“These are the Armies of The Night. They are 60,000 strong. They outnumber the cops five to one. They could run New York City.”

If you’ve ever been unfortunate enough to have an insane person in your life, then you know the red flags that indicate you’re in the presence of a troubled mind. I’m not talking charming eccentricity or uneasy mercurialness. I mean batshittery.

Conspiracy-related paranoia is key for the unstable. There’s always some form of shadow government or encroaching social malaise that only they and the like-minded can see coming. A wildly inflated sense of self-importance is also integral; something about them makes them so special that powerful forces are uniting to destroy or discredit them. Secret societies — the Illuminati, Satanists, Communists, and aliens (the illegal kind and the invading variety) — are typical oppressor fixations.

Lately I’ve been positing that extreme racist and ethnist reactions may be a form of mental illness themselves. The causal and “enlightened” forms of prejudice — the kind you have to awkwardly dance around as you argue you can spot an undocumented worker by the type of footwear they sport — are character flaws, but the sort of convulsive, visceral kind that revolves around the idea that our arch nemeses Hawaii and Kenya would collude to put a Manchurian Candidate in the White House is a whole different bag. (read the full article)

Devilishly handsome Buenos Aires stud Pablo is always on the lookout for a new bottom boy to pound. He lucked out when he spotted sweet Anthony in the park. Who knew the quiet boy sitting on a bench reading would turn out to be a major moaner?

Once he gets on top of Pablo and rides that uncut cock, Anthony’s dick plumps up to maximum size. The rough pounding from Pablo brings out a symphony of grunts and groans.

Good thing they went indoors—and in front of our Maximo Latino theater cameras—for the fucking. Doing these things in the park tends to result in fines (and frightened sparrows).

Anthony ends up with thick loads on his treasure trail and smooth chest. After he blows, Pablo’s ready for the next lucky bottom.

See every inch of action in the Inner Circle now!

In theory, I can understand the motivation for women wanting to exploit men for kicks, but in practice, I find it tends to backfire. No matter how game the men are and how eager the ladies are, it still just seems gay. Here we have a perfect example. This is daytime trash geared for women. The host knows has a “Screw it — I’m getting paid.” sensibility about it all. The set resembles a dollhouse interior.

Nevertheless, gay.

Our bachelorette — a mouth-breathing dip with a wedge cut and Mom jeans — is definitely part of the problem. Her first grade reading skills put her out of the race from the get-go, and she seems unsure of where she is. It’s the guys who are supposed to seem stupid in this scenario, and Number 3 especially is out of her league in the brains and charisma department (the glasses are a nice against-type touch). It get’s worse, though. Conceptually, this is a nightmare. Having our blindfolded girl fist a glory hole while the host holds her straps like she’s a nasty bottom and himbos in International Male attire flex is a major stumbling block. The gay guys in the audience at 2:24 and 2:36 are clearly thinking “Dumbass! Go for the tits, not the traps!” (read the full article)

In this jaw-dropping, ass-poppin‘ sixth installment of the insanely popular Ass Stretcher series, mammoth-hung Igor (aka: The Impaler) returns to grace us with his python.

If you’re a fan of this series (who isn’t?), you’ve probably seen Marco swallow cock before, but in this latest sequel even the supreme deep throater has his doubts. In AS6 he’s back on the bottom for a monster-sized dude named “The Champ” (no relation to the Barbra Streisand flick). More than a few tears are shed during the rutting.

We don’t want to give too much away, though — and spoil your surprise. Can you handle it? We thought so. We’ll see you inside.

Ah, Everytown.

Remember the good ol’ days — good for some, at least — before we had Muslim Presidents, civil rights, hippies, working women, vegans, and non-lobotomized gays? Don’t you wish you could retreat into those preserved-in-amber Towns That Dreaded Sundown and escape all this terrifying Communist cha-cha-change?

Me neither, but such towns-that-never-were — the Mayberrys, Hootervilles, and Pleasantvilles — are sacred in some circles, and now Riverdale, home of the Archie Gang, just got a little bigger thanks to the arrival of a new addition. I’m talking about new kid on the block Kevin Keller, Riverdale’s first openly (and readers are emphasizing that modifier) gay transplant who’ll be hitting the pages come September.

Since everything in Post-Dubya U.S.A. is a convoluted Liberal conspiracy designed to corrupt children and take something away from the God Wads, Kevin’s entrée is, natch, polarizing, and the Gays with their fiendish insistence on existing are the culprits. Reaction from the Freepers is typically subtle: “An extremely marginal and diseased viewpoint,” “Giving the Arabs yet another reason to seek nuclear weapons…,” and “Next we will see a misunderstood islamofascist terrorist” are the more clever examples of the ‘Merican perspective. And hey, that’s the go-to reaction for the American Right: take two words that scare you and/or you don’t understand and combine them, thereby creating a red-baits-bull buzzword that makes even less sense when conjoined. Kevin’s “Bitch — you serious?” face says it all. (read the full article)

Handsome Anders is our new in our Cruiser Boys theater. He’s Swedish, with tan skin, green eyes, full lips, plump balls and a rock hard cock. His favorite thing is to get skilled head from a girl.

He loves getting blown so much he’s a prime candidate for a talented cocksucking dude to seduce. Just promise him you won’t tell anyone.

Anders went on a cum strike for two weeks before his video shoot. Still he made sure to edge his prick lots in that two weeks. He’d promised a huge load and he’s a man of his word.

Watch him soak the couch with his load right now in the Inner Circle! He saved it all for you.

We all have our limits in life.

I can’t add in my head. I can’t sleep in an unfamiliar place. I will never get the appeal of Glee.

Also, I have a problem with frequenting adult retailers.

I don’t know how common a situation it is for others, but it’s not unusual for straight men in my life to ask me to purchase porn on their behalf; apparently, having a gay guy act as their procurer mollifies the guilt many straight men associate with buying smut. Though I’m partial to mail order myself, I personally get a kick out of going to a newsstand and paying for a copy of Barely Legal or Juggs and having the vendor look at me before his gaze wanders to Torso or Honcho. And yes, it’s hard not to laugh as I choose a title like Sex-Starved Fuck Sluts, H.R. Muff ‘N Stuff, or Big Trouble In Little Vagina that fits his/their specifications.

The problem is other men. Please — please — don’t try to pick me up in a sex shop. (read the full article)

It’s just one of those things that can be called a “uniquely hetero” experience.

Now, I have positively zero history with or inclination toward professional athletics — specifically, as a viewer — and I always will. However, from what I can gather, there are big events held in stadiums and such — often televised — wherein actual adults lose their collective shit by watching men hit projectiles with sticks or place a ball through a net.

This is not a form of passive spectatorship by any means; fans will don team jerseys, disport garishly elaborate head gear, and paint their bodies in fetishistic tribal colors while boisterously alleging that a hated player on a rival team is performing a sex act on another man. There’s also likely to be no shortage of surly lamenting about how many foreigners have entered into the sport and/or how few white participants there are left, all capped off with grumbling about the cost of the whole event. Charred meat is consumed from grills situated around the trunk areas of cars. Essentially, it’s like a Teabagger rally, only with fewer fire arms, a broader age bracket, and less misspelled signs. (read the full article)

“Itâ’s like I’m having the most beautiful dream and the most terrible nightmare all at once…”

It’s the gorgeous, mooningly Lynchian line delivered by a good girl in love in a bad way that’s always epitomized the eternal appeal of Twin Peaks for me, arguably the cult show that turned everything that came before it on its head while setting the new standard for everything that came after.

I can vividly remember watching the criminally brilliant pilot movie that chronicled an F.B.I. agent’s arrival in a small Pacific Northwest town to investigate the grisly slaying of the high school homecoming queen. The images I encountered therein remained with me all through school the next day and beyond: the best friend of the murdered Everygirl Laura Palmer looking to her empty desk and tearfully inferring that she would never return; a horrific crime scene in a derelict train car whose centerpiece was an altar-like mound of dirt venerating a half-heart necklace and the cryptic message Fire Walk With Me scrawled in blood; a brutalized girl wandering down from the mountain and into town, half-dead with her wrists bound; and a gloved hand retrieving the second half of the Laura’s necklace from under a rock under cover of night.

Peaks was my first formative experience in which TV shaped the entertainment I would later seek — a midnight movie magically broadcast right into my living room. What remains salient now as the series reaches its twenty-year anniversary is not just how it united an assemblage of character actors who you’d never expect to see all together in one night, but how the male cast in particular undercut expected soap stud clichés and offered up a unique palette of offbeat man candy you’re not likely to ever see again in primetime. (read the full article)