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. (more…)

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. (more…)

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. (more…)