As the days of Summer draw to an end, many of us are asking ourselves, “Whatever happened to the promise of Summer Romance?” …Or at the very least, a well-placed fling peppered with an appropriate amount of sweat and grass itch?

Alas, all that over-exposed footage of well-muscled European boys galloping about the beach in slow-motion has turned out to have very little to do with our own lives here at Nightcharm, so we’ve turned to the guru, our friend and trusted guide to the stars, Miranda Celeste-Walters to find out where it all went wrong.

Nightcharm: So what happened, Miranda? Where was the love?

MCW: You’re shocked? This was not the year for love. This remains a year of incredible inconvenience, coupled with an onset of bad odors. If you wanted to talk to me about love, you’d need to be talking to me about 2003, because your next big moment is so far-flung that I can’t even name a number right now.

NC: In a practical way, could you explain what that means to the Nightcharm reader?

MCW: Microwave pizza. Those chalky little packets of instant chicken broth. Cup-o-Poultry or whatever those are — you know how the dehydrated meat cubes never really turn into anything very much like chicken? And yet you know they started out as chicken. This is a one-way street.

But there are a couple things you could try. (read the full article)

These days, Barrett Long has a solo scene in just about every fourth adult video released, and Ben Andrews is gaining on Celine Dion in terms of mainstream press coverage. Colton Ford’s breathy pop album is loud as ever in the clubs.

We like all the attention, but as an industry we still cherish our insider stars — the guys we’d more likely actually want to fuck if we encountered them at the bar. And no two guys embody that spirit more profoundly than Jake Deckard and Remi Delaine. Your mom doesn’t know their names yet, but in the case of hot, raunchy man-sex, maybe that’s a good thing.

Don’t miss their opening scene from Playback, on view today in Nightcharm’s members area, The Inner Circle.

Our friends at Raging Stallion don’t forget to mention Remi’s famous appendage in their description of the scene — noting that it’s "one of the biggest dicks in porn."

When contemplating whether or not to meet someone from online, the question always arises.

He’ll ask you if you don’t ask first.

The query will come in the universally-recognized instant-message shorthand, as if the cutesy language counteracts the outright audacity of what he wants to know:

how big r u?

Six feet tall, 160 pounds, you could say. Or if you don’t like him, you could give the exceedingly sarcastic, “human sized,” which comes to “about the size of two beer coolers stacked on end.” But you know that isn’t really what he means.

At this point he’s already seen a JPEG picture of your face and probably one of your shirtless body, maybe even one that vaguely reveals the outline of your semi-hard cock through loose-fitting boxer shorts. You’ve sized each other up, and even if you’ve arranged to meet “just to hang out,” you’ve both emphasized that you’re attracted to each other and won’t brush the other’s hand away if later you find it creeping up your thigh.

But there isn’t a green light until he knows how big your cock is.

It’s not necessarily that he’d reject you at this point if your member isn’t to his satisfaction, but he at least wants to prepare himself, or to weigh the information with everything else he knows about you.

So you’re faced with an awfully tricky question.

how big r u?

The thing about the cock size disclosure is that, in my experience, hardly anyone tells the truth. I know the statistics and I’ve seen far too many “nine inch” answers to deny that something funky’s going on. I’ve also had far too many experiences with guys who say they’re “seven and a half,” and I’m thinking, shit, I’m going to feel inferior — but when we finally get down to it we’re exactly the same size.

Online courtship, or perhaps any courtship, is a delicate dance between fantasy and reality. It’s animal, but it’s also political and it’s an art. He wants to know a little about you — wants you to be honest so he knows if he’s in to you — but he also wants to be titillated and entertained. And he expects you to exaggerate a little bit, and to downplay your shortcomings, because that’s what everyone does, and confidence is cool. It’s like a job interview — you wouldn’t say “well I’m not sure if I’m really qualified but if you hire me I guess we’ll know in a month.” (read the full article)

The Rednecking of America: Is it inbred?

Can it be cured?

Like your fourth family intervention or filming a sloshed David Hasselhoff shoving food into his craw, only keen self-awareness can truly stem the tsunami of shit-kickery ushered back into vogue by the Bush Jr. Era. An Etch A Sketch war with an ever-shifting end game, a new Gilded Age of noblesse lavishness, racist propaganda disguised as isolationist public policy, paranoid fear of science — these are just the tallest tent poles in the Carnival of Crackery we’ve spent the last eight years enduring.

It’s still the incidentals that are often the most galling. Watching country singers stampede over each other to be the first to coin the most embarrassing agitprop “We’ll put a boot up your ass!” anthem to help kick start the Bush War was stomach-turning.

Witnessing even a few moments of star-spangled slut for authority Sean Hannity practically deep-throating Uncle Sam as he declared his puerile love for the nation was grounds for the North American Continent to issue a restraining order against his fat ass. (read the full article)

“The important thing to remember about A-Rod is that he has ginormous purple genitals.”

So speaketh Wisdom in the form of an email from a reckless horndog I know whose life I frequently fear for, as he flirts with danger from the driver’s seat of a nasty black SUV and has lived to tell the tale, probably because he can read trade the way a crack sniper reads the landscape for the false flutter of leaves that aren’t leaves at all but camouflage on the move.

Ginormous purple genitals — can so poetic a phrase be repeated too often? — was his dead-on call when the rumor was floated recently in a slew of overblown tabloids that Madonna had left her dicky hubby for everyone’s favorite mixed-race, 6-foot-3 baseball player wet-dream Alex Rodriquez, he of the mocha-latte skin and slate-green eyes, the tight white pinstripes and prominent athletic cup.

Prominent athletic cups have always been the signature style of the Kabbalah Girl, so late of the Material World. Yet though she was named in this week’s divorce filing from A-Rod’s wife, Madonna shot the allegation down over the weekend. “I have nothing to do with the state of his marriage or what spiritual path he may choose to study,” she told People in a formal statement released through her press agent.

At the center of this otherwise conventional sex drama was, of all things, religion. (read the full article)

Porn, to me, can be boiled down to my simple need to admire large, gorgeous cock. I don’t really know what else it’s for, even as the studios labor to ensure that there are impressive train explosions or musical numbers sprinkled throughout the boffing. I can’t be alone when I say "Show me the dick."

Here’s a collection of the current crop of meat-rods that most reliably hold my attention.

Barrett Long has starred in what seems like hundreds of uninspired videos. Luckily, with a dick like his, inspiration is purely optional. It’s best when he’s demanding and talks dirty, of course. I dug his solo scene in Playback (available from Movie Mountain along with tons of his other videos), his recent stuff on My Brother’s Hot Friend (especially the scene where he destroys Kurt Wildwood’s cute little butt) and all that skeevy early stuff for Dink Flamingo.

Anton Adamos (a.k.a. Petri Kent, Axel Cane) is an enigma. I can’t tell you ten words about the man besides that timeless and sort of mysterious art shots of him have drifted all over the net over the past five years, and some of them look like they were taken in the ’80s while others look like modern studio shots. The only commercial video I know of which features him is Bel Ami’s XL Files Volume 3.

Harry Louis, a fixture on UK Naked Men, is known secondarily for his cute, perpetual smile, dangerous body, deep brown eyes — and primarily for his submarine-sandwich-style cock. No matter what strange get-up they put him in, or what sort of gawdy set they film him on, the godly cock is the main attraction. Don’t bother trying to look at anything else.

(read the full article)

Kyle Lewis has been mounted on screen at least thirty times, we’d wager. It’s nothing surprising. However, the difference in the case of his ass-pounding courtesy of Francois Sagat is that he gets fucked very, very well by the famous uncircumcised French cock with a girth roughly equivalent to most grown men’s forearms, and then returns the favor.

Nightcharm would like to formally go on record as supporting raunchy butt play in anything like or appearing to be an antique shop.

The video went live today in our members area, Nightcharm’s Inner Circle. Please don’t miss it.