Beauty is indeed in the eye of the beholder, as Barry Lowe discovers.

Physical beauty, both male and female, is an odd construct. Its definition changes in much the same manner as fashion design. It’s transitory.

Beauty unravels much like the thread in an old cardigan as it ages unless you’re one of those lucky few who can take copious amounts of recreational drugs, gallons of alcohol and fall in an open sewer and still come out smelling of roses and looking like God.

Through observation I’ve learned that a great bod does help to overcome plain looks just as a 12-inch cock can compensate for a lot of ugly.

In London, I spent a night at Heaven (the nightclub) and it wasn’t the cute boys who were stand-outs in the early hours of the morning – it was the guys with hot bods. The bodies survived the faces crumbled.

There’s a lot of hard work to beauty. Back in my younger days I had a friend, Jaime, who was a male model with the requisite good looks plus, to top it all off, a Scottish accent.

He’d grown up in Glasgow as a carpenter’s assistant but had been saved from a life of manual labour by his beauty.

We became good friends because I knew he was never going to look at me as a sex object. I was one of the lesser planets orbiting his sun. He would come to me for company until some hunk swept him off his feet and he disappeared into the night leaving me alone.

Guys eager to conquer him would come to me for introductions or advice on how to win him. Later there would be complaints that he was only a top and wouldn’t roll over for them. Jaime would come to me to complain his pick-ups only wanted to fuck his good looks.

One night I was commiserating with him at Doddy’s, a gay coffee shop in Kings Cross, when he went to the jukebox and slotted in his coins.

He came back to our table and in front of a number of eager prospective conquerors turned to me and said: “This is for you”. It was unlike Jaime to even shout me a pot of tea and toasted sandwich let alone dedicate a record to me. But I went into total shock when the song that came up was Lerner & Loewe’s ‘I Loved You Once in Silence’. I think my jaw did one of those things seen only in cartoons – it dropped to the floor.

The short version is that Jaime moved in with me and proved to be just as nimble a bottom as a top. And the point is? Well apart from bragging about my conquest and to show that us lesser lovelies can get the hotties, too, that first morning Jaime woke up beside me I wondered who the man in bed with me was. His face was essentially a blank – a bland canvas upon which astringents, gels and cosmetic aids brought his beauty to the surface. Hard work, indeed.

This is by way of a rambling introduction to a free website that, if you have a spare six months, will reward even the most fastidious of male beauty fanatics. It’s aptly called Most Beautiful Man and has hundreds, if not thousands, of pics of the world’s hottest men, be they models, actors, sportsmen, musicians, or their sole claim to fame being that they are just plain gorgeous.

My favourites (so far) are Adrian Zabala, Ahmed Butt (he really has to change that family name), Bruno Folster (pictured), Paul Haschke, Patrick Thierry ... Hell, there’s too many to pick, and I’d have a baby by each and every one of them.

http://www.mostbeautifulman.com/

[Let me know your favourite. And guys, if you ever went to Doddy’s drop me a line with your reminiscences to This e-mail address is being protected from spam bots, you need JavaScript enabled to view it ]