The slinky, silky, secretive nature of cats is very seductive, I admit.

Many gay men love them, seem to have a psychic link to them, are like cats in their own ability to intuit every subtle wrinkle in the matrix.

In this, cats and the men who love them resemble women with PMS. Nothing is too small to set off their high- maintenance wiring. Some of these men are adorable, my best friends even. But I hate their fucking cats!

What’s wrong with me, doc. I’m a fag. I intuit, I read the ether, I channel the zeitgeist. I just don’t get cats.

I hate them because they’re not dogs. A dog runs to meet you at the door and goes into a little dance, jumping, leaping, twirling, sneezing, running circles around your feet. You are their king. This is what it feels like to be somebody’s Ultimate Top. If they knew how to turn themselves inside out, by golly, they would do it. For you. (read the full article)

We know there are fanatics out there.

Guys who go off their nut, out of their skulls, totally bonkers for foreskin.

Guys who feel terribly deprived — more than that, outraged! — at finding themselves circumcised by some cruel play of fate and modern science, who try one sad scheme after another to grow back that silly little millimeter extra.

And yes, we plead guilty to catering to this obsession. In the lovely literature we publish in the back of the Inner Circle — those fiction tales designed to enlighten, teach and be read with one hand — nary a circumcised cock ever lifts its bare head in anything like triumph.

So it’s time we spent a few moments in heavy thought on — what else? — cock. The uncut kind. (read the full article)

Supersize me, baby.

Everything in Patrick Fillion’s comic-book wonderland is bigger than life and four times as natural.

In his latest Class Comic, entitled, with charming directness, The Incredibly Hung Naked Justice (that’s our boy at left) — we follow the sexploits of a superhero who is forever bursting out of his clothes to don thigh-high boots and spandex opera gloves.

He wears nothing else — but, then this guy’s nothing is anybody else’s pornucopia of riches: headlight pecs with big, chewy nips and a humdinger of a mantool that rates its own zip code.

It’s no surprise then that when he does battle with super villains, it all turns into an interspecies fuckfest.

Everybody gets it on with everything — and we do mean every thing: No creature is too alien for Fillion’s imagination to deck out in multiple dicks and puckered a-holes. (read the full article)

Nothing like a heatwave to break the ice between neighbors.

When you live in a big anonymous apartment building and you’ve been eying the handsome black buck that moved down the hall, but getting no response — well, there’s nothing like a little assist from mother nature. Of course, blessings come in disguise:

That’s what happened to Sean Storm, a former Nightcharm discovery, now a porn star. After the third day of 90+ temps, he thought he was going to throw himself off Coit Tower.

San Francisco wasn’t suppose to have heatwaves. Nobody had air conditioners, except the hotels, and a sure way to spot tourists was that they were the ones in short sleeves in August — the shnooks! – trembling when the fog rolled in, as it always did at 4 in the afternoon, turning San Francisco into perpetual October.

But it was hotter than hell now, the fog had never materialized, and Sean had tossed and turned all night on hot sheets. Pressing a cold beer against his forehead, he wandered up to the roof to catch a stray breeze.

And there found his neighbor, lying out on a beach chair, with the same idea. (read the full article)

Yes, she’s been dead a million years — a million plus 10, actually, as she was strictly on autopilot in her last movies, Myra Breckinridge and Sextette, where her lines were radioed in through a teeny-tiny earpiece.

But Mae West lives, children!– as long as Nightcharm and YouTube have anything to say about it (more on that later).

At right, Salvador Dali’s famous take on the star: The Face of Mae West Which Can Be Used as an Apartment. The Mae West lip couch was actually built by Dali, and later copied by a slew of Las Vegas brothels.

Fittingly. In her movies, West always played a brothel madame, in style if not in name. She was forever on the vamp, with a keen eye for male horseflesh. Among her many trademarks — the hourglass figure, the salacious delivery — was a retinue of musclemen, usually half dressed, which would escort her about Hollywood and, in later years, co-star with her in a Las Vegas revue. (read the full article)

Guilty pleasure is how our gal Robin Givhan describes Project Runway, now beginning its third hit season. In her latest Washington Post column, Givhan picks apart what has become the most entertaining — and in its way, devastating and authentic — queer-centric show on television.

The premise:a dozen no-name designers compete for $100,000 and a chance to present a collection during New York fashion week.

To do this they must win various challenges — challenges, writes Givhan, which are always “absurd — make a dress from foliage! candy! the clothes off your back!”

Very quickly the show became a cult in the fashion industry, reports Givhan, not only for its preposterous, but fabulous fashion experiments but because of the seriousness of its commentary. With a judging panel headed by the somewhat vacuous supermodel Heidi Klum (above), “the guest judges included a smart mix of fashion insiders and the critiques were entertaining and pithy.” (read the full article)

In the great battle of good and evil that makes our tiny, rapidly warming world go round, there have been a handful of truly remarkable rivalries:

Moses vs. Pharaoh, Bette vs. Joan. Me vs. a restraining order from Jason Statham’s lawyer …

But my favorite battle royal at the moment is the one quietly taking place between Julia Roberts and Parker Posey.

Of course, you know who Parker Posey is: She’s that off-beat chick you always fall in love with for her dizzy, faux-vapid comic delivery in such fave films as Best in Show, Hell on Heels: the Battle of Mary Kay, and, of course, House of Yes — where she plays a Jackie Kennedy wannabe in Grassy Knoll pink skirt and pillbox hat.

And if that doesn’t ring a bell (you are a gay man, right, with all your dues paid up?), she’s appearing on multiplex’s everywhere as the caped one’s Stoli-addled nemesis in Superman Returns (above). (read the full article)

Chet is a surfer from Detroit. Now, how do you surf in Detroit?

“Carefully,” he says breaking into a big bright grin.

“What I mean is I’m from Detroit, but I’m attending college out here. And Jeez, I love the Bay Area! Man, you don’t know what winter really is till you get that Siberian Express coming down from Canada, straight across the Great Lakes, and right down your neck!”

Can you really surf in San Francisco — in January?

“You can do all sorts of things in San Francisco,” he says with a mischievous twinkle.

Chet fell in love with the city at first sight and San Francisco fell in love with him right back. Posing “for pictures,” he tell us is his second favorite thing to do.

What’s the first? (read the full article)