David: At first I thought the blue padded mat was part of one of those Barton Patient Transfer Systems, a device that allows folks to maneuver their elderly and addled family members effortlessly in and out of bed. But no, no, no this divan sandwich has been put together by a homeowner who is completely mobile and independent — in fact he’s a bit of a revolutionary. Any and all rules of taste, symmetry and sanity have been jettisoned in favor of this mish-mashed paean to Dadaism — the World War I art movement that rejected logic and embraceed chaos, irrationality, Girl Scout badges and Hollie Hobbies.

Steve: When you mount me, it’s okay to get excited, but not too, too excited because I still haven’t built the wall brace and shelving for my enamel pin collection (every roller coaster between Mississippi and Vermont) and these dolls I found. I’ve discovered that when the motion becomes vigorous or too rhythmic, everything topples down into the space between my electric sleeping bag and the water sofa.

While you’re up, could you get me another Grapico?

David: Regulars to Lurid Digs know that I’m an advocate for the Less Is More school. Especially for younger gay men who haven’t been properly interiorly trained. Their approach to room design is usually very “kitchen sink.” Sundry Xboxes, Gramma’s hand-me-down cushions, wall poster mayhem and heaps of dirty laundry scattered across the floor like mini continents that never shift. In a word, dire.

But this fellow garners points for keeping things sparse, spacious and very Zen. The Jack Nicholson moment from The Shining, placed directly over the bed like a talisman, is retro hip and lets us know that he’s not only a film buff but, also, quite possibly insane. This cinematic emblem is a thoughtful touch and could, possibly, alert future hookups to reconsider the evening and exit the room post-haste.

REDRUM! REDRUM!

John: It’s always great when you blend in with the room’s color scheme. With no face to distract us, the man is saying he is not merely in the room, but of it, as well. He is not anyone; he is simply the man in the room.

And so we are drawn — challenged, really — to find the slightest hint of something more. And there it is, staring us in the face. The man is so obviously proud of his awesome V-shaped torso that he repeats himself in the shape of his tanline. All this he juxtaposes with a clipper ship on the radiator and two framed maps from the Age of Columbus, as if to say Explore me, Adore me. I am yours, the Undiscovered Land!

Thus, he states his claim: he is not a piece of furniture after all. We sense no such pride in the overstuffed couch or the yellowed maps. (The gauzy curtains, on the other hand, do seem a bit flirty and sure of themselves. But are they as shipshape as he; can they match his indomitable, indrawn waste? No, they cannot.)

There is only one focus in this universe of beige. The man in the room, who is so much of the room, has forced us, through a sheer act of glorious pride, to see at last the evergreen forest, and not the obstructing trees.

David: My god, the color scheme here actually evokes the feeling of having and living with hepatitis. This should never of happened. There should be meds to counteract this impulse. Finally, there should be a law to prevent this from ever happening again.

Richard: Dear Editors of BEIGE MAGAZINE:

Enclosed, please find a photo of my living room, which I submit for consideration in your annual “Beige Brawl” decorating contest. As you can see, not only are my walls a perfect shade of off-white, but I’ve also coordinated a bone-toned sofa and some ecru lace window coverings, which my half-blind Belgian aunt Frida tatted herself. For extra points, I covered the radiator in a soft cream, and added some framed, sand-colored maps on the wall. To reassure you that I have employed true beiges throughout, I have placed myself in the center of the photo. You can see, by contrast, that my ass is lily white—a completely different shade than the rest of the room.

I thank you in advance for you consideration of my submission and remain,

Sincerely yours,
Guy Smiley
 

Steve: This is art, right? I’m really leaning toward ‘yes.’ The only thing that’s throwing me off is that stripey purple little pillow pressed into his back. Otherwise, this is expertly staged, and culturally significant. A masterful blend of peachy rose hues with black and gold. I’m absolutely certain that something is being said here.

Shawn: This whole piecemeal aesthetic is a literal clash between the sum of its parts. It’s a competition for crass supremacy with the tackiest fixture taking all like a piranha tearing through a koi pond. The plum-hued vase is the least heinous transgression. Far worse is the inspirational print above the bed that’s straight out of a freshman dorm room or a mid-priced rehab center.

The bedside bureau’s way too bibelot for the antiseptic white color scheme and blends with the whole scene about as well as the sore-thumb family (?) photos. The bulwark has got to be the 80’s most deathless holdover: the unicorn chochkie. It’s at least anthracite-black and not rainbow, but still impossible to pull off for anyone who’s not A) female, B) eight as of 1986 and C) forever devoted to Chachi.

The plush periwinkle headboard and burnished bronze-on-chocolate bedspread actually make me a little woozy. I can still see the mind-bending shades with my eyes closed. No decor should produce the same affects as sunspots or an aneurysm. What look is he going for with the fedora and the come-hither stance? Is it Mike Hammer? Usher? And the stuffed animals are shudder-inducing. It’s bad enough that the chimp is dressed in leather wear, but the teddy bear is presenting for a mattress wrangle too disturbing to speculate about. “Show Mr. Ruggles where Scout Master Todd touched you” implications are wolfsbane for a swinging confirmed bachelor pad.

Steve: Unicorn.

Steve: Mr. Martin Mills knew that his new master bedroom would need to be so much more of a special, personal shrine than the synthetic wooden panel and painted cinder block assemblages of the uninspiring rented spaces from less prosperous years.

A lifetime of saving, and a lucky investment in U-Bake dildo kits, provided the necessary funding for the kind of opulence that only the super-medium-rich dream of.

A professional sponge-paint artisan was brought in to delicately apply a subtle patina of orange and umber to the once-stark honey brown walls.

Matching designer hotel lamps were purchased at nearly full price to frame and honor the sacred bed space.

Nearing completion, the room was personalized with framed holograms of popular battle scenes from the Franco-Prussian War, and a fashion throw featuring four distinct thread colors to depict the stylized image of a majestic white Persian.

The final touch was an acrylic mural of the proud home-owner — as he appeared before Thanksgiving. Wise to cost and benefit ratios, Mr. Mills used immigrant labor to fill the lines with a realistic peachy rose hue, reserving the bulk of his $250 for Houston-based erotic artist Selene, who spent over three days with a broad-tipped Sharpie to bring the rendering to life.
 

Shawn: This could easily be a rejected CD single cover for Club 69 or The Pet Shop Boys. The term “an embarrassment of riches” is apt here. I’m sure the sheets are Egyptian three hundred thread count and the bed itself is not unlike Raquel Welch’s from Myra Breckinridge. His client must’ve hit the jackpot with the lottery or made a fortune selling DeLoreans; the whole layout comes straight from the New Money design handbook.

The brocade walls are what I dream every fashionably upscale mental institution catering to fucked-up L.A. families like the Sedgwicks or the Menendezes has in their rubber rooms. I never really believed that anyone chugged champagne and ate chocolate-covered strawberries outside of a Euro-softcore Emmanuelle movie, but I stand corrected. Either Victoria Gotti couldn’t get a date to the Golden Globes or this is her eldest son Fernando making his late nite Cinemax debut. With the aviator shades circa Top Gun and his Morrissey do’, our stud clearly has a Big 80s predilection. His designer underwear and fab slave bracelet make a statement: “Yeah, I got it goin’ on. And it’ll cost ya…bitches.”
 

David: What’s fabulously meanspirited about this picture’s composition is how the photographer is forcing our attention onto his wreath collection and not so much on the model’s rearing ass. Our future porn star senses that he’s not the center of the spread — which explains his exasperated expression. You can hear him yelling back at the photographer: “Fuck the goddamned garland and show what’s important: My suffering for art — with this cockring ripping my ballsack off at the root!”

Beyond the chaotic menagerie of wall art (a stuffed fish anyone?), we’ve got the one defining element that turns this entire room into a genuine “happening” worthy of Lurid Digs. That luxurious faux mink bedspread, swelling like a wave that’s ready to crash through our monitor. Again the model is upstaged by the setting. He seems precariously placed on the shifty spread, an afterthought almost, easily tossed aside so the room might bloom bigger and brighter with all its festive splendor.

Hat tip to Wayne for this fabulous Christmas moment.
 

Steve: My favorite way of putting an immediate damper on passion is to take photos of myself propped against a mountain of frilly pink plush. The only step further one could take this would be to actually bury oneself in the pile with only one’s face and cock protruding, but then that becomes "art."

For more inspiration see this prior example.

David: The delicate curtains in this picture convey a breezy, gauzy magical quality to the entire tableau. While the diffused lighting mitigates the dark, disturbing Nietzschean quality of this guy’s into-the-wild scrotum.

And the cluster fuck of toys? Who is to say stuffed animals can’t exaggerate the erotic charge of a naked self-portrait? One need only consider the paraphilia-driven Plushies craze. Th-th-th-that’s all folks.
 

Steve: Recently, I’ve been spending a lot of time with my friend Walt, whose main thing is, “a chandelier on ever surface.” It’s kind of a new way to decorate and I don’t always understand what he’s doing, but I just trust it.

Because Walt is like, super-sincere.