vendredi 31 mai 2013

François


"François was a very cute blond boy, he had the grace and charm, the insolence and sensuality of boys who are fully aware of their beauty... But François was not only a beautiful boy... He was something more, someonese else... He was a poet and a writer...

There is probably nothing strange in the fact an elder guy like me could fall in love with a late teen boy like François... It was probably less expected that François would fall in love with me too...

He told me I was his Verlaine... I told him he was my Rimbaud... The both of us agreed not to drink too much alcohol and to never use a gun to solve our personal issues...

I loved François' poetry, his creative imagination, his genious, his play with words.... And quite often, when I woke up after the sensual fights of a loving night, I found on my pillow a short note like this one: "Follow the butterfly / Eros is a dancer / My skin is your sky / Your love is my ground".

 When François joined me again for dinner,  in the evening, he usually found a post-it on his plate, like this one: "There is no butterfly without colors / My love is a rainbow across your sky / Your wings help me to fly..."

François read my post-it, he smiled, and usually he kept silent... A while after, he started to write words in the void, with his finger...

My face expression was an answer: "I don't understand..."

Then François would take a pen and write on the palm of his hand: "One does not need wings to fly / Hope and love offers so many way to escape / Please come with me / Tonight, we will reach a new horizon together..."

Usually, I had to read once or twice François' words in order to be sure I understood them correctly...

If I kept silent too long, during our early night exchanges, François started to undress, took my hand, and lead me towards our bedroom, towards our bed...

The both of us, then, started to write long poems without words, poems written with fingers and lips, with eyes and hairs, with his body and mine...

How could I ever translate what we exchanged in the deep of our loving nights, how could I express it in our daily language ?"

Fragment of a novel


Tribe of teen boys: scouts


 © Pierre Joubert

© Pierre Joubert

Le corps des anges

"Entouré d'hommes de toute sorte, d'une nuit, quelques jours, ou plusieurs mois, il s'abîmait dans la contemplation des peaux, des gestes et des abandons, dans son propre regard. C'était son oeuvre d'art, le travail de sa vie, et pour les garçons qui passaient là une curiosité, une amitié, un amour ou une planche de salut. Il ne toucha jamais plus Gabriel, lui offrit une hospitalité illimitée, du travail et quelques échanges laconiques et profonds qui impressionnèrent durablement l'orphelin à la dérive.

Il apprit là les règles élémentaires de la courtoisie des corps, les incessantes variétés du plaisir, comment on peut se faire objet sans jamais renoncer à être sujet, toutes armes qui lui furent de grande utilité au long des années qui suivirent. La leçon des corps est comme la leçon des morts, elle donne une force insensée à qui s'y livre sans réticences."

Mathieu Riboulet, Le corps des anges, Paris, Gallimard, 2005, p. 63-64.

jeudi 30 mai 2013

How long... ?

How long will my blog survive in the blogspot ecosystem ? 
It could be nuked now or in two hours, or tomorrow...
Who will decide my blog could survive or be closed down ? And why ?

I don't know what would the most problematic... Pics or texts ? Or just the overall feeling the two of them are conveying... ?

Is it possible to share feelings, dreams, ideas, fictions, literary quotations, aesthetic feelings ?

So many paintings, so many sculptures, so many poems and novels in our museums and libraries are hymns to boys beauty, to the beauty of late teen boys, to the way they inspired love and artistic creation... 

I just hope today there is still a space of free expression for these feelings, for this vision, for this beauty...

Indeed, my blog belongs to the gay blogsphere, but with a special tuning...

Please leave comments, ask questions,  give answers and share support !

Blond boy

Everything sings to my heart in this pic...
Your blond hairs and the way they hide your gaze,
Your blond hairs that make you an eyeless boy...

But I love too the way you curl your lips, 
You are silent, but your closed lips say so many things...
Perhaps they are desperately waiting for a kiss... Here it is, here is mine...

And I love your chest too... Such a smooth and a flat chest,
A milky plain, a flat landscape, with two pink tits as only landmarks...
Your hairy armpit suggests an intimate world of scent I would love to dive in...

What is desire ? What is sexual orientation ? How is desire tuned ?
How is desire triggered ? You are at the same time the question and the answer...
This pic mirrors a particular and a long thread in the history of human love and sexuality...

Is it wrong to fall in love with this pic ? Is it wrong to fall in love with the depicted boy ?

Girls and women will not understand the question. 

Political correctness will not prevent men and boys to admit they could fall in love with, and that actually they felt in love with the pic and the boy...

Bernard


"I am a lover of beauty as much as of beautiful bodies and beautiful boys... I mean, loving in such a way is like a spiritual quest, always looking for something more, something different, for someone else...

Among the boys I loved and I was loved by, Bernard occupies a special place... Among the boys I shared some intimacy with, among the boys I desired or shared pleasure with, I think no one made me so aware of this basic truth: any romance, any love story is a journey across and toward unknown lands... Making love with someone means loosing any control about the direction, the orientation, the duration of the journey...

Bernard had a unique beauty, a unique sensuality, and in order to feel them, I had to close my eyes, to explore his body with my own body, to caress and to touch it, to glide along it, to be one with it...

Bernard used to close his eyes too, and when I opened mines, I could see a deep and inexpressible pleasure mirrored on his own face...

With hindsight, I would say that Bernard and me we shared our most intimate and personal secrets during our silent embraces... I would say we revealed our soul, our heart, our most inner being while making love together, with our closed eyes, with our exploratory fingers, with our quivering lips...

Among my boy friends, Bernard is the one who inspired me to write an Ars amandi, a treatise about the art of loving beautiful boys...

I hope I will complete this project, so long after Bernard left...and perhaps I will publish it on Mark's blog..."

Fragment of a novel

Iconic pic



Every boy has a personal story to tell... Any boy's pic has many different stories to tell,  at the crossroads of what is depicted and what the viewer imagines...

Every boy has his own music, his own aura, his own poetry... Boys pics sublimate this music, this aura and this poetry. Looking at an iconic pic is at the same time listening to, feeling, reading, tasting...

This particular pic displays so well the beauty and the grace of teen boys... This boy has already an almost mature face... Focussed and serious eyes, closed lips, his face displays the sharpness of a question: why do you look at me ? who will look at this photograph ? What do you think and feel while looking at me...

At the same time, his torsoe, his chest, his arms mirror the ephemeral smoothness and  velvety of adolescence, a peak of perfection in the evolution of a young male body.

Photography makes this boy so real, so close, almost within reach, one can almost caress his smooth chest... Almost only... If I try, I caress a mirror, the mirror of a photograph, the mirror of a computer's monitor...

Such an impassable distance is probably needed to let desire expand itself...

Sleeping ephebe

Painting by Ludwig von Hofmann (1861-1945)

mercredi 29 mai 2013

Blue


The paradox of desire

"More often than not, we wound up making love. S. was just as hungry for it as I was, and as the weeks passed, the house was slowly eroticized, transformed into a domain of sexual possibilities. The nether world rose up to the surface. Each room acquired its own memory, each spot evoked a different moment, so that even in the calm of practical life, a particular patch of carpet, say, or the threshold of a particular door, was no longer strictly a thing but a sensation, an echo of our erotic life. We had entered the paradox of desire. Our need for each other was inexhaustible, and the more it was fulfilled, the more it seemed to grow"

Paul Auster, New York Trilogy.

Desire


Angelo

There are faces one never forgets, eyes one dives in for ever,
Some beauties are so hauting that they are like an horizon to live in...
I met Angelo in Napoli, many years ago, and I still feel the deep emotion,
The inexpressible emotion of the first day, of the beginning of our romance...

Angelo had the grace and the charm of an elf, of a young god, 
He was beauty embodied in a late teen boy's body,
And I thought he just crossed the frame of a Renaissance painting,
He just climbed down a statue's pedestal, and became human and alive...

Any lover of young male beauty would worship a boy like Angelo,
Mysterious, quiet, fascinating, sensual, eery, human, non human...
Looking at his face was like a fast rewinding of all the history of art and poetry,
Of desire and philosophy, of dreams and spiritual search....

You made me dream so much, Angelo, I will never forget your gaze....


mardi 28 mai 2013

Tomorrow...


You are a cute, a smart, a crazy and a playful boy, in his late teen years...
I don't know you yet... Perhaps I will meet you tomorrow...

You will be most welcome... Please be part of my life... Please force the door and come in !

I will have so many things to tell you... Or no, rather, I will listen to you first: while are you there ?

You will tell me: "No, you're the first, I will speak after you..."

And the both of us will have a laughter... Good start... Any serious relationship should start with a laughter...

"Well, I am... I... how to tell you... I am a writer and a scholar, so sorry about it..." — "A writer... Ohhh... and a scholar ? Well, let me think about it... well, nobody is perfect, let us try... " — "Try what ?" — "Well, I read your "Eros in Arcadia" blog on blogspot, so I guess I know a lot about you... So... no need to loose time in doing introductions, should we ?" — "Of course not... I wrote so many poems about teen boys beauty, about teen boys soul and crazyness, about what loving teen and twink boys means that I guess I have nothing to hide anymore..."

A few seconds of silence...

"But, if I may, who are you, where are you from ? Why did you ring at my door ?" — "Mark, you ask too many questions... In real life, sometimes, the "how" and "why" do not matter that much... It happens, that's it... I am here..."

"Okay, okay, you know my name is Mark, actually, I don't know your name, but you are most welcome, please, come in, come into my flat, come into my life, come into my blog..."

"Well, thank you Mark, my name is ... Philip..."

"Please, Philip, feel at home, you are most welcome... Having such a cute guest who read my blog is such... Unexpected... You already made my day, perhaps you will make my night too.. ?"

"I will do my best, Mark, believe me..."

Fragment of a novel




Amour grec

A reader of my blog sent me a link to his scholarly paper, "Speaking Ill of the Dead: How the Moderns Pinned Anal Sex on the Greeks" in the Magnus Hirschfeld Archive for Sexology.

Here is the abstract of this paper:
 
"It is a critique of the historiography of Greek homosexuality. In it I suggest that the notion that Athenian or Spartan gentlemen systematically penetrated their boyfriends is logically and psychologically untenable. Likewise it is historically untenable, as the evidence (from Aesop to
Plutarch and points in between) indicates that this behavior, while common, was not normative but transgressive, much as wife beating (or husband beating) is today.

The article then looks at ("unpacks" seems to be the word in vogue) the modern assumption that this activity is the obligatory principal identifier of male+male sexuality, and the consequences of this culture of penetration on masculine social space in general and on adolescents in particular.

Here is the link to this paper (Creative commons license):

Rituals of love

 I love the slow choregraphy of desire, unfolding in the deep of the night,
The slow crossfade between you and me, from your skin to mine,
I love the mysterious rituals of desire, when one should close his eyes,
In order to feel with his skin, with his whole body, the warmth and breathe of the loved one...

I love to feel lost and bewildered within your arms, against your chest, across your legs,
When I do not know anymore where my body ends, where your body starts...
I love this metaphysical vertigo, when I do not remember who I am, when I wonder who you are...

When I celebrate the rituals of love, when we make love together, 
I feel we have to reinvent everything, we have to learn a new language, a new poetry,
A language of breathe and silence, of whispers and intimate songs only you and me can understand...

I feel so dazzled when we make love in the dark, in the deep of the night...
I feel so dazzled by lightnings of desire and pleasure... 
I cannot see you, but I feel you so close, so warm, so desirable,
We are just one, you and me, we are one body of desire and pleasure,

While making love with you, in the deep of the night, I hope the night will last forever...



Sunbathing



First kiss


Michael

"I loved so many young artists in my life and I was lucky enough to be loved by a few of them...

Among them, Michael still haunts me today...

When I met him, Michael was studying the history of art,  he was a gifted painter and a photographer too... He was at the same time the model and the photographer, and he created an impressive series of self pics, using an old camera fixed on a tripod, with a delayed trigger.

Digital cameras did not exist yet. One had to use films and to choose carefully their sensitivity to light and colors...

Michael was using black and white films only. And he was developing his films himself, in a small personal lab...  According to Michael, this processing step was the most creative: he could play with light and shades, with focus and deliberate vagueness, and he loved to suggest a feeling of argentic dust, caressing his face or his nude body...

Michael was so creative that I felt in love with the real boy, but also with the so many different boys mirrored in his artistic photographs... Each of them had his own beauty, his own sensuality, each of them was telling a different story, although the all of them depicted the same boy...

Michael was a sensitive and introspective boy, and photography allowed him to explore himself, as a mapmaker would survey an unknown country...

I loved the real boy as much as his so many dreamt avatars, and I loved to caress a face expression, a pose, a curve of the chest or a lips expression I was already familiar with thanks to his photographs...

Michael disappeared from my life without notice...

He took all his things, and left... and he never got in touch with me again...

I tried desperately to see him again, I was so in love... I subscribed to the main international magazines of artistic photography, I checked the photographic auctions at Christies and at other houses, I visited so many art galleries, with the hope to trace him, either in New York, Berlin or LA...

To no avail...

Michael left behind him, in my flat, a portfolio with all his black and white self-pics... There was a sheet of paper with just a few handwritten words: "I have to go, don't trace me, I love you..."

I still own these splendid photographs and while looking at them, I am still trying to decipher the riddle of Michael's destiny...

To no avail...

I still love him so much... Perhaps I will publish in the future these beautiful and so sensual self pics..."

Fragment of a novel

Visual dream about Tadzio

Vanishing in the light, in the sky, in the sea...
Young for ever and still haunting the shores of Venice...

Iconic pic


I think this pic was shot in a stadium, in Germany, during a football match. Obviously, the photographer was not looking only at the players and he let his gaze wander across the stands...
He was fascinated by the face of this blond teen boy, and he was able to catch a unique face expression and also the essence of beauty... Long blond hairs, blue eyes, several necklaces, such a graceful and angelic vision among the macho amateurs of football...

I can understand this fascination... Quite often, in a theater or a museum, I feel attracted by a beautiful face, and it is like a magnet for my eyes and my imagination...

Such visions are innocent and ephemeral... The beautiful boy inspires a feeling, an emotion, a dream... Looking at him during a concert or an opera will add specific harmonics to my musical pleasure...

I guess I should attend football matches too...



lundi 27 mai 2013

Your lips...

Your lips have a taste of light, of a morning light,
They are sweet and slightly acid, 
They remind me the candies I sucked while I was a child...

The touch of your lips is wet and soft, warm and sensual,
I feel your breathe, I listen to your voice, I caress your soul, 
A kiss always opens a gate, a gate between two souls, two breathes...



Iconic pic

This pic expresses a deep feeling of melancholy, sadness and loneliness. I feel them very much, perhaps because they are mine too, today... It mirrors also an infinite beauty, grace and tenderness, those of a teen boy who has much of his life ahead of him... It is not the same for me...

The golden necklace, with its small golden cross, is a promiss of a better future, hope of a better day, tomorrow will be a shining day, and the dark background of this pic will perhaps mirror all the colors of rainbow...

This photograph has for me the power of the very few paintings, or sculptures, mirroring what is at stake with human life and condition... This boy is contemplating a metaphysical abyss, time flying away, death, hopeless destiny, loss, void, despair...

I feel sad and hopeless today... And I feel in tune with what this teen boy's face expresses...

Perhaps the only thread that links me to life, to another day,  is the love I feel for what this photograph suggests, for the story it tells, for the feelings it shares...

I don't know who is the author of this masterwork... Beauty, desire, youth, death, despair, hope... This photograph has a metaphysical dimension...

I would be grateful if one of the visitors of my blog could comment on his pic: who is its photographer ?




Ephebes of Arcadia

"I am longing for Arcadia, for a land of desire and beauty,
I am longing for a vanished time, for a lost paradise,
I miss the light and the sun of Greece, its marbles and olive trees,
I miss its gyms and theaters, its temple with white colonnades,
I miss this world from a remote past, when Greek gods were living statues,
When they offered their shining bodies to all the lovers of beauty...

I miss the dust and light of the stadium, where ephebes were running,
Running so hard to get a olive tree crown and the praise of a poet,
I miss the boys I loved so much, while I was teaching them the love of wisdom,
I am longing for this world of beauty, beauty of the land, beauty of the boys,
Beauty of the souls, beauty of bodies, I am longing for Eros, 
Eros, young god of eternal adolescence, of ever-lasting beauty...

My desire is like an old frescoe, slowly fading away on the wall of my memory,
A blurred vision of  ephebes I loved in one of my previous lives,
I would love so much to never wake up from the dreams of my nights,
I belong to a world of night and dreams, of desire and beauty,
Perhaps I should not wake up from my Arcadian dreams..."

samedi 25 mai 2013

Fabio

"Blond boys from Venice are supposed to be among the most beautiful human beings ever seen in our world...

One can read this statement in texts by so many authors, Italian or foreign writers, who met blond angels and ephebes in Venice...

When I met you, Fabio, I just told to myself that Venice's fame was well deserved, and that some of the most beautiful boys on earth were to be met close to its canals or to its beaches...

Your blond curly hairs were a rainforest to explore slowly with my caressing fingers...

Your smooth face did not experiment yet a razor blade, but its light blond down was caressing my own cheeks in the deep of our embraces...

Your body could have been carved or painted by the most skillful of Italian Quattrocento artists, but a lover was the only one able to know each detail of its surface, to have explored its plains and its forests, its mountains as well as its secrete depths...

Feeling you within my arms, my Fabio, was like adding a new chapter to the history of Italian painting and sculpture, it was like writing a new chapter in the huge library of love stories, of stories of men loving younger lads...

I still feel the warmth of your body, I still feel dazzled by your solar beauty..."

Fragment of a novel

Tribe of teen boys


Iconic pic

I think I know you from a previous life... You are a Russian boy, and your name is Vova...
You are a blond dream boy, blue eyes, and a blond down is caressing your upper lip...

You have the unique face expression of a boy who does not fear his future, 
A boy who has all his life ahead of him...

You have the light smile of a young Adonis who knows he is lovable, who knows he is loved...

You have the freshness of a sunrise, you have the beauty of a dream that becomes real...

Essence of a boy

Henry Scott Tuke (detail)

"In a human life, there is a unique step of beauty and grace,
Of innocence and sensuality,
Of dream and reality...

It is adolescence, these precious teen years of boys,
When they are no more children,
When they are not yet grown up men....

Their gorgeous bodies display light and beauty,
And looking at them is like a survey of the history of art,
Of the history of literature and music,

Of the history of beauty itself...

Curves and grace, smooth chest and tanned face,
Playful poses of young untamed animals,
Elusive beauty of the acme of a boy's life..."

Edmond P., "Essence of a boy"
Handwritten poem, ca 1892
(translation is my own)

Tadzio on the Beach










Garçons sauvages

© Michel Gourlier

French artist Michel Gourlier is a famous illustrator, he worked mainly for young adult literature books, such as the novels of the famous series "Signes de piste". Gourlier has a unique way to draw teen boys and to express their beauty, their mystery, their diffuse sensuality...

Most of the time, their faces offer a deep and a pure gaze, while being framed by tousled hairs... 

Gourlier's boys are noticeable for their stretched outlines, their skinny and tall bodies...

Gourlier's original drawings or limited printed series, as his famous Portfolio, are rare items sought-after by collectors.

There is currently a copy of his Portfolio for sale on Ebay (38 plates, 2 missing): here.



vendredi 24 mai 2013

Olivier

"We met at La Scala, by mere chance, I had a seat close to yours, and it was a great performance of Verdi's Traviata... We shared obviously the same passion for music and opera, and were so focussed on the performance, living so deeply the musical drama, that the both of us had tears in their eyes... I noticed that when I looked at you, at the end of act 2...

At the end of act 3, the singers and the maestro got a well deserved standing ovation... The both of us were still stunned by this incredible performance, and in a natural way, we started talking together...

While leaving the Theater, I told you: "By the way, my name is Mark". And you said: "I am Olivier..."

You were a French student in a musical academy, you were a violin player, fond of music, of classical music and opera...

We started talking together, and in a very natural way, I invited you for a late night dinner, in a trattoria close to La Scala...

We spoke about art and music, about life and the meaning of everything, about beauty and litterature, about poetry and friendship...

You were a beautiful boy, with your blond hairs, with your blue eyes, with your smooth face, and you had such stylish clothes, you were wearing blue clothes, in harmony with your eyes...

At the end of the dinner, we promissed that we would meet again, in Paris. And we did... I already felt in love you... And you felt in love with me, when we met again...

I loved you from the bottom of my heart... I loved the music I was hearing while looking at your face... I loved the harmonics I felt while caressing you... I loved the so eloquent silence of our tender embraces... I loved the dreams we shared in the deep of the night...

We went together to so many concerts... At Salle Pleyel, at Théâtre des Champs-Elysées, at Opera Garnier, at Opera Bastille... Mozart or Malher, Beethoven or Schubert, Puccini or Wagner, Monteverdi or Alban Berg, we shared tears and ectasy, melancholy and reveries, you were leaning your head on my shoulder, I was holding your hand, we were so close, we were just one...

And no words were needed while we were going back to my place, no words were needed while we were undressing and going to bed... No words were needed at our first caress, at our first embrace... The both of us were still listening to the same music..."

Fragment of a novel


Dream


I met you so many times in my dreams...  You are such a beautiful and a perfect boy, you are a summary of the whole beauty that makes late teen boys so desirable, so fascinating, so eery...

You are on the other side of the mirror, on the other side of its surface, of the border between dream and reality, between past and future... You are looking at yourself in the mirror, I can see you, you are nude, ready to swim through the mirror surface, to swim across the mirror and to join me, on the other side of the mirror, in my place, in my bed...

You are about to dive in, you are about to join me, I am trying to reach out and to catch your hand...

But you join your hands as a goblet and you draw some water to quench your thirst....

And doing so, you create concentric circles on the surface of the mirror, your image is blurred and clouded, your image moves and fades away...

I feel so desperate then that I wake up, in the deep of the night, and I try to reach out, to open the gate and to let you come in, from one side of the mirror to the other one... No way, you cannot join me...

I am unable to sleep again, I am thinking about you, you my loved one, you, the boy I met every night, in the deep of my dreams...

Blossoming boy

It was a beautiful summer day, and there was a warm and a golden light...
You were playing with your friends along the river, on the edge of the forest...
Joy and fun, screams and laughs, you were carefree boys enjoying sun and water...

Who shot this pic ? And where did the idea of this symbolic set up and framing come from ?
The small green branch is a metaphor of the sap and the blossoming of a boy's body,
In his golden teen years.. It is a metaphor of his growth as well as of his roots...

It is also a metaphor of the vital and fertile power of young male sexuality,
It is an hymn to life and to the ever-lasting spring of youth...
I love this delicate and chaste depicting of teen boys sensuality...

Dream

Does anybody know the name of the author of this strange and beautiful painting ?

Blond boy


jeudi 23 mai 2013

Drowning

"Sometimes, I feel so alone, so desperate, so clueless,
That I feel it is my last day, or that living one day more is not needed, is meaningless...

I feel like drowning into an Ocean of solitude and desperation, 
Without any loving hand to help me to emerge and to breathe again...

I am so sad so many boys, so many men feel the same,
Loving in a different way, but loving anyway,
Is sometimes too heavy a burden, too hopeless a project...

I just wish human hands could grasp other hands, boys or men hands,
And just save lives, lives of the ones who feel so alone that they are drowning,
Drowning into an Ocean of solitude and desperation.."

Unknown author, Drowning



Antoine


"Antoine was a very active and turbulent boy, in his late teen years, he was as crazy and uncontrollable as teen boys are sometimes... Actually, only a photograph of him allowed me to look at his beauty, at his grace, without being windswept by a whirlwind of young male energy...

Antoine was a wild cat one had to domesticate in order to make him sociable, I mean, just a bit sociable...

He was a wild cat who could purr within his lover's arms while being caressed or growl, if it was not the right time, if he was not in the right mood...

He could be tender as an angel, or prickly as a cactus, according to circumstances...

He did not like showers, but he enjoyed Calvin Klein perfumes, he used them, and sometimes relied too heavily on them in order to hide his young male smell,  his allergy to soap and showers...

His lover had to be trained in greco-roman wrestling, in order to immobilize him, even for a few seconds, and to give him a kiss...

And Antoine gave up himself to his lover's caresses only while listening to Scorpion, Iron Maiden or Sex Pistols music... Punk and hard rock music full tilt, high volume...

I loved Antoine very much, for his beauty, his savage sensuality, his unpredictable character, for his use of Calvin Klein perfumes, that concealed his wild natural smell of a boy hating showers....

I loved him too for the tenderness hidden under his crazy boy's surface, for his angelic beauty, although he was a devil too..."

Fragment of a novel








I have a secret to share with you...


I have a secret to share with you, but first, you should promiss you will keep it for yourself...
So are you ready ? Open your ears, close your eyes... Listen to me...
Well, here it is...

There are boys who love to be loved and admired... There are boys who love to be desired...
There are boys who look for something else, for someone else,
Boys who can understand the way you love them, and love you back...

It is your gaze that makes me beautiful and desirable, it is your love that makes me lovable...
There are boys who enjoy loving words and deep feelings from an elder friend,
And your words and your feelings are so beautiful that I could fall in love with you too...

Boy in the woods


Elfic beauty

© Sinal

Who are you, eery elfic boy with golden hairs ?
Where are you from ?
You are so perfect, so beautiful, so unreal,
That you seem to be an angel lost in our world,
A pure idea of beauty wandering among us,
A living dream that escaped from the deep of the night...

What are you looking at ?
Are you looking at the past or at the future,
Or are you lost in the contemplation of a secret horizon ?

You are perfection
Lucky and skillful is the photographer who made you young forever,
You are a visual poem, a haunting melody,
You are a sunshine lasting for ever, 
You are a promiss of beauty,
Hope and dream of beauty....


Tribe of teen boys


mercredi 22 mai 2013

Kaspar


A beautiful boy's face is like a book, 
Where the viewer can read so many stories and thoughts,
So many feelings and memories

 Loving someone is just being aware one will never be fed up looking at his face, at his eyes, listening to his voice as well as to his silence...


 Loving someone is dreaming about endless caresses and tenderness, it is also starting a journey towards the unknown, towards unknown lands...


 What is a desirable  boy ? What is desire ?
How does a beautiful boy stage his own beauty ?
How does he imagine the desire of the viewer ?

Some pics mirror so many desires, so many stories, so many feelings that they are part of a mythology, a mythology of gay desire....

Kaspar was a beautiful and inspiring model of 19nitten, a few years ago...

He is a grown up man now, but his beauty and his sensuality still mirror 
the atemporal ideal of the cute ephebe...