Richard Grieco put his disease in me.

It’s his fault that I have a thing for Guidos. It was fate that I just happened to be entering the initial materialization of sexual identity at the very time he was sauntering into his 21 Jump Street/Booker brief glimmer of stardom.

During that era, the teen crush objects of Saved By The Bell and Beverly Hills 90210 were Clearasil-skinned Mickey Mousers; Le Grieco was the antithesis of pre-fab Wonder Bread idols — a trashy, spike-haired, downtown slut with the class of an alley cat and a porn star smirk. My Yasmine Bleeth Reflex — the design flaw that leads the well-adjusted inexplicably drawn to ruinous headboard pounders — triggered and my formative Grieco obsession has left me forever susceptible to the wiles of the Guido.

The sexual fantasies that we always turn to are the ones that make us feel the most ashamed, the ones that make us question who we really are and what we really want. It’s when we feel the most dirty that we’re the most gratified. Our polar opposites – those we would never conceivably cross paths with and who personify everything we’re not – can sometimes attract as much as they should repel. (read the full article)

In a college sociology class on deviance I took in 2004, the professor, who was known for her sense of humor and explicit knowledge of what she studies, explained to 400 undergraduates what a “tea room” is. We were reading an academic essay detailing the ritual of gay male public cruising, and discussing how it is so strikingly consistent from one hot spot to another, as if driven by something more innate than cultural.

The essay was about a particular public park in London, but the professor’s lecture brought us closer to home – she explained to our amusement why the bathroom stalls in the men’s room of the Chemistry building (the building the lecture was in) used to be changed once every few weeks – whenever the maitainence staff found a glory hole carved in one – and why they eventually removed the stall doors altogether. (read the full article)

The porn blowjob, as we know it today, was originated in the mid-’80s for film and photo. It has almost nothing to do with an actual blowjob. It’s most closely related to the ad model who stands poised with a perfectly formed dollop of tooth paste centered across the bristles of a never-before-used brush, smiling at the camera with already-spotless teeth.

Aside from all the normal fireworks, the tension is the appealing part — the tempting nature of the glistening product, mere moments from use.

As this principal applies to the penis, it is of utmost importance that none of the “product” be obscured, or minimized by any of the numerous possible unflattering angles. Even when a model is bold enough to actually insert the cock into his mouth, he’s most likely to let it jut into his cheek before he’d dream of gagging on the thing and hiding it’s length in the process.

The truth is that receiving a “porn blowjob” in one’s private life is an undesirable thing, most readily likened to having one’s penis inspected by the dull teeth of a playful, well-meaning baby hippopotamus. Erections under these circumstances are entirely dependent on chemical intervention or a psychological condition. (read the full article)

These days, Barrett Long has a solo scene in just about every fourth adult video released, and Ben Andrews is gaining on Celine Dion in terms of mainstream press coverage. Colton Ford’s breathy pop album is loud as ever in the clubs.

We like all the attention, but as an industry we still cherish our insider stars — the guys we’d more likely actually want to fuck if we encountered them at the bar. And no two guys embody that spirit more profoundly than Jake Deckard and Remi Delaine. Your mom doesn’t know their names yet, but in the case of hot, raunchy man-sex, maybe that’s a good thing.

Don’t miss their opening scene from Playback, on view today in Nightcharm’s members area, The Inner Circle.

Our friends at Raging Stallion don’t forget to mention Remi’s famous appendage in their description of the scene — noting that it’s "one of the biggest dicks in porn."

Aries: With the moon in your mother’s water house, it is going to be important for you to really cut back on junk food and soda pop this week unless you want to inherit your genetic destiny on an immediate basis.

Taurus: Here’s an interesting recipe for your period of extended abstinence.

You’ll need: two jumbo eggs, flour, wheat germ, baking soda, table salt, traffic jam, diced cheese substitute, and lots of pepper.

Whisk in a shallow Pyrex roasting pan and microwave on high for fifteen minutes. Severe. That’s French for “Serve.”

Gemini: God damn it, you are exhausting everyone with your constant nagging and bad ideas. This is a time in which you need to second-guess everything that comes out of your mouth, though even that probably won’t be enough to counteract the permanent damage you’re doing to your public image.

Cancer: You are in a tender state this week, and will need to be babied by everyone around you. Let the people you deal with at home and work know that this is a time in which things are going to be very focused around you and what you feel is important. Ice cream is your weekly color. For now, just sit down. (read the full article)

“At ease, soldier!” That’s the latest from the Fantasy Boys Theater in Nighthcharm’s Inner Circle members area. We can’t know his actual name, but names aren’t really so important when faced with the crazy-making combination of a lightly freckled redhead with a massive and rigid cock. Any name will do. “Ron.” How about “Ron?”

From our friends at Fantasy Boys:

“After a day of serving his county, this dirty boy needs to freshen up. A hot shower with lots of suds get him squeaky clean, and there’s no better feeling then to blow your load after a hard day’s work.”

Whatever the case, just show us some more of that big wonderful dick, “Ron.”

It’s been two weeks since we checked in with Celebrity Psychic, Miranda Celeste-Walters, about the inner worlds of Hollywood’s hottest studs. We needed our fix, so we called her direct line to ask for a personal peek into the daily dalliances of heartthrob, Pierce Brosnan. Here’s the revealing interview that transpired:

Nightcharm: So what can you tell us about Pierce?

Miranda Celeste-Walters: I can tell you that he’s eating a lot of crackers these days, and I don’t know why. (laughs) I’ve just been feeling this from him. These could be health-oriented crackers.

NC: So more likely, these are Triscuits and not Cheese Nips?

MCW: Well, if you compare the nutritional data of Triscuits versus Cheese Nips, you’re going to find a lot of the same things. You’re going to be shocked at how similar they really are. We’re only talking about a 30 calorie difference, per serving, for instance. These crackers, for Pierce, are not Triscuits or Cheese Nips. Maybe Vegetable Thins. (read the full article)

News of the verdict exploded across the Net like a Peter North money shot:
Italy’s highest court ruled last week that a 42-year-old workman broke the law by “ostentatiously touching his genitals through his clothing” and must pay a fine.

The fact that this decision was handed down in Italy — a country that has fostered phallic veneration and worship for centuries — seemed absurd. As Slate pointed out today: “The crotch grab goes back at least to the pre-Christian Roman era…”

Yes, long before Marky (Mark) Wahlberg was pawing his jewels for Calvin Klein or Michael Jackson was proving his manhood by repeatedly cupping his tackle, Italian men were doing corno (the bulge grab) to conjure protection and good luck around their person.

What is it about the male crotch that generates so much self-touching? (We love questions like this). Slate tells us even (read the full article)

It was a spring day, a day, a day for a lay when the air
Smelled like a locker-room, a day to blow or get blown.
Returning from lunch I turned my corner and there
On a near-by stoop I saw him standing alone.

I glanced as I advanced.
The clean white T-shirt outlined
A forceful torso, the light-blue denims divulged
Much.

I observed the snug curves where they hugged the behind,
I watched the crotch where the cloth intriguingly bulged.
Our eyes met, I felt sick.
My knees turned weak. I couldn’t move.
I didn’t know what to say. (read the full article)

“One of my favorite hangouts was The Follies. There were so many closeted neocons who trolled for cock and ass there, particularly cock and ass on younger men…

“One of them I would later recognize as Larry Craig. I followed him …to a Capitol Hill neighborhood.. We walked up the alley and through the back door of a house, with him repeating several times, ‘You were never here. You don’t know me. Right?’ and me responding, ‘Right!’ in boyish submission…Then, he stripped naked and asked me to suck him. I complied for a while, then he disappeared and returned with lube and a condom to fuck me with. It was a clumsy and unremarkable fuck…Still, he blew his load, ripped the dirty condom off and ordered me to get dressed without wiping myself…

“As he reached for the door, he took a $20 bill from his wallet, shoved it in my front pocket, adding ‘Remember, I can buy and sell your ass ten thousand times over. You were never here. Don’t try to come back here. You don’t know me.’”

“Snow and Stiffler were angry that they had been having sex with a man — when they thought they were having sex with a 12-year-old, authorities said.”

“Sorry, but I was impressed. In the year’s most psychotic media moment, Britney created something more real than reality TV: entertainment without borders, an unconsciously brilliant deconstruction of American Idolism, a disintegration in slo-mo. You could almost call it art.”

(read the full article)