School is essentially prison with a daily furlough.

At least that was my experience, because it sure as fuck wasn’t Saved By The Bell. Hell, it wasn’t even Room 222!

There were showy lockdowns for drug searches when the school administrators actually had a self-serving, backroom-dealing détente with the drug rings. If anyone crossed my personal space and reached for my food while I was eating lunch, they got belted. Today, I can still make a shiv out of anything that can remotely break the skin. One of my most formative memories is my dickbag coach going too far with me after years of pushing; he ended up cowering before me behind his own desk in his own office like a disarmed prison guard cut off from backup.

Good times.

The thing I hated most about being an adolescent male: the vicious glee other males derived from kicking, slapping, punching, twisting, chafing, probing, or forcibly duct taping each other’s sex organs, orifices and erogenous zones. I felt like I was the only one who wasn’t an incipient sexual predator with a pathological need to inflict pain through acts that have deceptively dopey sobriquets. I’ve been hypervigilant of my balls for years down the line ever since.

My code: protect the dick. (read the full article)

Truly terrible gay porn plotting — it’s a low art I’ve become something of a connoisseur of. The cheesier and more contrived the plot trajectory, the better. I’m not even sure that half-baked, plot-holed porn screenwriting can be done on purpose or even ironically imitated; it coalesces completely through the random conjunction of outright hackery and sheer narrative convenience. (read the full article)

Puttin’ the “cheese” back in Machismo!

Most people fantasize about doing them. I’d rather be one of them.

Yes, one of my most recurring (so you know it’s good) playgrounds of sexual wish fulfillment is to have a twin. An evil twin as my devious doppelgänger who could detach protozoa-like from my own body and be the vessel into which I could house all the dark and disturbing facets of my personality that I’m not equipped to deal with, thus unburdening me of haunting division. Our sole demarcation? Hair color — that Hitchcockian cliché that distinguishes good from bad, virgin from whore. I would get to be the blond ingenue of the pair who walks in the light, and he’d be the brunet sex kitten driven by unhinged sociopathy and violent possessiveness of me. Then we take to seducing men by night and committing crimes for kicks, ultimately dying together rather than surrendering to the police in an exquisite fade to black.

I have a very elaborate inner world. (read the full article)

Jessy Karson is one nasty, long-dicked fucker. Handsome blonde bottom Ian Jay puts on a jockstrap so Jessy can focus on his hole. They are each singleminded in their need to fuck.

Our Treasure Island theater brings you this intense bareback scene from 1000 Load Fuck. Ian is one tough bottom to take Jessy’s pounding. Though since I haven’t seen Ian try to walk or sit down after, maybe he didn’t make it through unscathed after al! At minimum, Jessy’s plump balls slapping Ian over and over where it counts must’ve left a nice bruise on poor (and lucky) Ian.

They are both slaves to Jessy’s cock, which controls him as much as it controls his willing, greedy bottoms. And it explains Jessy’s lean body. Don’t be fooled by infomercials. Fucking is the best workout.

Join the Inner Circle now for a workout of your own.

Alison Goldfrapp — you know, that ahead-of-every-curve thrush whom the daringly original Lady Gaga and Christina Aguilera have been ripping off for years — manages to outdo even herself in what is likely the closest I’ll ever get to seeing my dream of a live-action adaptation of Jem & The Holograms fulfilled. Watch as The Little Voice (looking like my beloved, still shelf-bound Starburst She-Ra) and her coterie of aerobicizing Liliths take back the night from The Knights In Satin‘s Service. Not even Anne Rice‘s Akasha could embody a more splendid Queen of The Damned.

I’m jizzing rainbows right now.

Our Cruiser Boy theater brings you lean, cock hungry pair Luke and James. They warm up by trading high-suction blowjobs. What else is there to do in a motel room, right? Blue-eyed Luke goes after James’ cockhead and shaft with hypnotic aggression. This rodeo stud is a physical, full throttle guy. Still I bet he’s humble about it. If I told him how good he sucks, Luke would just give me an “Aw shucks” and blush.

Bottom boy Luke is the star is this one. His intense expressions are exaggerated like a silent movie actor from the ’20s. (Do I need to start saying 1920s now that we’re nearly in the 2020s?) Raw and real expressions are a real find in porn. We should cherish them like a prized pig at the rodeo. Is this Luke rodeo thing getting to me? Fuck yes, I’ve always wanted to see a tight blue jeans cowboy stripped and on his back nice and receptive. Now’s our chance.

Watch Luke and James (yes, I’m putting the bottom’s name first) right now in the Inner Circle. Yeehaw!

Forget Bruno.

We haven’t enjoyed a gay persona on TV this much since Paul Lynde‘s center spot hegemony of the old Hollywood Squares game show.

Of course we’re talking about Saturday Night Live‘s Bill Hader and his outrageous club kid creation Stefon.

Announced as Weekend Edition’s latest city correspondent, Stefon took his seat aside Seth Meyers once again, ready and willing to supply Meyers with a list of hot Hot HOT spots for the soon-to-be roaming masses of New York tourists.

Seth of course wants to know all of the great family-friendly destinations the rubberneckers might explore. But a three-day sleep-deprived Stefon can only suggest his kaleidoscopic array of kink-themed discotheque events. Late night gay raves that include a netherworld of K-holed denizens: Twinks, gypsies, dreadlocked midgets, puppets in disguise and a black George Washington.

Did we reveal too much? Nope, Stefon is inexhaustible and we love him for it.

Starlet.

I’ve heard tell that words like chime, melody, and lullaby are the most beautiful words in the English language. Lovely, to be sure, but I find starlet — the word and the act of being — to be a rare state of grace. When a star falls and strikes ground with one last, plaintive twinkle, the sound it makes? Starlet…

There was a time before there were Fame Whores and Celebutantes who have shows on E! and lay claim to fame just for being themselves when the ambitious race of Starlet People populated Hollywood. They were the studio contract players plucked out of beauty pageants and drama schools — hometown beauties made good who went off to Tinseltown and found the gates to the Emerald City thrown open for them. If stars are the established, volatile, and demanding talent, then starlets are the hungry, needy would-bes out to prove their worth and be chosen.

Yes, it’s starlets who are the magnetic, vacant Tabula Rasas on which we can project all our personal obsessions, but the male variety has always been in comparatively short supply. Every so often you’ll get a Christopher George, Joe Dallesandro, or Jon-Erik Hexum, but it’s harder for men to approximate the doe-eyed sex kittenry and goofy naivete (“Won’t that be the day!”) that women exude as they’re chased around desks or pose in publicity stills. Male starletry has sadly fallen into the hands of celebrity broods and Reality TV douches as of late, and it sickens me.

But one man still embodies everything a starlet should be: the inestimable Marcus Patrick. (read the full article)

If this was a Lifetime movie, it would star Jennie Garth or Lisa Rinna as an improbably dollsome Middle American high school history teacher who inspires her students to succeed. Because she’s kindly and married to a carpenter or a landscaper, it never enters into her wittle mind that by undertaking private tutoring sessions with the semi-literate resident campus stud, she might also be inspiring him to wanna dick her hard Viking-style. That involves the receiver on their shoulders with ass pointed upward while the inserter faces away and hunches forward with their hands on their knees. The Magyars stole it from us — to be fair, we did rape the hell out of them, hence the term — and now it’s all over their gay porn features. (read the full article)