Porn, as we scholars of the form know, takes place in an alternate universe too lopsided, too abundantly endowed, too strangely convenient to ever be described as parallel.

Pizza boys arrive with hardons. Doctors are as fit as musclemen and when they ask you to drop your pants, they drop theirs.

Here the locker rooms are oddly silent and empty … empty, empty empty — except for HIM! HIM has, of all things, the locker right above yours and a painfully erect whopper that keeps bumping into your face.

Welcome to Pornville. That Land That Never Was and yet can never die thanks to those old eight-millimeter reels that laid down the rules and regulations for all time. Rules like …

Well, finding a stranger asleep in your barn (your barn?) He is naked, of course, totally — except for one odd little hayseedy type thing: he’s wearing a studded cockring. That and giganzo chrome rings through his nipples, cockhead and perineum.

This, you think, must cause a sensation when Hayseed goes through the machines at the airport. But, of course, there aren’t any airports in Pornville. Only barns, locker rooms and embarrassingly queer-looking bedrooms decorated to within an inch of their silly High-Auntie lives. (And boy, do we have the evidence. See our brother site Lurid Digs.) (more…)

Kurt Marshall, who died in 1988 at twenty-two after a mere sticky handful of performances in four videos, was the triumph of the golden-haired aesthetic in gay smut.

Blonds have come and gone within the pantheon of porndom but Kurt Marshall set forever the standard. He was the perfect Hitler-Jugend gone insatiably raunchy and saucy.

And yes, Kurt is an obscure figure, but so what? Let others consider the departed titans now off in Porno-Valhalla (Scott O’Hara, Jon King, Joey Stefano, et al) or those minor figures reposing in unmarked pine boxes in the Potter’s Field of Pornotopia.

In a more perfect world, poets would have written sonnets to Kurt’s thrilling languor. He would have been cast for a life-sized nude gilt (as though he wasn’t golden enough) statue holding up the proscenium arch at some very private, all nude production of Parsifal. (more…)

If you believe in fate, it is easy to say the porn star career of Nicholas Iacona (aka Joey Stefano) was inevitable because of his backside.

His looks were never called into question, and his body, while not “gym-centric,” was a pleasure to look at; however, his looks and his body do not account for his derriere. Stefano’s backside was large, curvaceous, and ready for those who could handle it. (more…)

Butch-rugged handsome and nerve-rattling raunchy, foul-mouthed fuck machine Jon Vincent was the Barbra Streisand of queer porn: Always the center, larger than life and fueled by a self-loving vulgarity that made his performances Legend. Like Streisand, Vincent never allowed himself to just “play a role,” he was too intent on topping — and stopping — the show.

His mix of gay for pay ingredients was crazy-making and classic: “Straight,” married and a father — Vincent was a professional baseball player turned competitive bodybuilder who decided to hustle and make porn as something fun to do on the side — and to support his nascent drug habit. His on-set verbal pyrotechnics, merciless ass-poundings and danger-level testosterone made him neon and golden within the grindingly boring world of faked butchness queer porn. It didn’t hurt that he developed a reputation for off camera aggressiveness too, striking terror into mild-mannered co-stars and easy-going directors. Vincent was an unruly handful — and we loved him for it. (more…)