What a beautiful ass!

Our new college hunk Brett has heard this comment from teachers, preachers and guidance counselors ever since he began packing his butt in the pin-stripe uniform of his high school baseball team.

And it’s true, wouldn’t you say? Taut, round. (Imagine tracing your finger along the contour — for hours.)

So when they photographed him on the Fratmen campus and made the mistake of giving him this same complement — he just rolled his eyes and blushed a little … then gave ‘em more of his best side. (read the full article)

As much as we genuinely care that “Heather Graham got a Methven Satinjet shower head at the Michael Jordan Invitational on January 17 in the Bahamas,” we feel that the tabloids aren’t really keeping us adequately up to date on the down-and-dirty with regards to our favorite gay icons. We barely know a thing.

That’s why we’ve invited Celebrity Psychic, Miranda Celeste-Walters (right), to give us her unique insight into the sexual shenanigans of five prominent gay heartthrobs, and more specifically, why you may or may not want to sleep with them as much as you think you do.

Tom Ford: This looks like good sex, but I’m receiving something else. There’s a note below the surface here, and it has to do with childhood loss, and an overdeveloped sense of responsibility. This would not be good sex. I’m seeing antibacterial hand cleanser in almost every room, and also in the car. There is anger associated with shoes as well. Stay away from the shoes.

Elijah Wood: Very pleasant, but needy in ways that would not be immediately visible. There would be a lot of phone calls, and that could be good or that could be bad. Elijah writes angry emails. He doesn’t make a lot of sense. In the throes of sex, his voice is going to be higher than you’d expect. If you find yourself at odds with this delicate man, I recommend gifts of cheese.

(read the full article)

“Beauty is a short-lived tyranny.” — Socrates

…and it’s not hard to see why. The latest stud from our Cruiserboys Theater is an irresistible balance of perfection and imperfection that’s madly fuckable. Smooth tan skin and a gorgeous dusting of fuzz are the first things we notice when we look him over, but do we detect a slight overbite? Are his eyes a bit crooked? Yes, maybe, and it makes us want to pin him down and work it all out, physically. (read the full article)

I have been haunted – too haunted to write about it — for the past few weeks by a spread that appears in the current issue of Vanity Fair.

It is a photo tribute in which present-day movie stars have been inserted into instantly recognizable stills from Alfred Hitchcock movies — movies I grew up on and whose hypnotic power still grabs hold of me today, even after a lifetime of multiple viewings.

This photo of Jodi Foster impersonating Tippi Hedren in The Birds, for instance, conveys the blasphemous charm of these recreated stills, disquieting, in their own way, as much for the things they get “wrong” as for the things they get “right.” (The entire spread, which is not on the Vanity Fair site, can be seen here.) (read the full article)

It’s that pre-spring time of year again, when college and university students across the nation think about getting naked and shooting their first porn film.

And who can blame them? It’s a rite of passage that’s replaced hazing or the antique gestures of kegging until you puke or oiling up your body and cramming yourself into a phone booth with fifteen other studs.

And, too, the money is great. Think about it: Is stroking your cock to climax in a beautifully tiled shower really a form of ‘work’? Nah, just a pre-springtime high!

The extra cash comes in handy, of course. But it’s really about showing off the body that you’ve worked so hard to define during the winter.

Like our new Fratmen star, corn-fed, red-headed Hank. A rowdy exhibitionist that knows how to throw a mean spooge bomb. (read the full article)

Ted.

History has blessed us with but a few notable Men Called Haggard.

The first, British novelist Henry Rider Haggard, wrote sprawling colonialist adventures beginning in the late 19th Century. King Solomon’s Mines charts a quest to uncover the spectacular riches of the titular Biblical King of Israel. Allan Quatermain features a lost white civilization brimming with internal intrigue and power-mongering. In the bombastic She, the indomitable goddess-empress Ayesha is obliterated by her own boundless ambition on the fiery dais of her sacred flame.

Cut to the 21st Century and detect a thematic foreshadowing in Ted Haggard and his New Life megachurch, the mere nomenclature of which on the scale of shameless American vulgarity tops even the Monster Truck Rally, the Multiplex and the Megamall. (read the full article)

It was a spring day, a day, a day for a lay when the air
Smelled like a locker-room, a day to blow or get blown.
Returning from lunch I turned my corner and there
On a near-by stoop I saw him standing alone.

I glanced as I advanced.
The clean white T-shirt outlined
A forceful torso, the light-blue denims divulged
Much.

I observed the snug curves where they hugged the behind,
I watched the crotch where the cloth intriguingly bulged.
Our eyes met, I felt sick.
My knees turned weak. I couldn’t move.
I didn’t know what to say. (read the full article)

Forget Clint-Obama-Rama. And our economy sliding over a cliff.

At Sunday’s Grammy Awards a cataclysm of titanic proportion occurred when Beyonce Knowles introduced a waiting-in-the-wings Tina Turner to a drop-jaw audience as … “The Queen.”

Come Monday an irritated
Aretha Franklin, always and forever to be known as The Queen of Soul, declared the following about the supposed contretemps:

“I dismissed it as a cheap shot for controversy.”

Franklin then made like Storm from the X-Men superheros team and with a severe sweep of her arm annihilated dozens of neighborhoods in Beyonce’s hometown of Houston Texas.

What Aretha may have lost in of-the-moment pop music relevance during recent years — where her musical output has been scattershot and weakly received — she seems to be making up for in sheer mass and madcap, could-give-a-fuck fashion chutzpah. (read the full article)

“I can’t take a well-tanned person seriously.” — Cleveland Amory

Hat tip to Bar Stool Sports.