Baryshnikobviously

Hello again. Hello again, all TWO of our followers.

I thinking I'm just going to go ahead and call myself "Ché" on this blog. As in "Ché Guevara", the military theorist, guerrilla commander, probably misappropriated symbol of youth revolt, and martyred Marxist hero. I mean, for obvious reasons...besides the one where I already call myself that elsewhere on the Internet. So whenever you see "Ché" at the end of a post, know that the penman is...you know, me, Ché.  That is to say, the half of the partnership who prefers bigger, broader, older, less effeminate Men In Sweaters.  I'm Also the cooler one. *cough*

 I've been was thinking more than that, however. I was ALSO thinking that I'm a hilarious writer and ought to be a columnist for a flashy and hip, London rag.


Today's post is going to be about a ballet dancer, yet I'm still going to maintain my non-effeminate standard of man preference. I'm clearly going to maintain my high levels of offensiveness to those sensitive to gender issues, as well.  C'MON, you know I'm not really that bigoted about men. Not REALLY.

...*snicker*...


Anyway, to start, since sweaters are certainly more provocative than nudity,  here is what the testosterone-oozing, Russian/Latvian Ballet overlord looks like WITHOUT a sweater:

I wish I had a laser pointer right now so that we may go over each ripple and bulge to the extent which it is deserved. 

Speaking of bulge...that reminds me;

Oh, and Thanks to Richard Avedon and gracious, superior genetics, he sometimes looks like this:

...when not wearing a sweater.


And just so you can fully appreciate what you're looking at, from top to bottom:

Do you think he would mind if I sat on him while he did that? If I sat there on his rock hard bottom and rested my wineglass on his expertly pointed foot? Think he'd be upset? 

Now, here is our White Knight in various stages of what is very likely (but could be debated) sweater-dress. I've added captions to alert you more accurately to what I'm pretty positive he's thinking. 

Well, ok. I'm not going to write a caption here because he's incontrovertibly receiving fellatio. 

(he is happy about that.) 

"...Good girl. Now put on Joe Cocker and do a little dance like Kim Basinger did in 9 1/2 weeks. I'm going to sit over here, have a scotch, and look at you like this the whole time." Instead of autographing the photo, he autographs your hind-quarters. 

"Excuse me, WHERE is my breakfast? Get into the kitchen and don't come out until you have a plate of perfectly golden pancakes to serve me."

OR

"My God! You look so absolutely breathtaking I MUST have you. Now."

~~~~~~~~

On another note, I implore you to PLEASE study very closely the size and beauty of this man's hand. *looks incredulously at screen*

This is quite possibly the most pornographic photo of a man in a white button-down that's ever existed. And you KNOW how much I like me a dude in a crisp, condescending, white shirt. Look! Ooooh, boy. Vein-y, long-fingered hands...forearms... muscly shoulders begging to be freed from precisely dry-cleaned imprisonment...starched collar...brooding look. Cheese and Rice! CHEESE AND RICE!! 

And Finally:

You are welcome. 

~Ché

FIN