Chat Roulette is an adventure.

It’s an expedition in human behavior, namely in what people will do to each other when every inkling of accountability is absent. In its essence, Chatroulette.com is speed-dating over the Internet, except it is unspecific to gender, everyone knows that the end point is not love, and nobody gets a second date. There is no login or registration required; you simply visit the site and click play, and enable your webcam. The server instantly hooks you up with another user - a stranger from anywhere in the world – whose live face appears on the video section of your computer screen. You can chat in a dialog window or by microphone.

The most important portion of your screen is the prominent next button, which you or the other person may click at any time to immediately be whisked off to a new stranger.

When users encounter ordinary people they’ve never met in a community they don’t have any ties to, raw behaviors emerge. There is no one to call you out on rudeness after you next them, so cruel comments will be coupled with blatant rejection. There is no one to ruin your professional reputation, no one to charge you with a misdemeanor for indecency. It’s impossible for strangers to cuss you out or shame you for being a prick if you next them before they can respond, so no one can stop you from accosting elderly women, children and the deeply insecure.

Your tactfulness with rejecting someone or patience with uninteresting encounters is completely up to your own conscience. The anonymity and randomness of the game means that there are no social consequences beyond having to re-set your internet connection if your IP address gets banned by a moderator for indecency, if any moderators even exist. You can do pretty much whatever you want – and people do. (read the full article)

Snippets of ambient dialogue from the Folsom Street Fair:

— “Yeah, Brock, I totally learned this knot when I was in the Merchant Marines. It provides the security you need, but without the unsightly chafing, all the while accentuating the delicate curvatures of the torso and the sinewy undulations of the arms. I find the Hajime Sorayama aesthetic — the juxtaposition of the supple, pliant quality of flesh against the unyielding grip of the bonds — to be the most conceptually pure approach. Plus this hemp twine is both eco-friendly in form while durable in function!”

— “Tell me about function, Dan! These thigh-highs were not meant for prolonged periods of standing. I should’ve gone with a sensible pair of Bettie Page platforms like you did. Aw, well. They do make my ass look great! Fuck I’m thirsty! Are you thirsty? Do me a fave and gimme a sip of my Diet Coke, will ya? I’m gonna be here a while. My master’s having a major hissy because I hooked up with that muscle queen in the fishnet body stocking — the bitch!”

— “All I wanted was to get a caricature done, Tom! Maybe buy a souvenir snow globe! This is nothing like the brochure! And now that guy’s supermodel legs are making me feel all hippy! Take me home!”

Tonight’s Double Feature: Who’s Nailin’ Paylin and the, ahem, forthcoming Getting Levi’s Johnson.

Because it was inevitable.

Now available on DVD.

And with that, the Doomsday Clock now reads 11:55.

“I am a very famous model. If you stop, I’ll suck your dick and balls… if you let me go.”

Nick Snider, christened by Forbes as the fifth most successful model of 2008, to his arresting officers, jailer, anybody who could cut him loose for disturbing the peace. His generous offer only compounded his plight and added misdemeanor sexual bribery to the litany.

Had this been any by-the-numbers porn feature, an about-to-get-cuffed delinquent model offering up one or all of his holes to save his precious ass from jail would have found events playing out differently. Gym-built patrolmen in seam-stretching uniforms would slowly start massaging their groins, glance at each other, and say something along the lines of “Are you sure you can handle us all, pretty boy?,” to which he’d reply with come-hither eyes, “Yeah, I think I’d like to give it a try, man.” A nightstick would get sucked, and said model would be four to five minutes into cramming two dicks into his mouth when the jailer enters from stage left. Shocked and appalled, he utters “What the fuck is going on here?! This is a clear-cut case of police misconduct!,” before dropping his fly and growling “Move over! I want some of this action too, you greedy pricks!” (read the full article)

The main reason I’ve never been religious: I always feel like faith is really a product.

God always seems to be cash-strapped what with all his overhead — I never get why the physical embodiment of greed is not a vice in the way that other earthy delights are — and so there’s a pay-to-play covenant to piety. Money goes into a collection plate. Indulgences buy salvation. Televangelists weep for donations, and no one who shells out ever asks why they live on palatial estates. Prayer is an insurance policy that will keep you from harm, and Heaven is like a country club membership. The Daily Show’s brilliantly cutting swipe at the Catholic Church’s transparent attempt to lure pissed-off Anglicans into its ranks was one of its finest moments. If you’re not satisfied with your religion, just change spiritual providers like you would a cell phone plan.

(read the full article)

I always thought it was interesting that the French language has a masculine and feminine distinction for nouns. For certain words it’s fairly intuitive, but how do you designate the gender of, say, an object like a spoon or a book shelf that doesn’t trigger an immediate phallic or vaginal association?

Having never been a gender reductivist — as a child I loathed the tendency for certain elementary school teachers to nip in the bud anything they perceived as tomboyish or sissy in kids — I can’t fathom the infantile idea of relating everything we do back to our genitals. The hottest women to me have a hint of cliche “male” qualities to them like husky voices or thick eyebrows, and some of the sexiest men have a little lady in their cheekbones or hands. Even my own face is a conglomeration of masculine and feminine traits; I have the broad forehead and nose usually associated with men, but then I have long eyelashes and full lips that play more girlie. Androgyny is more than just a physical state — it’s also a mindset or an aura.

So, if you’re fixated on biological absolutism, then even food has a butch/femme dichotomy.

(read the full article)

Howdy, welcome to the Shady Lady Ranch, a place where young women with zero self esteem and nowhere to go in life can come have greasy truck drivers and meth-smoking Vegas drifters defile their bodies for a little green.

With new, ground-breaking, state approval for male sex workers, Shady Lady Ranch could soon become Shady Lady and Cock Ranch once they hire a few hung men who know how to treat a hole. Despite all that occurs under their roof as a professional enterprise of fucking, owners Jim and Bobbi Davis are squeamish at the prospect of homoseckchuality occurring within the walls of their smut ranch.

The Los Angeles Times reported that before Nye County approved the addition of studs to Shady Lady Ranch, Bobbi Davis bemoaned: “It seems the biggest hoopla is a great fear in some people’s minds that some kind of homosexual activity might go on …It’s not my intent to encourage or promote or to turn my business into a ‘gay property.’”

Oh dear lord, not a gay property! Quick hide the children under the bed … next to the anal beads and dildos. It’s silly piety to fear gayness in a brothel, because it already happens. Every time a girl-girl-guy “couple party” occurs at Shady Lady Ranch or any Nevada bordello, they’re officially a gay property. We can argue about the meaning of “gay” or lesbian exemption from gay panic all day, but I know whorehouses don’t care about being called misogynistic for objectifying women, so they won’t care about being called homophobic for denying credit-approved guy on guy sex. (read the full article)