What would Jesus do?

The question has, fittingly, become something of an inane T-shirt slogan along the lines of “What happens in Vegas, stays in Vegas” or “No Fat Chicks.” If he was real — he still falls into the same category as Robin Hood or King Arthur for me — then why the hell would he want anything to do with the lovely cross section of humanity that’s turned him into a QVC tchotchke, much more sit by idly as his followers arrogantly put words in his mouth?

If you’re looking for the perfect embodiment of the dissonance between what a bearded, down-at-heel hippy and the star-spangled superpatriots among us would do, then thankfully there’s Tea Party Jesus, a site devoted to literally using Big J as the puppet through which the very worst Tea Bagger illogic is funneled to wince-inducing effect. Yes, somehow our savior was able to anticipate such events as financial reform, gays in the military, and the turbulent 1960s. Simply click on a captioned picture to reveal which God Wad said what jaw-droppingly heinous pontification about which apocalyptic social development/hated class of people. (read the full article)

“Oh! — I’m into that too?”

It’s a question I’ve been self-posing with greater frequency as Nightcharm delves into deeper substrata of kink. With each topic we broach, I find myself asking “Yow! – is that really a thing?,” followed by a bemused, “Huh…That’s hot.”

Furries? I can kind of get it what with being an animal lover, and my swooning third grade love was Vincent — the subway body-surfing lionman from Beauty & The Beast. Macrophilia? Glancing at my DVD shelf and seeing King Kong, Village of The Giants, The Amazing Colossal Man, Frankenstein Conquered The World, and War of The Gargantuas, I ponder how much I’d like to find a man who is taller and stronger than me — I really don’t like having to be the Alpha Male in the relationship full-time — whom I could give myself over to. Male Lactation? Well, I have always been a sucker for a high-sitting rack on a guy. Kilts? I now own one after writing about their appeal. Thus far, only autoerotic asphyxiation has been lost on me, and I think that’s because I tend to chafe easily.

It’s the overlap between Zoophilia and Furryism that I’m falling into, and looking back, that’s not a recent development. The French Orangina ad involving a hot-ass Cougar Man and his human paramour that’s been making rounds on the Net this past week has me realizing that my sexual fantasyscape is a lot broader than I ever imagined.

I do find Cougar Man just dizzyingly gorgeous, and misanthrope that I am, I’ve often opined that I could love an animal imbued with all the sentience of a human mate minus the weakness and flakiness quite easily. That’s the most perverse thing about being a human animal for me; you can possess all the best adaptations with a potent sex drive to boot, but that still doesn’t mean you won’t end up mateless, no matter how enthusiastically you present.

And that raises my hackles. (read the full article)

Hairy-chested Craig is a talented, hungry and submissive cocksucker. Like if there were a show “America’s Most Talented Cocksucker” he’d totally make finals (thanks to some backstage time with David Hasselhoff).

Punk top Mud is arrogant and in control. Yeah, his name is Mud and I wouldn’t suggest anyone make fun of him for that. The punk thing is not just for show. So Mr. Mmmmmud (whoops, did I just make fun of his name?) knows that between his legs he’s got exactly what cocksuckers need.

Once they meet up, it’s like Craig has a magnet in his throat. This is a deep, intense oral scene. Homosexual is not enough of a word. Craig’s a bone-sucking, cream-gulping, dick faggot. By the way, happy gay pride.

Join the Inner Circle now to watch this intense oral scene from Skullfuck in our Treasure Island theater. See skullfuck is both a noun and a verb. It can do anything.

You have only to regularly tune in for The Soup to be hip to the fact that The Secret Life of The American Teenager is easily the worst scripted drama on basic cable, and arguably, in the entire network landscape. Overwrought, plastic, insipid, and reactionary, the series clumsily cobbles together every paralyzing phobia about sex, and is apparently written by a group of middle-aged Evangelical virgins who still cry while masturbating in the dark.

You see, sex in this jejune little corner of suburban hell is not a natural act that carries with it certain practical ramifications requiring it to adapt to a modern world wherein humans don’t have to be in constant states of reproduction because they’re no longer subject to the whims of weather, plague, and predators. Rather it’s a form of spiritual trespass that incurs dire consequences through all manner of corporal castigation — just like The Entity, minus the invisible rape and blue lightning!

So, pregnancy is God’s way of punishing you for being a whore by shackling you with a precious bundle of joy, and should you avoid baby stigma through the use of contraception or sheer chance, you will also receive retribution in the form of a dead parent whose demise is apparently directly attributable to your climax.

And that makes you a murdering tramp whose guilt cannot be alleviated! Ever! (read the full article)

Meanwhile, back at the base…

This is some compact porn narrative economy we’ve got here. There’s the starving writer pinning his hopes on a screenplay, his typewriter surrounded by crumpled drafts — an image secondary only to a student falling asleep with head rested on a pile of open books when it comes to conveying studious toil. There’s a telegram from a stranded French sailor borne by a commiserating delivery boy who’s such a chipper little eager beaver that he doesn’t pause between sentences. An injured leg is the motive angle that causes him to divulge that he used to be a masseur. Shift to the bedroom wherein he inquires “Do you have any, um, lube — uh, I mean, lotion?” — a line reading that I want to believe is flubbed. Clothes start to come off, and positions are assumed. All this in a mere three minutes.

That’s a-gooda exploitation!

“I’m sorry, but your child suffers from chronic nepotism. It’s a potentially crippling condition, as of yet, there is no known cure.”

I know, nepotism isn’t a disease per se, but when you really think about it, it is pervasive, often debilitating, and it does make me sick.

It’s the product of dynasties after all, wherein you don’t necessarily need talent or drive, just the right last name and enough backing from Mom’s and Dad’s end. We’ve all come up against the boss’s kid who really believes that he or she got where they are because of merit, and my primal Id’s response is to slap the bitch up — palm first, then back with the knuckles for making me go to the trouble.

Every culture has it, but America has a special sort: a flash-the-cash, suffer-the-brat, pull-the-strings kind of fail-forwardism that’s permeated every sector where prestige abounds, from business and the military, to Hollywood and the Presidency itself. For those who have skill and may’ve coasted on the family rep just a little, I’ll forgive your trespasses. For the rest — the hapless, the helpless, the hopeless — it’s a testament to humans’ too-secure position on the food chain that you haven’t been picked off from the herd by now. (read the full article)

With 24 canceled, the Cheney clan is forced to enact its own Neocon torture scenarios from the family homestead. As Big Daddy Dick prepares to go all Abu Ghraib on the his contractor’s ass, Liz — the Fah Lo Suee to his Fu Manchu — gleefully films the spectacle for the next CPAC gathering. Through it all, the bound man lamented the folly of his life choice. Why the hell did I abandon my gay submission wrestling porn career for ‘legit’ employment?, he mused through gritted teeth. To build gazebos and breezeways for respectable people! Because I had my Libertarian awakening! This is the cold, dread reality behind the Free Market mythos… He choked back his revulsion and regret. I am the raw commodity!, he cursed. I could’ve pulled in two grand easily for this same thing in a San Fernando strip mall! Chattel! Nothing but chattel now — meat for the Man!

Then the darkness came, and with it, the bliss of oblivion…

Josh is a handsome gymrat who’s totally gay for his own body. Our crystal clear Cruiser Boys cameras catch him post-workout. He takes a nice, hot shower where you can first spy on him head to toe. He’s got a strong, beefy ass that promises a hard fuck. After his shower, he settles in for a slow and steady jack. You’ll want to match him stroke for stroke.

Do you have a list of guys at the gym you’d love to see naked? Do you linger in the locker room hoping for a glimpse of a hard-muscled ass or long, plump cock? Yeah, I thought so. Well channel all that desire into some time with Josh. He’s got some sweet tats, an all-over tan and a devilish smile.

Plus he has a great piece of meat that looks so good between those thick quads. After he squirts out his thick load, your eyes will focus back on his body and see the sweaty sheen on his huge pecs. He’ll need another shower. And after your time with Josh, so will you.

Watch Josh in the Inner Circle now.

I’ve never needed enemies.

The Right truly craves monsters — Black Gestapos, Feminist Valkyries, Mexican Marauders, and Homo Hoydens — that it can rail against and use as foils to define itself. Good must have an Evil flipside, otherwise everything becomes confoundingly relative. If it can’t find antagonists, it just conjures them up and insists it’s being lied to by a world that can’t be twisted and shaped to meet its needs.

Personally, I can live just fine without an antipode to define myself, and I’d argue that the gay community by and large is happy to be without them, too. When our families prove to be draining on us and remain obdurate to the realities of our lives, we walk away. I’d wager most of us who work in mixed work places are careful how much we reveal about ourselves for fear of running afoul of someone who’s going to make it their personal mission to run us out. If every fire and brimstone televangelist, fat shock jock, and blonde values whore went extinct tomorrow, there would be no retroactive falsification that would kick in and cause us to admit that they weren’t so bad to have around.

They were, and it sucked. (read the full article)