Tired of going on mega-buck modeling assignments where he had to wear sweaters in August and Speedos on cold January beaches in Tangier, Ashton has decided he will no longer be treated as simply another pretty face!

He’d much prefer that people relate to him as a piece of meat too.

In the heady world of modeling, where it’s all smoke-filled rooms and long conversations about Foucault and Umberto Eco, nobody understands that a man has needs. And these needs must be met! (read the full article)

Furtive blow-jobs in alleyways, street hustlers about to enter cars, call boys idling the evening away until the next client arrives — these are the scenes that South African artist Philip Swarbrick needed to paint after 30 years of suppressing the homosexual direction of his art. (read the full article)

It was only a matter of time before certain White House reporters, living fictitious lives, became part of fiction itself. Our new members-only story by Bob Vickery is about just such a character — name of Jess Cannon, but everybody calls him Bulldog.

Ripped from the headlines — as they say in the Law and Order promos.

And also — as Law and Order is sure to add when the show actually airs — any similarity to persons living or dead is purely, simply and totally …um…um…give us a second… oh, right! … coincidental!

Here’s a taste (read the full article)

This July a new and very homo-hot version of Benjamin Britten’s Billy Budd will dominate the 2005 Munich Opera Festival.

The drama — in which the angelic Billy Budd becomes the sexual focus of a sadistic master-at-arms — stars the very humpy Nathan Gunn (above) in a production that features over 50 all-singing, all-shirtless sailors.

Now the last time we checked, opera torsos looked like the beached Pavarotti washing up on the Bay of Naples. Thank you America and Nautilus machines and 2xist underwear ads for putting on the pressure to create a baritone like Nathan Gunn!

Gunn has made quite a reputation for himself singing in as near-naked a state as the directors can possibly devise. (read the full article)

“I’m so sick and tired of the shit on the radio…” That’s the opening salvo from the one summer album you’ll want to start saving your lunch money for — now. Esthero‘s Wikked Lil’ Grrrls , scheduled for a June 25 release. (read the full article)

In the great Gay Book of Beloved Monster Women, the name of one little girl is inscribed right up there with Mommie Dearest, Neely O’Hara and the Wicked Witch of the West. (read the full article)

What’s sexier than a thick-armed, fire-headed rocker? Well, this big boy could be shirtless too. But Josh Homme refuses to shed threads for the camera!

After watching him perform last night on Saturday Night Live as the smoldering frontman for Queens of the Stone Age, I spent the day googling and couldn’t come up with even one near-naked image of him half as hot as his face. He looks to me like the lovechild of Eric Stoltz and Elvis Presley. And that’s my kind of man love!

Josh Homme chose the peculiar name Queens of the Stone Age for his band because he felt its gay vibe would repel the dumbest yahoos in the moshpit and attract a better grade of headbanger to his concerts. If the Queens’ rushing guitar riffs don’t dazzle you — relax — Homme’s “big red” presence certainly will — big time.

Even when SNL host Will Ferrell “joined” the band last night, sporting a goofy blond afro and clanging a cowbell, the beefy, 6-foot-5 Homme continued to monopolize the stage with his ace guitar work and fullblown sexual authority. He conveyed both a low-key amiability, as well as the menace of a young tough curling his lip in a sneer. (read the full article)

The gleaming torso of Luther — our latest VIP Lounge discovery — is one of the reasons we chose this strapping German to be our Nightcharm Log On Boy last month.

The unmade bed behind him is no stage prop but the condition of the room after — how should we put it? — our photo session. (read the full article)

“I’ve never watched it…The word ‘mainstream’ comes to mind.”
       — Courtney Love outside the Kodak Theater with her small daughter,
             who wanted to see the American Idol finale.

Last night the 12-year-old girl that lives inside me was murdered. Like Sally Field in Sybil, I always knew the inevitable moment would arrive when I would need to split from that naive little personality. That moment came last night. (read the full article)

Back in the early ’60′s when all there was was Playboy, and gay guys had to make due with "physique" magazines, the closest anyone got to cock were photos of men in Speedos, strategically lit to show off right-slung outlines.

You had to flip to the back of the mag to find the good stuff — the ads from the Athletic Model Guild. For a few bucks you could send away for these photo sets of "sailors" in posing straps or hard-knock kids in nothing but motorcycle caps or musclemen in "art studies" of Greco-Roman statuary.

It all came from the fertile mind and itchy camera-finger of Bob Mizer. He ran the entire operation from his home, placed — also strategically — a block or two from the Rough Trade Heaven that was Hollywood Boulevard.

In the coffee shops or hanging out at the magazine stands or just idling on bus benches waiting for something to break, the street trade that Mizer scouted out were often down on their luck, low on their cash and totally for sale. It just took money — though not much. Mizer usually gave them a good meal as well, and a place to crash. He had a rep on the Boulevard for having a big heart and being an easy touch. (read the full article)