Chris Geary

I just returned from a whirlwind 56-hour vacation in New Orleans, getting only (tops!) six hours of sleep over the duration.  But before I drift off to restorative nappy-time and then begin a no-butter-and-bread, absinthe-anonymous, and etouffee-free diet to save my louche, gluttonous, and kink-exhausted soul, I want to share a quick sense-impression with you guys.

Saturday whilst getting my buzz on with a friend at Pat O'Brien's, turning our lips pink on Hurricanes, I got my fill of eye candy in two guys sitting at the next table, easily spied over my friend's right shoulder.  One guy was a handsomer, less gaunt version of Lance Armstrong, and his friend was the spitting image of UK fitness model, photographer, rugby player, and amateur wrestler Chris Geary, except that the faux Geary had, if anything, huger, rounder, harder muscles to stretch his T-shirt in every direction.

I made brief and inconsequential eye contact with the Lance lookalike, but the real impact was purely imaginary, as I hastily composed a fantasy of the two handsome blonds stripping down and grappling for top in O'Brien's fire-breathing fountain--or, better, teaming up to hop into the ring and beat me black and blue for being the cowardly jobber heel I am capable of being from time to time.

But the fantasy reminded me that the real Geary, 33, 5'11", 190#, (pictured above) has been strangely and unforgivably absent from these pages thus far, an omission all the more regrettable given the Bristol stud's importance to my wrestling fantasies five or six years ago.  And however much you love or hate his wrestling prowess, Geary is the standard bearer of all that's right and admirable about England's gay scene for the past ten years.

Not to worry for me, though, dear readers:  fantasy approached reality (or is it vice versa?) with two entirely-by-chance encounters with a handsome, long-haired German at Cafe Lafitte's in Exile--the second of which meetings produced, so my friends averred, visible sparks in the space between us, and a beefy catch-weight dancer's pitch to provide "any assistance" I might request of him, while groping my cock through my jeans and all but busting out my two front teeth with his 750ml hard-on.  (No, fellas, no photos on this.)

Capping off the vacation, in the wee hours of this morning, I watched two bartenders playfully and affectionately tussle at Good Friends Bar on Dauphine Street.  When I complimented the bigger of the two guys on his wrestling talents, he promised to body slam the other guy on top of the bar, but, sadly, never followed through on the boast.