Sean Cody star Calvin knows how to take dick. Especially when he has no choice. As good-natured and smiley as handsome, permahard co-star Jess is, when he wants to fuck, he’s going to fuck. That means stuffing his long prick down the throat of sweet-faced Calvin. And that means pounding Calvin’s tight ass. Nothing’s better than a hung bottom when his dick throbs and bounces in rhythm to the fucking, right?

Jess is primed and Calvin’s got the closest and tightest hole. Pick two guys at your gym that you’d dream of seeing naked together. See them strip and play grab ass, and fuck and suck until they spunk. Now here’s that dream fuck for you. Bonus tight abs on Jess. Watch them flex as he humps. He needs to release an exercise video called Fuck Your Way to 6 Pack Abs, before Hollywood hot bods Ryan Reynolds or Chris Evans beat him too it.

Check out Jess and Calvin at Sean Cody right now.

These are exhibitionist studs. They know you’re watching so they get hard. When they get hard, you get hard. When you get hard, you watch. You can’t beat that kind of pornographic logic, can you? Head to Sean Cody.

“The most famous oasis is the Meat Rack on Washington Square in Greenwich Village. Before the Nineteenth Century splashed into the Twentieth, many famous authors lived within these stately manses: Henry James, Fenimore Cooper, Jack London, Eugene O’Neill, an others. Today, the Rack supports young men in slacks, khakis, blue jeans, or any sort of dress to suit a selecting nancy out on the flesh prowl.

The dog fanciers are another breed with their manicured poodles, hair-teased Italian style. It makes for better conversation, with liberal conceits left for the aftermath. Dogs are not just dogd along the Rack; they are symbols for dervishing deviants who want to get off the leash.”

– the hilarious, hysterically-overwrought anthropological stylings of Colin Ross as detailed in New York After Dark, his searing account of Old New York’s libertine subcultures.

I’m in a bit of a late ’70s/early ’80s glossy Women-In-Jeopardy movie phase right now (The Eyes of Laura Mars, Tattoo, The Fan, A Stranger Is Watching) and since Cruising ditches imperiled models, fashion designers, and shutterbugs in favor of just applying all the conventions to provocative, metropolitan men, I had to pick up this secondhand copy of the Gerald Walker 1970 novel — which I frankly didn’t know even existed — when I spotted it atop a street vendor’s stand.

The Killer: He makes love to women, but only the feel of his knife penetrating a man’s body can satisfy him.

Two men stalking Manhattan’s shadowed streets, bars, parks, places where men meet men. Both hunting. Both obsessed. Lured closer and closer to each other. Across the line between cop and killer. Into the terror of homicidal compulsion.

Best of all, this is the 1980 tie-in reprint for the movie, so the cover has an Al Pacino clone getting eyed by a dead ringer for Robert La Tourneaux.

Hips or lips!

Everyone knows the big ones.

The maniac in the backseat. The spiders in the hair. The kidney thieves. The hand-licking roommate-killer.

Essentially, they’re the fairytales we begin to embrace as young adults, with witches, wolves, and trolls supplanted by hook-handed fiends, mirror-haunting ghosts, and alligators in the sewers. Localized yarns bordered in by language or culture barriers can sometimes surmount those boundaries and become universal (way to be, Chupacabra), adapted and retold in new contexts.

Others are disseminated in a more top-down manner; a subculture marginalized and feared by a more mainstream one is perceived as a threat, and tales of its skullduggery ensue. This accounts for recent and not-so-recent dubious lore about Mexicans spreading leprosy and decapitating Gringoes, Jewish blood libels, the resurgence of the Black Panther Party (all two of them) and its intention to intimidate white voters, and (of course) gays fomenting disease, provoking natural disasters, and lynching Christian married couples.

Sadly, many gay urban legends seem to be of the latter variety — imposed rather than self-styled — and in this period of rampant misinformation deployed against us, it seems only right that we peruse through a few faves to see which ones can be confirmed, which can be debunked, and which shall forever remain mysteries. (read the full article)

Porno tomes.

I love them, and my bookshelf houses such tell-alls as Christy Canyon‘s Lights, Camera Sex!, A Thousand & One Night Stands: The Life of Jon Vincent, Traci Lords: Underneath It All, John Holmes: A Life Measured In Inches, Wonder Bread & Ecstasy: The Life and Death of Joey Stefano, Blue Blake‘s Out of the Blue: Confessions of an Unlikely Porn Star, and Boy in the Sand: Casey Donovan, All-American Sex Star.

I know on a superficial level that it’s trivial and voyeuristic to have a fascination with porn stars, but on a deeper one I’ll confess that I find them strangely compelling. They are after all sort of willing freaks in society; even the most with-it of us are conflicted about sex — afraid of what we want, afraid of how much we want it, afraid that no one can give it to us — and so they provide us with a by-proxy catharthis. In a world without disease, emotional entanglements, or taboos, I’d probably be doing everything I see onscreen, but what holds me back is absent for them. That shame valve just wasn’t included in their designs. (read the full article)

We all have our limits in life.

I can’t add in my head. I can’t sleep in an unfamiliar place. I will never get the appeal of Glee.

Also, I have a problem with frequenting adult retailers.

I don’t know how common a situation it is for others, but it’s not unusual for straight men in my life to ask me to purchase porn on their behalf; apparently, having a gay guy act as their procurer mollifies the guilt many straight men associate with buying smut. Though I’m partial to mail order myself, I personally get a kick out of going to a newsstand and paying for a copy of Barely Legal or Juggs and having the vendor look at me before his gaze wanders to Torso or Honcho. And yes, it’s hard not to laugh as I choose a title like Sex-Starved Fuck Sluts, H.R. Muff ‘N Stuff, or Big Trouble In Little Vagina that fits his/their specifications.

The problem is other men. Please — please — don’t try to pick me up in a sex shop. (read the full article)

It’s a state of emergency up in Vancouver — and everybody’s going down!

The CBC broke a story this week about the Canadian Government scrambling to respond to the Great Vancouver Olympics Condom Shortage by shipping an auxiliary supply to the masses of sex-mad Olympians who’ve descended on the city, and tongues everywhere began wagging about the epic Sex-In that must be taking place up north. The 100,000 rubbers already distributed to roughly 7,000 athletes apparently proved insufficient in keeping dicks secure.

With the headline sounding like a gimmicky porn plot come to life, the mental imagery it conjures up is on everyone’s mind, whether they’ve been tuning in or not: a collective groan of ecstasy can be heard for miles as all those lithe, sinewy, flexible bodies undulate and contort in every sexual position imaginable, from reverse cowgirl and the rusty bike bump, to the pile driver and the rabid kookabura. Are there Ciao! Manhattan-style pool orgies going on? Snowboarder daisy chains with slangy moans of “Duuuuude! Fuck my ass like a Botwoker!” ? Triple and quadruple deckers in the ice rinks? Is it just like the Kama Sutra, only with endorsements?

It sounds fucking amazing, but because I’m not a joiner and my inner cynic has a hair-trigger bullshit detector, I’m calling shenanigans. And I’m not the only one. (read the full article)

Who could resist a headline like this? Not me.

And besides, when you’ve got porn as hot as this, well, it is really swell.

New in the Cruiser Boys theater: Rusty and Steve are tall, muscular, well equipped, stoners surfers.

Rusty invites Steve over to the small beach cottage that he’s house sitting. They share a bowl. Rusty puts the cat outside and some porn flicks on the DVR. And then, well, you can see from these teaser shots shot that it isn’t long before longboards are being ridden. Steve’s stamina pays off as Rusty takes rides him to the finish. Wow, I guess this is what ‘surfing the web’ is all about.

It’s such a great way to spend a springtime evening. We’re jealous.

Catch all the pics and videos inside. Surf’s really up.

Nightcharm is overjoyed to announce that Anonymous — the most published author in history — has coupled with our resident cartoon genius Josman to create one of the most controversial stories to ever land in our Inner Circle library.

Modest to a fault, yet possessed of political secrets that have toppled governments, as well as sexual endowments that have redefined pornography, Anonymous here confesses that he is also — surprise! — a total butch bottom.

And Josman — an illustrator that can render a rounded ass or spritz of jism with the detailed lyricism of a Disney cartoon master — has risen way beyond the challenge for this over-the-top, fetish-driven story.

In Buttboy in a Blindfold, Anonymous is a college jock, just turned 18, who reads a notice on his college bulletin board that says Athletes Wanted For Experiments in Human Response. Being a frisky lad full of spunk, he soon gets himself right in the middle of a . . . um . . . jam.

Here’s a sample (brace yourself): (read the full article)

Hotness Alert in Nightcharm’s Inner Circle. The latest update from the guys at our Fantasy Boys theater takes a "house boy" theme, which does or doesn’t work depending on how hard you’re willing to suspend your disbelief.

Personally, I’m not willing at all because the shoot is so hot that I don’t really need more than they’re giving me: two really hot boys getting nasty together.

Of course, it doesn’t hurt that one of them is packing his trousers in a major-league way. Don’t take my word for it — check out the picture.

This is a good day to join up, if you’re not already a member of Nightcharm’s Inner Circle. Of course, most days are good days to join so long as you’ve got plenty of lube and a clean towel on hand.