Sun, sand and Anglo Saxons!

Ah, Australia! Dear to the heart of all man-watchers, famous for lifeguards with their butt-cleavage on public display in folded-down red Speedos. A beauty not lost on one Underwear company from Down Under, Holeproof Underdaks.

The gimmick of their ad campaign is to always find a reason for a well-made man to undress in public. As the gal says in the following ad, “Nice Luggage: (read the full article)

We love our fratmen laid back.

And Andy is one laid back kind of guy. Nothing fazes him — well, maybe something a little bigger than nothing might, but we’ll just have to find out.

Andy is majoring in something called Sports Management, at least on paper. Truth be told, our boy is majoring in fun, fun, fun until his daddy takes the T-bird away.

He’s not exactly one of those knuckleheads who wear the chug-a-log caps with the beer siphoned down into their mouths, but Andy can get — how shall we put this — mondo enthusiastic when the stars are aligned in just the right white lines.

He has many talents, and he keeps none of them hidden, we are happy to report. Maybe it’s all the time he spends hanging around jocks, but he’s very cocksure of himself.

The teeniest bit of a braggart perhaps, but then you have to be when you run with the Big Men on Campus.

And honest, you can’t blame him for bragging when he has so many lovely assets.

(We didn‘t. We did. Corny Jokes R Us!)

Andy is waiting for you on the Video Launch Pad in the Fratmen section of the Inner Circle.

(MEMBERS / non-MEMBERS)

You never know whom you’re going to see at the dirty book store.

And if you’re a married guy on the low, low, how low-can-you-go down, you may have a lot of thrills and chills in your future.

The shock of recognition, for instance. That one’s a bitch.

And that kind of zingy, tingling alarm is really what Family Values, our new Inner Circle story by master-writer Bob Vickery, is all about (with illustrations by the great Josman):

Here’s a taste (But watch it! It may be too hot for you, Orson!):

And that’s just an inkling of what’s about to … um … come.

(MEMBERS / non-MEMBERS)

I watch American Idol for those magic moments when a transformation takes place, the crossroads moment, the moment when the kid on stage becomes a budding star in command of that stage.

And last night’s Idol offered up so many moments — both ill and golden — it was like watching one of those Cum-Shots-Only porn reels. I felt giddy and spent and wanted a cigarette afterwards. I was so tweaked I needed to clean myself up. The entire hour was one long clarifying moment when the gods and goddesses of Fame parted the veils and we saw right straight into the soul of each contestant. Fakers were exposed; true-blues glorified. (read the full article)

For a snapshot of the gay psyche, you couldn’t do better than the online, all-gay forum DataLounge.

A 26-year-old was wondering what to expect if he hired an escort. “There’s 2 in Las Vegas I’m considering — both around my age. I’d be grateful for some serious advice!”

Instead of advice, he was sideswiped with moral judgments: “Why would a 26 y/o need to hire an escort? Just how ugly are you? “; “Sounds like something Kelly Clarkson would do”; “Bring your crack pipe.”

The prize bit of nonsense was this ode of self-congratulation:

“I’m so glad that I’m 37 and never had to even think about hiring an escort. I want guys to like me for me, and that means more to me than some whore who has fucked the whole city… I’m not necessarily into younger guys, but I take amazing care of myself and look really great. Maybe you should do the same and stop living some crazy vapid existence.” (read the full article)

Kirk Cameron, twink-cutie from Growing Pains, now an evangelical Christian starring in low-budget Christian movies about — what else? — the fiery destruction of the world.

As crazy evangelicals go, Kirk is pretty accommodating. How accommodating? Watch him squirm with delight as the good Reverend Quacktard instructs him on how God made bananas — really big ones

A fascinating show-and-tell that all Nightcharmers will profit by:

MEMO TO GOD:
We love your bananas, but prefer the ones that, you know, squirt.

You know how it goes. His rent is due. His bills are stacking up. He comes to your door with a raging hard-on.

He needs a little TLC. A shoulder to cry on. An ass to fuck.

Can you spare it?

This hard-up, hard-assed drummer wants to rock your world. You’ll find Grant knockin’ at your back door in our Inner Circle Cruiser Boy division.

(MEMBERS / non-MEMBERS)

Who’s that boy!

That is the question we’ve been deluged with this week after running our Easter special Great Moments in Jesus. You’ll find the object of this mass affection there, in a glow of gold, as the fashion model on the runway. Easily, as in the case of the Easter god he resembles, this beautiful man could give sight to the blind.

He is Anderson Dornelles, known to his understandably obsessive male fans as “Sexy Jesus.” We are no strangers to this obsession. The compassionate looking sexbomb has long been on our radar — if not, alas, our gaydar (who knows?)

Let’s just say he is Brazilian.

And like all Brazilians, shedding his clothes and posing for pictures is as natural to him as walking the nude beach at Corcovado, under the shadow of a colossus Jesus, God of Love, who looks down on his golden children with outstretched arms and is well pleased.

High-end runway model though he be, a habitué of London, Paris and Milan, Anderson (the first name so English) Dornelles ( coupled with the French romance of the last) captures the easy internationalism of Brazil. (read the full article)

Let us peek behind the curtain.
Let us cock the ear.
O, starlight starbright, who can these lovebirds be?

She: You were always the pilot who gunned his way to the top, the boy who danced in his underwear, the secret agent on impossible missions. Well, you’re not a kid in your underwear anymore! Now that’s the truth. To face. And deal with — if you want to survive.

He: Yeah? You’re nothing but a rotten, stinking TV has-been from a teen soap-opera! Supplying the soppy angst that made that shitty show run. You think your life’s a mystery. There isn’t a casting couch in this town that I don’t know about — and your ass has been nailed on every one of them! You reek of it!

She: DAMN YOU! Are you crazy! Are you! Tell me!

(He leaps onto the sofa)

He: I’m crazy! ((jumping up and down) I’m crazy!

She: Get down. Oprah’s not here now.

(From the wings): Oh yes, I am. (read the full article)

“That’s Hattie McDaniel,” the Indian woman working the counter at the Post Office told me when she showed me my choice of stamps. “George Clooney mentioned her last night at the Oscars. She was the first black woman to …”

Yes, I knew — to get the Oscar. And I knew also what Clooney hadn’t mentioned:

When McDaniel picked up her award for Best Supporting Actress, she was the first black woman to ever set foot in the Coconut Grove who wasn’t behind a serving tray and that even in progressive, Jewish-humanitarian Hollywood, Hattie had to make her long walk to stage from the darkest, farthest, most removed part of the restaurant, the very back, practically the coat-check room. (read the full article)