“…and it’s like I fell into a dream…”

David Lynch’s peerless Twin Peaks — the autumn-hued, gauzily dreamy, swooningly romantic, endlessly quotable, and shudderingly scary series that gave birth to the new wave of culty ’90s network TV — turns twenty this year.

This past weekend, the artist collective In The Trees held a banner event to commemorate the occasion at L.A.’s Clifton’s Cafeteria — a woodland-bedecked eatery that proves trees don’t just grow in Brooklyn.

Take a gander here to bear witness to the incredible array of curios on exhibition. Between Paul Chatem’s mind-bending A Damn Good Cup of Coffee, Grace Zabriskie’s eerie decoupages, Tim Biskup’s Walk with Bob, and Amy Casey’s A Small Logging Town, I’m positively evergreen with envy that I couldn’t be there.

Still, the Stendhal Syndrome is kicking in nicely.

David M. Buisán is an artist and illustrator from Barcelona, Spain. His illustrations have been featured in Maxim, H Magazine and numerous zines. His work could be described as nerdy-sexual surrealism. Reminiscent of the early works of Jamie Hewlett (Tank Girl, Gorillaz), with the sexual undertones of Butt Magazine, Buisán’s work is edgy, unique and often funny.

Even if you’re not a fan of art or illustration, his hip style and composition — with humorous pop references — are worth checking out.

Check out some of his work here.

Forgive Me Father For I Know Not by Paul Richmond.

Just as Frank Frazetta resembled many of his pompadoured space heroes, so does Quaintance mirror his own costumed physique model subjects.

Quick, nasty and narrative.

The illustrations of Michael Kirwan never fail to give me a hardon — surely the highest accolade one can pay a piece of really good jerk-off art.

The illustrations have for me a crude teenage exuberance, as if they were sketched in the margin of a high school notebook, or found in the boy’s bathroom, hallucinatory images of illicit cocksucking.

Yet everywhere there is the patient hand of the mature artist: in the theatrical setups and lighting, the frequent play of clashing patterns, the stagey, orgiastic groupings.

All display a degree of calculation that is neither typical or teenage but truly one man’s vision:

Particular fetishes and concerns keep cropping up. Like the emphasis on feet and footgear, the seemly gratuitous addition of piss into an orgy scene, the affection for rimming, the playacting abuse of top lording it over bottom.

Most distinctive of all is the frank — sometimes harsh — argument that goes on between beauty and ugliness in Kirwan’s art.

“I don’t draw from models or real people,” he writes in one of the many essays — or “rantings” — on his website. “My guys are stand-ins for everyone who’s ever sucked a dick.”

His faces often have that gross humanity one sees in those astonishing WPA murals on the yellowing walls of municipal post offices from the last century. Murals where the figures seem to be part of a parade of political caricatures, the common man in the form of the unvarnished and the unwashed. When I mentioned that his work reminded me of Depression-era Social Realism, of Reginald Marsh and Paul Cadmus in his sailor period, Kirwan silenced me with the beguiling reply, “Frankly, I don’t know half the artists people compare me to.” (read the full article)

If you’re a Sword & Sorcery fan like me, then nothing satisfies your geeky impulses like arenas full of curvaceous, broadsword-bearing behemoths ripped and stripped for action.

Sword of The Barbarians, Thor The Conqueror, The Ironmaster — I’ve seen ‘em all, and now one ingenious artist has taken everything I love about them to their most logical conclusion:

Merciless, jizz-spurting grudge fucks.

Peruse the galleries of Herodotus, and witness a gamut of Boris Vallejo-inspired warrior-kings, superheroes, masked men, concubines, whoring despots, and assorted man chattel cranking shaft, riding rods, raping ass, and blowing seed all over the imperial throne room.

It’s all the juvenile, overheated male pigism of the Gor novels turned inward upon itself, blurring the line between conqueror and conquered in a well-oiled haze.

As it should be.

One of our favorite, hot, hot stories from the Inner Circle, Steve Giammarco’s B-52 at Edwards AFB, has been given the royal treatment by our new friend, excellent cartoonist Kenzie LaMar.

This is naughty stuff, and we can’t keep it to ourselves. For your enjoyment, a favorite passage, and a couple of Kenzie’s kick-ass drawings:

Gripping the elastic of his boxers, I let go of his toy. It quivers but remains at the same angle rising up toward his navel as I stretch the band up to clear his bone and slide them along with his fatigues down until his kneecaps show. Fuzzy blonde haired balls are pulled tightly against his body. What a studpup. From this angle I can see the cleft of his ass pressed against the steel grate that serves as flooring on Deck One. How will he explain the cross-hatch marks on his ass and thighs?

(read the full article)

I was talking to a friend on Friday. We were having the classic argument about whether cartoons “can be sexy” or not. All the normal points were touched on: the too-much-muscle thing, and the too-huge-cock thing, and the thing about how they’re “not realistic,” etc.

As much as I can nod in agreement, there’s a certain point at which I have to acknowledge my erection.

Live porn is often almost a cartoon. It’s created as a fantastic, tidy, neon-packaged alternative to real sex. Big dicks, stupid sets and bold lighting; guys saying things they’d never get away with in real life. (read the full article)

Square jawed and clear eyed, these beautiful men seem to have tumbled out of a time machine from exactly 100 years ago, the Gilded Age before World War I, looking all slick-haired and suited and ready for some modern man-on-man.

We might even think we had come upon a hidden stash of fabulous retro-porn if we didn’t know that the artist, Benoît Prévôt, is not only alive, he is a mere 38 years old!

A lifelong Parisian, whose day-job is designing cartoon characters for children’s television, sitting at a computer doing 3D backgrounds and images, Prévôt views the erotic drawings he does at night as his more important art.

In Prévôt’s swanky re-imaginings of the past, we get a glimpse of what the Arrow Collar Men were doing when the Gibson Girl was out on a motor trip.

We imagine the stately Gibson Girl coming home suddenly, unexpectedly, all leg-of-mutton sleeves and upswept hair behind motoring goggles, only to find husband and best friend slavering over each other in the drawing room. Solid patrician that she is, trained from childhood to be The Wife, she looks right on past the dog and pony show, gazing in her dreamy, heavy-lidded way out at the grounds, thinking ackh! men! (read the full article)

Merry Christmas!
Somewhere between pornography and ironic post-modern art
lies Francesco Vezzoli’s trailer for an imaginary remake of the notorious Caligula