Remove your hair with this wax, that cream, our laser, electrolysis, snake oil, Auzzie Nads, Nair … choose your weapon now!

Is it that important that we wage war on our body hair? How long has this been going on? What sick mind set the wheels in motion that we should venerate the hairless and look down on those gifted with a nice chest of fuzz? Do a search on the web for “body hair” and I challenge you to find one site that doesn’t demand you join the fight against unsightly body hair.

You’ll find three things: body hair removal techniques, Rogaine ads, or pages about hair fetishes.

Bust out a porn magazine (not Bear or Honcho) and you will not find anything but shaved chests, bald ball sacks, and depilated ass cracks. Same goes for almost all porn movies presently. When did hair get so disgusting to us that we need to remove it from the places it was supposed to be? Was there a big memo about killer crab lice? (read the full article)

Kurt Marshall, who died in 1988 at twenty-two after a mere sticky handful of performances in four videos, was the triumph of the golden-haired aesthetic in gay smut.

Blonds have come and gone within the pantheon of porndom but Kurt Marshall set forever the standard. He was the perfect Hitler-Jugend gone insatiably raunchy and saucy.

And yes, Kurt is an obscure figure, but so what? Let others consider the departed titans now off in Porno-Valhalla (Scott O’Hara, Jon King, Joey Stefano, et al) or those minor figures reposing in unmarked pine boxes in the Potter’s Field of Pornotopia.

In a more perfect world, poets would have written sonnets to Kurt’s thrilling languor. He would have been cast for a life-sized nude gilt (as though he wasn’t golden enough) statue holding up the proscenium arch at some very private, all nude production of Parsifal. (read the full article)

I am a ravenous cocksucker.

He’s standing in front of me. Naked. I’m on my knees. Also naked. I’m the drain and he’s the plunger, and our purpose together is pre-ordained.

The stubble on my chin mingles with the stubble on his scrotum; I open my eyes for a moment and all I see are slim hips. I’m moaning (more of a crazed hum, come to think of it). He’s thrusting.

Lovingly, I tug and tickle and — Shazam! I’m bestowed with a bountiful expression of his joy — it’s both delicious and unpleasant, but its unpleasantness makes it even more delicious. We giggle as we kiss stickily. Moments later we’ve switched places and now I’m thrusting while he’s humming crazily…

I know that my lover and I do not dance this nasty tango alone. Porn is chock-a-block with cocksuckers. Girls suck cock. Boys suck cock. Almost everybody sucks cock — even Catholic priests. (read the full article)

NUMBER ONE.

Naked guy picture books are becoming tedious — the glut of them we mean. If we see one more black and white photograph of a mega-buff, buzz-cut dude teetering in spiked high-heels — you know, the brutal/dainty dichotomy — we’ll start doing something stupid.

Like publicly protesting Tom Cruise’s long-time-coming pay cut.

Poor Tom. But lucky Ohm. Ohm Phanphiroj’s bewitching new photography book for publisher Bruno Gmunder is titled Rare Views, and it’s a dick-rearing hit. A book totally true to its title, too. As Freshmen magazine observed:

This “unusual collection is a sleepy-eyed looking-glass into a strange and seedy lifestyle, where young hustler-types pose, piss, dress, and sleep in the various hotels, bedrooms, and bathrooms of Bonerville. One hunky model softly clutches his cock as he pisses into a cup…another shot fixates on a nude man fixing his oven…”

OK, so we’d read enough! When we contacted Bruno Gmunder to inquire about this place called Bonnerville and what the chances might be for us to hang out with some of BV’s lurid, dark-haired beauties, the very same ones that Mr. Phanphiroj rounded for his photogasms, we were abruptly cut-off and transferred over to Tom Cruise’s management firm. What the fuh…? Blame it on Mercury suddenly turning direct. But don’t blame us if you miss this trashy, artsy book. (read the full article)

Whenever I’m cruising the Internet, visiting the library, or talking to a friend or stranger, I always have a secret agenda. I’m on a quest for an elusive bit of information.

As I grew up, I was intrigued by the old saying, “Men only want one thing.” As a prepubescent kid, I vaguely suspected that the phrase was an allusion to sex. Today, however, I know that “sex” is a very broad concept, and that no two men necessarily get off on the same thing. (If you don’t know the sheer vastness of male sexual identity and expression, you haven’t spent enough time looking at porn on the Internet.) So I’m always digging around, reading between the lines for the one thing that all men really want. I think I finally figured it out.

As a bit of very brief background, my research into gay history introduced me to the Greek Isle of Lesbos, an historical island of mythical proportions, populated only by women. The inhabitants poetically defined the pure love that can exist woman-to-woman. This ancient society left a legacy of art, literature, and philosophy that has helped to define modern feminism and indeed has even given a name to lesbianism. (read the full article)

The important thing is to keep hydrated when you power-lift in weather like this. And if you can’t get to your bottle of Avian fast enough, well … use your imagination, guy.

Michael is using his imagination. On Dirk.

Dirk’s 3-day stubble and buzz cut is what did it. See, Dirk was working on his upper body this early hour in the morning when almost no one else was at the gym.

But he was doing it shirtless. In sweats that sagged below the twin arches of his pelvis. Just glistening. Stubble, abs, every bit of him a shine.

You might say he was minding his own business except his business was driving Michael right out of his own mind. (read the full article)