I’m here to talk about bimbos!

Biblical bimbos!

Photogenic Mormons are doffing their tops for the good of their faith. And I’m conflicted.

Sure, there’s no better score than a guy with self-esteem problems — the sort of “issues” that cause him to seek out religion and beefcake photography. Yet still, I can’t help feeling skeptical.

Under the aegis of its parent company Mormons Exposed (I kid you not), the Men On A Mission Calendar features “twelve handsome former missionaries who have dared to pose bare-chested.”

The project is supposed to be all about the spiritual beauty that comes from within, not just trading in sculpted torsos and great abs. The copy writes itself:

“Rod loves his position as a missionary, spends hours on his knees, and will give you the shirt off his back. Turn-ons include topless testifying, constitutional amendments, and tending to the lepers.”

Have a listen to the venture’s co-founder and producer Chad Hardy as he elaborates on the calendars raison d’etre and try to keep a straight face: (read the full article)

All right, bitches, I won’t sugarcoat it:

Rome is burning.

Lately, I’m looking at everything — everything — around me and finding it all fucked-up. Mass hysteria has set in. I wouldn’t trust this clown car cast of Republican Presidential hopefuls to give me a passable handjob, much more pull this nation out of decline. All I could do this past Saturday as I beheld international recording sensation Lana Del Rey performing a song on SNL about a chick apparently getting cock-blocked by frickin’ video games while looking like a doped-up cocker spaniel and sounding like an IBM computer that got roofied was think how much dick she had to take to get that record deal. Why is Smirnoff employing a glorified replicant hooker as their spokesmodel? Was Denise Richards busy? Half the cast of Jersey Shore has book deals under their belts, and the other half is presumably preparing albums of spoken word poetry.

I feel like the misanthropic offspring of a doomed one-nighter between Travis Bickle and Tyler Durden, neither paying my ass a dime in child support.

Even gay porn, which used to provide me a shameful thrill and carefree break from reality has been leaving me feeling hollow. Is it that as the condoms have come off the star quality has diminished exponentially? Maybe it’s that the newest title in my library is from 2004? Could it be that I’m sick to my dick of all the callow Timmys, Tobys, Colbys, Kellys, and Rileys whose names end with naughty, naughty boy Y vowels?

Anyway, I was reminded of everything excruciating that currently plagues the medium last week upon receiving an email press release via Cybersocket. Now, there’s nothing more transparently self-serving than a press release, but this bitch — which was blasted to millions of addresses — took the cake. Apparently, some twink named Riley Price is — No! Please! Don’t say it!” — retiring and leaving a huge hole in our collective consciousness. Stop. The. Fucking. World.

The hell are they talking about?, I mused, slack-jawed, as I read this incredible piece of tripe. “WTF!? Who gives a shit!?” my esteemed colleague David K. emailed. What we encountered was akin to the Pethouse Plaything confessional sequence from Amazon Women On The Moon, and I’m still laughing out loud.

Prepare yourselves to believe again. (read the full article)

Here at Nightcharm, we can sometimes get a little cheeky with content, so whenever we color outside of the PC lines, we expect to get our asses spanked and usually do…because we’re nasty boys.

So fair warning: this is likely the least PC thing you’ll ever read on this blog, and it only gets raunchier from here.

I’m here to talk about sluts. Gay sluts. People can say the term is judgmental and perjorative, but they can bite it, because the reality is this: sluts exist. We’ve all met them, and some of us are them. I’d go so far as to say that every gay man has a moment just like Molly Shannon in Superstar wherein their internalized conflict between social responsibility and the pleasure principle results in a paroxysm of “I’m not a slut! I ain’t no slut! I ain’t no slut!” Some work through it; others give in and spread like it’s the sale of the century.

Let’s get the etymology of the term down first. “Whore” and “slut” are too often used interchangeably. A whore fucks for cash, fame, or career advancement, sometimes even marrying and/or having a child to anchor their mark — anything to get that check. A slut operates on sheer animal lust, selfishly screwing those they aren’t even particularly attracted to without thought to consequence for themselves or others, never getting enough.

It’s all about the dick. (read the full article)

Gay porn’s got a lot of problems as of late, but while many of them are recent developments, there’s one that’s always been a real monkey on the medium’s back.

Terrible dialogue.

Now terrible’s a loaded word in porn. Most of us will admit that we get off on cheesy, nasty wordplay that no one will ever actually utter in real life. When I see a guy getting banged from behind bray “Fuck me like the trash I am!” while grasping a chain link fence for leverage, I think Good for him. He deserves it.

No, when I say terrible dialogue I mean hackneyed, dull, uninspired blather, which is sadly the norm in most movies.

It’s actually exceedingly rare to find a real cunning linguist in gay porn, with only players like Sam Crockett, Gino Colbert, Blue Blake, York Powers, and Paul Morgan comprising a very small and exclusive club of dumpster-mouthed wordsmiths. Jon Vincent is arguably the all-time reigning king of filth-speak (not too many men could deliver an enlivened utterance like “Oh, Mother yes! Oh, Mother never!” while getting sucked off), and I’m convinced that he would’ve made an excellent mainstream actor or even a writer.

I don’t know if it’s the actors, the scripts, the directors, or a combination of all three, but bad dialogue is a problem that just keeps exacerbating, and because the business can’t seem to self-correct, we’re here to strongly encourage them to officially retire The Ten Hoariest Gay Porn Lines We Can’t Bear To Ever Hear Again. (read the full article)

Dark Meat, Light Meat, and Who Forgot the Cranberry Sauce — such are the challenges of Thanksgiving.

But none of these seasonal questions so roil our beloved Nightcharmers as Cut or Uncut — a topic that comes up here way more often than Turkey Day.

Every time we run a succulent peek-a-boo schlong like the lip-smacker above (on Sexgaymes model Marcos Pirelli) we race for higher ground, bracing ourselves for the killer wave, the Christmas tsunami of comments that floods in from a dependable army of pro- and anti- circumcision partisans.

The vitriol that flows, the science that’s quoted, the experts that are debunked all mix into a slugfest not seen since the religious wars of the 16th Century. (See the holy hell that breaks out here, here and here.) We’re telling you, between reading those comments and watching Jeopardy every night, a person could get a college education. (read the full article)

Sunny, cute, vivacious, playful.

These are descriptions applied to any exemplar of the endless supply of chipper, collegiate male starlets who have populated gay porn down through the years.

Sultry, intense Logan Reed was none of the above.

No, Reed was a popular yet still strangely unknowable presence in gay porn beginning in the late ’90s — a star who seemed to defy categorization as he hinted at a curious human mystery that played scorchingly on camera.

Where did he hail from? Who was he really? What ultimately became of him? These are among the myriad questions that surround one of the medium’s most enigmatic players.

Come back to the Five & Dime, Logan Reed, Logan Reed… (read the full article)

It’s a weakness: I love older men.

I can’t help it. I just know the grizzled dude in that “Most Interesting Man Alive” beer commercial is an incredible fuck. Those ads for male hormone treatment in which men in their twilight years are transformed into bulging muscle monsters with younger gold-digger girlfriends should have me thinking “Bullshit!,” but all I can do is grab my groin and think “Lucky whores!”

I deeply want to be sexually harassed by a boss who looks exactly like silver fox John Slattery, a total hog who paternalistically slaps my ass with a gritted sneer before telling me to get him a Pellegrino. “I have a Kaplan Business Degree!,” I counter as he unzips with a smirk. “I’ll scream!,” I virtuously protest as he pulls me to his sinewy body, only to have him laugh as he forces his lips onto mine. “Ha! Go ahead! I’m drunk on my power, and who’d believe you anyway!? Look how you’re dressed!”

Yes, I’m an Uncle, Daddy, and Grandpa slut.

You could put five Corbin Fisher-style guys stripped naked in front of me in a line-up, but if there’s one man there with a salt-and-pepper crew cut and a silver handlebar ‘stache, they might as well be invisible as I stutter “Sonny like! Sonny like!”

Basically, I feel like Linnea Quigley in Return of The Living Dead, the only difference being that while she strips and waxes erotically about being eaten by a pack of old men, I envision me in a retirement community gang bang comprised of nasty former drill sergeants, high school coaches, and steel workers.

It’s a sickness. (read the full article)