying to stop them, or you can stay out of the way and just let them run on till they get tired of running.  Thank God it's not my job to fix the world.  Even He has his hands full with that chore, I suppose.

When you have lived into old age, you can feel the rhythm of time passing:  a river always flowing, a cycle of stars always revolving above our heads and the earth rotating under our feet.  Empires rise and fall; war alternates with peace; wisdom and folly, love and hate, poverty and plenty, life and death - the wheel keeps on turning, endlessly, regardless of our petty wants here on this little rock in the vast depth of the cosmos.  

A rather frightening picture, if we are not in sync with the Love that moves the sun and other stars, as Dante put it.  And that Love is closer than breathing, nearer than hands and feet - if you are willing to believe.  

We can't be sure what 2025 holds in store for us; but no matter what comes or goes, we can each be true to the goodness within us, and do small things with great love.  So here's wishing all my truckbuddies health, wealth, and happiness in the New Year and in all the years to come.  God bless.

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Note to My Truckbuddies

What next?

The last month or so, your Head Trucker has felt a bit listless and unfocused.  Can't seem to get my head around the things I want to post here.  I chalked it up to this godawful heatwave that's afflicting the whole country, maybe the world - but earlier this week, M.P. insisted I go get checked out, and made the phone call over my protests.  I just felt a little dizzy with the heat, that's all.  No need to hit the panic button.

Now your favorite blogger has never been on any kind of daily medication - you know, like all those silly old people in the Geritol ads - and why should I?  I feel fine.  It's just too hot to move around much.  But the doc thought it was time to start me on some daily meds.  Stuff and nonsense, I said - I'm healthy as a horse - just a tired old queen, and your dadblame pills won't change that.  Besides, I've never been a druggie or a pill-taker - it's against my principles. 

But M.P. thought it was a Very Good Idea and pleaded with me to be nice and cooperate with the good doctor.  I was too tired to argue, so to make a long story short, she put me through a little tune-up, and sent me home with a laundry list of high-powered scrips.  A hundred bucks' worth, in fact, and that was at the discount pharmacy - highway robbery - what a racket.

When we got home, M.P., pleased as punch, declared himself Supreme Dispenser and Grand High Caretaker, and told me from now on I would have to do whatever he said.  Hmmph!  We'll see about that - but what the hell, I will let him have fun for now.  And kick his ass later if he goes overboard.  *Grin.*

M.P. has been on daily meds himself since his surgery a few years ago.  I suppose misery loves company.  Now we are both on the same schedule of noon and midnight pills, though not all the same ones.  I can't tell you I feel any peppier yet, but my vision seems slightly more blurry than usual, and I find I am making more the usual number of typos an leaving out words when I try to write an email or a blog post.  The docs never warn you about the side effects, do they?  Just take your pills and STF up about it, says M.P., relishing the moment.

Ah well, another day, another stage of life begins.  Surely all this stuff will even out in due course but in the meantime please forgive me if I dont' sound to postworthy the next few weeks.  Damn keyboard keeps messing me up here.  I hope to keep the men and music and beach cams coming, thought.  Thanks for riding along with me in the Blue Truck.  Y'all take care and stay cool, fellas.  Check you later.

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The Pork Boys Do Easter 2017

Some photos of our Easter feast, along with scenes from M. P.'s garden - click photos to enlarge:

A simple white table with flowers and Easter eggs

Easter egg tree

Electric fireplace decorated with paper flowers

Appetizer:  colored deviled eggs 

Soup: chicken and potato

Entree no. 1:  boneless chicken thighs stuffed with dressing, in a cream sauce

Entree no. 2:  Baked ham with orange sauce

Pineapple casserole (left) and creamed corn; not pictured is a pot of boiled kale

Potato salad with radish roses

A full plate with a "bunny roll" at right

M. P. made a garden this year, the first in a long while.  Here is how it looked on the first of April, just before a heavy rain that night:

Front view:  It took M.P. several weekends to get all this dug up, composted, enclosed, and planted with 20 or so varieties of vegetables.  At the rear, the new compost enclosure he built.

New stepping stones, using found tiles

Closeup of two varieties of tomato plants, showing M.P.'s markers made out of wooden skewers and cut-outs from a milk jug.  At right his ingenious first example of a plant protector made from a clear soda bottle.

Rear view, where squash and cucucumbers are still hiding below ground

And here is the view on Easter Sunday, showing marked progress:

Front view showing more plant protectors around the tomato plants 

Rear view with a lively growth of squash and other things

M.P. also planted several varieties of rosebushes; here are the first two blooming now:

Green Ice miniature roses; as you can see at the top of the bush, they are a pale green when they first blossom.

Sunset rose:  a delicate shade of orange, with a lovely scent.

The Pork Boys Do Thanksgiving 2016

Just a few pics to show you fellas how it went at our house.  First, a couple of pics of last month's Halloween decorations, all the credit for which goes to M.P., the creative partner (I just do the dishes):

Click to enlarge.

Some daylight photos of the Thanksgiving table:

The hors d'oeuvres included egg salad and pimento cheese, both homemade, as were the whole-wheat wafers; also cheddar and swiss cheeses, pepperoni slices, and sliced beef roll-ups.

The appetizer was fluffy, savory quichettes hot from the oven, with egg, ham, broccoli, and cheddar wrapped in a flaky homemade crust.

M.P. set a beautiful Thanksgiving table with a gold damask cloth and a handmade cornucopia, partly filled with found items from the yard and garden.

The turkey took a long time to cook, M.P. basting it in a slow oven for about ten hours, but when it was finally done, it was worth the wait:

A couple of side dishes are pictured below:  maque choux (a Cajun corn mixture) and the classic green bean casserole, which I made from the original Campbell's Soup recipe - it's getting to be one of my specialties. Since we didn't have a can of French fried onion rings, M.P. sliced an onion very thinly and fried the rings himself.  He also julienned by hand a whole can of regular green beans, which he says was not so daunting as you might think.

I also made a sweet potato souffle topped with mini marshmallows (not pictured, alas), which I've been doing for the last forty years or so, a very simple thing but always a crowd pleaser. M.P. made his marvelous featherbed rolls, so called because they are so soft and light - wonderful with a big pat of butter:

We also had a few other things I should have gotten pictures of - the homemade sausage M.P. used in the dressing, flavored with fresh herbs from the garden, also his lovely homemade pecan pie, and my store-bought pumpkin pie, but at this point hunger overcame photography, so I will close with a picture of my full plate, moments before it mysteriously vanished:

From 12 to 2 o'clock:  sweet potato souffle; 3 to 6 o'clock: turkey and dressing; 7 to 10 o'clock:  maque choux; squeezed in from 10 to 12:  green bean casserole.  Not pictured:  real mashed potatoes, which I had no room for, and the giblet gravy and cranberry sauce, which were waiting just offstage to be added.

And of course we will have plenty of good leftovers to feast and refeast upon for a good long while, as is only to be expected. So despite a rather tight budget this year, we ate very well and were most grateful for all our blessings, culinary and otherwise.

How did it go with you fellas?

Sunday Drive: Chopin, Nocturne in E-flat Major, Op. 9, No. 2

My late husband was a past master of the piano as well as the organ, and this lovely piece - a favorite of his - is one I have listened to many times in his memory since I lost him seven years ago today.

Why I Am Blogging Less, and Enjoying It More

By way of explanation to my longtime readers:  when I started this blog on a whim in 2008, in the midst of an emotional election campaign in this country, I had no definite plan of what to say or do with it; but among other thoughts that came to mind, it did seem at that moment like a great new way to excoriate and expose the follies of the world in general.  And for a time I did enjoy having a place to vent and rant and sound off on things that seemed to deserve comment.

But now, with me it's more and more a case of passion spent:  once past the half-century mark, you begin to notice the shadows slowly lengthening as the road turns homeward, the great hopes and adventures of youth all lying behind you now.  And you come to realize that it gains you very little to be continually upsetting yourself over things you can never hope to change.  The world is what it is, and one might as well try to stem the ever-flowing tide as to divert the course of human nature.  Il faut cultiver notre jardin, said Candide, and there is a great truth there.  "Work without disputing, for it is the only way to render life tolerable."

A fatalistic attitude, to be sure; not one that will ever recommend itself to people younger, more idealistic, or better placed to make a difference in the world.  But for some of us, a necessary attitude to retain some semblance of peace of mind through whatever years are left to us to enjoy here.  Unlike Tennyson's Ulysses, most bloodied veterans who have somehow survived the strife and struggles of life are content to sit quietly by their own fireside at the end of the long, long journey - that is, if contentment can be found anywhere in this uncertain, tumultuous world.  The unexamined life is not worth living, most assuredly; but once you have thoroughly examined it - and seen through it - a rest of heart and mind is needed.

I haven't lost all interest in current events, of course, and sometimes I still feel a need to comment on something or other; but less so now than when I started out.  A blog makes a bully soapbox, a miracle that countless writers of all persuasions who lived before the Internet age would have dearly loved to make use of.  But there's not much I have to say to the world that hasn't already been very well said by much greater minds; and if the world at large has ignored their counsel - or indeed, rewarded their trouble with a cup of hemlock - it certainly will take no notice of my small, obscure voice.  Which perhaps is just as well.

So this blog is evolving into something different from what it has been; what that is remains to be seen, and I still have no definite plan.  It remains an amusing hobby, a toy to pass the time with, nothing more.  But I thank my faithful readers for their interest and comments from time to time; even when one is saying nothing of any importance at all, it's always nice to feel heard.

Below, a handful of links to stories that illustrate, in one way or another, the ignorance, the foolishness, the blindness, the ugliness, the cruelty, the unreflecting self-righteousness of the human animal:  the very same stuff that was grist to the mill for Swift, Johnson, Twain, and others so well suited to puncture the pomposity of human vanity.  But the more things change, the more they stay the same.  Another time, I might have commented at some length on the implications of one or more of these items; but now I leave the essential points to the discernment of the reader. 

And if you don't get the real point of these things, which lies somewhere beneath the surface of the texts, well then - why should I spend the better part of a sunny afternoon trying to convince you?  If people lack the wit or imagination or depth of soul to see truths that are self-evident . . . well that's just very sad, isn't it?  The long, sad, troubled story of mankind, which needs no comment from me in the late afternoon of a glorious spring day, with lillies and roses blooming just outside my front door.

The New York Times:  A smoking ban too far

Americablog News:  Coffee, sex, exercise, or blowing your nose can trigger a stroke

The Globe and Mail:  Why the 70s were the best time to be a mom

Andrew Sullivan:  The mindset of Jeffry S. Wiesenfeld