What a beautiful ass!

Our coverboy Kyle has heard this comment from teachers, preachers and guidance counselors ever since he began packing his butt in the pin-stripe uniform of his high school baseball team.

So when we photographed him on the Nightcharm campus and made the mistake of giving him this same complement — he just rolled his eyes and blushed a little … then gave us more of his best side.

What could we do but point, shoot and light him generously. You can see more of his bodacious, boy-u-licious — aw, heck, we’ll just go ahead and say it — beautiful ass in our Seattle Boys gallery.

(MEMBERS / non-MEMBERS)

Where do we put these tears? Of course, Luther Vandross was gay. It was an open secret — neither denied or acknowledge by the artist. The professional closet so necessary to a singer of romantic ballads was the house that was not a home for this superstar, who sang both A House is Not a Home and Superstar as laments of the deepest, bluest melancholy. (read the full article)

What would you do? You’re on the cover of The New York Times Sunday Magazine — a gay Marine officer, whose face is barely hidden behind a strategically placed salute.

You have agreed to speak, along with your Marine buddies, also gay, about a life of skulking around under the Don’t Ask Don’t Tell policy. You tell the woman reporter that you sometimes go on pretend-dates with "stunt babes," that you miss the sort of hugs-and-kisses from your lover that greet almost every other Marine when he steps off a battleship. Yet to be honest, you and your buddies love the Marine Corps with all your hearts and souls.

Being a man of honor, the kind the Marines are adept at molding out of earthy country-boy stock, you bristle under a policy that requires you to be a hypocrite, to never have permission to simply shoot the breeze with another Marine about what your life is really about. So you and your buddies have agreed to speak out within the confines of that law: anonymously. (read the full article)

Think Tricia Nixon. Think Mamie Eisenhower.

Above we see the family of John Roberts, the president’s Supreme Court nominee. No, they’re not waxworks in Madame Tussaud’s Museum. This is actually a live photo!

We’ve long had the suspicion that Perfect Republican Families all come from the animatronics division of Stepford-Wife, Inc. Apparently the fashion editor at the Washington Post, Robin Givhan, thinks so too. Always the first column in the Post we read, Ms. Givhan has a knack for decoding the nuances of Fashion as Culture Message. We think she outdid herself in her column last Friday (July 22, 2005.) We hope she will forgive us for reprinting it at full length. Stuff like this is too priceless to excerpt in bits and pieces: (read the full article)

Ah, that Special Relationship!

Britain and the U.S., forever in each others pockets, and we wouldn’t have it any other way. We here at Nightcharm are total kooks for all things United Kingdom: ABFab, Harry Potter, Alfred Hitchcock, Liz Taylor, and of course the Prince Albert.

Also David Beckham (right).

Actually, David Beckham with a Prince Albert is something we would pay money to see, especially if he were dancing on a bar, waving it in our face. Please talk dirty to us, daddy, in your delightfully tight-assed British way. Say bloody. Say bollocks. Bend us like Beckham, mate!!

Let’s just say if you "lot" ever got rid of Queen Elizabeth, she could come over here and queen it over us.

She’d make a fortune! We see her sitting beside Connie Stevens and Adrian Arpel, selling cubic zirconia versions of the Crown Jewels on the Home Shopping Network. As well as replicas of her splendidly dowdy hats. But only after she genuflected to the flag, of course, and mouthed a bit of hogwash about how we’re all classless here in America, just one happy melting pot where everybody comes out Southern Baptist. Praise! (read the full article)

Mayhem, delirium, destruction. It’s War of the Worlds children — strap yourself in! Warning: spoilers ahead.

To address Edwin Starr’s burning question, from his 1972 Motown mega-hit, War (”What is it good for?”) I must answer: Watching Tom Cruise being sucked up into a giant alien spaceship’s anus. That’s what it’s good for.

Of course, moments later, while still rectally lodged, Tommy pulls a couple of hand grenade’s pins out with his teeth and soon the entire metal booty is rocking and groaning and exploding — freeing Mr. Cruise, his comatose daughter and the other poor captives from their heinous fate of becoming bloody Miracle Grow for planet Red Alert!

O! Hollywood, thank you for that! L. Ron Hubbard couldn’t have written it better (read the full article)

"And a porn star shall lead them…."

Above Ed Fury, former Hercules, last seen 1995 in the straight-to- video Dinosaur Valley Girls ( "Disappointing," wrote one commentator on the Internet Movie Database site, "I was expecting a sex comedy with dinosaurs! All I got was women who expose their breasts now and then.") Ed Fury, sexual preference unknown, but here seen in his homo-sensation AMG modeling days — which is good enough for us. Please welcome Field Marshall General Ed Fury as we go into the fray to do battle with the Entire Fucking World!

There they are, glinting in the sun — swords , scimitars, morningstars – arrayed against us. The Christers, the Republicans, the Islamo-fascists — all great pals in this one. Talk about your sex comedy with dinosaurs! (read the full article)

To quote Jessica Simpson, "With nothing but a t-shirt on, I NEVER FELT SO BEAUTIFUL!"

Chains and the dog days of summer just don’t go together. Yet, you need to make an entrance at that next Hogs Gone Wild sit-down with the Flying Fists of Love Motorcycle Club. What to do, what to do!

Never fear, Nightcharmer. We rang up our favorite Fashion Dictator, Kaye Thompson from Funny Face, and she gave it to us straight:

"Ditch the pants!" came the imperious growl on the other end of our phone line to Hell. "Flash the gash! Be cool and you’ll rule in one of those new T’s from Glen Hanson that everyone is screaming about down here."

What great advice! We know a lot of you horn-dogs went wild when we ran our profile on illustrator Glen Hanson last May. A lot of you kept dreaming about how you could get one of his homo-hot ‘toon guys on your back. Or your front. Or over your face. (read the full article)