Let’s see now: Jeff Palmer is
Ah yes, our Jeff! (read the full article)
Remy is the break-out star of our members-only Inner Circle. A strapping Frenchman who stands out in the stable of awesome Aussies from our video partner SexGaymes and is a featured stud at Raging Stallion, another of our video partners, you practically trip over Remy at every turn in our labyrinthine members’ area. And this is one guy you would love to trip over! (read the full article)
Judy Garland came back to life again last night. Judy Davis channeled the slurring, unsteady-in-heels Judy she had created in the Garland biop, Me and My Shadows, and made her slush around again in an outrageous Mommie Dearest style performance.
At times screaming and breaking the furniture, at others all stricken tones and fake sincerity, Davis played real-life con-artist Sante Kimes who, with her son, exploded all over the tabloids in the late 90’s when she was convicted of strangling her socialite landlady.
The Lifetime-channel film, A Little Thing Called Murder, details the life and crimes (including three if not more murders) of Kimes and her youngest son, the two of then entangled in a sort of mental incest which the murders weirdly consummated. If the son had been gay, all this could have been worked out with a career in fashion design or runway modeling. Unfortunately, Kenny Kimes was straight, so it was guns, knives and snapped necks. By all accounts, the son was a charmer; and the mother, a busty, bubbly woman who turned heads in her plunging, cleavage-proud dresses. Both sit in prison now with no possibility of parole. (read the full article)
Fellatio … pronounced fel-lay-she-o. (But you knew that.) That would be the noun. To fellate, the verb. But what the heck is fellatial?
Fellatial, of course, is the adjective. Rhymes with palatial . Never heard it before? That’s because it’s only a week old. Of the rage and fury attending its birth, we are about to tell. But first let us review this word’s happy little root — fellatio – for a moment.
The Urban Dictionary defines it like this:
“The term used in polite company which refers to the subservient act of orally stimulating the male sex organ with, but not limited to, the lips, mouth and tongue, during which suction pressure is applied to the male organ, usually resulting in the need to shampoo.”
Use it in a sentence, please.
Fellatio is not a city in France. (We sort of adore the Urban Dictionary.)
It’s a wonder so useful a word was never put in adjectival form until last Sunday when it was invented by conservative gay pundit Andrew Sullivan, the man we hate to love.
He used it in a book review, to indicate the fawning, on-their-knees way conservative blowhards write about this, the worse of all possible presidents (save one: Nixon still wins that derby.) (read the full article)
Here’s one wardrobe we won’t be going into. The Disney company has decided that there’s more money to be made from evangelical Christian families than from gay ones. Screw the awards for thoughtful depictions of love-dizzy cowpokes up on Brokeback Mountain, Mickey needs a facelift and a spare billion to blow on cheese.
But Disney has a problem. It’s called Gay Days at its amusement parks. It’s called Ellen coming out on one of its TV shows. The Southern Baptists have been swearing off the company since forever, making their members sign pledges that they will never so much as rent a Disney DVD.
How to woo the Bible Belt back? Hey, why not remake The Passion of the Christ – but for the kiddies!! And not just one Jesus movie, but a whole slew of them! (read the full article)
Trade. Jailbird. Gay for Pay.
Those would be the names for the men seen in these photos. Men from the San Francisco of a quarter century ago, tattooed drifters picked up from lowlife saloons along the Tenderloin, in the lobbies of boozy single-men hotels, outside of store-front clinics where you could sell your blood by the pint.
David Hurles came upon these idle, pent-up studs like a stroke of good luck, a chance to make some easy money, and all they had to do was jerk off while he snapped pictures and made tapes of them talking about their lives.
A skinny unassuming guy, Hurles had made a name for himself in locally produced porn reels, thanks to his oversized organ and his double-jointed ability to auto-fellate (always an ice-breaker).
Now he was in business for himself: “Old Reliable” as he called his “tape and picture” company, and as he himself became known to millions of mail-order fans with a taste for sexy psychos.
Hurles specialized in an extreme type of marginalized man. Rough trade is too tame a word. These guys seemed to be fresh out of Alcatraz and two steps away from San Quentin. (read the full article)
In the immortal words of Susan Powter: Stop The Insanity. We know it’s only an ad campaign, but who wouldn’t run for a copy of Zolar’s Dream Dictionary to make sense of Dolce & Gabbana’s latest excursion into Consumer Mind-Fuck?
Not even Freud could decipher this hallucination. (read the full article)
Passed out sailors, good-time gals and blond men offering smokes to bull-necked marines — it’s the scandal that keeps on giving.
Back in the 1930’s, while America was managing to stay out of the brewing wars in Hitler’s Europe, Paul Cadmus did a series of sailor paintings that enraged the Navy and created such a furor in the papers that the resulting publicity made his name in art circles, with his subsequent one-man show attracting a record 7,000 visitors.
Rather than depict the natty, clean-jawed sailor of the recruiting poster, the young Cadmus, a government sponsored WPA artist, painted drunk, sensual gobs on pussy patrol, their skin-tight Navy whites outlining athletic butts and bulges in a way that would have cause eyebrows to raise had not the paintings mirrored the actual fit of those dreamy, creamy uniforms. (read the full article)
