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Cool Hand Luke (1967) - Ralph Waite 

You know what, I would fuck a young Ralph and Paul Newman is not out of the question either.

Philippe of Belgium King of the Belgians

King Philippe and Queen Mathilde gathered at the Cathedral of St. Michael and St. Gudula in Brussels for the annual Te Deum Service, held as part of Belgium’s National Day 2026 celebrations.

And this is not me trying to check out the king's ass. 😁

Chapter One: Dressed to Kilt

Featuring Actor Brian Cox

The 2006 “Dressed to Kilt” fashion show in New York thrummed with the raw energy of Tartan Week, a celebration of Scottish heritage. The runway was a parade of kilts—celebrities young and old, strutting in plaid, their legs bared to the delight of the crowd. Among them, Brian Cox, the Dundee-born actor, commanded attention. At 5'7", his stocky frame carried a broad chest with sparse, wiry hair and a solid, rounded midsection that spoke of a life well-lived. His rugged face, weathered by time, bore piercing blue eyes, a strong brow, and a sharp, expressive mouth framed by neatly styled gray hair. Tonight, he wore a black jacket over a red and black striped shirt, paired with a traditional Scottish kilt in green, black, and purple plaid. Knee-high black socks and red shoes with dark accents completed his look. His gravelly voice and fiery charisma, honed in the pubs and theaters of Scotland, made him magnetic. Twice married, now to Nicole Ansari-Cox, with four children, Brian was a force.

Courtney, a 25-year-old in the audience, couldn’t peel his eyes away. At 5'10", he had a lean, athletic build, his smooth, tanned skin catching the light. His tousled dark brown hair fell just above hazel eyes that glinted with mischief. A sharp jawline and freckles dusting his nose gave him a boyish charm, offset by the confident set of his shoulders. Dressed in a fitted black blazer, white shirt, and slim navy trousers, Courtney was polished yet approachable. Beneath, his 8-inch cut cock—light shaft, slightly pink head, moderate girth, with medium-large balls—stirred as he watched Brian’s thick calves and thighs flex with each step. Courtney’s weakness for strong legs had him hooked.

Their eyes locked briefly as Brian, with a devilish smirk, teased the crowd by lifting his kilt, flashing a glimpse of skin. Women cheered, tucking dollars into the models’ socks. As Brian and others flashed the audience before exiting, Courtney’s arousal surged, forcing him to slip away to the bathroom to regain control.

In the restroom, Courtney stood at a urinal, his hard cock making it impossible to piss. The door swung open, and Brian Cox himself stepped in, taking the urinal beside him. Courtney’s heart thudded. He gripped his 8-inch erection, mortified, as Brian casually pulled out his 6-inch uncut cock—a light shaft with a rosy, apple-red head, medium balls nestled in a weathered, fair sack. Courtney stole a glance, mesmerized by the thick, veined shaft and the way the foreskin hugged the glistening tip. It didn’t help his situation.

“Caught yer eye, have I, lad?” Brian’s Dundee accent rumbled, laced with amusement.

Courtney, flushing, finally managed to piss. “Sorry, sir… didn’t mean to stare.”

“Dinnae fash yerself. I was a young buck once.” Brian grinned, extending a hand. “Brian.”

“Courtney,” he stammered, shaking it. “Big fan. Please don’t tell anyone I was… you know.”

“Yer secret’s safe, laddie,” Brian said, eyes glinting. Then, abruptly, “Ye’re gay, aye?”

“Yeah,” Courtney blurted, pulse racing.

“Fancy helpin’ me with a role, then?” Brian’s voice dropped, suggestive. “Somethin’… intimate.”

“What’s that mean?” Courtney asked, breathless.

“Do what feels right, son,” Brian said, stepping into a stall.

Courtney followed, locking the door. Brian hiked his kilt, revealing his cock, now half-hard, the rosy head peeking from its sheath. Courtney’s mouth watered. He lowered the toilet lid, sat, and leaned in, inhaling Brian’s musky scent—sweat, wool, and man. He took the head into his mouth, tongue swirling over the slick, velvety tip, coaxing the foreskin back. Brian groaned, his calloused hand resting on Courtney’s head.

“Fuck, ye’ve a wicked mouth, lad.”

Courtney worked slowly, savoring the salty tang, tracing veins with his tongue as he took half the shaft. Brian’s eyes burned into him, intense.

“Ye suck like ye were born for it,” Brian growled, his Scottish burr thickening. Courtney locked eyes, hollowing his cheeks, letting the cock slide deeper, the head nudging his throat. He gagged slightly but pushed on, wanting to please. Brian’s hips twitched, thrusting gently. “Aye, that’s it. Take it like a good lad.”

Brian’s grip tightened, and he began fucking Courtney’s mouth, slow but firm, his cockhead grazing the back of Courtney’s throat.

“Ye’re better than any lass I’ve had,” Brian rasped, his voice raw. Courtney moaned around the shaft, his own cock throbbing in his trousers. He pulled back to focus on the head, sucking hard, tongue flicking the slit, tasting pre-cum. Brian’s breath hitched. “Keep that up, and I’ll no last.”

Courtney wanted it. He sucked harder, lips sealed tight, tongue relentless.

“Fuck, I’m gonnae blow,” Brian warned, voice strained. He thrust forward, and hot cum flooded Courtney’s throat, thick and bitter. Courtney swallowed the first spurt, then let the second fill his mouth, pulling off to let some drip down his chin, slick and warm. Brian’s eyes darkened with lust.

“Ye dirty wee bastard,” he murmured, approving. Courtney slid the cock back in, milking the last drops until Brian shuddered, pulling away. “Enough, lad. Ye’ll kill me.”

Someone entered the bathroom, and they froze, bodies pressed close in the stall. The intruder left, and Courtney, rock-hard, whispered, “I want to fuck you.”

Brian’s brow arched, but he turned, lifted his kilt, and bent over, exposing a firm, pale ass dusted with gray hair. Courtney knelt, spreading Brian’s cheeks, and tongued his tight hole, lapping hungrily. The musky taste drove him wild as he probed deeper, wetting the ring until it softened. Brian moaned low, “Ye’re a filthy one, aren’t ye?”

Courtney stood, freeing his 8-inch cock, the pink head glistening. He pressed it against Brian’s slick hole, sliding in with surprising ease.

“Been here before, have ye?” Courtney teased, thrusting slowly. Brian chuckled, “Mind yer cheek, lad.”

Courtney gripped Brian’s hips, fucking him steadily, the stall creaking as he pinned the actor to the wall. The tight heat gripped his cock, and he spread Brian’s cheeks wider, watching his shaft disappear into the older man’s ass.

“Fuck, you’re tight,” Courtney gasped, pounding faster.

“Harder, ye wee shite,” Brian growled, pushing back.

Courtney obliged, his balls slapping Brian’s, the wet sounds echoing. The thought of fucking a legend like Brian Cox, his kilt bunched up like a whore’s skirt, sent Courtney over the edge. His cock pulsed, unloading deep inside, cum filling Brian’s ass until it leaked around his shaft, slick and obscene. He kept thrusting, milking every drop, until his cock slipped out, glistening with cum.

Brian straightened, grinning like a devil, and pulled his kilt down. He grabbed Courtney’s face, kissing him hard, tongue plunging in, tasting himself.

“Ye’ve done Scotland proud, lad,” he said, winking, and slipped out.

Boston Legal (TV Series) S1.E1 ’Head Cases’ (2004) - Philip Baker Hall

Billy Nungesser Lieutenant Governor of Louisiana

Billy looks so cute here. Plus, I love his shoes.

But I'm wonder if their a size too big for him.

Featuring Farmer and former United States Senator, Jon Tester

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN: Secret Hunger

The Senate grounds court still echoed with the slap of shoes and their ragged laughter as the cameras shut off. Sweat soaked through Jon Tester’s white shirt, clinging to the broad, solid frame of the Montana rancher. Thick arms corded from years of farm work, rounded belly pressing against the damp fabric, tails flipping out of his pants with every earlier jump shot and giving glimpses of that heavy midsection. Cowboy boots scuffed the pavement as he walked. Cory Booker, taller at six-three and leaner, his athletic muscular build glistening under the shirt and tie, broad shoulders rolling, firm rounded butt tight from workouts, couldn’t stop stealing glances.

Cory Booker, taller at six-three and leaner, his athletic muscular build glistening under the shirt and tie, broad shoulders rolling, firm rounded butt tight from workouts, couldn’t stop stealing glances. Tester had bumped into him hard during the game, throwing off his shots with that gritty physicality, body checking the New Jersey senator like they were still fighting Big Ag mergers instead of battling for net neutrality. Booker had always savored those accidental brushes during their legislative huddles: a firm hand on Tester’s thick shoulder, a playful shove that lingered a second too long. The urban vegan from Newark had been harboring a secret hunger for the gritty, ornery Democrat beside him for months.

“Damn, Tester, you play dirty,” Booker growled with a grin, wiping his brow as they walked back toward the quiet hallway leading to the offices. His rich baritone carried that polished New Jersey energy even through the heavy breathing. “Illegal in six states, you said? Felt like you were trying to body me off the court. That three-fingered grip of yours nearly took my arm off on the block.”

Booker’s heart hammered under the dress shirt. The playful trash-talk had always masked something deeper. He stopped them in the shadowed alcove off the corridor, voice dropping low and warm.

“Jon… I need to tell you something. All this time working together, fighting corporate consolidation in agriculture, filming these ridiculous videos, I’ve been fighting something else. I want you. Badly. Those little touches during markup sessions, the way you needle me and call me soft, it gets me hard every single time.”

Tester’s eyes widened, but a slow, knowing smirk spread across his weathered face, strong jaw working. His deep gravelly Montana drawl rumbled out plain and earthy.

“Well, hell. Didn’t expect that from Mr. Charisma. You offering what I think you are, Booker? Shit, boy, I felt those glances. Thought maybe you just hated losing.”

Booker’s dark brown eyes locked on him, sincere and hungry. He sank to his knees right there on the hard floor, the risk of discovery sharpening the thrill.

“Let me show you how much I’ve wanted this.”

He freed the rancher’s thick, veiny cut cock. It was already half-hard from the adrenaline of their game, roughly eight inches of solid meat with a slight upward curve and broad rosy head. Just the meaty build of a man who still ran the family organic farm near Big Sandy. Tester groaned low as Booker’s full lips wrapped around the broad head, the senator’s skilled mouth taking him deep with eager hunger. Booker moaned around the girth, savoring the salty taste of sweat and musk from the outdoor court, his powerful hands gripping Tester’s powerful meaty thighs. One hand drifted down to free his own thick, veiny cock, roughly seven and a half inches straight with a large head, already rock hard and leaking. He stroked himself in slow pulls, heavy balls swinging as he worked.

The Montana man didn’t hold back. He threaded the fingers of his good hand through the space where Booker’s hair would be on that shaved bald head and fucked his willing mouth with steady, deepening thrusts. Grunting with each push past those plush lips, balls slapping against Booker’s chin.

“Fuck, Cory… that mouth of yours,” Tester rasped, hips snapping faster, rounded belly bouncing lightly with the motion. “Takes cock better than any damn heifer I ever saw. You been starving for this country dick, ain’t you?”

Booker’s eyes watered but he urged him on, hollowing his cheeks, tongue swirling around the veiny shaft and probing the slit for more of that salty precum. He pumped his own cock harder, fist flying over the thick length, hips bucking into his grip while Tester used his mouth like a warm wet hole. Tester’s three-fingered left hand braced against the wall for balance, voice rough with earthy humor even in the middle of it.

“Shit fire, Booker, you keep sucking like that and I’m gonna paint your tonsils.”

Booker pulled off just long enough to gasp, “Yes, Jon. Fuck my face. Give it to me.”

Then he dove back on, taking the upward curve deep into his throat, gagging wetly around the broad head while he jerked himself faster, pre-cum slicking his fingers. Tester’s thrusts turned brutal, the solid meat of his cock pistoning in and out, heavy balls smacking Booker’s chin and lips. The rancher’s gravelly moans filled the alcove.

“Gonna come, you bastard. Take every drop.”

With a deep guttural moan, Tester came hard, flooding Booker’s throat with thick ropes of cum. Booker swallowed every drop, throat working visibly around the spurting head, his own fist flying until he erupted too, shooting thick jets across the floor between Tester’s cowboy boots. He pulled off only when Tester softened, a string of saliva and seed connecting his lips to the rosy head. Both men panted, sweat still cooling on their skin.

Tester helped Booker up with that strong callused hand and stole a rough kiss, tasting himself on the other man’s tongue.

“This ain’t a one-time thing,” he said, voice low and plain-spoken. “We find more time. Lots more. Next time I want that mouth again, then I’m burying this cock in that ass butt of yours. You hear me, Booker?”

Booker grinned, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, eyes bright.

“Deal, you mean, cantankerous, ornery son of a bitch. Same time next week after the Ag Committee meeting. I’ll be on my knees the second the door locks.”

They straightened their clothes, shirts still damp, ties crooked, and stepped back into the hallway like nothing had happened. The laughter from earlier still lingered in the air, now edged with something hotter and private.

Prince Richard, Duke of Gloucester Member of the British Royal Family

Charles III King of the United Kingdom

King Charles III, Queen Camilla, Prince Edward, Duke of Edinburgh and Princess Anne, Princess Royal arriving for the Garden Party in the gardens of the Palace of Holyroodhouse on June 30, 2026 in Edinburgh, Scotland.

Featuring Prince Edward, Duke of Kent and George Windsor, Earl of St Andrews

Chapter One: Mourning Comfort

At Wren House, Kensington Palace, the faded grandeur of the Grade II listed grace and favour property enveloped the scene like a threadbare tapestry. Antique chests of drawers bore framed photographs of family members, including the Queen Mother, silent witnesses to the unfolding drama. Days after the funeral of his beloved wife Katharine on 16 September 2025, Prince Edward, Duke of Kent, sat in his brown tweed checkered blazer, white dress shirt, pale yellow tie, light gray trousers, and dark brown loafers in the quiet sitting room. His frail, lanky frame relied on his malacca cane propped nearby. His very slender build, narrow shoulders, flat chest with pronounced sternum and ribs, spoke of decades of dutiful service, now etched with age spots and translucent veins on his thin skin. Beside him, James Cole, the American PR chief for His Majesty, cut a contrasting figure in his tailored charcoal suit, his muscular six foot one physique exuding confidence, with broad shoulders, defined chest, and tapered waist beneath.

That afternoon, James knelt before the grieving Duke in the sitting room. His piercing blue eyes locked on Edward’s pale blue ones as he prepared to offer comfort. He freed the royal’s uncut cock, the slender seven inch pale shaft rising from sparse greying brown hair. The long elegant foreskin fully covered the tapered pink head. James tugged the loose skin back and forth in slow teasing strokes, exposing the glistening head before leaning in.

He took the entire length into his warm mouth in one smooth glide, lips sealing tightly around the slim shaft. His tongue swirled around the sensitive pink head on every upstroke, flicking the frenulum and probing under the foreskin with deliberate care. Hollowing his cheeks, James created tight rhythmic suction while one hand continued stroking the base and gently rolling the low hanging wrinkled balls in their pendulous sac. He pulled off briefly to lap at the underside with broad flat strokes, then sucked each ball into his mouth, tonguing the loose sac thoroughly before diving back down with wet, slurping sounds.

“Dear God, Cole… that is most… accommodating,” Edward breathed in his crisp upper class Received Pronunciation, hips giving tiny involuntary pushes. “One has not felt such warmth since… well, one hesitates to recall youthful indiscretions in the Guards. Steady on with the tongue there… yes, just under the ridge.”

James hummed around the royal cock, the vibration drawing a quiet aristocratic whimper. He bobbed faster, saliva coating every inch, occasionally gagging softly as he took the full length, nose brushing sparse pubic hair. Edward’s veined liver spotted hand rested on James’s dark wavy hair, trembling with building pleasure.

“One is most grateful… you do that exceptionally well, my dear chap.”

Within minutes the Duke stiffened. “Cole… one is going to…”

He came with a shuddering sigh, modest, intense spurts that James swallowed greedily, milking every drop with his tongue pressed firmly under the head. Edward sat back, chest rising and falling, a faint satisfied smile on his thin lips.

“One is most grateful for your… discretion and skill. You are a comfort in these trying days.”

James helped clean and tuck the old prince away, straightening his clothes with care. Edward had just murmured another courteous remark when the door creaked open. George Windsor, Earl of St Andrews, entered the sitting room.

Edward greeted his son with impeccable poise while still seated.

“Ah, George, my boy. Do come in. Allow me to introduce Mr. James Cole, His Majesty’s American PR chief. James has been most kind in offering his support during this difficult time.”

George nodded, his scholarly eyes flicking to James, who slowly zipped up while maintaining eye contact.

“A pleasure, Mr. Cole,” George said in his understated patrician tone.

After a brief exchange, James excused himself.

“I should be going, Your Royal Highness. Thank you for the conversation.”

Edward remained comfortably seated in the sitting room as James stepped into the hallway. George, ever the dutiful son, offered, “Allow me to show you out, Mr. Cole.”

They walked a short distance down the hallway and lingered by the basement stairs, well out of sight and earshot of the sitting room where Edward remained resting. George’s blue eyes swept over James’s muscular form with a subtle sweep.

James grinned, his confidence surging. His heart thumped as he slid his zipper back down, exposing his hardening eight inch cut cock once more, thick with its pronounced vein and smooth bulbous head. George’s mouth parted in shock, his full cheeks flushing beneath the beard.

“I—ah—must say, this is most irregular,” George stammered, his intensely private nature warring with evident arousal, his wedding band glinting on his shaking hand, rough and lightly haired.

James closed the distance, pressing the Earl against the wall.

“You want this as much as I do,” he growled in his rough American drawl.

He kissed George fiercely, then dropped to his knees, freeing the Earl’s six and a half inch uncut cock. James took it deep immediately, sucking with hungry enthusiasm, tongue swirling around the rounded pink head and lapping at the pale shaft while one hand pumped the base and fondled the average hanging balls. George gripped the wall, muffling aristocratic moans as James worked him with wet, sloppy oral strokes.

James soon stood, spinning George around and yanking down his dark navy trousers. He spat on his fingers, probing the tight virgin entrance, scissoring two then three digits while stroking George’s cock in firm rhythmic pulls.

“Beg for my cock, Your Lordship.”

“Please… I cannot… oh, heavens above,” George gasped. “Do not stop… fuck me, you American brute.”

James pushed in, the thick bulbous head popping past the tight ring. Inch by inch his veined shaft stretched George wide until he bottomed out. He pounded with powerful urgent strokes, one hand gripping George’s tie like a leash, the other stroking the Earl’s leaking cock. The hallway filled with slick sounds of spit lubricated anal sex and muffled moans.

“Deeper… yes, like that,” George moaned in his diplomatic accent, ass pushing back. James exploded deep inside with thick ropes of cum, triggering George’s own release over his fist.

Panting, they disentangled. James helped tidy the flushed Earl.

“Our little secret,” he whispered before slipping away.

George composed himself and returned to the sitting room where his father, Prince Edward, still sat peacefully, entirely unaware of what had just occurred only a short distance down the hallway.

Timothy M. Dolan Archbishop Emeritus of New York

National Lampoon’s Animal House (1978) - John Vernon 

I imagine John would give you a good, hard, angry fuck.

What? Don’t judge me.

Charles III King of the United Kingdom

I just love his ankles, and I think they'd look great... on my shoulders.😁

Guyver (1991) - David Gale

Watched this again for the absurdity of it. I love Gale's over the top performance which probaly contributes my attraction to him.