It’s a weakness: I love older men.

I can’t help it. I just know the grizzled dude in that “Most Interesting Man Alive” beer commercial is an incredible fuck. Those ads for male hormone treatment in which men in their twilight years are transformed into bulging muscle monsters with younger gold-digger girlfriends should have me thinking “Bullshit!,” but all I can do is grab my groin and think “Lucky whores!”

I deeply want to be sexually harassed by a boss who looks exactly like silver fox John Slattery, a total hog who paternalistically slaps my ass with a gritted sneer before telling me to get him a Pellegrino. “I have a Kaplan Business Degree!,” I counter as he unzips with a smirk. “I’ll scream!,” I virtuously protest as he pulls me to his sinewy body, only to have him laugh as he forces his lips onto mine. “Ha! Go ahead! I’m drunk on my power, and who’d believe you anyway!? Look how you’re dressed!”

Yes, I’m an Uncle, Daddy, and Grandpa slut.

You could put five Corbin Fisher-style guys stripped naked in front of me in a line-up, but if there’s one man there with a salt-and-pepper crew cut and a silver handlebar ‘stache, they might as well be invisible as I stutter “Sonny like! Sonny like!”

Basically, I feel like Linnea Quigley in Return of The Living Dead, the only difference being that while she strips and waxes erotically about being eaten by a pack of old men, I envision me in a retirement community gang bang comprised of nasty former drill sergeants, high school coaches, and steel workers.

It’s a sickness. (read the full article)

Hey, we’ve all been there, and if we haven’t, we will be soon.

You’re a die-hard Liberal graduate with designs on becoming a well-heeled urban sophisticate. Suddenly, your upwardly mobile life trajectory is derailed by a market crash, and you find yourself economically displaced, forced — forced! — to work among the common man despite your contempt for him. This is nothing like Wall Street!

You’re supposed to be moving dividends around, not hauling loads with your smooth, uncalloused hands that have never been reduced to menial labor, but fate abandons you and soon enough you’re toiling away in a ware…house with uncouth, lumbering men who say things like “supposably” and add a superfluous “s” to “you.” Don’t you roughnecks understand that the pronoun “you” is made plural merely by context?! By context! Oh, you may swallow your pride, but that won’t be all you’re compelled to swallow!

If you really draw the short straw, then you end up with towering Girth Brooks — beefy, hardscrabble, hirsute, and balding in the hot way — as your task master. What starts out with taunting and humiliation at your effete expense gets real when he one day crosses the line, whipping out his jawbreaker of a dick when you’re alone in his office — its vein as engorged and protruding as the one in a seething stock broker’s forehead — as he thrusts you down to your knees with his meaty paw. “Suck me off, bright boy!,” he exhorts, his lip drawn up in a mocking sex sneer. “Never!,” you defy. “This is a clear-cut case of sexual harassment, and it’s not even in my job description!” Grasping your hair, he forces his cock through your protesting lips. “Whatever, pretty boy! I didn’t go to readin’ and writin’ school! Now make it good and quick — I got an installation to installate!”

Before you know what’s happening, you’ve become his personal suck boy, taking it hard atop the desk and cowboying on his mammoth prick, your regular nooners audible to everyone who knocks at the door asking for Girth and is driven away by his gruff snarl of “We’re almost finished!” “I hate you motherfucker!,” you say through gritted teeth as Girth maneuvers you up and down that shaft before he finally sprays all over you. “You’ve turned me into a whore!” He makes you polish off that sex stick with your smart mouth, holds your face in his massive palm, and grins before zipping up and strutting off. “Yeah.”

Word gets out that you’re the work site slut, and by the end of your first month, you’re servicing everybody, each night going home sore-assed and defiled by all those surly, haunch-banging motherfuckers — sometimes in groups — who went to DeVry.

Now you know what capitalism is, boy.

Catch this entire scene NOW!

More uproarious homoeroticism from the definitely Not Gay Daniel Tosh.

Troubling men’s style trends are not unlike sex crimes.

Some we walk into like a punch and resist them with everything we’ve got. Others leave us ashamed, wondering if we were somehow asking for it, and over-exfoliating with the loofah.

Some era-specific fads that fell by the wayside in retrospect worked rather well and could warrant being brought back into rotation: Nehru jackets, Carnaby Street suits, Beatle boots, and quiffs cut fine turns on the right men.

Then there are the ones that played out — cargo pants, camouflage, faux hawks, and Caesar cuts — because every guy you passed on the street jumped on the bandwagons. Lastly, there are the Untouchables — the Sucios — that still turn up in dark corners of the world: soul patches, extreme fade haircuts, Mantyhoses, Members Only jackets, Fabio hair, mandanas, and tribal tattoos that retain their claw-like hold on the oblivious.

The Porn ‘stache as this year’s most omnipresent trend polarizes as extremities are wont to do, in no small part due to the fact that there’s little in the way of mitigation when it comes to pulling it off with any sort of aplomb. It may not be as impossibly impractical as a Francois Sagat full-cranium tat or the genital-wilting braided beard, but you’ve got to be near the top rung of the ladder in terms of attractiveness (like this fine guy on the left) in order to even ironically attempt it.

The best case scenario is an ’80s Brawny paper towel coverboy mien; fail in your venture, and you risk the ignobility of looking like that cop from Sleepaway Camp. Virtually every postpubescent male celebrity has opted for some variant on the quicker picker upper, ranging from the appealing (George Clooney, Josh Brolin, Thomas Jane), to the dismaying (Brad Pitt, Robert Downey Jr., Jude Law), to the rape whistle-ready (the hideous Fu Manchus adorning Easter Island-headed Michael Phelps and douche-faced Pete Wentz).

Though satire-inclined urban hipsters (these are the same guys who tried to bring back the zoot suit during the especially lame late-90′s swing dance resurgence) are the ones likely to be given credit for sporting the look and propelling it back into the public eye, the truth is the Porn ‘stache has remained extant in various circles since the advent of hardcore porn in the late ’60s. (read the full article)

Look at this poor, poor sexy bastard. He’s clearly in a very, very bad way.

Whatever are we to infer about him based on this troubling image? What dire misfortune has befallen such a brawny muscle bear who clearly fights on the side of Life, Liberty, and Justice? You just know his hands are bound behind his back in this photo — clenching, crimson, chapped with impunity toward his ignoble plight.

Is he a fire chief fallen into the hands of the Anarchist Black Cross Federation, their ranks bent on using his knowledge in arson to light up Park Avenue in a show of anti-poverty direct action? Perhaps he’s a cabby working the graveyard shift to put his daughter through college — kidnapped by human traffickers posing as Hungarian tourists and bound for high-end sex work in a Tangierian brothel that caters to far-flung “exotic” tastes? Could he be the hottest pizzeria owner ever, held hostage by local hoodlums in a robbery gone awry — his marmoreal torso (built-up by years in the military and in his off-time as a backyard wrestler named Sledge Hammer) exposed through a torn and well-worn Hanes cotton tagless T- as he struggles in vain against his captors during a nail-bitingly drawn-out hostage negotiation?

Dear God! What if he’s a Brigadier General who’s been seized in a daring raid by Middle Eastern dissidents opposing a mad tyrant in one of our secret shadow wars — young, sexually-frustrated men who’ve hardly ever even seen a woman, much more an incredible pair of man-nips? Will these young bulls free from the pen fall upon their knees for him, eyes wild with lust as they service those headlights — suckling first one at a time, then two at a time — in a collective fit of displaced mother fixation meets homoerotic mini-mass hysteria?

I can’t go on. It’s too horrible…

Glee. RuPaul’s Drag Race. The A-List: New York. Dancing With The Stars. Toddlers & Tiaras.

If you were asked to name the gayest show currently on air, these are likely to spring to mind. Still, in terms of sheer volume of constant illicit innuendo and hyper-aggressive machismo channeled through borderline erotic hostility, nothing can, well, top Discovery Channel’s Gold Rush Alaska — an everything-but-the-cumshot crank-fest whose hilarious double entendre exchanges have irony-attuned ears buzzing.

The series’s mission statement: Get The Glory Hole. No matter the risk — find it, plumb it hard and mercilessly, and pound it out until it can’t take it anymore. Then, and only then, will we get the epic gold rush we’ve been begging for on our knees.

The current vogue for Alaskan-themed True Life TV would have you believe our forty-ninth state is practically the Old West by way of Nanook of The North and not the most heavily-subsidized state in the Union, but hey, these things all have a list of writers in their end credits, so there’s truth in TV for you. Gold Rush Alaska’s superficial appeal is its tapping into the rugged individualism of hearty workin’ men driven out into the wilderness by a failing economy. It’s the dream of the self-made man. Like most Right Wing fantasies involving the shrugging off of modernity and the turning away from soft society, it’s only about two hundred years or so past being utterly obsolete. Probably there’ll be a bear at some point too, if only because all these shows need a fucking bear in them. (read the full article)

Via Gawker:

Rep. Christopher Lee, (R) [or (D) if you watch Fox] of NY has just been busted giving his best Guys With iPhones pump on Craigslist, seeking a wo…man (?) to help him repeal ObamaCare, defund federal money for greedy 13-year-old rape victims, and also to reenact Michael Douglas’s “Oh! Ooh! Ooooh! Ooooooooh!” cumshot from Basic Instinct.

“Fun,” “fit,” and “classy” Lee passed himself off as a 39-year-old divorced lobbyist (yeah, baby…sexy and evil…) in order to score some non-Biblically-defined trim, and found it in a 34-year-old chick from Maryland who works in oppressive, socialist government. Anyway, girlfriend knew something was up, and after a modicum of research, made Lee as a nasty-assed liar and forwarded all their correspondence to Gawker.

Lee’s voting record on marriage equality isn’t that transparent, but he is a proponent of DADT (can’t have tawdry hook-ups in the military) and is on board with the Repubs’ “OK, so there’s you-asked-for-it rape and then there’s real rape…” end-run around abortion rights, so we’re sure he’s utterly fair-minded when it comes to keeping the government out of people’s personal relationships.

Whatev. Lee, actually 46 (Daddy….) with a son to boot, is trying to blame a security breach that resulted in his computer getting hacked. Could it be ACORN that’s responsible, or George Soros? We’ll just assume the shirtless flexing pick was intended for, what — his P90X progress blog? Happily, Lee’s spokeshack is adamant that “The Congressman is happily married,” and “the only time he or his wife posted something online was to sell old furniture when they changed the apartment they keep in DC.”

Is that the sound of Gloria Allred doing her money dance we hear?

Mom gets a lot of blame.

Pop psychology dictates that she’s at fault for her kids’ (especially the boys’) sorrows; if she isn’t smothering and controlling, then she’s distant or just absent. Too much love or not enough — either way, it either supposed to make us gay, strand us in childhood, or turn us into hooker-preying serial killers.

But what about the Horror of the Father? How many different ways can dear old Dad screw us up? He’s long been posited to be the factor that drives young women onto stripper poles, and ex-gay therapy would have us believe we’re seeking his love/approval in other men as adults, but stripped of all the armchair psychology and soap operatics, the Horror Hag‘s other half — the Father Ogre — is more that just a Grim(m) Fairytale. (read the full article)

By now you’ve probably heard of Constance McMillen, the 18-year-old senior at Mississippi’s Itawamba High. Barred by the school board from attending her senior prom with a female date while clad in a tuxedo, her “Nobody puts Baby in a corner!” refusal to be shown the door ultimately lead the board to call the whole dance off.

Yes, it sounds like something along the lines of Footloose, and typically whenever a long-in-the-tooth council of elders decides to put otherwise good kids on a stranglehold of a short leash, there will be push back. A girl going to a dance with another girl? In pants? The next thing you know, these little tarts will want to ride horses with their legs spread, or not be traded away into sexual slavery by their families for six gourds of milk and a goat. Calamity! (read the full article)

Memo to Right Wing blowhard pundits: when your parody habitually outmans you in every department, admits his persona is an irredeemable narcissist, and looks like Gay Superman on an Aspen vacay while doing it, you’ve probably descended into utter irrelevance.