His Xbox gamertag is spunkymonkey — which frankly tells us all we need to know.

But that doesn’t stop Abe from going on in an adorable rosy-faced way about how many levels he’s achieved in Oblivion….

Or the hordes of Locust slime he’s whacked in Gears of War …

Or the spin-out turn he mastered for Project Gotham Racing 3 to win the near-impossible platinum trophy (“much more rad than gold“) on the wicked, twisty Nürburgring track.

Yes, we concede , he does have major gamer creds. He is big in the virtual world.

Still…

It’s how he’s doing down here on the ol’ physical plane that we most want to get…mmm-hmm … behind.

Plus, we note, eyeing his butterfly-shaped Xbox controller with its array of buttons, bumpers and triggers, all that expert game play must have developed his tactile skills to a godlike degree.

Abe blushes because like all gamers he watches Heroes and has been waiting his whole happy life for someone to recognize his inner Superboy. Then he offers to give us a demonstration. We utter a little gasp of hallelujah but make one teeny suggestion.

His fingers of fury, we remark, are as articulated now as the hands of a pianist. The hand-eye coordination is as devastating as that of a brain surgeon. Why waste them on a dinky old Xbox controller? Couldn’t he instead…?

He follows the downward gaze of our eyes. Then: big smile

Sure, says Abe.

Great, says we. You’re on, babe. Beautiful Abe.

And thus, another day getting the pictures and videos you want and you need, faithful reader. Just journalists doing our job. No Pulitzers necessary.

All playing now at the Cruiser Boys Theater in the Inner Circle.

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Whatever Happened To John McCain?

As the reigning Baby Jane of the already creepy line up of Republican Presidential candidates, the snow-topped, fire hydrant-bodied septuagenarian is now dancing on the sand as the tide washes away all of his presidential dreams and his campaign dies of sunstroke.

His poll numbers have plummeted. His public image is like a battered pinata. The Straight Talk Bus is wrapped around a tree and engulfed in flames. Only one thing could’ve caused a one-time favorite to fall so far: the debilitating form of unintentional career suicide that is … (wait for it) … gay sweaters!

That’s right. Bad sartorial advice from his advisors is to blame. At least in his mind. With campaign momentum dwindling and his fundraising in the red, McCain has reportedly gone off on an all-out diatribe that culminated with the Arizona senator accusing his staff of forcing him to don gay-looking sweaters in the hopes of making him seem like less of a relic.

Now McCain is lamenting the loss of his rugged appeal thanks to those infernal V-Necks with their subliminal homosexual vibes. Admittedly, his attire has been something of a running joke recently, but now even his own staff is wondering whether late-life dementia and megalomaniacal paranoia are taking their toll on him. Has he finally flipped? (read the full article)

In the dawn-tinted Parthenon of awful gay movies, Cruising stands alone. It doesn’t merely backfire; it backfires brilliantly.

So it is with mixed emotions (two parts joy, three parts delirium) that we turn our gaze on September 18 when this anti-classic will be released finally on DVD in its shameless uncut glory (with restored scenes never released) — and even better in hi-def, so you can catch all the undulating male bodies in the background of its bar scenes where, according to the movie’s fantastical conceit, everyone is always in some state of fuck or suck.

Cruising was certainly a shocker in its day. The 1980 thriller is set in the night-world of New York’s orgiastic backrooms, peepshows and open-air fuck-fests that ran 24/7 in the bushes of Central Park. A then hot and nasty Al Pacino goes undercover to attract a serial killer, decoying himself as a hungry bottom in wife-beaters and low-slung jeans. The killer, meanwhile, a lanky, long-torsoed lad whose face is always concealed, is shown tricking and then killing his bound-up S&M partners — a sort of buyer’s remorse we usually associate with the black widow spider — ever whispering in his victim’s ear the moronic catchphrase “You made me do that.” (read the full article)

Ever wonder why men don’t lock eyes unless they’re going to fight … or fuck?

Or why adolescent boys leave empty seats between them when they go to the movies?

That is the burning question today over on AlterNet, kicking off a long and ponderous meditation on manhood by a professor of American culture. The essay’s title: Don’t Look Gay: Why American Men Are Afraid of Intimacy with Each Other

Yes, we’ve made this trip before — many times before –but let’s strap ourselves in for one more thrill-packed, hands-in-the-air go-round on the Cyclone, that splintery old roller coaster of cultural frettings over men who just can’t handle heavy duty man-on-man, dick-in-ass action — the wimps! … and definitely not our kind, darling.

“On Saturday afternoon at the Cineplex you can see them: adolescent boys, there to watch one of the action films that Hollywood makes with an audience of young males in mind,” begins John Ibson, who teaches courses on male sexuality at Cal State Fullerton. “What’s distinctive is where the boys sit in the theater. Though they might’ve come to the movie together and might even be close friends, they’ll leave an empty seat between them.” (read the full article)

It’s Not Easy Being Green

Hunky protester Josh Brown, a member of the Climate Change Ski Team, being arrested after he ran up to Australian prime minister John Howard and demanded to know what the leader was doing about global warming. “There’s no snow, no snow,” cried the distraught Speedo-wearing beauty as he was hauled away. July in Australia is mid-winter.

hattip to Nightcharm reader Stephen Rader, who dubbed Brown “My New Imaginary Boyfriend.”

(read the full article)

Dick in the News!

Dick in the air.

Dick … everywhere.

Yes, boys and girls, as if we needed to be told twice, Penis Rules.

So it is only right — only our journalistic duty in action — that we introduce a rude and lewd regular feature: The Week in PENIS.

To help us inaugurate this our first penile roundup, we present for your perving pleasure Kasey Kahne (nickname: Gameboy), at left, a NASCAR hottie who is sure to get into a pissing match with one of this week’s news flashes.

The report, which you will find below, tells of a campaign to link fast cars to a certain lack of gravitas in the ol’ bulge department.

Not that we would ever fall for such foolishness.

Cars peeling out of tight spaces at high speed with lots of varooming and tire squealing will always give us a chubbie. For us, it’s the gay equivalent of Barry White. It’s Let’s Fuck music at its best. The sound of stompy, raunchy, dumb-as-shit stud stuff.

But we tarry. Here it is then, from around the world and around the block: (read the full article)

“Your body is a labyrinth that only I can penetrate.”

It’s pretty arch and baroque as far as come-ons go, but if you’re indie film maker Joe Zaso, it’s likely to make you stiffen with anticipation below the belt.

New York-born Zaso is a devote of the sexy, violent horror movies produced in Italy during the 60s and 70s and a whispered, vaguely threatening line like that is just the type of florid dialogue you’d expect in movies with erotically macabre titles like Your Hands On My Body, The Corpse Bears Traces of Carnal Violence, and Strip Nude For Your Killer.

This is the twilight world Zaso dreams of — a place where beautiful people in mod fashions die operatically, everyone lives in an opulent Italian villa, sex is kinky and scored to lush Ennio Morricone-style music, and there’s always a trench-coated, fedora-wearing maniac with a razor lurking about.

Joe Zaso was born too late to have the movie career he craves or deserves. Had he arrived decades earlier, he’d be playing an assortment of shirtless Frankenstein Monster sex toys, Eurospy heavies, drop-dead gorgeous Spaghetti Western anti-heroes, and macho explorers in Italian cannibal epics.

With all his telegenic brawn, it’s not hard to picture him assaying Hercules or Maciste in toga pictures, getting roles as sand-kicking bullies in sugary beach party movies, or being plucked right off the streets of New York to star in Andy Warhol Factory films.

Alas, the world has changed. The Hollywood studio system collapsed and has left many a beautiful hopeful to fend for themselves. Broadway and Soap Opera inner circles are just as closed off. The European Horror and Sexploitation market dwindled by the close of the 80s. Gone are the drive-ins and grind house scenes of yesteryear.

So what’s a handsome, ambitious young actor to do? (read the full article)

Sky Donavan is down by the wood stack, chopping away. Young and dark Andy Hunter (left) shows up to help him load the wood onto the truck but un-loads Sky’s cock instead.

After kissing and pulling each other’s dicks to freedom the boys treat us to not one but two separate fucks in this one scene, so you get double the cum shots!

It’s in the Inner Circle’s Raging Stallion theater. And it’s happening NOW!

Hurry on in…

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