“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)

Individuality: is it the human animal’s greatest foible, or it’s greatest folly?

Yes, when it comes to breaking from the pack in order to assert our uniqueness, we do so by not just perversely emulating the exact same thing everyone else is doing, but trying to outdo them at it. This has resulted in some abysmal trends over the years, the most ubiquitously current one being the tattoo. What was once a form of ritualized scarring for men entering the military, being initiated into biker gangs, or getting tagged as property/currency by a new prison hubbies is now the walk on the wild side for single-and-loving-it divorcees, midlife crisis fortysomethings, and drunk-ass teenage girls on spring break. (read the full article)

Hets are weird.

We like them well enough, but what the fuck is going on in their topsy-turvy marriages? How many in-name-only, mutually-convenient, put-a-brave-face-on, Fractured Fairy Tale unions gone-off-the-rails have we casually borne witness to?

Where does it all go wrong? Is it the strain of bearing the One Ring (it almost came between Sam and Frodo)? The infantile fantasy of princes, damsels, and the Happily Ever After coda? The social conditioning that says it’s the right and only thing to do? Maybe the self-mythologization of being descendants of a pair navel-less newlyweds and their inbred progeny?

The beyond-tawdry, impossible-to-look-away gauntlet of Tiger Woods-spawned scandals has offered invaluable insight into the private universes of too-pretty and -polished Super Couples. I’ve always suspected that few and far between is the man who actually marries his type; instead, he marries up the ideal spouse/mother and keeps his taste in trashy tarts either held in check or on-the-sly. Beauty is also, mind-bogglingly, not enough to keep a man even though it may be what initially nabs him. In the end, sexual availability will win out over being a perfect ten.

As an Awkward Family Photo enthusiast, I especially know that family portraits fraught with intrigue and secrets ready to be revealed imply far much more than they actually purport to superficially depict. (read the full article)

Why do you Liberal Dems hate Christmas, families, and Charlie Brown?

Yes, every year the crusade to put the Christ back in Christmas commences, and even though none of us actively signed up for duty or even give a fuck, apparently we’re on the front lines of the battle any way.

It’s a veritable Nutcracker Suite of self-branded, self-styled victimhood for the God Wads this year: The American Family Association and other nuisance groups have issued sundry fatwas against the Gap, Best Buy, and Bed, Bath, & Beyond for being corporately-operated witch covens; Glenn Beck‘s tear-jerking (or jerk-tearing) The Christmas Sweater simulcast has reportedly been tanking in regions where jaded urbanites reject Jesus by loving quality entertainment; and the House of Representatives heard the angels calling and felt compelled to vote on a resolution to federally validate Christmas in a nation full of secularists — wearing our slutty Santa costumes — bent on decrucifying our zombie Savior. (read the full article)

He sank beneath the wave,
No mother there to save,
No father’s hand to help him,
He filled a water’s grave.
He left a lonely brother
And friends to mourn his loss,
His broken-hearted parents
To bear a heavy cross.

– “The Drowning of The Heber Springs Boy,” The John Quincy Wolf Folklore Collection

Patrick McNeill had been found floating in the Hudson River in April of 1997, two months after disappearing after a night out with friends. He was last seen leaving an Upper East Side bar to catch a train back to Fordham University in the Bronx.

Even in double-time Big Apple tempo, his weirdly random death — ruled an accidental drowning despite his family’s protestations — was still being bandied about Fordham’s Manhattan campus in the fall just as I was beginning my freshman term.

Good ol’ F.U. had more than its fair share of dust-ups and sweep-unders involving the student body during my tenure there, but none cut as close to the bone for me as McNeill’s fate did. He was a foil for me in every sense: a local boy instead of a transplant, a family guy rather than a loner, a junior majoring in accounting in lieu of a print hopeful, and Irish-Italian kid from the block and not a conspicuous Scandinavian rover from the upstate Tundra — in short, a somebody. Somebody to be missed in a city full of young, rootless nobodies. (read the full article)

There’s the crazy Earth Mother with 22-inch long fingernails trying to buy toilet paper. And over here we’ve got the hillbilly who just replaced his car’s blown out window with the Twister mat he was conceived on. And then there’s a token fat guy in a power scooter wearing a T-shirt proudly declaring “I hate queers.”

All of these horrors, and more, have been captured and displayed by the snarky new website, People of Walmart. A site that gathers and posts pictures of clueless people to make fun of them because they’re one financial quandary above homeless and one step below sympathy. But what’s happening when we scroll through the cavalcade of calamities and laugh? And what’s made the site so special, in that viral kind of way that makes the internet go gaga?

Many would say it’s just light-hearted fun, a voyeuristic view into the ghetto pantry that is Walmart; highlighting how no one gives a fuck in Walmart; how Walmart is such a vast anonymous public space that it becomes private, like a person looking into their own fridge in the kitchen at 3 a.m., half naked, completely as their freakish selves, no affectation or fear.

It’s funny, train-wreckingly so sometimes. I look back at some pictures again and again for some cathartic pick-me-up. I look like shit this very morning as I type this, but hey, at least I’m not forcing my gunt into fishnet stockings while trying to buy the morning-after-pill at a Walmart pharmacy. (read the full article)

A classic Sacha Baron Cohen moment from the old Ali G show. This is the dorkier, less polished Bruno that we know and love. “Right, I love Romans!”

“Beware! Beware of the big green dragon that sits on your doorstep. He eats little boys… Puppy dog tails, and big fat snails… Beware… Take care… Beware!”

Such was the admonishment of Bela Lugosi-as-God in Ed Wood‘s gender-bending Glen or Glenda?, a typically Woodian proclamation about perilous gender borders from the notorious angora fetishist.

Yes, defying your biology and/or sexual role in just about any way is bound to draw flak and threaten the status quo. We may love our mother/father, butch/femme, and top/bottom dichotomies — really, just grown up versions of the snips and snails/sugar and spice cliche — but just how etched in stone and “natural” they indeed are is debatable.

The latest physiological quirk likely to make gender reductivists clutch pearl: Male Lactation.

The nurture instinct has always been associated exclusively with the feminine; Nature — who it’s not nice to fool with — is anthropomorphosized as Mother, while mountain-eroding, empire-obliterating Time is the indifferent Father. Men are traditionally distanced from the mother/child union with the protector/provider mantle, but the reality is that every male has the potential to produce breast milk.

There’s an as-yet-unexplored gay porn subgenre in there somewhere.

Though the sole mammalian species (thus far) posited to achieve spontaneous male lactation is the Dayak fruit bat of Southeast Asia (a known flamer), the human male can and has done the same. Common scientific knowledge has until recently concluded that the phenomenon can only be achieved by means spurred from pathological or synthetic origin such as steroid abuse, starvation, pituitary tumors, and select antipsychotic and heart medications that stimulate the production of the hormone prolactin. (read the full article)

There is no common manual informing autoerotic axphyxiants what strange, kinky adornments to use during their ritualistic dances with death.

Yet somehow the fantasies of these unrelated men coalesce, as if all involved were possessed by the same external spirit that captures the psyche and compels the act. It is nearly always done in secret, but discovered in an awful, morbid way: a roommate or family member walks in to find a loved one dead, accidentally strangled while jacking off.

Autoerotic asphyxiation is based on the understanding that oxygen deprivation in the brain enhances the orgasm.

For that reason many BDSM players enjoy being choked during sex, but that is hardly similar to the way men commonly asphyxiate themselves alone.

The central feature is a belt or string constricting blood flow through the neck, but other common features seem unrelated. Their cases are known by the way their bodies are found when they accidentally kill themselves in the act: naked or nearly so, bound by the neck with a rope, and often bound at the genitals or hands. Surrounded by pornographic images or texts. Sometimes wearing a piece of womens’ clothing; stockings, or a bra. Often surrounded by mirrors, so that the practitioner can watch himself in his dangerous ecstasy.

The issue that has stumped sociologists and psychologists alike is that it is not a learned activity; somehow a guy figures on his own to combine all these seemingly unrelated sexual behaviors, through solitary experimentation or whim.

Autoerotic asphyxiation is so strange and taboo that few talk about it openly — practitioners are usually studied by the way they die — yet its most common among healthy, successful and well-adjusted young men, and the cause of, on average, one death in the United States per day.

That list of accidental deaths may now include the actor David Carradine, who played the mysterious “Bill” in Kill Bill, found dead in a hotel room closet in Bangkok on June 3 with a shoelace tied around his neck and genitals and his hands bound.

The incident was first broadcast as suicide, but later explained, by a Bangkok police press agent, to be that “we cannot be sure that he committed suicide but he may have died from masturbation.” Carradine was 72. (read the full article)

Gay porn stardom should, in theory, follow a well-established formula: discovery by an eagle-eyed photographer, an auspicious debut with a coveted “introducing” credit, the coy implication that your sexual repertoire could expand for the right price, a spread in Playgirl or Torso, above-the-title billing in your own high-gloss starring vehicles, lucrative dancing gigs and a slick personal web page, winning a Grabby for best three-way, amassing a list of twelve to fifteen top-tier credits, headlining a lavish swan song production, and finally retiring out into venerated relic hood.

Billy Herrington never planned on becoming a beloved figure in that state of grace normally ascribed to sell-out or fail-forward western demi-celebs: Big In Japan.

Mainstream stars go east on the sly to shill luxury cars or record cheesy dance albums without losing stateside cred. Herrington didn’t just go to Japan. He was summoned by an adoring populace.

International stardom has been thrust upon his broad shoulders thanks to a frenetic, eye-openingly strange parody-paean of the grappling antics in his early eroto-wrestling entry Workout: Muscle Fantasies 3 (left) that appeared on the Japanese video sharing web site Nico Nico Douga, soon going viral and spawning at least three thousand imitators and propelling Herrington to god-like meme status in the Land of the Rising Sun.

No one was more bemused by the attention than Herrington himself, lumbering and knuckle-dragging when on-camera, eloquent and philosophical when off-. He’d been one of the highest-paid and most-recognizable male stars at the top of his game in the late ‘90s while flexing through Playing With Fire 2, Flesh Trap, and Billy Herrington’s Body Shop. (read the full article)