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Month: September 2011

I’m Still Here

I’ve always had good stamina.  But I never expected to last this long.

Seven years.

That’s how long I have been blogging.

Seven years, as of today.

On September 1, 2004 I really didn’t even know what blogging was.

Seems like everybody was doing it back then.  It was the big thing online at the time.

So, I decided to do it, too.

That was my old blog, LARGETONY | Blog, of course.

I started it to sort of help promote my website (which is also now a thing of the past) but it then grew into more of an outlet for me to write and just talk about stuff that was on my mind. The tone was more NSFW in nature than this blog, what with naughty posts, recurring features like Half Naked Thursday, Hump Day pictures of hot guys, and my obsession with Jake Gyllenhaal.

But as I grew up  ((I was still in my 20’s when I started.)) so did the blog in some ways.  Even though there was still the superficial, surface-y stiff, the focus of a lot of the posts shifted to the growing of my relationship with The Attorney.  My favorite of which, I think, is the one when Granny clued in on it.

Even my obsessions grew up from the boyish Jake to the more mature Hugh Jackman.  ((Being with the Attorney gave me a greater appreciation for an older man.))

It felt like I had pretty said everything I had to say in regards to being a libidinous1, semi-pornish goofball, so after exactly, as required by my OCD, four years on September 1, 2008, I decided to step away from blogging.

That lasted about four months.  By they start of the new year, I was missing the camaraderie of the blog-o-sphere and having a semi-regular writing outlet.  Held firmly in the grip of my order compulsions, on January 1, 2009 I opened up my world here west of Mayberry.

I had someone ask me a few days ago, in fact, why I call this blog what I do.  The title actually came froma post on the old blog about one of the simple pleasures of living in a small town in the Appalachians. A town like  Mayberry from the old Andy Griffith Show, which was inspired by a town east of here, over in North Carolina.

Therefore…West of Mayberry.

Although I have never been a prolific blogger2, my frequency has certainly diminished.

I think that’s true for a lot of personal bloggers. The interwebs3 is more about Facebook-ing, Tumblr-ing, and tweeting now.

None of which was around seven years ago.

I am starting to embrace those new platforms, too.  Similar to my reasons for beginning to blog back in 2004, I am attempting to promote my efforts as a T-Shirt entrepreneur.

But, although it may not be as often, sometimes I have things more important to say than what I can in 140 characters or less.

So, I’m still here.

{ fin }

  1. one of my favorite words []
  2. In the four years of the old blog I only had 530-odd posts, and in 2 1/2 years of this one, about 125, while some fellow bloggers are in the thousands in less time. []
  3. Another favorite word []

House Rules

Ssssh.  He’s sleeping.

About the only sound is coming from the clickity-tap on the keyboard.

And occasionally from his breathing.

It’s almost three AM and I am sitting in bed with my lap top and The Attorney.

He’s staying over the long weekend.

And we’re breaking the rules.

The other day, out of courtesy, I asked Granny if she minded if The Attorney spent the weekend with us.

Even though I pay all the bills and take care of everything, it still is her house, after all.  Plus, in the last few years, she has gotten real fussy1 about having people around.

Thankfully I caught her in good spirits and she was all about The Attorney being here.

But, she asked me which room I was going to put him in.

“I am happy to have him here, but I would prefer you two not be in the same room,” she said, matter of fact.


“And it’s not because you’re that way,”2 she explained. “It’s because you’re not married.  That wouldn’t be right.”

I’m still trying to decide whether she really was really having a contradiction in her old-fashioned values or if she was pulling my leg.

Either way, I didn’t put The Attorney in my room.

I put him in the bigger bedroom.

If we’re going to break the house rules, we may as well be comfortable.

{ fin }

  1. and unpredictable []
  2. Old lady speak for ‘gay.’ []

Be There In Morning

It’s interesting what you don’t do when you have all the time in the world to do it.

Like I mentioned in the previous post, The Attorney spent the long holiday weekend with me and Granny.

This was new for us.

Somehow1  in four years, The Attorney and I have never spent four whole days together at once.

I’m not sure what I expected the weekend to be, but it was interesting to discover what it wasn’t.

Normally when we get together -usually for a few hours or, at best, the better part of a day – there has been a subtle undercurrent of urgency about our meetings.  You know, do what we need to do because we only have “X” amount of time to do it.

It’s more relaxed when you know “he’ll still be there in the morning.”

It took not having time constraints to make me realize it.

The weekend had a certain ease that, while it may not be clear at particular moments, was probably reflective of our relationship overall.

He went on his runs. I worked on my T-shirts designs.

Together we cooked, together we cleaned.

Together we read books in bed.

He read about Andrew Jackson.  I read about Tina Fey.

He’d fall asleep long before me.  I was awake long before him.

He was surprised to find I don’t drink coffee in the mornings.

I was surprised to find that he didn’t know that.

Together we walked in the rain.

Together we got drenched.

Together we toweled off.

Together we got off.

Together we did what we do best together.

Individually we did what we do best alone.

Whatever we did, together or alone, we did when it felt like the time to do it.

We both had comfort in knowing, “he’ll still be there in the morning.”

Which is how I think it will always be for us.

Even if the morning is a few days, or sometimes weeks, away.

Maybe that’s why morning is my favorite time of day.

{ fin }

  1. A combo of distance, work schedules, and caring for Granny. []

Choices, Happiness, and How It All Began

I’m fascinated by how something as solitary as writing becomes so communal once it is published.

The individual experience somehow becomes a shared one with those who read it.

Sometimes to the point where the reader takes on the experience from their own perspective.

This is especially true of blogs, I think.  Because of being a social platform by nature.

I was struck by this whole concept due to some comments on my last post.

The one about the long weekend with The Attorney.

It’s interesting to see where the differences are in what people actually read and what they may read into it.

Probably what struck me most was the perception that I am putting my life and happiness on hold by being a caregiver for Granny.

I suppose on some level my life is on hold.  There are things that I may not be able to fully explore for a few more years, but to say my happiness is on hold…couldn’t be more wrong.

I think anybody who has read this blog, or the old one, for any reasonably substantial amount of time knows that I am, all in all, a pretty happy guy.

It’s just part of how I like to live life. Even if the life may be somewhat on hold.

I believe we control our own happiness.

Sure, there are things and people and situations that can contribute to our happiness, just as those very same things contain elements that could bring us down.

It’s just a matter of which we want to embrace.

Me? I like to hang my hat on the good stuff.

That’s not to say I ignore the bad stuff.  That would be reckless and irresponsible.  I just don’t let it dominate me.

Besides, who hasn’t had to put some aspect of their life on hold for some reason at some point in time?  Whether it’s short term, long term, or indefinite.

If you haven’t, then you’ve never stood for anything in life.

Someone commented that it was time for me to make a choice between living my life and taking care of Granny.

There isn’t a choice to be made.   Taking care of Granny for as long as I am able is not a choice.

It’s simply what I do.

You don’t choose.

You do.

And so it goes with The Attorney.

We do.  We do what works.

It’s unconventional and imperfect.

But it works.

For us.

And I’m pretty sure that ultimately, the only ones it has to work for is us.

If you think about it, every relationship is unconventional.  Because every relationship is unique.

Each one has it’s own set of quirks, compromises, rituals, and codes.

What’s the old saying?

Relationships are like snowflakes.  Everybody has one.  And they make an ass of you and me.

Something like that.

Just because a duck isn’t walking the way you think a duck should, doesn’t mean it’s not a duck.1  It could mean you just haven’t paid attention to all the kinds of ducks there are.

Or it could just have a bum leg.

And that doesn’t mean he’s not a happy duck.

I did have one commenter ask about how The Attorney and I got together.  I told the stories about the the two times we first met, in detail on the old blog, around the time it occurred.  But I can give a recap here.

I say “the two times we first met,” because a long time went by in between.  We sort of had two beginnings.

What gives me a sort of “meant to be” feeling about us is that both times we met in places that neither of us frequented much.

The first first time we met was in at a gay bar on Good Friday.  Neither of us is the bar type, so it was a nice coincidence.  He thought I was bi-sexual and thought he’d get a foot in the door if I thought he was.   I guess it worked because we went to his house, where we hot-tubbed and he made us a 2AM breakfast before I headed back to the mountains.

That was it.

Nothing more than some kissing2 and a phone number.

He gave me his.  I did not give him mine.

So, the ball was left in my court.

Even though I felt a connection, I also felt like I was not in his league.  So, I never called.  I dropped the ball.

Fast forward about 18 months to the second first time we met.

This time it was at Walgreen’s.

A particular Walgreen’s that neither of us had been in before.  It was almost like Fate was forcing us together.

The attraction was still there, if not even stronger.  We reconnected and he pressed me to agree to go out with him in the near future and to give him my number.

I did both.

Not long after that, we went on our first official date.

To the movies.

And so it began.

{ fin }

  1. Or is a duck with a secret family. []
  2. and clarification of sexual identities. []

Davey’s Got Back

30+ Day Challenge – Part 29 : An art piece (painting, drawing, sculpture, etc.)

I got stalled again on the challenges.

This one held me up because I really don’t know anything about art.  Not to speak about it with any authority, anyway.

I thought of a couple of paintings I like.  But I’ve written about them before.

I thought of a couple of drawings that were given to me a few years ago.  But, I’ve written about them, too.

That left me with sculpture and “etc.”

About the only sculptures that came to mind were things like the Stature of Liberty, Lincoln’s statue at the Lincoln Memorial, and Michelangelo’s David.


Of course.

What ‘mo doesn’t know about David?

The original A&F boy.

Seriously. Just imagine him in low-slung board shorts and  flip-flops, with his tousled curls, hairless six-packed torso, and non-threatening pecker.

Which lead me to think, like I think of most A&F models, David must be a bottom.  Or at least the twink that Michelangelo had pose for him was.

Which got me wondering why there are never pictures of the statue’s backside.

That’s what I would want to see if I ever went over to Italy.


Smooth, marbled ass.

That’s what I want to see on an A&F model, too.

I’ve always been of the minds that the best A&F model is the one walking away from you.

For more than one reason.

So, I looked around the interwebs and I found a photo of the statue from behind.

Not bad.

In fact, pretty damned good.

I’d ride that around the block a time or two.

I wonder if  Michelangelo did.

And it’s not lost on me that that pretty rump is poised over wood.1

That’s the thing about great works of art.

They make you wonder what the artist is trying to say.

{ fin }

  1. Nobby wood at that. []

Talent Search

30+ Day Challenge- Part 30 : A talent of yours

If I had done things right, this would be the last of the challenges.  But really I am only about half way through.

That’s because I took questions from three or four different blog challenges and grouped them into my own list, and ended up with 60 questions.

Seemed like a good idea at the time.

I also thought that I would do a challenge topic on any day that I didn’t have something else I wanted to write about.

My plan was to be through all 60 by mid-March.

Last March.

And here it is barreling down on October.

But, the list isn’t going to get finished by sitting here whining about it.

So, topic # 30: Talent.

I’m not so sure I really have a talent.

I think I have some skills at things.

But I think talent is something that is just in you. Not something you learn. You learn skills.  Skills enhance talent.

I can’t sing. I can’t can’t dance.

I can’t juggle or eat fire.

I can draw a little bit.  But not enough to call it a talent.

Sometimes not enough to even call it skill.

I’m a pretty good cook.

But only because of learning from Granny or using recipes. Although I might adjust or change something about a recipe.

Again, not talent.

I guess if I could really claim any talent, it would be that I seem to have a facility for writing.

I get a lot of nice compliments about it anyway.

Folks seem to like it.

But, I’m sure there’s plenty of folks who don’t have the same opinion.1

But that’s the thing about talent.

It’s subjective.

One of those “eye of the beholder” kind of things.

Whatever it is that you do, if you get a kick out of it, the most important thing is that you do it.

Not give it a label.

{ fin }

  1. And that’s okay. []

Fabulous Baker Boy

30+ Day Challenge – Part 31: A recipe

I made The Attorney a couple of batches of snickerdoodles this evening.

A friend of mine asked me “why,” like it’s a special occasion.

“Because he likes them,”  I said.

Isn’t that reason enough?

Besides, I like to bake.

Actually I love it.

I joke that I’m a bit of a closeted sissy in that regard.

Now, before you get all riled up,remember I said I joke.  I know that there is nothing sissy about baking and that many, if not most, of the great chefs are men, blah, blah, blah.  But, I don’t think too many of them can be found around East Tennessee.

Around here men do the cooking over open flame and hot coals.

I do that kind of cooking, too.  I love to grill.

But, I love baking more.

Mostly I like baking cakes and cookies.

I don’t get into pies too much.

Mostly because I don’t personally care for pie.

And that’s because I don’t care for fruit that has been cooked.

I eat apples daily, but thought of an apple pie makes me queasy.

It’s the texture.

It’s like all the life gets cooked out of fruit.

Southern folks are known for cooking everything until it is limp.

I don’t care for much of anything limp, either.

If I make a pie, it’s going to be something dense and fairly solid.

Like pecan pie.

Or bread.

I know bread is not supposed to be dense and solid.

But mine is.

I suck at baking bread.

Granny used to make the most incredible yeast rolls every Sunday dinner.  I can’t seem to recreate them.

No matter how many times I’ve tried.

Nor no matter how many times she tried to teach me.

So, I stick to the baked goods I do well.

Like my oatmeal cookies.1

I shared that recipe on my old blog several years ago, along with a how-to while horny.2

I was going to post it again, but then the topic popped up in the challenge on the same day as making the snickerdoodles.

It seemed like a sign.3

Traditional snickerdoodles are sprinkled with cinnamon.

And that’s the way The Attorney like them.

I’m not a big fan of cinnamon, so I decided to also do some flavored with lemon instead.

That’s the recipe I’m posting.

If The Attorney doesn’t like them that way, he’ll still have his cinnamon batch, and it’ll just be more for me.

But he better like them.


2 sticks of butter, softened
1 1/2 cups of sugar
2 large eggs
2 3/4 cups flour
2 T lemon juice
1 T lemon peel
2 tsp cream of tartar
1 tsp baking soda
1/4 tsp salt

  1. Mix butter and sugar with mixer
  2. Add eggs, mix
  3. Add lemon juice and lemon peel, mix
  4. Mix flour, baking soda, and salt in separate bowl
  5. Add dry ingredients to first mixture, about a third at a time
  6. Chill batter on refrigerator at least an hour.  Better overnight.
  1. Preheat oven to 400
  2. Use a spoon to take chunks from dough and roll into 1-inch balls
  3. Roll each ball in bowl of sugar
  4. Place on ungreased cookie sheet
  5. Bake for 10 min
  6. Immediately transfer from pan to rack to cool.  Be careful because they are real soft.
  7. Cool for 10 min
  8. Store in airtight container.
  9. Enjoy

{ fin }

  1. My favorite. []
  2. another favorite. []
  3. My OCD gets a hard-on for symmetry in the universe. []

Speak Porno. Don’t Listen.

Do you do playful or dirty talk in the sack?

You should.

I do.

Do you ever think later about some of the things you said in the heat of the moment?

You shouldn’t.

I did.

A friend of mine was telling me the other day about some of the sexy talk his boyfriend does while they are getting busy.  Being neither the recipient or the deliverer of the speech, the words made me laugh instead of playing to my libido.

Especially out of context.1

So, it made me think about some of the things I say.

I’m definitely guilty of porno speak.  Telling The Attorney, “Get over here and get you some, boy,” seems like a good idea when I’m boned up and he’s standing across the room in his underpants.

“Who else can hit you there?” can sound nice an dirty when you’re in deep and scraping the sidewalls.

A couple of days, hours, or sometimes minutes later it only sounds goofy.

Ya’ll are probably having a good laugh at my expense right now.  And I’m not going to embarrass myself by typing the truly dirty stuff.

Because it only gets more goofy.

Like I’ve just delivered a fresh pizza.

This is not to say that I’m going to stop dirty talking.  I’m all about getting close to ear and growling out what I’m about to do, how I’m going to do it, and sometimes finish with a boastful “I told you so.”

Porno speak is something you should only do under the influence.  Whether it’s the influence of liquor or lust.

And I’m gonna keep on doing it.  ((I don’t really think I could make myself stop.)) But I’m going to take my own advice and not think about it after the fact.

You should do the same.

After all, people who live in glass houses order pizza, too.

And think twice before you film it.

You’re just gonna sound goofy with bad lighting.

{ fin }

  1. I think that’s why I always find porno dialog so funny. []