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.

Richard: On the upside, thanks to careful washings in cold water (and one teaspoon of vinegar– ancient Chinese secret!), Tom’s 100-count Peruvian slipcovers and throw pillows look just as woodsy and joyless as the day he bought them with his first post-college paycheck from the National Parks Service in 1992. Tom’s posters, bought two weeks later from the same Wal-Mart, also appear to be in great condition.

On the downside, while I appreciate Jerry’s attempt to recreate an Ewok village in the living room, I think their Return of the Jedi costumes are a little weak. And let’s be honest: Leia was always a top.
 

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.
 

David: OK, so here’s the thing people — everything is working in this room. You’ve got a theme and a color palette that supports it. Great! Work it. The 24/7 homage to Chuck Jones? Why the fuck not? Hell it beats a room full of Chuck Norris dolls. All’s well here until the eye drifts over to the lower right hand corner of the photo and we notice — what? A giant porcelain rabbit and a mirrored disco ball. Oh no. Thematic symmetry shattered. The senses balk. The mind spins. Quick! Cue Britney’s new album — in its entirety — because you’re getting ready to … Blackout!
 

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: Thanks to everyone for stopping in and making this one of the most popular gay blogs circulating the posh new realm of Web 2.0 (whatever in the fuck that is.) Please keep sending in your catastrophes — because, well, without them we’re nothing.

Oh, too, thanks for voting for us in Cybersocket’s Best Adult Blog category. We’ll mention each of you when we accept our award in Hollywood next month.

David K.
 

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.
 

Shawn: I feel nothing but sympathy for this guy. He probably figured taking up with those kindly old ladies would be a sweet deal. How could he know they were actually elderly pornographers who target skid row hustlers, lure them back to their respectable-looking suburban split-level and ultimately coerce them to don glittery Santa attire for their web-based smut ring? The dainty, lacy curtains belie a yuletide off-to-grandmother’s-house-we-go warmth and conceal the organized crime within. The chintzy dime store vase has a very “Mama’s Family” rerun vibe while the fakey flower arrangement at once invites you to have a sugar cookie and pay no attention whatsoever to the hidden camera.

Richard: “So, do you like it? It was a total rush job — grandma stepped out of the house for, like, ten minutes, and it took me almost that long to dig out the Naughty Santa costume she’d worn for Halloween. Then I had to set up the tripod and the camera in the living room — I mean, I didn’t even have time to do the red-eye thing. Still, I think it’ll make a nice Christmas card, don’t you, Uncle Jim?”