“When you photograph men in colour you photograph their clothes. But when you photograph men in B&W, you photograph their souls.” – Ted Grant
Men in Black & White
“When you photograph men in colour you photograph their clothes. But when you photograph men in B&W, you photograph their souls.” – Ted Grant
So true; so natural; love them all.
I agree with Daddy Dave 100%
Usfefan, I am so enjoying the fact that you bared your incredibly gorgeous body, cock, soul and all, to us! Thank you!
Sometimes photos in monochrome are more sexier than in color. I enjoy baring my soul
Dear. Mr. Cox, thank you for introducing us to Ted Grant and his famous quote. Some of the photos you have posted here are the most beautiful in the HaPenis collection. The one I keep coming back to is “Vintage-cowboy-wanking.” I think this cowboy in black and white illustrates the point Grant is making about the focusing, uncluttering power of black and white as a photographic medium. But this photo also suggests that, by “soul,” we can mean, not an abstraction, but the embodiment of the soul as a physical man. A man’s soul is inseperable from his naked body . The black-and-whiteness of the photo helps us, as all the online commentators suggest it would, ignore the busybody couch coverings, hat and clothes and focus on the cowboy’s naked body, seductively man-splayed before us. Starting with the black eyes, the right one adorably askew, that fix and penetrate us with their gaze, which is ever so shaded by powdery eyebrows (we see one), we are invited, no, told to immediately look down at the dark, lush bush of the cowboy’s pubic moustache (above such gorgeously paler lips drawn tight over the indentation of the under lip). From there, we completely surrender as we slide down the long ridge of the sculpted nose, following the faintly hairy line down the middle of his chest, over a single thin ripple in his taut stomach, to the lounging, engorged cock, slightly darker than his chest, its head articulated by a darker thin line. The head, which looks as if it might come off and melt in my mouth like a mint if I sucked on it, is smaller and not as round as the cowboy’s perfectly hairless balls, which he partly shades with a delicate right had that grips the cock so that it won’t fall down and lay prostrate along the left thigh. The balls are like a darkening rain cloud that has stopped right above the ink-black crevice that the cowboy has revealed to us, to which the pathway leading from his inviting gaze has all along directed us. We can shelter there at the entrance if we like, the cowboy seems to say, or we can penetrate the pitch blackness, and merge with his soul.