Ah yes. Rafael Verga from Brazil.

We understand that in Portuguese – Brazil’s native tongue — verga is a loving synonym for cock.

This, of course, begs the question: Which came first? This beautiful humperoonie of a professional male model, or the happy little cock word.

Who knows? Who cares! Let us simply drink in this man whose golden beauty is as overwhelming as the smell of sex and hyacinths on the midnight beaches of Rio. Let us celebrate the extent to which homoerotica has conqured fashion advertising. And let us thank the heavens that we have lived to see this brave new world that has such people in it. (read the full article)

If you had any doubt that last night’s American Idol was the absolute worst in the show’s history, I’m here to remind you of those 15 seconds of bellowing badness from bald “rocker” Chris Daughtry during his all-too-faithful performance of Creed‘s What If.

To fully appreciate these very special 15 seconds, I want you to remember the band Creed and how much you loathe them. (Forgive me for making you do this.) Now, bring to mind the strained, droning sounds of the band’s lead vocalist Scott Stapp. Got it? OK, meld that horrible memory into the contorted visage of Chris Daughtry that appeared on your TV last night.

Take a breath. Think back to Daughtry’s demon-screeching assault on the lyrics “what if, what if, what if.” How he drilled those words — during that 15 second close-up — over and over again into your cranium while Idol‘s camera man — complicit in the act of damaging your brain — struggled to maintain his crouched posture on the stage, angling his lens upward towards Doughtery’s yowling pie hole. (read the full article)

“If the crew gets all hot ‘n hard while I’m posing — well, I know I’m doing my job right.” So explains our latest Inner Circle discovery, Carlo.

But wait! Hot and hard is just the beginning. Consider these shocking facts associated with Carlo’s debut on Nightcharm: (read the full article)

“I felt a hand draw closer to my zipper,” the excerpt begins — a memory of sex on the subway that appears in the “Sex Issue” of HX, a glossy New York bar guide.

“He, with his banker’s cut and pinstripes, oh so slowly pressing against my stuff; no accident and my body knew it. Train frottage! I screamed internally as my bulge grew in excitement …”

Those were the days, my friend.

Pre-Rudy Giuliani and his Death-to-Sex squads. Pre-AIDS, which convulsed the city, swelled emergency rooms, and made stopping the transmission a city priority, resulting in the shut down of baths, theaters and backrooms.

Oh — sigh! — how we miss those lusty, free-for-all days! When we were all Tom Selleck clones, with gay wardrobes full of interchangeable man-gear, like Troy, above, a Stud magnet from Xodus. (read the full article)

The last time I had sex with a straight man was back in high school — that is, the last time before I became the porn star “Gus Mattox.” The straight “man” — just a teenager like me, actually — was my cousin, a year older than me, a soccer star and very obliging when it came to letting me suck his dick.

I’d be passing the green bean casserole at Thanksgiving and he’d give me that look. A thrill would shoot through me. The look meant that after dinner I should follow him into his bedroom and shut the door. He’d pop in an 8-track, and his choice of music would clue me in to how the rest of the lazy, sleepy Thanksgiving afternoon would go.

If he picked Bread’s Greatest Hits, it meant he was feeling generous and might just give me a mercy grope through my jeans as I sucked him off. Led Zeppelin? I was on my own. I never minded, though: he had a really big dick and even back then I was a fellatio-phile. (read the full article)

Dystopia — that’s a word we learned in high school when we read 1984. It means a society turned upside down, the negative inverse of Utopia, the perfect world.

In George Orwell‘s masterwork of totalitarian government, giant televisions watch you. The news is fictionalized and history is contradicted (and then rewritten daily) to prop up the government.

It’s a place where the vision of the future is “a boot stamping on a human face — forever.” Where it is not enough to acquiesce to Big Brother, one must love him wholehearted too. One must, with one’s own free will, believe that 2 + 2 = 5, or 3, or 4, or all those answers at once — if Big Brother says it’s so. (read the full article)

Break out the Speedos! It’s Spring Break!

Daytona, Cancun, Acapulco — we’ve got the whole scene covered.

And our fratmen are not drunk and passed out on the beach either. You’ll find them primed and ready to blast off on the Video LaunchPad in Nightcharm’s Inner Circle (Look for FRATMEN). So toss those silly umbrellas out of your Mai-Tais and get busy.

(Memo to Connie Francis : Bitch, if you start moaning that damn, needy song again, we’re going to set you down in the middle of the highway with Yvette Mimieux and throw enough triple-entry boy action your way to make your bouffant spin off!)

(MEMBERS / non-MEMBERS)

WTF has happened to Madonna? Have you seen the recent cover of OUT magazine?

Oh wait, we’re getting a transmission from Planet Plastic Surgery. The message reads as follows:

After years of studying the Kabbalah, Madonna has evolved into a Higher Being. One Problem: The Being is from Alpha Centauri.

Madonna is to be avoided at all costs! If you see her, do not — repeat, DO NOT — look into her eyes — unless you do so through lead shields. Only then will her gaze not scramble your DNA. (read the full article)

“The Bush administration is beginning to look like the fourth season of Saved by the Bell, ” says Jace Monteith, a self-described “Jump the Shark” expert in an article on the Truthdig website.

Jumping the Shark — as bleary-eyed TV fans know — is when a long-running series runs dry and starts resorting to off-topic storylines. Examples:

• the Fifties greaser Fonzie on Happy Days suddenly goes watersking (in his leather jacket) and jumps sharks.
• The abrupt discovery of gigorgeous Patrick Duffy, alive and naked, in a shower on Dallas and its preposterous explanation: that the entire 7th season, in which Duffy had died, was Pam Ewing’s dream.
• Or, simply, the appearance last year of Faye Dunaway as a judge on a reality show — a warning sign, as if we needed one, of just how far into left field reality has moved. Each week on The Starlet, our Faye got to deliver her very own ice-cold tagline. “Don’t call us,” she’d say with leaping eyes and rictus leer. “We’ll call you!”

Thanks to the strong leadership of our President, Lion of Baghdad, Defender of Marriage, Savior of New Orleans, Protector of the Brain-Dead and the Unborn, who has improved us all with his manly resolve — as exhibited recently in this thoughtful statement: “Free societies are hopeful societies. And free societies will be allies against these hateful few who have no conscience, who kill at the whim of a hat” — yes this Man, this Man for All Seasons, has taken us all up and over that last and ultimate shark: (read the full article)

We promised ourselves: No more Jack and Ennis. No more “can’t quit you.” No more crying in our beer over what might have been.

But then we found this lovely little tearjerker of a video online and just lost it all over again. (read the full article)