Paninaro. Milan, 1980s. Fast food. Designer labels. Mopeds. Aesthetic before anyone called it an aesthetic. I wish I’d been a Paninaro. “Girls, boys, arts, pleasure/Food, cars, travel, food, cars, travel, travel/Armani, Armani, A-A-Armani, Versace, Cinque.” #paninaro#milan#psb
Joey, turning a trick or two in 1987, would be 61 now. I’m sure he never imagined that beauty was something temporary. We are shallow and cruel. We fall for youth, then discard it when it disappears. Would we even give Joey the time of day now?
#MaleBeauty#PassingTime#Joey1987
The Boy and the Dagger (1961). Writer. Artist. Pseudonym. ‘Boy-love pulp fiction’. Asger Lund - one of the many names used by Danish writer/artist Kjeld Asger Frydenlund (1929–2013). Even the title sounds like something I should probably not be reading.
#queerbooks#queerart
I get why David Hockney’s muse, Peter Schlesinger, left him for Eric Boman (1946–2022). I found this photo in a book, taken by him at Battersea in 1977. Boman was a bit of a ‘Fox’, as they said in the '70s. A rare creature: beautiful inside as he was on the outside.
#ericboman
Says it all: dining room of Harry Kessler’s Berlin apartment, c.1900. A critic of Imperial Germany’s rigid, hypermasculine culture, he gave everyday life its own aesthetic—and homoerotic—charge. He was drawn to athletes at boxing matches in London and handsome sailors in Belgium.
Yes. I’m stuck in a bubble of lube at the moment. After being star-struck with Joey Stefano (RIP), another challenger surfaces for the ‘I screwed up my life’ award. Christian Fox.
#QueerIcons#ChristianFox#GayAdultHistory#QueerCulture
Casimir, destroyer of peace, and Leonid, son of the lion, shared a love of baked apple, cinnamon and each other. Branded remnants of bourgeois decadence and capitalist moral decay, they were shunned by their comrades. They turned to a growing art form called ‘gaysky pornsky’.
Bailey appears as though I’ve never been away. Doe-eyed, beautiful, and seemingly thick as shit — although perhaps that is part of his charm. He shows me the new tattoos across his back and, despite myself, they excite me.
#malebeauty
A discovery.
In the middle of my 1909 Walt Whitman.
A pressed flower. Preserved. Ancient.
I shall leave it there, for the memory of whoever placed it between the pages.
#waltwhitman
Shameless. He floats naked in the water, the light rippling over chest and stomach. His lips, caught between a breath and a moan, his hand loose at his side like he’s waiting to be grabbed. There’s nothing soft about it – just flesh, need, and unspoken dare in his stillness.
La Piscine (1969). Summer moodboard. Alain Delon and Romy Schneider serve peak 60s quiet luxury by a Saint-Tropez pool, but it's all high-key toxicity. Stunning on the surface; underneath it’s just pure, unhinged resentment. The most beautiful surfaces hide the deepest dangers.
THE SILVER BOOK Olivia Laing. Naughty. Retro. Short chapters. A life I might have killed for. And then I remembered— that is exactly what happened to Pasolini. I read a review: “It is an Instagram feed bound between book covers." Ouch.
Watching a fifty-something-year-old film, admiring an impossibly handsome 17-year-old actor, being irritated by the dubbing, and knowing that the young man on the screen had only a few days left to live.
#scentofawoman#profumodidonna#italianmovies#alessandromomo
The placebo effect has worn off. The crushing reality settles into my bones. There is no adrenaline coming. The coffee was a lie.
#coffee#adrenaline#words
There was a handwritten card inside.
“Per l’unica persona inglese che conosco.”
For the only English person that I know.
#waltwhitman#poetry#leavesofgrass