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I would extend that one more dimension: I see many of them living their bisexuality, with authenticity. The binary, bi-is-a-lie message that we Boomers were long indoctrinated in just doesn't ring true to them. I should disclose that old either/or formula doesn't correspond to my life experiences either. I like everything, and have had hot-sex affairs as well as long-term romances with men and women both. In pretty equal measure, now that I look back and tote it up.

I agree. I saw Dunkirk more than once, and Harry delivered an impressive performance. A slow coming-out for a guy like Harry is the right game. Claiming bisexuality is all the rage these days among millennials. It makes no business sense to alienate all his female fans by killing their fantasy. It's so much better for business to keep some flame burning. Now he'll be in line to play a great gay character for the screen, like Timothée Chalamet, and the gays will be fine with that. I expect him to hit home runs. He's got the makings of a terrific career in film, and continue in music if that's what he wants.

I met him years back in Thailand. I thought he was articulate and handsome. I think his online personality on this site is totally different from who he really is or how he participates in other forums. I may be wrong but the Gay Thailand forums don't have a lot of politics on them. I love politics even though it gets messy at times. BTW: he is not looking to be saved. He has seen the light and the Lord has guided him to Trump. He will never see this is against his own interests and we will never understand his rationale. I have many family members just like him (his beliefs) and they are happy to be in their bubble.

It will NEVER happen. I grew up in the Bible belt and people who believe in things based on faith vs fact have no desire to change anything as it is their faith that sustains them.

Great post. I think he is great as well and agree with all of the above!

I am so excited to see this. It doesn't come to Thailand until August but I am anxiously waiting. Please don't spoil it and tell me if there is any music in it, good times, fun laughs, etc. I want to be surprised!

I always knew it, but he comes out a bit more each year. I think he is bi with a lean toward women but I love the fact he is open. http://gayety.co/entertainment/celebs/harry-styles-a-little-bit-gay

In like vein... Little Sally took a drink But she shall drink no more For what she thought was H20 Was H2SO4!

The majority of Republicans do not believe in global warming. Is that based in fact? The majority of Republicans believe that white people are discriminated against. Is that based on fact? I could go on. But, yes aeronautical principals are based on fact. And, I love you trust and verify. I don't see many in that party doing the same. Blind faith is never a good thing.

Ammonia was indeed used years ago, mainly in large commercial operations such as an ice cream plant. It is a good refrigerant but has some nasty properties which are readily known by the smell. Other refrigerants have come and gone. SO2 worked well but a very small leak would kill your pet bird. Not good PR. Chlorofluorocarbons are the best, but Freon has been linked to attacking the ozone layer and is now superseded by other products that are almost as good. .I am willing to give up a little efficiency in order to preserve the atmosphere. AS- another way you can live forever is to join Ted Williams in a cryogenic container. Then you will be REALLY cold. Best regards, RA1

Cool Air By H. P. Lovecraft You ask me to explain why I am afraid of a draught of cool air; why I shiver more than others upon entering a cold room, and seem nauseated and repelled when the chill of evening creeps through the heat of a mild autumn day. There are those who say I respond to cold as others do to a bad odour, and I am the last to deny the impression. What I will do is to relate the most horrible circumstance I ever encountered, and leave it to you to judge whether or not this forms a suitable explanation of my peculiarity. It is a mistake to fancy that horror is associated inextricably with darkness, silence, and solitude. I found it in the glare of mid-afternoon, in the clangour of a metropolis, and in the teeming midst of a shabby and commonplace rooming-house with a prosaic landlady and two stalwart men by my side. In the spring of 1923 I had secured some dreary and unprofitable magazine work in the city of New York; and being unable to pay any substantial rent, began drifting from one cheap boarding establishment to another in search of a room which might combine the qualities of decent cleanliness, endurable furnishings, and very reasonable price. It soon developed that I had only a choice between different evils, but after a time I came upon a house in West Fourteenth Street which disgusted me much less than the others I had sampled. The place was a four-story mansion of brownstone, dating apparently from the late forties, and fitted with woodwork and marble whose stained and sullied splendour argued a descent from high levels of tasteful opulence. In the rooms, large and lofty, and decorated with impossible paper and ridiculously ornate stucco cornices, there lingered a depressing mustiness and hint of obscure cookery; but the floors were clean, the linen tolerably regular, and the hot water not too often cold or turned off, so that I came to regard it as at least a bearable place to hibernate till one might really live again. The landlady, a slatternly, almost bearded Spanish woman named Herrero, did not annoy me with gossip or with criticisms of the late-burning electric light in my third-floor front hall room; and my fellow-lodgers were as quiet and uncommunicative as one might desire, being mostly Spaniards a little above the coarsest and crudest grade. Only the din of street cars in the thoroughfare below proved a serious annoyance. I had been there about three weeks when the first odd incident occurred. One evening at about eight I heard a spattering on the floor and became suddenly aware that I had been smelling the pungent odour of ammonia for some time. Looking about, I saw that the ceiling was wet and dripping; the soaking apparently proceeding from a corner on the side toward the street. Anxious to stop the matter at its source, I hastened to the basement to tell the landlady; and was assured by her that the trouble would quickly be set right. “Doctair Muñoz,” she cried as she rushed upstairs ahead of me, “he have speel hees chemicals. He ees too seeck for doctair heemself—seecker and seecker all the time—but he weel not have no othair for help. He ees vairy queer in hees seeckness—all day he take funnee-smelling baths, and he cannot get excite or warm. All hees own housework he do—hees leetle room are full of bottles and machines, and he do not work as doctair. But he was great once—my fathair in Barcelona have hear of heem—and only joost now he feex a arm of the plumber that get hurt of sudden. He nevair go out, only on roof, and my boy Esteban he breeng heem hees food and laundry and mediceens and chemicals. My Gawd, the sal-ammoniac that man use for keep heem cool!” Mrs. Herrero disappeared up the staircase to the fourth floor, and I returned to my room. The ammonia ceased to drip, and as I cleaned up what had spilled and opened the window for air, I heard the landlady’s heavy footsteps above me. Dr. Muñoz I had never heard, save for certain sounds as of some gasoline-driven mechanism; since his step was soft and gentle. I wondered for a moment what the strange affliction of this man might be, and whether his obstinate refusal of outside aid were not the result of a rather baseless eccentricity. There is, I reflected tritely, an infinite deal of pathos in the state of an eminent person who has come down in the world. I might never have known Dr. Muñoz had it not been for the heart attack that suddenly seized me one forenoon as I sat writing in my room. Physicians had told me of the danger of those spells, and I knew there was no time to be lost; so remembering what the landlady had said about the invalid’s help of the injured workman, I dragged myself upstairs and knocked feebly at the door above mine. My knock was answered in good English by a curious voice some distance to the right, asking my name and business; and these things being stated, there came an opening of the door next to the one I had sought. A rush of cool air greeted me; and though the day was one of the hottest of late June, I shivered as I crossed the threshold into a large apartment whose rich and tasteful decoration surprised me in this nest of squalor and seediness. A folding couch now filled its diurnal role of sofa, and the mahogany furniture, sumptuous hangings, old paintings, and mellow bookshelves all bespoke a gentleman’s study rather than a boarding-house bedroom. I now saw that the hall room above mine—the “leetle room” of bottles and machines which Mrs. Herrero had mentioned—was merely the laboratory of the doctor; and that his main living quarters lay in the spacious adjoining room whose convenient alcoves and large contiguous bathroom permitted him to hide all dressers and obtrusive utilitarian devices. Dr. Muñoz, most certainly, was a man of birth, cultivation, and discrimination. The figure before me was short but exquisitely proportioned, and clad in somewhat formal dress of perfect cut and fit. A high-bred face of masterful though not arrogant expression was adorned by a short iron-grey full beard, and an old-fashioned pince-nez shielded the full, dark eyes and surmounted an aquiline nose which gave a Moorish touch to a physiognomy otherwise dominantly Celtiberian. Thick, well-trimmed hair that argued the punctual calls of a barber was parted gracefully above a high forehead; and the whole picture was one of striking intelligence and superior blood and breeding. Nevertheless, as I saw Dr. Muñoz in that blast of cool air, I felt a repugnance which nothing in his aspect could justify. Only his lividly inclined complexion and coldness of touch could have afforded a physical basis for this feeling, and even these things should have been excusable considering the man’s known invalidism. It might, too, have been the singular cold that alienated me; for such chilliness was abnormal on so hot a day, and the abnormal always excites aversion, distrust, and fear. But repugnance was soon forgotten in admiration, for the strange physician’s extreme skill at once became manifest despite the ice-coldness and shakiness of his bloodless-looking hands. He clearly understood my needs at a glance, and ministered to them with a master’s deftness; the while reassuring me in a finely modulated though oddly hollow and timbreless voice that he was the bitterest of sworn enemies to death, and had sunk his fortune and lost all his friends in a lifetime of bizarre experiment devoted to its bafflement and extirpation. Something of the benevolent fanatic seemed to reside in him, and he rambled on almost garrulously as he sounded my chest and mixed a suitable draught of drugs fetched from the smaller laboratory room. Evidently he found the society of a well-born man a rare novelty in this dingy environment, and was moved to unaccustomed speech as memories of better days surged over him. His voice, if queer, was at least soothing; and I could not even perceive that he breathed as the fluent sentences rolled urbanely out. He sought to distract my mind from my own seizure by speaking of his theories and experiments; and I remember his tactfully consoling me about my weak heart by insisting that will and consciousness are stronger than organic life itself, so that if a bodily frame be but originally healthy and carefully preserved, it may through a scientific enhancement of these qualities retain a kind of nervous animation despite the most serious impairments, defects, or even absences in the battery of specific organs. He might, he half jestingly said, some day teach me to live—or at least to possess some kind of conscious existence—without any heart at all! For his part, he was afflicted with a complication of maladies requiring a very exact regimen which included constant cold. Any marked rise in temperature might, if prolonged, affect him fatally; and the frigidity of his habitation—some 55 or 56 degrees Fahrenheit—was maintained by an absorption system of ammonia cooling, the gasoline engine of whose pumps I had often heard in my own room below. Relieved of my seizure in a marvellously short while, I left the shivery place a disciple and devotee of the gifted recluse. After that I paid him frequent overcoated calls; listening while he told of secret researches and almost ghastly results, and trembling a bit when I examined the unconventional and astonishingly ancient volumes on his shelves. I was eventually, I may add, almost cured of my disease for all time by his skilful ministrations. It seems that he did not scorn the incantations of the mediaevalists, since he believed these cryptic formulae to contain rare psychological stimuli which might conceivably have singular effects on the substance of a nervous system from which organic pulsations had fled. I was touched by his account of the aged Dr. Torres of Valencia, who had shared his earlier experiments with him through the great illness of eighteen years before, whence his present disorders proceeded. No sooner had the venerable practitioner saved his colleague than he himself succumbed to the grim enemy he had fought. Perhaps the strain had been too great; for Dr. Muñoz made it whisperingly clear—though not in detail—that the methods of healing had been most extraordinary, involving scenes and processes not welcomed by elderly and conservative Galens. As the weeks passed, I observed with regret that my new friend was indeed slowly but unmistakably losing ground physically, as Mrs. Herrero had suggested. The livid aspect of his countenance was intensified, his voice became more hollow and indistinct, his muscular motions were less perfectly coördinated, and his mind and will displayed less resilience and initiative. Of this sad change he seemed by no means unaware, and little by little his expression and conversation both took on a gruesome irony which restored in me something of the subtle repulsion I had originally felt. He developed strange caprices, acquiring a fondness for exotic spices and Egyptian incense till his room smelled like the vault of a sepulchred Pharaoh in the Valley of Kings. At the same time his demands for cold air increased, and with my aid he amplified the ammonia piping of his room and modified the pumps and feed of his refrigerating machine till he could keep the temperature as low as 34° or 40° and finally even 28°; the bathroom and laboratory, of course, being less chilled, in order that water might not freeze, and that chemical processes might not be impeded. The tenant adjoining him complained of the icy air from around the connecting door, so I helped him fit heavy hangings to obviate the difficulty. A kind of growing horror, of outré and morbid cast, seemed to possess him. He talked of death incessantly, but laughed hollowly when such things as burial or funeral arrangements were gently suggested. All in all, he became a disconcerting and even gruesome companion; yet in my gratitude for his healing I could not well abandon him to the strangers around him, and was careful to dust his room and attend to his needs each day, muffled in a heavy ulster which I bought especially for the purpose. I likewise did much of his shopping, and gasped in bafflement at some of the chemicals he ordered from druggists and laboratory supply houses. An increasing and unexplained atmosphere of panic seemed to rise around his apartment. The whole house, as I have said, had a musty odour; but the smell in his room was worse—and in spite of all the spices and incense, and the pungent chemicals of the now incessant baths which he insisted on taking unaided. I perceived that it must be connected with his ailment, and shuddered when I reflected on what that ailment might be. Mrs. Herrero crossed herself when she looked at him, and gave him up unreservedly to me; not even letting her son Esteban continue to run errands for him. When I suggested other physicians, the sufferer would fly into as much of a rage as he seemed to dare to entertain. He evidently feared the physical effect of violent emotion, yet his will and driving force waxed rather than waned, and he refused to be confined to his bed. The lassitude of his earlier ill days gave place to a return of his fiery purpose, so that he seemed about to hurl defiance at the death-daemon even as that ancient enemy seized him. The pretence of eating, always curiously like a formality with him, he virtually abandoned; and mental power alone appeared to keep him from total collapse. He acquired a habit of writing long documents of some sort, which he carefully sealed and filled with injunctions that I transmit them after his death to certain persons whom he named—for the most part lettered East Indians, but including a once celebrated French physician now generally thought dead, and about whom the most inconceivable things had been whispered. As it happened, I burned all these papers undelivered and unopened. His aspect and voice became utterly frightful, and his presence almost unbearable. One September day an unexpected glimpse of him induced an epileptic fit in a man who had come to repair his electric desk lamp; a fit for which he prescribed effectively whilst keeping himself well out of sight. That man, oddly enough, had been through the terrors of the Great War without having incurred any fright so thorough. Then, in the middle of October, the horror of horrors came with stupefying suddenness. One night about eleven the pump of the refrigerating machine broke down, so that within three hours the process of ammonia cooling became impossible. Dr. Muñoz summoned me by thumping on the floor, and I worked desperately to repair the injury while my host cursed in a tone whose lifeless, rattling hollowness surpassed description. My amateur efforts, however, proved of no use; and when I had brought in a mechanic from a neighbouring all-night garage we learned that nothing could be done till morning, when a new piston would have to be obtained. The moribund hermit’s rage and fear, swelling to grotesque proportions, seemed likely to shatter what remained of his failing physique; and once a spasm caused him to clap his hands to his eyes and rush into the bathroom. He groped his way out with face tightly bandaged, and I never saw his eyes again. The frigidity of the apartment was now sensibly diminishing, and at about 5 a.m. the doctor retired to the bathroom, commanding me to keep him supplied with all the ice I could obtain at all-night drug stores and cafeterias. As I would return from my sometimes discouraging trips and lay my spoils before the closed bathroom door, I could hear a restless splashing within, and a thick voice croaking out the order for “More—more!” At length a warm day broke, and the shops opened one by one. I asked Esteban either to help with the ice-fetching whilst I obtained the pump piston, or to order the piston while I continued with the ice; but instructed by his mother, he absolutely refused. Finally I hired a seedy-looking loafer whom I encountered on the corner of Eighth Avenue to keep the patient supplied with ice from a little shop where I introduced him, and applied myself diligently to the task of finding a pump piston and engaging workmen competent to install it. The task seemed interminable, and I raged almost as violently as the hermit when I saw the hours slipping by in a breathless, foodless round of vain telephoning, and a hectic quest from place to place, hither and thither by subway and surface car. About noon I encountered a suitable supply house far downtown, and at approximately 1:30 p.m. arrived at my boarding-place with the necessary paraphernalia and two sturdy and intelligent mechanics. I had done all I could, and hoped I was in time. Black terror, however, had preceded me. The house was in utter turmoil, and above the chatter of awed voices I heard a man praying in a deep basso. Fiendish things were in the air, and lodgers told over the beads of their rosaries as they caught the odour from beneath the doctor’s closed door. The lounger I had hired, it seems, had fled screaming and mad-eyed not long after his second delivery of ice; perhaps as a result of excessive curiosity. He could not, of course, have locked the door behind him; yet it was now fastened, presumably from the inside. There was no sound within save a nameless sort of slow, thick dripping. Briefly consulting with Mrs. Herrero and the workmen despite a fear that gnawed my inmost soul, I advised the breaking down of the door; but the landlady found a way to turn the key from the outside with some wire device. We had previously opened the doors of all the other rooms on that hall, and flung all the windows to the very top. Now, noses protected by handkerchiefs, we tremblingly invaded the accursed south room which blazed with the warm sun of early afternoon. A kind of dark, slimy trail led from the open bathroom door to the hall door, and thence to the desk, where a terrible little pool had accumulated. Something was scrawled there in pencil in an awful, blind hand on a piece of paper hideously smeared as though by the very claws that traced the hurried last words. Then the trail led to the couch and ended unutterably. What was, or had been, on the couch I cannot and dare not say here. But this is what I shiveringly puzzled out on the stickily smeared paper before I drew a match and burned it to a crisp; what I puzzled out in terror as the landlady and two mechanics rushed frantically from that hellish place to babble their incoherent stories at the nearest police station. The nauseous words seemed well-nigh incredible in that yellow sunlight, with the clatter of cars and motor trucks ascending clamorously from crowded Fourteenth Street, yet I confess that I believed them then. Whether I believe them now I honestly do not know. There are things about which it is better not to speculate, and all that I can say is that I hate the smell of ammonia, and grow faint at a draught of unusually cool air. “The end,” ran that noisome scrawl, “is here. No more ice—the man looked and ran away. Warmer every minute, and the tissues can’t last. I fancy you know—what I said about the will and the nerves and the preserved body after the organs ceased to work. It was good theory, but couldn’t keep up indefinitely. There was a gradual deterioration I had not foreseen. Dr. Torres knew, but the shock killed him. He couldn’t stand what he had to do—he had to get me in a strange, dark place when he minded my letter and nursed me back. And the organs never would work again. It had to be done my way—artificial preservation—for you see I died that time eighteen years ago.” http://www.hplovecraft.com/writings/texts/fiction/ca.aspx

I live in the world of facts. If I did not think the aeronautical principles were fact, I would have been dead a long time ago. But I also live in the world of faith. I have faith that the wing won't fall off, the engine won't quit, etc. Regardless I also believe in trust but verify. I do check out the aircraft before I fly it but such inspections can only go so far. Therefore I am back to faith. What does all this have to do with Bucky? I don't believe anyone is trying to kill him or put him in jail but I also don't think many are giving him the leave to have his own beliefs. I have faith. Best regards, RA1

haha... and see above. This is why I won't read the reviews... just look at the boys and listen to the music!

Heading to see it this weekend regardless what people say. It has: 1) Music by ABBA, 2) TWINKS, 3) Cher It therefore at the very least will be entertaining. I have such good memories of this show. The musical blew me away. And once, I actually picked up a very cute young man from right behind the cash register of Bergdorff Goodman (I actually went to check out in his line because he was so cute) because I had an extra ticket to see it when it was running on Broadway, and the evening was... well... magical. MAMMA MIA!

If you wait till September I’ll go with you to see it. I was going today but it was close to being sold out. I’ll wait till mid week when it quiets down a bit. If the critics don’t like it, I’ll love it. They never like anything that is fun.

I won't. But, I hear, people said, this was the greatest bigliest movie of all time!

Then don’t read the reviews.......not flattering.

I am eternally optimistic that I can get Bucky to see the way to reality.

mvan, you make me laugh. Sorry, my friend, you are just too naive. You just asked a Trump supporter to read. Are you fucking serious? You should know better. Only show them a quick video clip less than 1 minute and you might capture their attention. But, reading? Come on mvan, get serious!

I saw the interview in full. Good for Whoopi. I also grew up in the shadows of Pierro as I was in law school when she was DA of the city I lived in. I didn't like her then, and I guess things have not changed that much in 20 something years. I am surprised that Republicans like her. She has Arab blood in her. Aren't most Republican's anti Arab? black? gay? human rights?

I think perhaps you are smelling your own bullshit. Hillary is fine. And, regardless of how much do you proclaim your love for Trump, I think it is just an online game for you and not your real beliefs. That, or you need a bit of therapy. Just get a few Thai boys to massage your head on your next visit and perhaps your frontal cortex will realign? Or, there is a great church group that you might fit into ran by the Phelps family. It is right across from an Equity House. If you need directions, let me know.

edited: sorry I was asking s stupid question. Never mind.

I went to Jupiter about 15 years ago with my bf at the time who was a very shy closeted guy at the time. He was so shocked to see a guy play a slide whistle with his ass. lol I hadn't returned to Jupiter in years but just went on my last trip. The guys were very cute and in shape - 6 pack abs and everything. However, as others have stated here, there were women in the club too, which is a turn off for me too. I guess with their location a bit hidden, they need all of the customers they can get. I think a lot of the guys there are straight too, so they seemed to cater more to the women. I'm not that interested in going back.

Yangdon was fun, and I enjoyed my visits to Lime spa. I had a very short time there, so I wasn't really very adventurous but grindr blew up on me with all the boys who wanted to spend time with this hairy old guy. I think I'll go back. A big shout out to Simon, my guide from siamroads.com. He was completely marriage material, and if my wife was better at sharing I'd have thought seriously about carrying him off . If you're in Thailand, spare a day or two to see the golden pagoda of yangdon and visit with him. He helps run the country's gay film festival that runs early January into February. So far Sri Lanka has been a bust. Some grindr activity, but distances are discouraging (that and the cold I'm coming down with. damn planes). Maybe in the next 5 days here my health and luck will improve. The country does remind me of India though. Too crowded and noisy generally for my tastes. Unlike Myanmar that I wanted to go back to, I'm pretty sure this will be a one and done destination... I will have a couple of days free in Johannesburg, South Africa next week before I hit Rio, so we'll see what trouble I can get into there...

My last Buenos Aires treat. Delicious. https://ilikepinga.com/2018/07/19/randisan/

I saw plenty of blacks or black mixes (depending on your definition of blacks) on the streets of Medelline. For example, this picture is from Boyflirt. I see quite a few like this in Medelline.

As an African-American with all of the messy mixed race that comes with being black in America can have, I will respectfully disagree with the bolder part of your statement. Most black Americans are knowledgeable and accepting of the wide-casting net of the African diaspora that was created by the African slavery trade. Are there a minority of ig pants who aren’t? Sure. However, the overarching dispute usually isn’t that Brazilians, South Americans, Latin Americans or West Indians aren’t black — rather, that their experiences are not the same as black Americans. That’s a different argument, altogether — which can be both right and wrong.

So... As I shared above, when we went with Randisan to the "telo", both of my CCs were rejected and I ended paying cash. Well, today I arrived back home and found a message from the Anti Fraud division of my Visa. That hotel tried to charge U$S 150,000. Yes, it is not a typo. I am wondering, are they very, very stupid scammers, or that old clerk did not know how to use the CC reader and unintentionally tried to charge that amount. Whatever it is, perhaps it is a good idea not to pay with your CC in a "telo" in Buenos Aires. P.S. I am so stone that I wrote a half in Spanish post, I just realized it and fixed it. I think.