Kilts and Budgy Smugglers

An irresistible combination.  [From the Budgy Smuggler website]

Boardies vs Budgies

A perennial Ozzie debate, in another article from The Age.  


Some quotes from the piece:

Halle Berry's infamous swimsuit scene in Die Another Day sent jaws to the floor, but what was more surprising was the equal amount of attention paid to Daniel Craig when he strutted his buff stuff in a pair of tight, blue trunks in Casino Royale.
Referred to as a “Euro swimsuit” by those of us living outside of the perennially frisky and fun EU, men and women around the globe were in a tizz about just how well he managed to squeeze his fine form into but a cough of nylon and spandex. Most impressive, he helped make the boardie and budgie smuggler hybrid stylish again.

and

Then we have boardies. Longer styles are also a popular choice, but make sure they sit above the knee and aren't too boxy unless you want people thinking your mum picked them out for you.

and 

One of the only upsides to our nation's crippling propensity towards developing skin cancer is that T-shirts are an acceptable and complimentary addition to this look. A blessing in disguise for those wanting to conceal the chunk.

and 

Design-wise, board shorts emblazoned with the Australian flag are standard issue for English backpackers but give off a certain bogan vibe when worn by residents. National pride is one thing but thanks to the Cronulla riots the image has now been coopted by a xenophobic contingent who've ruined it for everyone else. So, either sport it with a horrific sunburn and British passport in hand, or have courage in what will most likely be perceived as your racist convictions.

Thanks the the article I discovered two unknown (to me) Ozzie swimwear manufacturers:  Mahjii and Tribe.  

Some pics

Majorca Flats -- 76

He lay down and on his stomach, to give his back a bit of a tan.

“You should go to Sydney if you can,” said Graeme. “And the south coast of New South Wales. It's lovely. Glorious beaches, clean and empty.”

“Better to go with someone. One would get lonely otherwise.” Graeme noticed that Jason said 'wonn' not 'wunn'.

“You don't have anyone? Someone as handsome and well-built as you?”

Jason looked away. “No. No one.”

“Ah.” Graeme was tactfully silent.

“Anyway, I must save some money. I don't have much.” Well, that wasn't true, was it? he reflected. I have a fortune in my trust account, I have the flat in London, the cottage, my shares. But that was all past, over, done with. He wondered what the trustees would do with the money. Mr Ledwitch, such a desiccated and archetypal family lawyer, the elegant pin-stripes he wore dusty and respectable even when they were new. He'd always been kind to Jason when Jason had been a boy. Jason's uncle Ted, inclined to bluster and lecture, but also very fond of Jason. Jason's father.

What would they do?

Not my problem, he thought.

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Sydney Roosters

They're a Sydney rugby team.

This is a photo of them on a triathlon training run/swim on a foggy day in Sydney.


The usual disclaimer: though we're ogling them, it doesn't make them gay. And you can't pick up gay cooties from being looked at.  Or can you????


[Here's another Roosters post]

Majorca Flats -- 68

In the menswear section there were board shorts, not famous brand names, but colourful and rather nice. They were $30 each. There was a rack of swim briefs, in black and navy, and they were half the price. Conscious that he had to be careful with money, Jason shrugged and bought a pair of the navy Speedos. $15 saved was money for food and drink, and he was used to wearing swim briefs for his school's swim team. At the checkout he also bought some suntan lotion. He'd been burnt before, on a holiday to Greece with when he and Brent had gone there on holiday once.

It had been a marvellous holiday. Memories of sun-kissed beaches and translucent seas were intertwined with images of him and Brent at dinner with a bottle of wine, Brent's eyes filled with laughter and love, his skin glowing from a day in the sun, and then later, making love and Brent tasting of salt and sweat and happiness. Of course, that was where the trouble began, and once again Jason castigated himself for not seeing what was happening sooner. His own blindness, his own assumptions, and then, fatally, his own arrogance. How he wished, with all his heart, that he could do it over, and this time do it better.

These bleak reflections made him want to go home and hide, but there was no home any more, and he had nowhere to hide. So he forced himself to keep going, and went looking for the number 1 tram to the beach.

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It's Time (A Story)

It’s time

This morning I dreamt about you, for the first time in a while. It was that bleak hour before sunrise, before the alarm goes off, when one lies in bed, contemplating the horrors of the day to come – the dark expanse of work; and facing facts; and being nice to co-workers, when all you want to do is die. You looked thoughtful, but happier than I’ve seen you for ages. I’m glad, if it’s true. Who knows, with dreams? Sometimes they seem so fucking real. Your hair, my darling, has a few grey streaks now. It’s not quite as black as it was in that photo of the two of us at our ‘commitment ceremony’. (What a stupid expression! Just because narrow-minded bigots won’t let us be married! “Marriage,” they portentously prate, “is between a man and a woman.” But then, it would have made no difference in the end, would it?)

Anyway, you were in the scarlet Budgy Smugglers I gave you. Do you remember how shy you were to wear them? You Americans are so prudish. You were amazed at how many straight Ozzies wore swim briefs – including some who shouldn’t! In the end, I had to hide your horrible baggy shorts (the kind you guys prefer) and threaten you with dire punishment if you didn’t wear the Speedos just once. Of course, you looked sensational in them, as I knew you would. Just looking at you made me want to eat you, never mind take you back to the cottage and pound you into the mattress. You have a lovely body, not over-muscled, but slim and shapely. You looked stunning in your Ozzie cozzie.

And afterwards, we did go back to the cottage, and I wanted you so much I didn’t bother to take it off. I fucked you right there over the back of the sofa, just pulling down the seat of the cozzie and sliding in, barely bothering to lube up. You grunted a bit. I’m sorry, love, often I wanted you so much I didn’t prep you properly. Though on that occasion, I hit the spot right away (sometimes I wasn’t so skillful – do you remember?) and you climaxed before me, and your pleasure took me over the edge too. You filled the Speedo’s pouch with your jism. We went for a swim straight afterwards, without bothering to shower or change. Later we made love again, only this time, we took our gear off, and you fucked me. Your skin tasted of the sea, salt and sand and sunshine. Did you know – but of course you do, for I often told you – that you were the first man to give me a hands-free orgasm? I’m still amazed at just how erotic it was, that first time, when I felt my insides explode into pleasure, and you grinned down at me, so proud and pleased and full of love, one hand on my shoulder, the other caressing the legs wrapped round your waist.

It’s funny that you were wearing the Speedo cozzie in the dream, because you don’t have it, do you? I found it a few months ago, in among my undies. How on earth did it get there? It still smelt of you, the rich musk of rectal mucus and the dried apricot of balls and cock, faded and dusty, but so real. I suppose I could have jerked off while I smelled it. I didn’t have the heart.

For some reason, in the dream, even though you were in your swim briefs, you were playing Rachmaninoff, but on a concert grand, not our old upright. ‘Rach’ you call him, as if he were an intimate friend. I watched you pour your heart and soul into the slow movement of the second piano concerto, and it was unbearably moving. And very erotic – how absurd is that? You struggled at that place you always have difficulties, and you sighed and stopped. I used to hate it when you did that, when you were still with me. It was no different in the dream. I knew better than to try to console you, so I made us some tea (you developed such a passion for Ozzie tea! Do you still take it now, back in America? Or have you gone back to that vile muck they sell in Starbucks?)

I’m taking a long time with this, amn’t I? Sorry. You’ll remember what a gabber I was, except toward the end, when silence seemed better. Anyway, in the dream, I wanted you so much, I hugged you and tried to kiss you, and you said “Get off, you ugly old queen,” and pushed me away. Of course, you never said that in real life, did you, though towards the end, I sometimes wondered what you truly thought. You stopped telling me how ‘noble’ my expression was, how much I turned you on. But you never actually said to my face, that I was ugly or fat or old or a queen. So that was probably me, my own horrible insecurities and feelings of inadequacy. That won’t surprise you, naturally.

In your last email you were relentlessly jolly. Rather arch, in fact, which isn’t like you. I guess things aren’t quite working out as you thought they would. Or maybe you feel you must humor me, be kind to me. A sort of partial compensation for breaking my heart, the consolation prize as it were. You were always a kind, thoughtful bloke. That was what drew me to you in the first place, when we met on the tram, not your handsome face, your gorgeous nose, your soft brown eyes or your mobile, unutterably sexy mouth. It was your gentleness and generosity and simple human goodness. Heaven knows, there isn’t enough of any of those things in the world. Sometimes you can see into someone’s heart from the first moment you meet them.

We never had an ‘un-commitment ceremony’. Too dispiriting, neh? But I think, after this dream, it’s time. Not an exorcism. More a coming-to-terms. Of course, you won’t be there, but I think I’ll drive down to the cottage and drink a glass or two of red, and say a proper requiem for our marriage and our love. I’m reading Turgenev again. His celebration of the power of love moves me so much, and I agree absolutely with his belief that it is only love that makes death and loss bearable. He should know, after all – he was hopelessly in love with a woman he couldn’t marry. Yet, somehow, he was happy. But then, they remained intimate friends all their lives.

I’ll put this letter with all the others in the drawer with the photos and your ring (I still wear mine) and the card you gave me on the first anniversary of our marriage.

It’s time for my weekly email to you. Of course, I shall tell you that I am happy, and that I’m dating again. You always did worry. I think the worst thing about us now is, not that you broke my heart, or that you broke your solemn promises, or any of that stuff, but that we lie to each other.

All the best, my dear, as ever. Thinking of you.

© 2010 Nikolaos Thiwerspoon. All rights reserved.
Romantic m2m novels and short stories
http://nickthiwerspoon.wordpress.com/

http://Nikolaos-Thiwerspoon.blogspot.com

Budgie Smugglers

The Ozzie term for male swimbriefs is budgie smugglers.  Classic Ozzie self-mockery:   if you're wearing swimbriefs it looks as if you're hiding a small bird down the front.  Forget 8 inch cocks with the thickness of beer cans.  All you've got mate, is a budgie. (Ain't that the truth!)

Originally Speedo was an Ozzie company, founded in the late 20s in Bondi (pron. Bond-eye) in Sydney. They were sold off to an American conglomerate in the late 80s.  Design moved to America and Speedo immediately lost the plot, dumping colour for dull blacks and navies, and adding shorts and board shorts to their range. As an Ozzie company, Speedo had huge panache and pzazz, because Ozzie men were considered very sexy in England and America at the time.  They still are, actually.  (Your correspondent colours modestly and looks away.)  As an American company, Speedo gradually became less and less sexy.  For a while there was no one to fill the gap.   Then two new Ozzie companies started to make traditional Ozzie bathers, filling the gap created by Speedo's move towards irrelevancy: Aussiebum and Budgy Smuggler.

I like wearing swimbriefs to do laps in.  Shorts are wet and clammy and drag in the water.  They take forever to dry.  Swimbriefs are easy to wring out, dry quickly, and don't leave your whole sports bag sodden.  Oh, and on the right person, they're sexy as.   When I'm at the beach, I wear bathers underneath shorts, and drop the shorts just before I go into the sea to swim.  After my swim, I sit on my  towel in my budgie smugglers till they're dry then put the shorts back on. 


I ended up a few years ago buying some Budgy Smugglers.  I like their slightly higher waist (compared to Aussiebum briefs), the material (which isn't  lycra or nylon but is a sort of long-lasting stretchy polyester) and the styles.  I also prefer the roomier fit.  I bought a couple of pairs to wear as undies and to swim in (for a while I was doing 0.8 km a day).  I also like the fact that they use hot but ordinary guys as models.  Makes you feel their magic might work for you too. Only criticism: they're probably half a size too big.  If you like your briefs snug, then buy a size down.

Apparently budgie smugglers (even if you call them Speedos) are back in fashion. 

Adam Linforth (Budgy Smuggler owner) is the bloke at the front. Hmmm.

They were the first major sponsor from outside the writing world to support Wilde Oats, so I'm glad to give them a plug here by way of a thank you.

Budgy Smugglers home page is here.  They ship worldwide.

Aussie Speedo Guy

This is a blog I read every once in a while. It's written by a fellow bisexual Ozzie, though he seems to be much more of a jetsetter and far more glamorous than I am!

He, like me, shares a fascination for what are called Speedos (whichever manufacturer makes them.) There's something about the thin layer between you and the world, about the hinting and concealment, about the key parts of the body hidden by those small scraps of fabric that make them very sexy. Proving I suppose that the biggest sex organ is the mind.

The pic of the nude guy shooting..... champagne! .... is from his blog, as is the guy in his 'speedo' (actually an AussieBum, I think) playing cricket. This bloke has to be Ozzie -- in England the weather's too bad to play cricket wearing just a pair of swim briefs, in America they don't play cricket and are in any case squeamish about short bathers, and in South Africa, cricket is no longer the popular sport it was. And anyway, I can see the Norfolk Island Pines in the background.


Just though I'd give you the head's up on his site. He's done me some favours in the past.

[Update:  The bullying Speedo corporation has forced Dave Evans to close down his Aussie Speedo Guy blog and website.  You can still find it here, though]