Aeneas on the Subway

In Roman mythology, Aeneas was a mighty hero and son of a goddess who traveled to the underworld. He later became a god himself. Here we see a modern-day Aeneas on the subway, traveling to parts unknown.

I found him on another blog. Little discoveries like this are as joyful as they are annoying, because you're happy to find a beautiful man but agonized to know you'll almost certainly never see any more. Somewhere, he lives a full life, and your world and his will never intersect.

I'm wondering if this modern-day Aeneas is an off-duty fireman on his way home to the missus after a long shift. If he looked up to catch you spying on him and you are a beautiful woman, he would grant you an ellusive smile. But if he caught a guy looking, he'd stare you down with his steely eyes until you turned away, embarrassed and ashamed but also secretly thrilled for this morsel of interaction. He is a god, after all, and you and I are mere mortals.

Toni Sulankivi

I wavered on including this guy because he's almost too pretty. Because he's only an amateur model and makes his living as an IT geek, that pushed me off the fence. The fact that he's brainy in real life gives him the edge. Let's be realistic here -- you'd pour water on your keyboard just in hopes this bloke shows up to help.

"Toni" sounds like a drag queen, but Toni Sulankivi is from Finland, where they spell names differently. Straight men from Scandinavia can often be the most agonizing, because they don't have a homophobic bone in their body whilst they're utterly unobtainable. They're flattered you drool all over them at the same time they kindly let you know it'll never happen. They agonize you with their sweetness.

I knew a Norwegian guy like that when I lived in London. He knew I had the hots for him. At a party once, he even kissed me on the mouth when he got drunk. He also made it clear that's all that would ever happen. So close, and yet so far.

Toni, you make my chips melt.

Polish Brawn

I found these photos on a Polish website. It seems to be a social networking site for weightlifters and bodybuilders, but not speaking a word of Polish, I'm not sure. Most of their friends were girls with some messages in pidgeon English to them, like "I to say halo sexxy ladys."

The great thing about many young Middle European men like these dudes is that they're relentlessly heterosexual and full of testosterone but not homophobic. They just seem to relish their extreme masculinity.

Thanks to the random luck of train reservations, I once shared a chaste overnight compartment from Naples to Paris with several gorgeous young Polish bucks who seemed to have one thing in mind: pussy. We could only communicate with gestures and a little French, but I got the sense they were Army guys fucking their way across Europe on leave. Anytime a young girl passed in the corridor, they went into overtime with the groaning and crotch rubbing, then would laugh at my reactions to them. My the time we got to Paris, the compartment smelled like a lockerroom.

My favorite of this bunch is the last guy with glasses. I have a weakness for intellectual brawn.

Weak at the Knees

This guy is just absolute perfection. I don't know his name. If anyone here does, please add it in the comments.

He pretty much leaves me speechless and weak at the knees. The fantastic body, the haughty confidence, the effortless masculinity all add up to supreme perfection. He also has keenly intelligent eyes, which just sends me over the edge.

He is the epitome of gods amongst men. We mere mortals tremble in his presence. How fortunate we are to have the honor of gazing on his impeccable body.

Spice Dude

Who is Spice Dude? This is a rhetorical question, I suspect. He has become something of an icon on gay/bi blogs and websites. You've probably seen this guy before on some other page. His image has been passed around so often the origin is probably now lost forever.

Whomever he is, he oozes raw masculinity and stalwart power. This guy has genuine presence. He looks no more than twenty-five but perhaps is even high school aged. He obviously pumps iron. If you asked him his two favorite things in life, I suspect he might answer "the gym and pussy." He has a smoldering presence that suggests a laconic intensity, exactly the sort of personality that makes women wet and men swoon.

Strapping, brawny lads like this usually end up working in the shipping department. Their zenith is high school sports and a stint in the Marines. By forty, they are only a husk of what they once were. I hope that doesn't happen to Spice Dude.

He might be the exception to the rule. He could be on an Ivy League wrestling team. He could end up in law school, an editor of the law review. I know a guy like that, sadly not very well. He looks like he could juggle refrigerators, but he's also a skilled litigator. He looks fantastic at the gym, grunting and sweating as he throws massive weights around. He also looks fantastic in his crisp white shirt, power tie, and Italian suit. He is, in short, a god and effortlessly so.

Let's hope that's Spice Dude's destiny. He's too hot to ever go to seed.

Mr. Attitude

I have no idea who this guy is. I found him on a modeling portfolio site and bookmarked him. When I returned some days later, he had taken down his profile. I googled the URL and found these cached images. I don't know his stats, but he's obviously very tall. Those arms of his are so big they could have their own zipcode.

This guy wears attitude like a second skin. Women begin to ovulate in his presence. Men turn their eyes away from him out of sheer cowardice. This guy walks in a room, and the conversations dwindle to nothing.

The fact that he appeared in an editorial spread for erectile dysfunction is laughable. Like this bloke ever has problems getting hard.

CHP Officer

I found these a few weeks back on a now-defunct blog maintained by a woman who seemed to have a crush on this unnamed California Highway Patrol officer whom she described as 43 and divorced. She works in a civilian job for the CHP and was amused this scowling bulldog couldn't find something in the files. He doesn't appear pleased when he catches her snapping photos of him. Perhaps that's why she took down the blog.

I am reminded of a chance encounter, about two years ago, when I was driving from the Bay Area to Southern California. I stopped at some forgettable place like Denny's along Highway 99 for a stretch and a piss. When I walked in the men's room, the only other occupant was a tall, broad-shouldered CHP officer with a buzzcut standing at the sinks. As soon as I entered, I could smell his leather jacket.

He was leaning into the sink with one hand clamped over the bridge of his nose whilst moaning softly. My heart leaped in my chest. Could I be a white knight to this magnificant specimen of manhood? "Are you all right?" I asked.

He turned to look at me with a suspicious scowl on his handsome chiseled face. "Yeah," he growled after a few seconds. "Sinus headache."

Thinking quickly, I reached in my jacket pocket for an unopened package of gum. I held it out to him and said something asinine like, "gum sometimes helps with that."

His steely blue eyes considered me for a few seconds as if trying to decide whether I was a punk or harmless. He reached out with his left hand and took my humble offering. His thick, masculine fingers were cold when they touched mine, and his wedding ring gleamed in the bathroom light. He ripped open the pack, stuffed a stick in his mug, then returned the rest to me as he moved to pass out the door.

"Thanks bud," he said over his shoulder and was gone. When I returned to my car, I saw him speeding out of the parking lot onto the highway. A few minutes later, after I was on the road, I spotted him parked on the shoulder and approaching a vehicle he had ensnared.

A motorcycle cop is a man of the great outdoors, not someone at home in the stifling confines of a file room. He probably had to search for something on his way to wasting time at traffic court, where some dimwitted driver would fail in beating a citation. I've read that the CHP prevails more than 99 percent of the time when a ticket is contested.

So just don't bother dicking them around, all right? They don't have time for the likes of you. That may be, however, the reason their citations are challenged sometimes. What better way than to spend the afternoon than in the presence of a god who made a fool of you?

Gareth

Big Gareth is British, 6'0", 210 pounds, with a 48-inch chest. According to his listing on a social networking site, which he has since taken down, he's a sometimes model who works as a personal trainer but moonlights as a bouncer. Gareth used to appear on an amateur website in erotic photographs with his girlfriend but no more.

Good bouncers often have a brooding, domineering attitude as do good personal trainers who get in your face the way those hot gym teachers did in high school. When you hire Gareth to train you, I imagine he works you hard and rewards you with a contemptuous sneer for being so unworthy of his time. It's just about the money with Gareth. If you didn't pay him handsomely for his torment, you wouldn't exist to him.

As soon as you're done your session, he probably whips out his cell to call his girlfriend. His broad back is turned to you, but you hear him cooing gently to her. Don't worry, he'll never talk to you that way. You can be sure he never gets anything except lipstick on that magnificent uncut cock.

Matt Davis

This gorgeous apex of masculinity is Matthew Davis, a sometimes model from Chattanooga. Towering over mere mortals at 6'5", weighing in at 270 pounds of ripped muscle, Matt says of himself in his profile on a social networking site, "I don't half-ass anything."

There's no reason to doubt Matt when he says that. One glance at him confirms this irrefutable fact. Mr. Davis is the perfect specimen to introduce this blog, for he is truly a god amongst men. He strides past us at the gym, where we are utterly invisible to us.

What does Matt do for a living? I don't know, but I suspect it's a position of effortless authority. He has the sort of contemptuous sneer of a motorcycle cop. I can picture him in a leather jacket, gleaming tall boots, and snug breaches as he saunters up to the side of your car and demands to see your license and registration. You gladly consent, for just to spend a few minutes in his presence is a great privilege.