Suggested Audio Candy:

 

[1] Huey Lewis & The News “Hip To Be Square”

[2] Clarence Carter “Strokin”

 

 

Never let it be said that I’m not open to suggestion. Recently there has been a little unrest from certain quarters about the glaring omission of male torsos adorning my work. Anyone who has perused my archives will be only too aware of my fascination for the fairer sex, more often than not, in various states of undress. You got me red-handed ladies and the only thing I can say in my defense is “look a falling meteorite!” whilst running away in the opposite direction. I feel as though, should I bow down to their demands, then it will likely fuel their insatiable appetites further and I’ll spend a large chunk of my remaining time on earth sourcing images of battered weiners. However, I also believe stoutly that you should always respect your readership, thus I am left searching for that happy medium.

It’s a tricky one for sure. You see, I’m all about the female form and have no interest whatsoever in how alphas look without their garments on. Having said that, I am more comfortable in my skin than most, and can attest to this not being repressed feelings of homosexuality or, heaven forbid, prejudice. I am remarkably open-minded and believe it the only way to be. I also accept that the male body can be an object of desire too; it’s just that it doesn’t tickle my pickle is all. It would be all to easy for me to harp on about the supple curves of the fairer sex and provide a laundry list of reasons why my choices are justifiable but vilification awaits should I dare to go against their wishes. Thus, this article will feature no oily vixens or luscious breasts and, instead, it’s all about the alphas from hereon in. Wish me luck Grueheads; this may appear a picnic for many but may very well be my last supper.

As you should be very much aware by this point; Rivers of Grue is not ever bound by censorship. I made that decision before the concept had even formed as I believe in the freedom of speech and also that of expression. Therefore, I have a duty not to restrain, regardless of personal preference, and supply precisely what these angry birds have been chirping over. Anything less would simply not be Keeper. However, I will say this: I’m not taking another step without drawing a line in the sand. There will be no purple people eaters, no unrealistically proportioned hunks of mutton or penetrative screen savers. All shots shared must be tasteful and bear beauty, which is no different from when I include content for the males. I don’t get much joy from crooked gammon rifles that appear to have been savaged by famished dingoes. Testicles? Well they just never look appealing now do they? There’s a good reason they take a back seat as they are little more than a brace of disheveled brains in an ill-fitting burlap sack.

As for my own spam musket; I’m actually more than content. It is the correct coloration, meticulously pruned, clean as a whistle, and its solitary eye has 20-20 vision. I’m not going to sit here and blow smoke up your ass about packing more trumpet than any other man this side of the equator but it serves its purpose well enough. To be perfectly honest; I’m disinterested in brandishing a jack hammer, backed up two wrecking balls. Neither do I wish to fit to foot the bill for any vaginal reconstructive surgery after dropping anchor like a treacherous pirate. Everything downstairs is just as it should be; I’m jack of all trades and a master of cunnilingus should I not measure up. Far too much emphasis is placed on size anyhoots. What’s the point of wielding a 40lb spitting maul if you can’t even lift it from the floor? I’d rather have a rapier and know how to operate it.

To scribe this particular essay; I feel it necessary to be butt naked. I need to get a feel for the flesh as it is when I am most generous and honest. Thankfully, my seventy-year old mother is currently on a grocery run so I’ll lock the back door and leave the key in the lock, just to buy myself enough time should things turn awry. While fully mindful that she has seen it all before; it’s a far cry from the minnow she used to powder back in the seventies. Now that my environment is secure and no longer on the verge of compromise; I guess the best thing is to say what I see. The first thing I discern is that I really ought to get on the weights as I’m starting to resemble an area 51 reject. Once the initial shock has passed; my next consideration is the seven tattoos painted across my body. I obtained most of these after my first marriage spontaneously combusted and they each tell their own tale.

The rose on my forearm is laced with barbed wire and this speaks volumes for my nature. While I am welcoming and fragrant, openly unfurling for the pollination, I can snap shut in a heartbeat and bear my razor-sharp thorns should such be necessitated. I have two symbols on my right bicep; Chinese verse which, if the tattooist was kosher, should translate to “true, real, sincere, friend” and, if heinous, likely reads “I blow horses wearing red lipstick!” Then there is the dragon on my right shoulder-blade and, while I’d love to report that it represents my fiery rage, I actually just have a fondness for hydras. At the base of my spinal cord, just above my ass dimple, is the word pride and this one has actual meaning. I take humongous pride in everything I write and that never once falters. I had this tattoo long before becoming a scribe but time has been kind as my dignity is unswervingly intact.

Flip me over and you shall discern a banner sitting to the right of my navel, approximately an inch from the pubic region, which is frequently mowed and never allowed to simply run free. Originally this spelled out the name of my first wife but the word has now been replaced with a floral garland. Looks like I dodged a bullet there although I did learn a valuable thing about restraint from that particular escapade. We’re all young once thus I won’t blather on and, instead, would prefer to turn your attention southwards to the side profile of a naked vixen wielding a firearm painted on my upper left thigh. If you’ve read my Chicks With Guns article (link at the foot of the page) then you’ll know of my train of thought when getting this one inked. Soon I plan to have my pseudonym, Keeper, inked somewhere on my personage as I’ll never be inclined to fall out of love with my craft.

I once had my nipple pierced and there’s a story to put you off breast-feeding for the foreseeable. A few days after the ordeal, and I call it that as my tiny areola was not designed to be penetrated by alloy, I caught it on my driver side door when exiting my vehicle. This was a rudimentary error on my part and can only be put down to laziness as I have a tendency to open the door just enough to squeeze through by the skin of my teeth. One pluck and it was bye-bye nipple ring; my white T-shirt now had the appearance of a soiled tampon and that wasn’t even the half of it. My nipple retaliated that day and built a fortification around the afflicted area so as to protect from any subsequent ambushes. The human body is a marvellous thing but less so when you have a growth on the end of your nipple which resembles a magpie’s beak. Health care in the UK is free but a cosmetic procedure such as this is low priority so I carried that beak around with me for three solid years before finally being afforded laser surgery. Sometimes I miss my beak but mostly I just feel relief.

As already noted, my once reasonably muscular framework has been woefully neglected for the last couple of years. One time buff and toned; I ultimately had a disastrous disagreement with creatine when it began riling up my acid reflux. Evidently, should you not heed your body’s warnings for long enough, then this ailment will pay you a visit and, much as I would like to report it to be delightful, a throat full of undigested surplus doused in acidic bile really ain’t that pleasant. I know that I will be required to eat better, live a healthier lifestyle, resist diabetes, and fend off heart disease at some point should I not make some alterations to my lifestyle. But right now the only muscle I’m interested in accessing is the one in my cranium. I may be somewhat withered but my calves are strong and, as my dear grandmother used to say, I’ve got a knockout pair of pins. When you consider that my penis is both agreeably tidy and proportioned; that makes me rather hot property, from the waist down at least.

But my most seductive feature by far are my peepers. These whirlpools of cobalt light are offset by undercurrents of wanton desire. I have been known to maintain eye content unflinchingly during conversation, not ogling or commencing with psyche-out techniques, but with belief in my words and understanding of others. I do however, prefer to look away from negative souls as they drain my life-force and aren’t deserving of my fixation when spouting misplaced drivel and general unpleasantness. Should you agree to the terms of my gaze then you will befriend a pair of aquamarine optical sentinels, which can supply and demand warmth at will but also turn decidedly bleak when provoked. The eyes are regarded the windows of our soul and I second that emotion as that is how light gets in and out.

Anyhoots enough about me. Which, if any, alphas tickle the Crimson Quill? Now there’s a question to put me on the spot. I knew I would get asked that poser at some point but feel somewhat betrayed by myself as I’m the one who offered the elephant in the room a peanut. Puns aside, I have no issue with waxing lyrical on this particular topic as I’m at ease with my bi-curious percentile. 8% at last count and that makes it perfectly acceptable to speak of any bucks I wouldn’t mind double parking alongside, so long as space was allotted. You want an example? Ryan Gosling. There, not so much as a stammer. Come on fellas, you would right? Right? This guy is hot as fuck! There’s just no other way around it. Should his shirt become tattered during battle, then I would peek a look at his wash board abs, leaving myself wide open to incoming flurries from the enemy. Do I want to deep-throat his junk? Hell no. But he can gargle mine if me so wishes. Damn you honesty! DAMN YOU TO HELL!!!

I think I just heard my mother trying to gain access into the kitchen and that means time is of the essence. For all I know she could retrieve the stepladder from the tool shed and barrel roll into my bedroom at any given moment screaming “I know what you’ve been up to you grubby little man!” She may be a senior citizen but never put it past an old lady who has just spent thirty minutes queueing for groceries. Adrenaline overrides arthritis in such situations. Time to stow away the golden fleece before I have to deal with the gaze of Medusa and that’s one clash of the titans I could do without.

Click here to read Chicks With Guns