The Fat Lady has sung. The last dog has died.

And still she hangs on, clutching her barely-there 2-percentage-point victory in Indiana. From her cold, dead hands, children. From her cold, dead hands.

What I will miss most about my Hillary — for yes I am a supporter and yes I would vote for her again and yes, yes, I know, she is sooo cooked — is the way she would look at Barack Obama during the debates. That frozen glare behind the frosted smile. The slight up tilt of the forehead. God, that was priceless!

There would be ol’ Barry sawing away and saying nothing, all misty uplift about change and hope and the American people, slipping ever so carefully into just the palest of black preacher cadences, something for the home team, no Reverend Wright, of course; more Miss Diahann Carroll in an Oleg Cassini gown glossing her way through Aretha: R. E. S. P. E. C. T., ladies and gentlemen. That’s what y’all mean to me.

And there would be my Hillary in all her late-blooming, newly blondized, Georgette Klinger radiance, the robot who suddenly grew a heart and look ma, she’s even warm to the touch! All red-carpet razzle dazzle beside the dour law professor, with his down-turned lips and his solemn — here I risk a racist word — dignity.

Yes, white people have dignity too, just not so much of it, not like our new sprung Baracks and Michelles who are rising ever higher. Ah, Barack and his stylish wife (Howard Stern calls her “Blackie-O”) with her own set of dour, down-turned lips — there is all the marble dignity in this couple of the nine Supreme Court Justices with the Supreme Court steps and the History of Jurisprudence frieze thrown in.

Now my girl Hillary, she has no dignity. She’s shameless, She’s ruthless. She’s Hermione Granger, waving her hand at the front of the class, with all the answers in her head. You couldn’t possibly insult her. Swift boat Hillary Clinton? Been there, done that. Let us count the ways:

Lesbian. Murderess. Wiccan. Shyster Lawyer. Whitewater Profiteer. Lady Pimp for Bill’s Bordello of Bimbos — these are just the most glistening bones left on the shore, skeletons of broken anti-Hillary slime campaigns past, funded at first by crackpots but soon by savvy Republican strategists who could see far up ahead to the Oval Office. (more…)

He boasts more aliases than Sean Combs and Martin Bormann combined.

He’s been reified by Jack Nicholson, Vincent Price, Burgess Meredith (twice), Robert De Niro, George Burns, Susan Lucci, Richard Burton and Elizabeth Taylor.

He had his way with Rosemary and got all up in Miss Jones.

He’s the ubiquitous Satan, Prince of Lies and Lord of the Flies, and of all the are-they-or-aren’t-they? names roving around on the gaydar, he’s the one most overdue for a big coming out. We’re talking millennia overdue.

As one of the most recognizable figures in world culture, he’s also one of the most enigmatic. In various contexts, he’s merely the symbolic projection of the natural instinct within man, a living entity bent on leading us all astray, Hell’s overseeing whip master and God’s right hand man version of Karl Rove.

The lone unifying factor: he’s hot as hell and bad as he wants to be. (more…)

Aries: With the moon in your mother’s water house, it is going to be important for you to really cut back on junk food and soda pop this week unless you want to inherit your genetic destiny on an immediate basis.

Taurus: Here’s an interesting recipe for your period of extended abstinence.

You’ll need: two jumbo eggs, flour, wheat germ, baking soda, table salt, traffic jam, diced cheese substitute, and lots of pepper.

Whisk in a shallow Pyrex roasting pan and microwave on high for fifteen minutes. Severe. That’s French for “Serve.”

Gemini: God damn it, you are exhausting everyone with your constant nagging and bad ideas. This is a time in which you need to second-guess everything that comes out of your mouth, though even that probably won’t be enough to counteract the permanent damage you’re doing to your public image.

Cancer: You are in a tender state this week, and will need to be babied by everyone around you. Let the people you deal with at home and work know that this is a time in which things are going to be very focused around you and what you feel is important. Ice cream is your weekly color. For now, just sit down. (more…)

In porn it’s called the “money shot” because it’s worth more than the rest of the film put together. In France they call it la petite mort, the little death, bringing connotations of terror and finality. In literature it’s euphemized as a “climax,” pointing to the moment everything so far has led to. But pomp and circumstance aside, an orgasm only lasts about 8 seconds.

But what a captivating 8 seconds!

While watching porn the other day I realized how short an orgasm is. The clip was a little over a minute long, but I was only interested in one 10-second period when the guy, beating off on a bed, moaned, arched his back and came on his chest. I re-played the shot again and again, watching his torso heave upward, his tanned muscles flex and face contort in one fleeting moment of ecstasy, then I’d re-start the scene a second later because I didn’t give a shit what happened in the video after the guy got off. (more…)

Fred Faurtin is a raunchy, lean, and hung French top with an intense appetite for ass, and Derrick Hanson is a willing and submissive bottom. But he knows better than to give in right away. In the latest scene from our friends at Raging Stallion Derrick and Fred work through an epic and sweaty fuck by way of a gorgeously demeaning blow job.

The leather isn’t over the top; it’s a turn-on, and the whole scene sizzles with the best of what you can expect from a man dominating another man and taking what he wants.

We don’t make a fuss over every scene that comes through our members area, the Inner Circle, but for this one we’re getting out the trumpets because tension is always a good thing, in our book, when large cocks and larger egos are in the throes of sexual warfare.

When I was eighteen I did what many budding homos from the burbs did. I moved to Hollywood. My mom helped me secure my first apartment, gave me her old car and wished me luck for finding work.

I’d have gotten a job sooner, and not depleted my minuscule savings so quickly, if I hadn’t lived right down the street from Santa Monica Blvd and its prize pink jewel: The Pussycat Theater — with its always flashing, always tempting marquee.

And there was a new enticement each week. Who wouldn’t want to explore The Opening of Misty Beethoven or Beyond the Green Door? It didn’t bother me in the least that these were 100% heterosexual porn films. Straight or gay — if a film featured buff guys with boners thrusting about various orifices, I was interested.

If only the colleges in California taught what colleges across the country are now offering: Porn-studies. I would have gladly returned to school (something I swore I’d never do after escaping high school) to learn more about my “calling.” And I would have launched my career as a porn publisher much sooner — instead of waiting until I was 40 and intrepid and slightly crazy. Think about it. Studying the theory of porn, the art of porn is a fascinating compliment to the blind, instinctual consumption of porn. I would have felt so much more balanced. (more…)

I was talking to a friend on Friday. We were having the classic argument about whether cartoons “can be sexy” or not. All the normal points were touched on: the too-much-muscle thing, and the too-huge-cock thing, and the thing about how they’re “not realistic,” etc.

As much as I can nod in agreement, there’s a certain point at which I have to acknowledge my erection.

Live porn is often almost a cartoon. It’s created as a fantastic, tidy, neon-packaged alternative to real sex. Big dicks, stupid sets and bold lighting; guys saying things they’d never get away with in real life. (more…)

Remember your friend’s hot dad? He used to get home from his jog covered in sweat and start taking off his clothes on the way to the shower. The divorce had been hard on him and you always wondered if there was some way you could… help. Maybe you got to see a little something or maybe you didn’t but it wasn’t ever enough, was it?

Johnny is here to help you resolve any issues you may have lingering from those days. Thankfully, he’s every bit as hung as you could have wished, and he’s not at all shy about working out a nice load right before your eyes. You can almost smell the salt off this guy’s skin, and it’s very, very nice.

It’s for members, of course, in our exclusive, Inner Circle.