It’s called a Sugar RUSHHHHHH

The boy in the cap is Canadian porn star Pierre Fitch,
the new Joey Stefano

Quick, nasty and narrative.

The illustrations of Michael Kirwan never fail to give me a hardon — surely the highest accolade one can pay a piece of really good jerk-off art.

The illustrations have for me a crude teenage exuberance, as if they were sketched in the margin of a high school notebook, or found in the boy’s bathroom, hallucinatory images of illicit cocksucking.

Yet everywhere there is the patient hand of the mature artist: in the theatrical setups and lighting, the frequent play of clashing patterns, the stagey, orgiastic groupings. (read the full article)

We saw a couple test shots of Max before we set a date for the shoot, of course, and they were hot pictures. We knew he could strike a pose or two, and his face was handsome, but nothing could have prepared us for the man that answered the door. Pure, unadorned sex. Perfect stubble and a lean, masculine build. Piercing eyes. Full, kissable lips. Light chest fuzz.

And it only got better from there. When the clothes started coming off, the underwear were fit to amaze, and the package they concealed — let’s just say it wasn’t very concealed.

The resulting session will blow your mind. Nightcharm Exclusive photos and video so intense, we know you’ll be coming back for seconds… and thirds. There can’t be too many men on the planet much hotter than this. A perfect balance of passion, personality, and performance, Max is an unbeatable addition to our new High Definition Galleries in the Inner Circle.

Don’t miss the gorgeous video, for one of our all-time favorite convulsive cum eruptions. This is grade-A all the way, boys.

(MEMBERS / non-MEMBERS take a free tour)

Gaysploitation.

Unlike the Blaxploitation and Kung Fu crazes of the early and mid 70s, the Gay Exploitation genre never really arrived. Outside of underground films and odd shorts and loops, gay characters just didn’t bust out on drive-in screens and urban adult-only theaters. Where was our vigilante Pam Grier, our abtacular Bruce Lee?

Only the peerless Tura Satana (top right) as Varla in Russ Meyer’s 1965 classic Faster, Pussycat! Kill! Kill! has the balls to assume the mantle of all-time Super Queer.

The joy of Faster, Pussycat! is that Ms. Satana is in many ways playing herself. She was trained in karate, did a stint in reform school, married at thirteen, joined an all-girl gang, was a popular burlesque dancer, dated Elvis and garnered bit parts in a Hollywood studio system that couldn’t accommodate her exoticism.

We know her Varla is bad because she’s got a face like a kabuki mask of disdain, a repetoire of judo death blows, and cleavage that runs deeper than a California fault line. Add her two sociopathic go-go dancer cohorts Rosie, the enigmatic Haji (supine below) and Billie, the bodacious Lori Williams (below right), into the mix and the movie spills deliriously over the top.

The triad is such an stunning camp spectacle that they’re almost impossible to define as fully man or woman. Are they buxom, cat-fighting male fantasies? Brawling bull daggers behind the wheel? She-male outlaws or tranny terrors on a desert death trip into oblivion? (read the full article)

Yes, yes, we’re squeezing yet another piece out of the movie 300!

That total popcorn experience that is so homoerotic it goes out of its way to be homophobic — is that classic gay panic or what!

Classic Hollywood, that is; not classic Greek.

The Spartans, as we have all learned by now, when not slashing, gashing and slaughtering, did not tremble or shake when confronted with the willing mouth or open anus of a fellow hardbody warrior.

Part of what made the warrior caste in Sparta so elite was the homosexual sex, which was — do you love it — mandatory. Pairing up with a lover was thought — with perfect Euclidean logic — to strengthen unit cohesion, not weaken it.

In fact, experience had taught them so. There were famous fighting teams, famously devoted to each other. You would think that our own military brass — with all the mutual fucking and sucking that soldiers, marines and airmen have enjoyed over the years — might have learned the same lesson. Alas, no — a modern bias that plays out, anachronistically, in the film.

But if 300 gets their history wrong, they nail it with the hardbodies. Particularly, the mighty, mighty bod of Gerard Butler, whose wall-to-wall chest span and six-cylinder six-pack are featured front and center in every 300 poster, as well as on the box of the Playstation spin-off.

We haven’t seen a male body sold this hard since the glory days of Steve Reeves. (read the full article)

Goodbye baby — and amen!

“Like many fanatical preachers, Falwell was especially disgusting in exuding an almost sexless personality while railing from dawn to dusk about the sex lives of others.”
More Hitchens on Falwell

Erototoxins — that’s your word for the day.

Say it one hundred times:
e-ROT-o
[pause for maximum impact]
TOXINS!

Erototoxins are the latest in junk science from the ever incredible Religious Right.

According to Judith Reisman — a self-styled “expert” and anti-porn crusader — the recent shootings at Virginia Tech were all the result of violent video games and
cell-phone porn.

“Our mass media needs to stop celebrating mass killers and pandering sexual violence,” fumes Reisman — or “Dr.” Reisman as she likes to call herself.

In fact, she is in no way a medical doctor, or even a psychotherapist. She is a woman with a PhD in communication — that classic major of spokesmodels and celebrity pitchmen — who, like many in the Religious Right, insists on using the Dr. honorific before her name to suggest that she is something more than she is.

“A major lawsuit waits in the wings,” threatens the righteous spokesmodel, “if Virginia Tech has been a pornographic/erototoxic tolerant environment.”

A what environment? Oh we get it: it’s all because of those nasty pictures of people with no clothes on. (read the full article)

Whoa!

Whoa!

…and Whoa!

Behold Charles Dera!

Is he not a Tom of Finland come to life? He’s even doing that wide, lecherous half-smile that Tom would put on his Rock-Hudson beautiful studs.

Every now and then, Nightcharm goes slightly nuts over a male model.

Readers of these pages are well acquainted with our out-of-control Rafael Verga problem (here, here, and even here! Should we start looking for a 12-step program?)

And our Anderson Dornelles idol worship (was there ever a hotter Jesus? — here and here).

And our constant breakdowns over the beefy slabs of footballer ass and thigh on display in the Dieux du Stade calendars, which in out last outbreak took the form of a Julien Arias gran mal seizure , and a Sean Lamont petit mal episode.

Let us now stare directly into the sun of our latest nuts-making distraction. (read the full article)