He sank beneath the wave,
No mother there to save,
No father’s hand to help him,
He filled a water’s grave.
He left a lonely brother
And friends to mourn his loss,
His broken-hearted parents
To bear a heavy cross.

– “The Drowning of The Heber Springs Boy,” The John Quincy Wolf Folklore Collection

Patrick McNeill had been found floating in the Hudson River in April of 1997, two months after disappearing after a night out with friends. He was last seen leaving an Upper East Side bar to catch a train back to Fordham University in the Bronx.

Even in double-time Big Apple tempo, his weirdly random death — ruled an accidental drowning despite his family’s protestations — was still being bandied about Fordham’s Manhattan campus in the fall just as I was beginning my freshman term.

Good ol’ F.U. had more than its fair share of dust-ups and sweep-unders involving the student body during my tenure there, but none cut as close to the bone for me as McNeill’s fate did. He was a foil for me in every sense: a local boy instead of a transplant, a family guy rather than a loner, a junior majoring in accounting in lieu of a print hopeful, and Irish-Italian kid from the block and not a conspicuous Scandinavian rover from the upstate Tundra — in short, a somebody. Somebody to be missed in a city full of young, rootless nobodies. (read the full article)

Hi, I’m Baby Billy.

Life doesn’t begin at conception, people — it starts the moment you realize the kind of dicktardery you’ve dropped out into. Look at my face. This is my first of what I’m sure will be many what-the-fuck? expressions. The Japanese call it Nensha, the psychological etching of an image into the material world. This look — like this family photo of me with my Mommy and Daddy appropriately found at Awkward Family Photos — has set the tone and will follow me forever, or at least the next eighteen years.

Don’t get me wrong — I love Mommy, but she only just got her braces removed last month, and she hasn’t passed Algebra/Trig yet. By the time I start to talk, we’ll be fighting over the Wii like we’re siblings. She’ll call me a broken condom kid, and I’ll say she’s a bitch.

And Dad. What am I supposed to do with this douche? With all the body bronzer and that Chelsea Boy haircut, he looks like he just strayed in from Kristien Bjorn porn set. I should be the star of this family photo, but no, Dad had to body wax, rouge his nips, and then make them all tweaky with ice — from the sodie in my sippy cup! That dick!

How can I help looking pale and pudgy after he spent ten minutes doing push-ups before this photo op and wore his new 2(x)ist briefs with the waist band casually hiked up over the waist of his Abercrombie jeans?

Oy, how long ’til nap time? I gots the sads now.

We wonder if our latest Cruiser Dudes, Tobey and Troy are aware of the deep history connected with their shocking discovery last week in Mom’s kitchen?

Yes, the ritual of autofellatio goes all the way back to ancient times. The anthropologist David Lorton claims that many sacred texts refer to autofellatio within the religion of Egypt, occurring both in the realm of the gods and among the devotees performing religious rituals.

The French egghead Michel Foucault cites autofellatio — the act of “taking one’s sex organ into one’s own mouth” — as one of three ways to commit “relations with oneself.” Who’d a thunk it?

We’re guessing that Tobey and Troy made this discovery innocently enough, while Tobey was cockgobbling on Troy’s gargantuan obelisk. And then one thing just led to another. Soon Troy was deep throating his own meat, skimming the edge of nirvana and rewriting history too. Fortunately our cameras caught the entire act on video for you, and posterity’s sake. How kind and wise of us!

Step right up to our latest Cruiser Boy update in the Circle. A divine rite of passage, for sure!

It’s the dilemma nigh-every attractive, cash-strapped city boy faces in a tough economic climate: is it wrong to sell it on-the-side to get by?

Every megalopolis has its resident Red Light Land, the bounds of which are not limited to a compartmentalized Times Square, The Castro, or Santa Monica Boulevard. There are uptown and downtown hookers, some gypsies, some tramps, some thieves; some you can spot on a dime, others you’d never guess were on the stroll.

Every time I have a Fanny Hill moment — you know what I mean if you’ve ever experienced someone offering you money for something sex-related — I always wonder just what clicks in someone’s mind that gets them to cross that line. I can’t say I have any big moral outrage against prostitution, but empirically I have cautions about how healthy it is, not just physically, but mentally and emotionally.

I never feel like Catherine Deneuve in Belle de Jour when it happens. I get something more akin to the sensibility espoused by Strangers With Candy’s Jerri Blank (“When you walk ’til you limp, and you give a cut to a pimp — you’re a street whore.”), and that’s not the sexiest mindset ever. Sex work in all its various incarnations is just something that not everyone can sign on for. Just the term “sex worker” gives me the ick because it sounds like the nadir of voodoo capitalism wherein everyone has to be “productive” and even a basic biological act has got to turn a profit. (read the full article)

Vampires are evolving. The once-demonic, batlike beings bent on fulfilling their selfish and wicked desires for human blood have been on a steady path toward personal discovery and social acceptance. Modern-day vampires are attractive and alluring, and their transformative bites are an extreme form of sexual union. They no longer vanish in puffs of smoke or live in spider-infested dark mansions, nor do they torment and harass the poor townsfolk.

Buffy the Vampire Slayer began to mainstream the concept of vampire revolutionaries: the protagonist’s boyfriend Angel proves that some vampires go so far as to protect humans from malevolent vampires and other evils. To make their humanness complete, new vampires fall in love with ordinary men and women.

Buffy’s era is already an outdated stage in the humanization of blood-suckers. In our new age of Twilight (top photo), former creatures of the night are comfortable in sunlight, play piano, struggle with desire for girls in biology class and attend prom. It’s as though their characters are based not on ancient folklore but on misfit American teenagers. There must be something more than the allure of the underworld driving the new pop culture craze of vampire-human romances. (read the full article)

The Face of an Era!
The Cock of an Era!
And The Cutest Top Boy that Ever Lived!

Born on the island of Puerto Rico, Antonio Biaggi sports equipment that some anatomy experts have dubbed: A Sequoia of Flesh. Yes, all the classic elements are there: Uncut. 11-inches. Shocking girth. And to add to the glory, astounding, mesmerizing, pendulum-like, low-hanging balls!

Here’s some other facts about Antoni: He lived for several years in Miami, Florida before settling in San Francisco, California. And YES! Antonio is his real first name.

When not meeting the stream of demands to star in porn, he runs a small store that sells eco-friendly products. He feels strongly about environmental conservation — NO ANIMAL TESTING. EVER! He’s a big fan of latin music and Capoeira, a Brazilian martial arts form.

And great news for all Antoni fans. We just so happen to be featuring Antoni in our latest Rear Stable video update in the Circle.

Yes, watch in wonder as little Tristan Phoenix works his way up and down Antonio’s shaft, trying valiantly to wet the whole thing. Even Tristan, whose resume includes the term “professional cocksucker” struggles with the monster rod that Antonio feeds him. With his throat full-to-bursting, Tristan rubs his asshole in eager anticipation, warming his pucker up for, well, we’ll let you guess. It’s recommended that this video not be watched before driving, operating heavy machinery or ironing clothing.

You know, sometimes you gotta switch it up.

Personally, my ladder of jerk-off fodder goes as follows: porn stars at the top rung, followed by TV stars, then movie actors, the douches from Tool Academy battling it out with the date rapists from Hot Chicks With Douche Bags for the fourth tier, then pro wrestlers, pro athletes, and finally politicians at ground level if I’m feeling all father complex-y (“Tell me I’m good…”). You need your bit players to play Greek Chorus or maybe fill in as extras in the gang bang of your mind. It’s just thorough casting.

Nobody’s ever going to accuse the GOP of being especially dollsome. If the last six months of watching wizened geezers riff off bad ’70s sci-fi movie plots in order to disparage universal health care, pudgy ex-junkies endlessly turn on the waterworks, jowly crumedgeons treat a Supreme Court nominee like inept hired help, and eye bags welling up during mea culpa press conferences haven’t left you holding your balls, then you’re a better man than I.

Still, we at Nightcharm do love our Mormon dick-baiters and their Daddy’s Boy broods. They’re like our take on Catholic School Girls: utterly hackneyed, infantilely coy, and prerequisite fixtures in the mix who may not get the heaviest of rotations, but who play well in a pinch. (read the full article)