Bob Mizer’s legacy as the founder of the Athletic Model Guild was, perhaps, a bit too legendary for the great photographer’s own good. Few realize that away from the beefcake aesthetic Mizer created a vast portfolio of lyrical works that chronicle and celebrate the pre-Stonewall demimonde. So thankfully a new exhibition, Artifacts at New York’s INVISIBLE-EXPORTS presents a collection from this little-seen side of Mizer: staged tableux, images of California subcultures and an intimate collection of objects from various private sessions.
I think you’ll agree with me that there really isn’t any reason to write anything up about our featured Fratmen star (playing inside — and with himself — in the Inner Circle). I mean, the above picture is the very one that inspired the old Chinese proverb: “A Picture’s Meaning Can Express Ten Thousand Words.” And this was, thankfully, before men had discovered overzealous manscaping.
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.
A new trend we’re noticing, amidst the country’s collapsing education system, is an increase of in-home tutoring (for families that can afford the luxury). Unfortunately, along with these private lessons comes the opportunity for abuse. Do the math: Powerful teacher meets struggling student. What’s a resourceful young dude to do? Often passing grades are traded for, well, certain favors, as the above educational video shows us.
A NIGHTCHARM CLASSIC from January 2008 Boys showing off their junk! We live in the Age of Porncreep, where everyone aspires to be a porn model — from the boy next door to the store-bought boy on DVD. The Under-Thirties just can’t take off their clothes for the camera fast enough. And yet…What could be more wholesome and natural, to quote Tallulah Bankhead, who when Chico Marx tried to get a rise out of the lanky glamorgirl with a crude “I intend to fuck you, Miss Bankhead,” replied, “And so you shall, you dear old-fashion boy!” Old-fashion boys have always been proud of their displays — the peacock (not peahen) flares open his tail to reveal a starry twilight sky out of the Arabian Nights, and this magnificence finds its boydom equivalent in the raging two-handfuls of hard-on.
Dark Meat, Light Meat, and Who Forgot the Cranberry Sauce — such are the challenges of Thanksgiving. But none of these seasonal questions so roil our beloved Nightcharmers as Cut or Uncut — a topic that comes up here way more often than Turkey Day. Every time we run a succulent peek-a-boo schlong like the lip-smacker above (on Sexgaymes model Marcos Pirelli) we race for higher ground, bracing ourselves for the killer wave, the Christmas tsunami of comments that floods in from a dependable army of pro- and anti- circumcision partisans.
A NIGHTCHARM CLASSIC from June 2006 Trade. Jailbird. Gay for Pay. Those would be the names for the men seen in these photos. Men from the San Francisco of a quarter century ago, tattooed drifters picked up from lowlife saloons along the Tenderloin, in the lobbies of boozy single-men hotels, outside of store-front clinics where you could sell your blood by the pint.
“It’s finger-lickin’ GOOOOOD!” — Near Dark “…they have to suck your blood. And then you have to suck their blood. It’s like a whole big sucking thing.” — Buffy The Vampire Slayer “You’ll be my foot stool. And at my command, you’ll lick the dog shit from my boot heel. Since you’ll be my dog, your new name will be ‘Spot.’ Welcome to slavery.” — From Dusk Till Dawn “Are you into any kind of banging?” — The Lair of The White Worm “The joints of thy thighs are like jewels, the work of a cunning craftsman.” — The Wisdom of Crocodiles “Why is my ass wiggling?” — Day Watch “The blood of these whores is killing me!” — Andy Warhol’s Dracula