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Sweetmeat presents: Michiel Huisman.  Yeah.  Uh huh.  No, go on- I'm listening.

8/1/2016

 

​Michiel Huisman misplaced his hairbrush.
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Michiel Huisman holds sheep incorrectly.
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Michiel Huisman is too big for that Vespa.  
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​I'll allow it


​in my pants.

Sweetmeat: Eddie Izzard

16/12/2015

 
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His insane lurch from chunky indolence to running a charity marathon a day for I think the entire length of England was perhaps the only sort of batshit fuck-yeah example that could have helped propel me from my own similarly fat, louche stasis. One doesn't have to be a slender whippet to enjoy terrifyingly kinetic half-bestial health and I owe that realisation in part to this dubious and exceptional transvestite.
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*  More hotties   *   

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As a fellow spark of dainty luminous femininity trapped in the body of a big butch bitch, let me correct the oversight that was my omission of la Izzard from this catalogue of androgenic excellence. Sarcastic men in frocks are one of my favourite things ever.

Eddie would be my spirit animal if I believed in the necessity of remedial transubstantiation. Which I do not.  

​Everything is everything.
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That brings me tremendous joy.
​
I prefer his earlier, bitchier work to the sort of stadium-pleasing recitals he does now, but whatever- I'd still still exploit him physically if I ever caught him in a vulnerable moment.  

​Lol.
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Monday slash Tuesday slash Sweetmeat.

23/7/2015

 
This Monday/Tuesday is brought to you with the help of Michiel Huisman because he's fucking hot and the only reason to watch that shitty dead duck GOT.

As a longtime appreciator of the masculine unit I feel qualified to bestow Mr Huisman with a highly coveted 9/10 on the Sweetmeat scale which is of course globally definitive.  Loses a point for not being Spanish but then most people do.  Although the hair is... good.  

Very good.  

And I do like a nice set of lightning veins.  The biological imperatives behind vein-fancying are obscure so I'll just go with the importance of oxygenation.  Also- if there was any justice in the world that robe directly below would come flying off Michiel, leaving him defenceless and in need of shelter and willing to trade rough sex to get it, and would land on my hanger where it unarguably belongs.  Two problems, one synergetic solution.
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This is coming from a woman and yes, we're as guilty as hell of this same shit, but would it be so terrible if the male complex took a leaf from Mr Huisman and realised that a comprehensively hot body is a balanced and organic thing?  Rather than something that looks and feels like its been UV-treated and shrink-wrapped.  

And... maybe cooled it with the manscaping?  It's not like Michiel here's never seen a hotroller, but you can go too far with the lumpy 6 packs and the micromanaged beards.  Leave the happy trail as nature intended. 
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I'm an unapologetic connoisseur of the long tall dude and lament the slow death of bone in the modern male.  You know- that quality of length and pleasing spaciousness and the posture that comes from being match-fit and well put-together.  Grace.  Physical ease.  I like a lot of distance between nipples and navel, as an aesthetic consideration and because of the resultant physical dynamics; it facilitates fetch.  Long tall dude veterans will know whatImsayin ha ha ha wipes corner of mouth.

While we're objectifying men (and they can shut up because 10 000 years of karma, bitch) can I just ask why they're all so fucking short these days?  Short and fucking dumpy.  When The Lovely R tries to buy a pair of skinny pants, they're always subtly distended at the waist to accommodate all these pseudoestrogenic doughboys and their childbearing hips.  Or it's the other thing and they're short and creepily overcut from 8763535272 hours per week of crossfit and all waxily hairless and roidy.  Shudder.  I blame too much paediatric screen time and free carbs; it's like no one's getting a chance to develop the fundamentals of physical righteousness any more, which is horribly sad. 

Does this explain the rise of excessive dandyism?  The obsession with applied detail rather than just rocking what your mother gave you?  I mean, it's not like I don't remember the vintage art-school proto-fop fondly but then their aesthetic was militant and served creativity rather than the plain vanilla boring sort of vanity we're seeing today.  That's a fuckload of difference.
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I know it looks bigger when you shave, but 'tis an illusion that serves no purpose and there is something both reassuringly adult and endearingly personal about pubes.  Which is perhaps why they've been so thoroughly abolished. 

Shit.  Now I'm dying for a fucking cigarette.  A handsome cigarette. 

Love Your Money: love this song, in retrospect though because I never caught it back in the day.  I can play the bass part (with a lot of help from ye olde Rat pedal + silver Fuzz) and that warms my inept cockles.

Sweetmeat:  Anthony Bourdain

14/4/2015

 
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Anthony Bourdain is that piece of black forest cake left out on the table amid the cigarette butts and empty bottles from the night before; you know you want it and you know you're going to regret it.  
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He is precisely the sort of nasty sub-prime intrinsic malcontent that always gets me seriously predatory and his concern-trolling of the dreadful Paula Deen was a masterclass in the correct treatment of egregious low-hanging fruit.  I love his nonhairdo, random tattoos and shabbylicious realness and treasure the idea that he'd make me some really great profiteroles if I blew him in the shower.  You couldn't take it home but why the fuck would you want to?

*   More sweet meat   *   Selected Ravings   *   Read the Book onsite   *   Best of the Blog   *


100 Hot Redheads- a pictorial.  Oh.  Hell.  Yes.  O_0

3/12/2014

 
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Sample: hot Spanish redheads.  Hot Spanish twin redheads.  No, don't thank me.

why are you still here?

GO THERE NOW.

liked this portrait by Anthony Amadeo

27/8/2014

 
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Jason Chipman Howlett  /   Anthony Amadeo 

Mens' hands.  And backs.  And shoulders.  
But especially hands.  
Those strangely industrial structures sliding under the skin of a good pair, dense and tight and yet still somehow elegant.  So absorbing and revealing.  So much of a person's inarticulate fundamentals can be read in their hands.  Proportions, routines, compulsions, inheritances, expediencies, preferences... they're all there.  
Have they ever lied to you?  I don't remember them ever lying, in my experience.  But I've made it my business to understand what they're telling me for a long time now.  There should never be too much distance between what the mouth and hands are saying.  

Sweetmeat- Daniel Craig

4/3/2014

 
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Why?
Because he's a troll.

And that's hot sometimes.  Facially, he's one thousand and one kinds of crusty angular too/not enough wrongness and is apparently a right bastard if you stroke his fur the wrong way during interviews.  I wouldn't be able to resist stroking it the wrong way.  Hard.
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From the chin down he's a dozen kinds of fuck yes, though.  Such thunderous masculinity.  Pondering that formidable definition always leads me to imagine expending a tremendous amount of duct tape on a rainy afternoon in a secluded hotel.  Tra la containment la la la.

Did you know he used to bang Kate Moss?  I'm not sure how I feel about that.  She's always seemed such a vacant lot to me, like something empty cans rattle across in a high wind.  
He's probably exactly the same, but I forgive his highly-polished arse because I'd like to fuck him.  Ahhh, hotness exemptionalist paradigm- where would our species be without you?  

*  Men- Nature's crowning glory.  Just ask one.  More handpicked hommes here   *


Sweetmeat: Lenny Kravitz

9/12/2013

 
Leonard Kravitz is a hot bitch.

He knows it; he's cool with it- I'm cool with that.  I'll always be a fool for (virtually) anyone with two barre chords and a nipple ring to rub together.  I applaud him, hair, no hair, brows, no brows, ladyshoes, no ladyshoes, pants, no pants...  There are worse things someone could say about you, but I do feel slightly guilty in my objectification of such conscious materia.  Do I care for his music?  Err... his what now?
(swabs keyboard)
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Sweetmeat: Ewan Mcgregor

26/9/2013

 
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If you're anything like me, by now you pretty much equate Ewan with gratuitous cinematic nudity.  His jovial, pro-femme attitude toward getting his junk out at every opportunity is certainly endearing, if not always exactly the sort of thing you want an eyefull of on a quiet saturday afternoon... but I would never hold that against him.  I don't always enjoy his performances and wish he would do more arthouse shit like Young Adam wherein he is induced/persuaded/required to act rather than grease along on the strength of that glassy-eyed suavité.  Charm is not always our best friend.

We are of a similar vintage and the fact that he's still perfectly eff-able makes me feel like there's still hope for my own degenerating materia.

Would I?  Hmmm.  The speculation surrounding his private life leads me to suspect that Ewan may be something of a dirty boy, so yessss... I probably would.

*   More selective objectification Here   *   Other ravings Here   *


Sweetmeat: Aaron Taylor-Johnson

9/9/2013

 
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Ah yesss... young Master Taylor-Johnson; he of the mythic beauty and infinitely fuckable physique.
I enjoyed him in Anna K and thought he brought a good deal of finesse to a role that could have strutted along on vanity alone, infusing Vronksy with a certain fragile sympathy.  Nice work.
He's just out of nappies, true, but we share hair and that means I go to the front of the line to suck jam
from his lower anterior median, bitches.  What?  

*   More hotness Here   *   And Here   *


Sweetmeat:  Vintage Christopher Walken

23/8/2013

 
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While I am sometimes disgusted to the point of generalized misandry with the masculine contingent as a whole, in truth I have always found myself far more at ease in the company of men than other women, gay, straight or misc.  I've never been sure why, but perhaps it is their guilelessness; that quality of succinct and unabashed simplicity that is such a hallmark of the worthwhile man.  They are children of privilege, by and large, born into a favour that, as women, we will probably never fully understand but sometimes... I forgive them.  

So I dedicate this series of lovingly-intended objectifications to the beautiful M, who never exhausted my regard.

Let's inaugurate this category with something for the connoisseur- Mr Walken.  Smooth but strange.

Yes I would.    

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