A classic Sacha Baron Cohen moment from the old Ali G show. This is the dorkier, less polished Bruno that we know and love. “Right, I love Romans!”

“Beware! Beware of the big green dragon that sits on your doorstep. He eats little boys… Puppy dog tails, and big fat snails… Beware… Take care… Beware!”

Such was the admonishment of Bela Lugosi-as-God in Ed Wood‘s gender-bending Glen or Glenda?, a typically Woodian proclamation about perilous gender borders from the notorious angora fetishist.

Yes, defying your biology and/or sexual role in just about any way is bound to draw flak and threaten the status quo. We may love our mother/father, butch/femme, and top/bottom dichotomies — really, just grown up versions of the snips and snails/sugar and spice cliche — but just how etched in stone and “natural” they indeed are is debatable.

The latest physiological quirk likely to make gender reductivists clutch pearl: Male Lactation.

The nurture instinct has always been associated exclusively with the feminine; Nature — who it’s not nice to fool with — is anthropomorphosized as Mother, while mountain-eroding, empire-obliterating Time is the indifferent Father. Men are traditionally distanced from the mother/child union with the protector/provider mantle, but the reality is that every male has the potential to produce breast milk.

There’s an as-yet-unexplored gay porn subgenre in there somewhere.

Though the sole mammalian species (thus far) posited to achieve spontaneous male lactation is the Dayak fruit bat of Southeast Asia (a known flamer), the human male can and has done the same. Common scientific knowledge has until recently concluded that the phenomenon can only be achieved by means spurred from pathological or synthetic origin such as steroid abuse, starvation, pituitary tumors, and select antipsychotic and heart medications that stimulate the production of the hormone prolactin. (read the full article)

Travis and Spencer take a shower together and then start stroking their cocks — administering attention and love to their poles — like they’re private gifts from god. In fact, according to the Bible, all of us have been made in god’s image, so it only makes sense that guys like this would lavish the most expensive oils and lubricants on those parts of the god-body that generate the most pleasure. Don’t you agree?

Anyway, here are the basics for this new cinematic moment: The scene starts out with the two chatting and laughing (!) before heading into the shower and sucking each other’s god rods. It’s like a miracle come true. We particularly like the way Spencer looks up at Travis and declares: “Your turn.” It’s such a bold move, inspired almost, like something from a porn movie! Oh wait, it is a …

Slide into the Inner Circle’s Fratmen Theater now! As always, bring a towel. Jesus Juice is optional.

George Orwell once said that a man has the face that he deserves at age 50. And while I’d agree with that sentiment as it relates to just about every single post 50-year-old walking the planet today — think Dick Cheney — I’d have to take exception with how that curse applied to Michael Jackson.

Dead at 50 and possessing a face with which no one should ever have to contend. Mike’s adult face was actually a mask. A direct creation of self-hatred, plain and simple. That and the way our own ghoulish fascination with his self-loathing spurred him on. An obsession that was prodded, secretly I think, by that part within each of us that dislikes parts of ourselves: wrinkles, sags, spots, dots; imperfection. Given unlimited wealth and time, Michael could nip, tuck, tweak and freak to his heart’s content. Only he could never get away from the self-loathing.

But enough bummer talk. Michael was a true blue puer aeternus … and no self-respecting puer, worth their essence in gold records, should ever live into his fifties. Michael was just taking leave on cue, true to his mythology. It makes perfect sense to me. (read the full article)

I Just Want to Fucking Dance, Part III
Part II
Part I

Yep, Parker, one of our most popular Cruiser Boys is back…with his electric-blue eyes, beguiling smile, magic abs, and bubble ass (that he just loves to grab while working his cock towards liquid highs — did I just write that?).

So what if he’s bisexual, he loves getting head, regardless your gender. Wanna apply? Want more Parker? Get inside and start exploring.

On June 10, 2006, just in time for her birthday, Judy Garland appeared on a U.S. stamp.

I always think of Judy at this time of year, as the rainbow flags unfurl and the floats come down the street with their glamor-girl boys and near-nude leathermen.

Hyper-real spectaculars that would not be out of place in the Emerald City — or Munchkinland!

“Are you a friend of Dorothy?” soldiers would ask each other during World War II, using this code phrase to signal that they were gay. It was only a matter of time before the brass caught wind of it, without quite understanding its significance. In a dither that reds and homos were sneaking into their ranks, the military spent $250,000 to find out who this diabolic den-mother of the GI homos was. Yet even the nelliest civilian could have told them (in exchange, we hope, for a little buzz-cut face action).

She was, of course, our Judy. The gal who fell from a star called Kansas. So tenderly young in The Wizard of Oz, yet already empowered by that penetrating cry in her voice.

We need only hear her tearful call of Toto! Toto! as her terrier is being bicycled away in the clutches of Miss Gulch to get that old chill, the heartachy twang of childhood injustice. (read the full article)

What is this? What does it mean? We don’t know. We don’t really care.

As one commonsensical Youtube commenter put it: “remove your underwear please…… it’s time for a strip search.”

“…unhappy ever after.”

There is no common manual informing autoerotic axphyxiants what strange, kinky adornments to use during their ritualistic dances with death.

Yet somehow the fantasies of these unrelated men coalesce, as if all involved were possessed by the same external spirit that captures the psyche and compels the act. It is nearly always done in secret, but discovered in an awful, morbid way: a roommate or family member walks in to find a loved one dead, accidentally strangled while jacking off.

Autoerotic asphyxiation is based on the understanding that oxygen deprivation in the brain enhances the orgasm.

For that reason many BDSM players enjoy being choked during sex, but that is hardly similar to the way men commonly asphyxiate themselves alone.

The central feature is a belt or string constricting blood flow through the neck, but other common features seem unrelated. Their cases are known by the way their bodies are found when they accidentally kill themselves in the act: naked or nearly so, bound by the neck with a rope, and often bound at the genitals or hands. Surrounded by pornographic images or texts. Sometimes wearing a piece of womens’ clothing; stockings, or a bra. Often surrounded by mirrors, so that the practitioner can watch himself in his dangerous ecstasy.

The issue that has stumped sociologists and psychologists alike is that it is not a learned activity; somehow a guy figures on his own to combine all these seemingly unrelated sexual behaviors, through solitary experimentation or whim.

Autoerotic asphyxiation is so strange and taboo that few talk about it openly — practitioners are usually studied by the way they die — yet its most common among healthy, successful and well-adjusted young men, and the cause of, on average, one death in the United States per day.

That list of accidental deaths may now include the actor David Carradine, who played the mysterious “Bill” in Kill Bill, found dead in a hotel room closet in Bangkok on June 3 with a shoelace tied around his neck and genitals and his hands bound.

The incident was first broadcast as suicide, but later explained, by a Bangkok police press agent, to be that “we cannot be sure that he committed suicide but he may have died from masturbation.” Carradine was 72. (read the full article)