Arpad Miklos has a cock that Michelangelo would have swooned to sketch. It’s that sublimely perfect. Take a moment to study it carefully above. Imagine it fully erect, bobbing and throbing and — as it’s often doing — drooling pre-cum.

Now, fantasize harder — and imagine Mr. Miklos’ girthy monster in some unfettered hardcore action.

Well, on second thought don’t burn out all your dopamine neurons just yet — we can help with that later suggestion: With one quick flick of your wrist you can catch Arpad in full swing in our current Raging Stallion theater update in the Inner Circle‘s Video LaunchPad.

Yep, yet another classic moment from the heartstopping film Stoked 2.

You’ll swoon, too, as you watch Arpad (our choice for the Hungarian Beefcake Award for 2006 award) pummel the various orifices of Michael Soldier and French superstar Taurus. Normally this kind of arrangement would be called a three-way, but when it comes to Arpad — something like Extreme Bacchanalia is way more fitting.

Hurry up. You’re next! Don’t be late — Mr. Miklos is waiting for you.

(MEMBERS / non-MEMBERS

As this giddy NY Times review by Manohla Dargis reminds us, “There are, in the movies, few places creepier to spend time than in David Lynch’s head.”

But ask yourself: When it comes to David Lynch, isn’t that exactly where you want to be?

Remember Mulholland Drive? I do. After my sixth viewing I realized I was watching the movie, repeatedly, not because I enjoyed it as cinema but because as a process the movie taught me to appreciate symbols with the same deference I apply to modern art.

“What does it mean?” was replaced with — well, rewatching the film. (read the full article)

Here then are our 12 Men of Christmas.

Get out of your scorecards, kids. Just as we did last year when we graded awful guys, we’re making a list and checking it twice. In our annual countdown of unlikely mugs we’d fuck anyway, we thought we’d present those Men Who Are Too Beautiful.

You know who they are: Heart-stoppers. Humdingers. All-around impossible beauties. (like soap actor, Victor Weber at top.) (read the full article)

What’s happening in Hungary?

The biggest of the BIG seems to have become the country’s newest national treasure. We’re talking monster cocks, of course. (Aren’t we always?)

But we wonder: Could all these mega-dicks be genetic mutations? Related in some way to the Chernobyl disaster in 1986 — the year many of the guys sporting these monumental cudgels were born?

Or — dizzy things that we are — do we have our geography all mixed up?

Who can blame us? Hungarian guys like Tamas Esterhazy (left) make us crazy.

Yes, Tamas is another example of what Hungary is doing best nowadays: Exporting Grade A, prime- cut porn stars to Gay America.

And what are these Studlings on the Make made of? Let’s see:

Shoulders broad enough to park a car on. Lanky but thick ‘n beefy thighs. Muscular torsos so perfect that the poet Rilke, had he lived to write about them, would have renewed his call that we all change our lives all over again. Tattoos that — well, never mind the tats.

And the cocks? Here we go again with the superlatives: Cocks that are long, longer, longest. Primitively uncut, oozing pre-cum — freakishly large. (read the full article)

I’ve decided to forgo Christmas this year. With my home remodel stalled in a Kafka-like legal snag, many good friends out of town, several family members in jail and a boyfriend who’s a former, no-holiday-celebrating Jehovah’s Witness, it felt futile to try and fire up my festive fires.

The upside of Scrooging? I’d save money on gifting.

Hardly. Several days in the city to run errands last week and I was shopping like a meth-fueled Ivana Trump.

But shopping for myself.

Here then is my list of highly recommended items to give yourself for Christmas this year. Because to love yourself is — indeed — the greatest love of all.
(read the full article)

Twas the night before Christmas …

And all along the highway, not a creature was stirring — except for the tree farmers who were about to abandon their last stash of Christmas trees, the scrawny, crooked, feebly greened dozen or so they had been unable to sell.

The two men were packing up their pick-up as a muffling snowfall came down, large snowflakes that took their time in the air and then lingered on peacoats and eyelashes for long geometric moments. (read the full article)

Some things we know about the star system in the Fabulous World of Porn:

1. Porn doesn’t know about supporting casts. Everyone is a PornStar. It’s a calibration thing. The real stars — the Colton Fords and Jeff Strykers — are signified by the term Porn SuperStar. And the real superstars — and for this we have to switch into straight porn and say words we’d never thought we’d use on this site: the Seka’s and the Jenna Jameson’s — are just too exulted for words.

2. The Soloist is the Shooting Star on Porn’s star map. The fratboy, say, who has come to a hotel room in answer to an ad for “hot athletic guy, not shy in front of camera, $1000 for 1 hour” is a one-time wonder. Brilliant and beheld at the peak of his arc, in all his early-20′s excellence, the Soloist is a lovely specialty performance, that comes once and then never again flashes across the dark of our imagination.

3.There is an infinity of stars but only one star-making moment. Anthony Hopkins may have won an Oscar for the vicious little spin he put on the words “fava beans,” Kevin Spacey for his wry deadpan, and Jack Nicholson for … well, for just being Jack. But there is one and only one Oscar-winning shot in a porn film. Which brings us to our new Video Launch Pad Offering in the Inner Circle.

The boys at Fratmen give us the third in a series of money-shot compilations, featuring all the hotel-room Shooting Stars we have loved in our previous forays down University Row — loved not wisely, alas, but too well!

Oh, these are delightful lads with their spruce little bods and all-American boy beauty, arcing and shooting and moaning a bit. And the message of it all is this:

Everybody is a star!

(MEMBERS / non-MEMBERS)

Dreamgirls is weirdly like The Wizard of Oz.

Neither one has a single shred of overtly gay content, and yet each of them has become an iconically gay piece of work. Wait til see you see the movie of Dreamgirls (and you will, you know you will). You’ll see just what I mean.

Here’s a movie made by two white gay guys (writer-director Bill Condon and producer Laurence Mark) based on a Broadway musical made by a bunch of other white gay guys (director-choreographer Michael Bennett, playwright-lyricist Tom Eyen, composer Henry Krieger, and producer David Geffen) loosely based on the real-life story of four young black women from Detroit in the early ‘60s whose singing group crosses over from R&B to Top 40 and launches the superstardom of their lead singer.

Lord knows, gay guys aren’t the only people in the world who love the Supremes or the Broadway show loosely based on their story. But the same mysterious alchemy by which chubby nerdy mamma’s boys all over the world identify with a spunky pubescent girl in pigtails and a checked gingham dress singing “Somewhere Over the Rainbow” seems to operate inside the mythic landscape of Dreamgirls. (read the full article)

It’s getting hard to keep up.

Just this past weekend, a second Colorado pastor had to step down from his evangelical church due to an unscheduled outing from the closet.

“I have struggled with homosexuality since I was a 5-year-old boy,” confessed Paul Barnes, in a videotape message played on Sunday for his congregation. “I can’t tell you the number of nights I have cried myself to sleep, begging God to take this away.”

We can think of a lot of reasons for hardline evangelicals to cry themselves to sleep. The least of which would be a little harmless R&R with one of the boys. Just for starters, wasn’t being born the first time traumatic enough without wanting to repeat the trip?

It seems every time we turn around, some new evangelical blowhard — someone you never heard of, from the back of beyond — is catching media fire with an even nuttier stand against Darwin, or medical research, or Walmart (which we have learned not only sells the Brokeback Mountain DVD to “families” but has begun actively “pushing the gay agenda”, according to WorldNetDaily, a Christian publication currently in the throes of “Operation Just Say Merry Christmas.”) (read the full article)

Join us in our holy crusade to put the triple-X back into Xmas! Here is what we want — what we’ve only ever wanted — for Christmas.

And kids, it’s not peace on earth. (That’s the second thing on our list.)

It’s this fan-tastic coverboy on the 2007 Dieux Du Stade calendar, at left : Julien Arias.

Jesus — the face, the chest, the arms, the ass (unseen, but you can tell!) — and all he speaks is French!

Oxygen, please! The cabin is rapidly losing pressure!

Natch, he’s a French rugby player or something: the Dieux Du Stade series specializes in rough-and-tumble Euro sportsmen, all of whom have L’Uomo faces of the most florid, full-blown beauty, as well as those high-and-tight footballer arses and lovely half-concealed (but we’re sure, uncut) packages.

Oh, it’s a pricey little import, this calendar. Beautifully executed, of course — more like a high-end photobook, with the months divided in half, so you get double the boy for the buck. At about $37, we think it makes a great gift for that special someone. (Surely it’s too deliciously indulgent to give to yourself!)

Below the jump is a vid of the studly Julien from his maddeningly naked photo shoot featured on the Dieux du Stade: Making of the 2007 Calendar DVD. But we must warn you: Not since Kubrick’s 2001:A Space Odyssey, have we seen Johann Strauss’ magnificent Blue Danube Waltz so lushly, so unforgettably complemented. (read the full article)