BAY2BREAKERS

we just had to see for ourselves what all the fuss was about...

Inhale

Fuck this kid is big time, hell probably be runnin shit in a few years.
Check out the bum fuck at :45, the kids smooth.

This Blog Needs Love

Like an aging loved one, chelsea handler, or an african raby (rape baby) this blog needs a little love. For too long these pages have suffered. It's time to get down on our knees and blow some life into this page. That is all my friends, that is all.



Hummmmmm along - its only natural and, when performed during fellatio, feels really good. girls.

Soak it up

be safe out there boys

Tite!

http://omg.yahoo.com/blogs/crush/everybody-wants-justin-biebers-hair/327/?nc

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Lust With Gerome David Rose-Goldberg The Third

Gerome David Rose-Goldberg The Third
by Cruisey Vibes

Gerome! Gerome!

They'll all exclaim

When I take the stage

To stake my claim

Frisky faces

Lights so bright

Here I stand 

Tonight's my night!

I shed restraint

So bare and free

Hot hot flesh

For all to see 

It's in their eyes

They yearn for more

I touch my toes

To roars galore

In the heat of the moment

I flaunt my corn

Male stripper stardom

They cry for more!

This poem was brought to you by the free spirited and morally defunct people at cruiseyvibes.blogspot.com

A Work Of Art

The Nigerian Culture Shuffle

The dream I had last night.

Major Lazer "Keep it Going Louder" from Eric Wareheim on Vimeo.

This Just In

Be wary of future posts containing erotic male genitalia and other provocative phallic symbowlz.

Shroomsville

Beware the Santa Cruz Shroooooooooom.

ON A SIDE NOTE COUGH COUGH

YOUR SISTER LOVES DONKEY DICK

Sweetness

Landscape Altered - Episode 1 from Kai Neville on Vimeo.

A Queer Excusion Into One Of New York's Infamous Dark Neighborhoods

Two days ago I left Los Angeles heading east on a 767 American Airlines jet towards New York. This would be my first real trip to The Big Apple. Upon arrival my female companion and I hailed a cab and made the 45 minute drive from JFK airport in Brooklyn to our third floor apartment in uptown Manhattan. The first day was spent scouring the city, sightseeing mostly. It was our second day, the one after the first, when things began to get strange...


April 11th 19:00

It's been 3 days since my last drink, quite the stretch for a man of my age and habit. I enter the liquor store on Broadway and 76th and head to the liquor section. Outside the store are four tall black men, I did not like the way they looked at me, could it be they are onto me? Could they sense I'm 8 months short of the required twenty one years? I have never liked this law. I shake off such harrowing notions and begin to graze the Indian owned liquor stores selection of fine ales. Chimay it is, a 12 dollar ale brewed by Belgium monks. One pint 9 fluid ounces of 9 percent alcohol with a champagne cork top. I grab three from the shelf. I take another glance at the black men outside, I must be careful, one wrong step for this Angelino of European descent could lead to mortal disaster.

Back at the apartment I gulp Chimay from a crystal tulip beer glass. It is dark, rich, and filling, after a few glasses I sink into a comfortable buzz. Tonight we head to Harlem, named after after an old Dutch village in the Netherlands. Today Harlem is the African American capital of New York, could this spell trouble for a transplant anglo saxon such as myself? Perhaps I would encounter the four men form the liquor store in their home territory?

A wave of uneasiness penetrates my buzz as I board the subway headed north to Harlem. Next to me stands a middle aged couple, they wreak of dangerous habits and marijuana cigarettes. Their eyes the color of a bullfighters cape, red, a menacing red. I turn away and sink my hands into the front pockets of my wool overcoat, I must avoid eye contact. Across the subway car stands the most interesting creature I've seen during my stay in the Empire state. Their she stands, or is it a he? No it's a she, gender differentiation can be difficult in such situations. The individual bobs their head to hip hop beats that blair out their white ear plugs. At roughly 5'6" it stands, in all its "dike-ish" glory, dominantly with legs shoulder width apart and a street hardened look upon it's face. It wears a mahogany leather jacket atop a red plaid shirt, a New York hat with sticker still intact tilted and lifted slighty upwards as if to say im here, I'm steezy, but I don't try to hard. It sags, around mid thigh, tight blue Levi's that must have been bought off the children's rack, and it dons size seven white high top Reeboks upon its dwarfish feet. It's hair is tied back in a pony tail and three piercings pertrud from its bottom lip. This creature would turn any savage dike's crotch into the Niagra Falls.

The subway grinds to a halt, this is our stop, finally I am free from danger, or am I? As I walk up the mosaic tiles that lead from the subway below onto the street I remember where I am headed, this is Harlem.

The street signs tell me I am on the corner of 116th and Malcolm X, one block south is Martin Luther ave. Our destination is 113 116th street. We find our bearings and walk towards the intersection. One look around tells us we lack the required pigmentation for this area of New York. Obama seems to be on everyones tongue. On the corner one man exclaims, "Think of what that nigga inhereted, and all these nigga's now ain't believin' in Obama no mo'!"

We arrive at 113 116th street, site of Amy Ruth's, a New York times top pick for mouth watering soul food. "Table for two please," we tell the man at the front door, he glares brashly. We are shown to a table in the front sandwiched between to Pakistani gays and a group of Hasidic Jews,  we share a common strife, our inferior pigmentation. As we sit African American groups are escorted past our room into the back.

I look at the menu, it is quite intriguing. They bring us corn bread as a starter. You are given two choices, The Waffle Menu, or a Classic Dinner. The waffle menu includes favorites like The Rev. Al Sharpton, a chicken and waffles combo, and The Dougie Fresh, a decitant paring of waffles and fried whiting. I elected to pick from the Classic menu. This menu offered The Barack Obama and The Nate Robertson among others. I choose the Ludacris, a combination of 4 fried Chicken legs and side orders of mac n' cheese and french fries.

I was slightly put off when a waiter came and asked for my drink order and I noticed they did not serve alcohol, however they have a fine selection of soft drinks. I read down the list, Sprite, Coca-Cola, Fanta, Koolaid Of The Week, hold up! I will take one Koolaid Of The Week please.

So far I have managed to stay out of harms way upon this impromptu excursion into one of New York's most notorious neighborhoods. I know I am not impervious to danger, I know the night is young. I can only hope I come away from this strange cliche evening unscathed, perhaps my Koolaid will keep me safe.

Glug glug, I induldge in Harlems finest Koolaid of the week.

Fuck You