The warning label goes like this: The urge to mate is both human and primordial. For Breeding Season 2, Paul Morris challenged himself to find the horniest, most unrestrained madman fuckers around–master topmen like Brad McGuire and BJ Slater, uberbottoms such as Christian, John Sullivan, and newcomer Joe Rocco, and many others (although, of course, there are never any ‘bit parts’) –and gave them full rein to run wild, surrendering to their natural instincts and every desire as they dominate and are subjugated. This is pure, primal fucking.

You have been warned. Stream it all night long — NOW — in the Inner Circle.

With the next wave of the Gay Civil Rights Movement cresting, the debate over the Gay — how it happens and how to cure (or at least contain) it — that I once thought was pretty much settled is back again in a big way.

Political candidates are in serious consideration because they’ve had gay incubi exorcised from their pure Christian souls or still have their hymens, and to even qualify for the GOP these days requires some stridently anti-queer platform. You’d think actually being gay would make us the experts, but somebody always thinks they’ve nailed just what got us there. Whenever I hear the God Wads and their huggy quacks assert that no one is born gay, four words appear in my mind:

The. Dukes. Of. Hazzard.

That’s the power of sense memory. The Dukes of Hazzard is one of those series that was a smash in its heyday but whose popularity years down the line is harder to articulate when removed from its era. It debuted the year after I was born and was a ubiquitous presence during my childhood — I had the General Lee, the Duke Boys decal ringer T-, and the tie-in lunchbox — but its real significance for me extends beyond mere pointless nostalgia. Candidly, I’m convinced that this show marked my very first realization that I was gay — this coming at a very young age when it was way too early for me to even superficially grasp my sex drive or for some failure in my socialization to have put me off chicks forever. (read the full article)

Leave a beautiful corpse.

James Dean wanted to and did, and long after he sanctified the union of cruel, swift doom with untimely struck-down youth, Tinseltown’s downmarket flip side – gay porn – seemed tailor-made for a never-ending series of sad, lurid fades-to black.

The advent of AIDS — Death come to town for an extended stay — claimed countless beloved players of yesteryear, and with contemporary ones foolishly buying into the false security that they can bring it to heel, more are bound for passage on Charon’s ferry.

Suicides and O.D.s have long been the Second and Third Horsemen of the Apocalypse galloping on the horizon, haunting footsteps like a black cats prowling the night. Then there are the starlets who were unfairly extinguished for no fault of their own, leaving behind Black Dahlia cold cases for the armchair sleuths among us.

For all the talk about Hollywood being run by the gay mafia, it’s really gay porn that’s the repository of all our dreams and fears. I’d argue that our connection to noteworthy moments in the medium and the array of stars who have populated its pantheon is stronger than our regard for too-straight and too-pat La La Land; it’s here that our true love for physical perfection and mythical sexual prowess is mirrored back at us, and with those reveries come the demons of age, disease, and death that daunt us.

Join us now as we open up our case files and chronicle a luckless lineup of ruin-bound porn muses who plummeted hard from the heights of Olympus, withered the moment they set foot outside of Shangri-La, or fell prey to the Jabberwock’s claws that catch.

Some dreamboats just get lost on their way down the Yellow Brick Road… (read the full article)

“Let that realm of God’s spirit just come on you right now.”

– Joshua Mills, consummate virtuoso — child prodigy minister, supernaturally-trained pianist, faith healer, happily married man, father, missionary, divine mouthpiece, songwriter, and Jason Sechrest/Ross Mathews hybrid — enlightening us about God’s humanitarian abilities to teleport the faithful and orthodontically heal the Inuit.

Portugo Is Burning!

“You never meet anybody that thinks they’re a bad person” concluded the titular murderer from The Talented Mr. Ripley, and that sick bitch was right on.

There’s an inherent psychological fail-safe in the human condition that allows us to convince ourselves that we’re not irredeemable monsters; serial killers find Jesus in the clink, politicians trot their wives and kids out on stage after they get caught tomcatting, religious people only make “mistakes” and actors surround themselves with yes men who tell them what they want to hear. Exceedingly rare are the instances in which you’ll encounter anyone who’ll freely admit to being an unmitigated asshole.

Dante’s vision of Hell with its descending tiers has always fascinated me because its final levels are reserved not for gays, wayward women, or even murderers, but for hypocrites and traitors. Murder and rape are certainly nadirs, but I’ve personally always regarded the treacherous — those who’ll sell out a friend or betray a confidence for personal gain — as the lowest lot, and Uncle Toms are both, so while I can’t say I have any abiding belief in an Afterlife (or, for that matter, even in Karma), it’s pleasing to imagine that a traitor’s crimes will follow him even after death. Betrayal is one of the worst human motivations, and when it’s directed at one or many of your own, it’s a snidely iniquity. (read the full article)

Ah, the salad days of the ’80s Afterschool Special, an earnest epoch that provided us with such cautionary tales as The Boy Who Drank Too Much, Stoned, My Dad Lives In A Downtown Hotel, Which Mother Is Mine?, and Andrea’s Story: A Hitchhiking Tragedy. Sure, they were meant to divert us away from the horrors of Teenage Apocalypse, but these overwrought PSAs only drove us that much closer to becoming schoolyard boozebags, nihilistic headcases from broken homes, and mid-priced teenage whores because they made it all seem so fucking awesome. Few of these entries ever managed to scale to the delirious heights that 1982′s Desperate Lives did — a full-tilt freak-out featuring bathroom bitches giving lip to Mommy Dearest’s Christina, two angelically blond siblings drawn into the horrors of drugs, impaired driving that wouldn’t be out of place in Faster, Pussycat! Kill! Kill!, and Helen Hunt just daring the Oscar gods to commit her to Lifetime Movie Hell for all eternity.

Hat tip to Mr. Pinky