Friday, July 4, 2025
Christopher Atkins was reprimanded for "stuffing his Speedo"
'80s heartthrob Christopher Atkins was reprimanded for stuffing his Speedo on ‘Dallas’ — but swears he didn’t
Maybe everything was bigger in Texas.
Producers on the hit CBS show “Dallas” once accused Christopher Atkins of stuffing his Speedo, but the soap star swears he never did.
Atkins — who portrayed swim coach Peter Richards on the Texas-based soap opera, which ran from 1978 to 1991 — exclusively revealed on the Page Six’s “Tell Me About It” series that he got a note from the network saying to “please stop stuffing my Speedo.”
“Hell no,” he exclaimed when we asked if he was in fact bulking up his bulge, adding that he took the comment in stride.
“That’s a very nice backhanded compliment I would think from the network,” the actor, 64, said, adding that he still wonders who gave that note.
“‘What do you think of that?’ ‘Oh, I think he’s pushing it a little bit.’ ‘Alright, we’ll give him a note,'” he said, playing out a fake conversation with show staffers.
As Atkins noted earlier in the interview, he’d already gone full-frontal in The Blue Lagoon, his very first movie, when he was 18.
“Been there, did that,” Atkins said of his Blue Lagoon nude scenes, which he noted he was aware of going into the film.
“I remember talking about it with the agents and everything, about the whole scenario,” he recalled. “For some reason it didn’t freak me out. And I don’t know why.”
Director Randal Kleiser's vision, he said, “had nothing to do with gratuitous.”
“With that in mind, and hearing if from him, and talking about it and everything, I said, ‘Let’s just go with it and see what it’s about,’ ” Atkins explained.
CA today . . .
Thursday, July 3, 2025
Another AI Story
This one is from ChatGPT and inspired by
https://confessionofanarmpitlover.blogspot.com/
SOMETHING IN THE AIR
Scooter and Bubba had been inseparable since fourth grade. From scraped knees and shared comic books to teenage mischief and volleyball practice, they were a package deal. When it came time for college, there was no question — they applied to the same schools and, once accepted, chose to room together at a university two hours from home.
Their dorm room on the third floor of Fairleigh Hall quickly became a second home. Posters lined the walls — Scooter's sports jocks, Bubba’s travel prints — and their mini-fridge always had a steady supply of iced coffee and leftover pizza. Life was chaotic, but it was good. Familiar.
Scooter was effortlessly magnetic. He had a casual confidence, an athletic build from years of sports, and a way of laughing that could make people turn and smile without knowing why. Bubba had always admired him — but it ran deeper than admiration. He refused to name it, but it pulsed beneath the surface like an ever present undercurrent. A fascination. A longing.
Bubba had always noticed things. He noticed how Scooter stretched when he woke up, how his shirt would rise slightly, revealing a trail of hair from his belly-button down. He noticed the way Scooter's armpits were thick with bushy blond hair, and how, on especially warm days, when Scooter flopped down on his bed after a workout, there was a scent — clean, earthy, uniquely him — that stirred something inside Bubba he didn’t quite understand. Or didn’t want to.
He buried those feelings beneath coursework, part-time shifts at the library, and late-night Mario Kart marathons. But they lingered, especially during quiet moments. Like when Scooter fell asleep on the couch after a party, one arm draped over his head, shirt undone, the smell of beer and his Right Guard mingling in the air. Bubba sat nearby, heart racing, both comforted and unsettled by how close they were.
One day, mid-semester, when Scooter came in from their nightly run around campus, he was dripping sweat and breathing hard. He peeled off his shirt and flung it toward the laundry basket, missing by a mile.
"Bubs," Scooter said, grinning, "you mind grabbing me a towel? I’m gross."
Bubba nodded quickly, swallowing hard. "Yeah, sure."
He stepped into the bathroom, forcing his gaze away from the mirror that had caught his flushed cheeks. As he handed Scooter the towel, their fingers brushed. Just for a moment. But Scooter paused.
"You good?" he asked, tilting his head. His tone was casual, but his eyes were searching.
Bubba hesitated. For the first time, he didn’t look away. "Yeah," he said softly. "Just...thinking."
Scooter studied him for a beat, then smirked gently. "You always think too much."
Bubba smiled, but his heart was thudding. There was something in the air. Something more than sweat and stinging muscles. A truth he hadn’t yet spoken — but maybe, just maybe, didn’t have to.
PART TWO: THE GAME
Every night in their run, they followed the same course. Laced-up Nikes pounding pavement under the amber glow of campus lights, earbuds dangling loose, breath rising like smoke in the cool evening air. By the time they reached the dorm showers, they were slick with sweat, laughing about some professor’s awkward phrasing or a weird squirrel sighting.
And then came the ritual.
Back in the room, still damp from their showers and wearing nothing but tighty-whities, Scooter would start it — like clockwork. He’d saunter over to Bubba’s bed, arms loose at his sides, the fresh soap blending with the scent Bubba knew so well.
"You ready?" Scooter would ask, voice low and teasing.
"For what?" Bubba always replied, though he knew.
Scooter would grin like the devil and climb onto the bed, straddling Bubba with the lazy confidence of someone who’d done it a hundred times. Then he’d lower himself slowly — agonizingly slowly — his face dipping just over Bubba’s. His hair would brush against Bubba’s forehead. Their breath would mingle.
And just before their lips could meet, Bubba would turn his head.
Every time.
Scooter would grin and roll off, flopping beside him like it was no big deal. But it was a big deal. At least to Bubba.
One night, eyes fixed on the ceiling, Scooter murmured, "You always fold."
Bubba stayed quiet, staring up at the same ceiling as if it held the answer.
"I’m not folding," he said, finally.
Scooter turned to him, propping himself up on one elbow. "No?"
Bubba’s chest tightened. He could still feel Scooter’s thighs on either side of him, the warmth of his skin, the scent that lingered even after the moment passed. "I just…don’t know what you want."
Scooter tilted his head, studying him like he was trying to figure out a puzzle. "Maybe I want you to stop turning away."
Bubba’s breath caught.
For the first time, Scooter’s voice didn’t sound like a joke. There was no smirk, no playful nudge. Just honesty.
They lay in silence, tension thick between them. The air smelled like two boys and their damp cotton. The window hummed slightly with the distant noise of students walking by outside.
"You know, don’t you?" Bubba whispered. "About…the way I feel...all of it?"
Scooter nodded slowly. "Yeah. Always have."
"And you’re not weirded out?"
Scooter scoffed. "Bro, if I was weirded out, would I be straddling you every night in my underwear?"
Bubba chuckled, "Fair point."
Scooter shifted closer, their arms brushing. "I don’t do this with anybody else, you know?"
Bubba looked at him, eyes searching. "Why me?"
Scooter shrugged, though there was nothing casual about the moment. "Because it’s you, dumbass."
Bubba didn’t turn away this time. Their faces hovered inches apart.
This time, their lips touched.
Gently. Tentatively. But real.
No teasing. No game.
Just something that had been there all along — finally finding both of them, at the same time, in the same way.
PART THREE: CLOSER THAN BEFORE
The kiss ended, but the silence that followed wasn’t awkward — it was full. The kind of silence that settled between two people who had just crossed a line they’d both been tiptoeing around for years.
Scooter lay back slowly, one arm behind his head, the other resting casually on his stomach. His body moved with that same lazy confidence, but now there was something different in his eyes — softer, more open.
Bubba stayed close, unsure of what to say next. His thoughts were spinning, his chest rising and falling faster than he liked to admit.
Scooter looked over at him, a small smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. "C’mere."
Bubba blinked. "What?"
Scooter reached out and guided Bubba by the shoulder, pulling him across the narrow bed, until his head was resting against Scooter’s chest. Then, without a word, he adjusted his arm — slowly, deliberately — until Bubba’s face nestled right beneath his raised arm, against the warm skin of his armpit.
Bubba froze for a second. The scent was immediate — faint soap still lingering beneath that maddening musk that was uniquely Scooter. He could hear Scooter’s heartbeat, steady and strong, right beside his ear.
Scooter didn’t say anything. He just exhaled, relaxed into the mattress, and let his fingers idly comb through Bubba’s hair.
Bubba stayed still for a moment, stunned by the intensity of it. He had imagined something like this before — in dreams, usually followed by jerking off — but this was real. And it wasn’t weird, or shameful. It was grounding. Safe. He smiled and laughed.
"You okay?" Scooter murmured, voice low and close.
"Yeah," Bubba whispered, pressing his face a little closer, letting himself sink into the warmth that felt like home. "More than okay."
Scooter gave a laugh, too, the kind that came from deep in his chest. "Thought you might like it there."
Bubba didn’t answer — didn’t have to. He just stayed where he was, letting the scent, the closeness, the rhythm of Scooter’s breathing surround him. For the first time in a long while, the tension he'd carried for years unraveled, one breath at a time.
PART FOUR: SOMETHING NEW
Fall deepened, and the campus shifted with it. Leaves scattered like confetti across the quad, midterms loomed, and the evenings grew colder. But inside Room 317, things were warmer than ever.
The dynamic between Scooter and Bubba had changed — quietly, but unmistakably. They didn’t talk about it during the day, not out loud. But every night after their runs, after the showers, after the teasing and the game of chicken — Bubba would end up curled in Scooter’s arms, breathing him in, exchanging soft, lingering kisses.
Scooter still dated girls.
Not often — but enough that Bubba noticed. Enough that it hurt sometimes. He’d never say it. He didn't want to pressure Scooter. This thing between them — whatever it was — was secret, fragile, and he was terrified of breaking it.
Then came a Thursday night.
Scooter came back late. Bubba was already in bed, half-asleep, when the door creaked open. Scooter entered in silence, then dropped his keys onto the desk, kicked off sockless sneaks, and sat heavily on the edge of the bed. He smelled faintly of a girl’s perfume. Bubba's chest tightened.
"You still awake?" Scooter asked quietly.
Bubba swallowed. "Yeah, of course."
Scooter turned slightly, his silhouette barely visible in the soft glow from the nightlight. "I didn’t…do anything. With her."
Bubba didn’t respond.
"She wanted to," Scooter admitted. "But it just felt…wrong. Like I was pretending. Like I’d be lying."
Now Bubba sat up, heart racing. "Lying about what?"
Scooter didn’t answer right away. He stood and pulled his T-shirt off. Then his jeans. Then, in one quiet motion, he climbed into Bubba’s bed, in his tighty-whities, and lay on his side facing him.
"About what I want," Scooter said finally, voice thick. "About like I’d be cheating on you."
Bubba stared at him.
"Are you sure?" he asked.
Scooter nodded. "Yeah. I’m done pretending."
And then Scooter kissed him — slow, deep, with a hunger he’d never let show before. There was no teasing this time, no performance. Just skin and breath and the soft rustle of sheets as they gave in to everything they'd held back.
It wasn’t rushed. It wasn’t perfect. But it was real.
They moved together slowly, learning everything about each other not just with their hands, but with everything they hadn’t said. Scooter whispered Bubba’s name like it was new, like it finally belonged to him.
Afterward, they lay tangled in each other’s limbs — bare, quiet, wet — breathing in rhythm.
Scooter chuckled softly and brushed his fingers along Bubba’s cheek.
"You'll always be my best girl," he said with a grin — half teasing, half reverent.
Bubba snorted. "You’re a fucking idiot." And punched him in the arm.
Scooter leaned in, kissed the side of his neck, which always made Bubba crazy, and whispered, "Yeah. But I’m your fucking idiot, Bubs."
# # #
Tuesday, July 1, 2025
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)