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)

When you live to fuck and fuck to live there are few — precious few — moments that throw a wrench into your spectacular cum flow and shut the whole Vegasy water show down.

Such was the moment last Wednesday, at approximately 9:57 in the evening, when the men of Raging Stallion — whom on happier days we refer to as a stable of studs, as a stampede of rambunctious ponies — came face to face with grief as they witnessed the sudden, shocking going of Chris from the American Idol stage.

Not Chris, not Chris! — the cry went up. Hunky, quarterback-chested boy-beauty Chris! He of the Justin Timberlake scalp stubble, the glittery ear studs in each ear, the athletic neck of such promising thickness!

A pall fell over the men crowded into the TV room, for the sling room had been emptied and all filming had stopped throughout the studio as it always does during the Results show.

Each man sat sunk in his own private thoughts with nary a concern for how he was hanging at the moment, vaguely aware that his major manhood was modestly — but ah, not completely, never completely — concealed by a towel.

Instead all eyes were on Chris, who was going out, in the cruel tradition of the show, bravely: singing his — alas, still tuneless — final, losing song.

And while we’d like to say a tear was shed in that room, it wasn’t. Porn stars — like Joan Crawford in The Damned Don’t Cry — have to conserve their liquid flow for the camera.

Different people handle grief differently. Stallion stars Vincenzo and Sarib (above) immediately went before the cameras and starting fucking like rabid dogs. This was their therapy. (read the full article)

To the American ear, the name Francisco conjures up the city of San Francisco, rising above a bay on rollercoaster hills, with its bars and tourists and gingerbread trim.

But that would be the wrong city, the wrong bay, the wrong tourists for this Francisco.

Like many a young man with a hardon who is approached by a photographer on a Southern beach and offered money — not a fortune certainly, but more than enough for the proverbial “trouble” — to free the monster bulging out of his low-rise swim trunks, in front of a camera, for strictly humanitarian purposes — no, not to save Africa, which thankfully has Ryan and Paula and Randy and Simon to save it — but for the good governance and continuing sanity of all us wonderful people out here in the dark…

Like so many young men, we say, this young man decided not to use his real name but fabricated one from the glittering syllables of the city where he was from, or wanted to be from — his soul city. (read the full article)

Sure, there was the wonderland of his body: gym-sculpted, perpetually tanned and glowing. A body made beguiling by its distinct halves. Above the waist: smooth, taut, sharply defined. Below: thickets of dark hair covering his groin, legs and beef-meaty ass.

And his dick. A stout cock deserving the literotic term cudgel. Fully engorged, its circumference suggested death by suffocation, should it be lodged too deeply, for too long, in too avid a throat.

And yet it was Lex Baldwin’s face that set him apart from the blond blur of early 90′s gay sexbots.

Baldwin’s face was classically swarthy. His countenance solemn, a look that signaled stern indifference. But indifference with a concession — you could blow him. He’d give you that. Maybe.

With the bull-like flare of his nostrils, he appeared perpetually angry. The strong cleft of his upper lip exaggerated the downward turn of his mouth. A determined sulk that guaranteed no meat — other than a steak — would ever enter that pouty mouth. (read the full article)