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.

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)

That guy.

We’ve all encountered him at one point or another. A big, swaggering no-neck as full of himself as he is protein shakes and Creatine.

He could be a construction worker, drill sergeant, police officer, lunkhead gym teacher, or gym rat fixture.

He’s vain, ego-driven, loud, devoid of a selfless thought in his head and prone to flaunting his body — all attributes that should make him a complete turn-off. Yet, on some primal level, he arouses us against all reason. While we may hate ourselves for it, that distinct urge to put him over a chair and jack hammer away at his adamantine loins gets the better of us.

Champion bodybuilder Brad Hollibaugh is that guy. At least onscreen. In real life he’s a recognizable name on the bodybuilding circuit, holder of countless titles, a former college wrestler, a father and grandfather, as well as a soft-spoken gentlemen who just happens to be built like Hercules.

Thanks to the cottage industry of self-produced Muscle Worship DVDs, he’s become a bona fide sex symbol, not quite Porn Star, not quite performance artist. His persona comes straight out of Archie Comics and mail order Charles Atlas ads: the dreaded Muscle Bully played to the hilt. Via his web cam and DVDs, we get to experience this unique specie’s daily life, be it measuring his massive biceps, showering languidly, singing his own praises, or admiring himself in front of his mirror, mirror on the wall.

Of course Mr. Hollibaugh’s confirming what we’ve always suspected: the Muscle Monster is a skilled cock tease who just loves to be admired and really doesn’t care who’s doing the eyeballing as long as he’s the center of attention. Hollibaugh actually gets the irony he’s playing at and what makes his act all the more glorious to behold is his genuine wide-eyed rollicking in his own astoundingly pneumatic bod. Few men can claim to inspire such a collective case of blue balls as this man does. (read the full article)

Big boys and Christmas!

Tis the season when Bears go wild.

Maybe it’s because they’re such hunks of funk –between the beards and the cigars and the barrel chests. Maybe it’s because they’re so obviously loaded with testosterone.

But when Bears let go, they really let it ride, all of it.

At left we have the classic Bear in his excellence, photographed by Bearfighter, who specializes in the Bears of Europe. The Christmas Tree and While House are courtesy of Nightcharm, of course, and Photoshop.

Certainly this gruff-looking number is the dream Bear, with each aesthetic nuance calibrated just right. Natch, he’s uncut, being a Frenchman. Would a dream Bear be any other way?

All well and good for the Bear in Babeland, for the perfect Bear who is at one with Plato’s eternal forms. But what happens in the wilder woods of the real world? After that one eggnog too many? When our Bear is big enough and bold enough? When he’s too legit to quit? (read the full article)

“I think the human body is a remarkable machine in all its shapes and sizes,” says Portuguese artist HvH.

This refreshing point of view is exactly what drew us to the artist’s graphic celebration of bears and even overweight men.

When we asked if he were attracted perhaps exclusively to bears, HvH gave us the sort of answer that — while it let slip nothing really personal — seemed to embrace all humanity:

“I am linked to the ‘bears movement’ but only because I started showing my erotic work on a bears website,” he said. “Even there, I drew all sorts of characters: young, old — bears, twinkies, transsexuals. Men and women.”

In a world of gay art that magnifies standard perfection and beguiles us with studly impossibilities, HvH strikes out for wider vistas and undiscovered continents, where the natives, with their chunky down-to-earth bodies and odd “imperfections,” are just as hot and universal yet so different from the sons of Tom of Finland that we know and love back home. (read the full article)

“My models are sort of the strongmen of my dreams,” Michael Alago told us when we first ran a piece on his hot-daddy photobook rough gods.

Now he tells us he’s working on a new book, due out next summer, called road trips. And guess what? — it will feature even more of those big, nasty, tattooed Daddies that made our heart go pitter-pat the first time around.

“Most of the men I shoot are in their 30’s and 40’s,” Michael confides, adding “I love this age group, especially when a mature man has a big hulky body and a daddy-like quality. These men exude sex. They have lived their lives and it shows in the way they carry themselves.”

Ah yes, big-titted pecs and a dirty look — always pure heaven!

And can we make a confession of our own? We can never look at Michael’s men without feeling like a character in Gaywyck, that dizzy homo retelling of Jane Eyre where the prose runs the deepest purple. (read the full article)

The odds on Vito Spatafore surviving are running 6 to 1 — against. That’s the buzz over at the Pinaccle Sports website, where bets are placed each week on which Sopranos character will be whacked next

Ever since the tubby Mafioso was discovered at a gay bar in leather regalia and ass-out chaps by two thugs, who happed to be there to pick up a kickback, the death clock has started ticking on the Sopranos hitman.

That was a month ago. Since then Vito has disappeared himself to New Hampshire and — straining belief as Vito is weighing in there at a waddling 260 pounds — snagged himself a humpy bi-curious volunteer fireman (below). And this fireman is a piece of work, in the Hells Angels Daddy-o mode, complete with Harley and zippery leather jacket. (UPDATE: But see the discussion of chubbies and chubby chasers in the comment area, below) (read the full article)