The economy is fisting everyone to its bicep, from blue and white collar workers to our artsy fartsy gay underclass and pink-collared moguls.

But don’t think the Great Recession has become America’s social equalizer. The furor over bailed out insurer AIG handing out executive bonuses with taxpayer money spotlights a nation on the brink of an all out class war, or — looking at the inflating cottage industry of financially lopsided dating services — opportunistic class love. ABC News’ Diane Sawyer covered the “growing sugar daddy phenomenon” a few weeks ago, pooh-poohing the concept as high-class prostitution and a gateway to infidelity, but the drab assessment ignored the arrangement’s history, its roots in love-twisted financial instruments like dowries and brideprices, entrenched for thousands of years. It also overlooked the ubiquity of age disparity in pre-industrial days (Pocahontas, by modern Disney standards, was a sugar baby).

I realized the economic pressure to be a sugar baby when I graduated four months ago with a B.A. in creative writing. I watched as my straight friends struggled to find work with their engineering and business degrees. None of them could land jobs, so I knew things were worse for me. I could have gone into newspapers and print media, where my experience lay, but print is dying. With any other field, who the fuck was going to hire a creative writing major from Texas Tech University? I was even getting rejected from basic secretary jobs. So I did what any self-respecting gay guy with no future would do: I went on the internets to find me a rich man.

Through a website I’d rather not advertise, I befriended a lonely 54-year-old sugar daddy who lived in the hills of Los Angeles. After just a week of chatting and surprisingly comfortable phone conversations, I found myself speeding west from Lubbock, Texas through the New Mexico desert in my shitty car on Route 66 (actually, I-40 to be less romantic). (read the full article)

Porn, as we scholars of the form know, takes place in an alternate universe too lopsided, too abundantly endowed, too strangely convenient to ever be described as parallel.

Pizza boys arrive with hardons. Doctors are as fit as musclemen and when they ask you to drop your pants, they drop theirs.

Here the locker rooms are oddly silent and empty … empty, empty empty — except for HIM! HIM has, of all things, the locker right above yours and a painfully erect whopper that keeps bumping into your face.

Welcome to Pornville. That Land That Never Was and yet can never die thanks to those old eight-millimeter reels that laid down the rules and regulations for all time. Rules like …

Well, finding a stranger asleep in your barn (your barn?) He is naked, of course, totally — except for one odd little hayseedy type thing: he’s wearing a studded cockring. That and giganzo chrome rings through his nipples, cockhead and perineum.

This, you think, must cause a sensation when Hayseed goes through the machines at the airport. But, of course, there aren’t any airports in Pornville. Only barns, locker rooms and embarrassingly queer-looking bedrooms decorated to within an inch of their silly High-Auntie lives. (And boy, do we have the evidence. See our brother site Lurid Digs.) (read the full article)

The travails of being a type-specific male.

Whether it’s nature in the form of some congenital biological exigency or nurture arising from decades of cultural submersion, there are just certain traits in a man that trigger a Pavlovian panting in me. While physicality admittedly plays its role, in many ways it’s personality idiosyncrasies — distinct aspects of self — that are likely to get me on board. These can’t be faked or bred into a potential mate; they have to preexist.

Disturbingly, I’m beginning to wonder how many of these traits are the result of actual human interaction, or simply fantasy aspects I’ve slowly cultivated in my mind. We can never measure the depth and degree to which visual media forms have played in shaping our sex drives. Centuries ago, attraction was based on practical concerns like proximity, pressing survival constraints, procreation, and community-arraigned unions. (read the full article)

“…touch his ass.”

See also: Shawn Baker’s Fine Young Manimals: Crytpo-Queers Run Wild.

“They gave me a date-rape drug and then they used me like a lollipop.”

Who among us is not chilled by these words, ladies and gentlemen?

And they used him … like a lollipop!

The jury is instructed to exam the picture at right, mindful that it is a recreation by professional actors of the incident that took place on Thursday last at the Dog and Pony Show, a dinner theater on South Street.

My client assures us that the photo, and the entire Raging Stallion video based upon the incident, is — again these are his words — “accurate in the extreme.”

You have met my client: he sits here before you. He could be any one of us who made the mistake of trusting a well-known celebrity and staying after the bar had closed to meet what the celebrity referred to as “the cast.”

My client had grown up idolizing this celebrity. This celebrity seemed to him, as he would to you or me, an old friend, a familiar face, the most handsome stud from a show full of handsome studs, the wonderful and — for my client — life-changing Melrose Place. (read the full article)

“This is gonna be a tough one. It’s really tight in there. I’m gonna have to shove it hard to get inside. It’s gonna take everything I’ve got to bust it out for you.”

Porn’s rapport with its audience is tacitly linked to its metamorphic ability to adapt to virtually any occupational setting or social stratum. The above dialogue — exemplary of a typical dirty movie double entendre exchange — could be applied to A) a stubbornly clogged drain, B) a malfunctioning carburetor, C) a jammed copy machine, or D) all of the above if they involve Bulgari pour Homme Soir, a spray tan, and hair product. Since porn’s private universe is the paperwork-free, cubicle wall-defying dream career we all wish was our full-time gig, it’s only natural that it would libidinize vocations and the way they interrelate as they take it out in trade. (read the full article)

T-Shirt from London.
That British reserve always kills us.

Operation Enduring Hotness