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

Porn names — the kind that make you groan from the klutzy pun grinning toothily from the middle of them — don’t get any more cringe-worthy than “Harry Bush.”

Except Harry Bush was Harry Bush’s real name.

And that’s just the first of many surprises to be found in a new, sumptuously illustrated coffee-table book Harry Bush: Hard Boys, a collection of 230 pencil sketches, featuring a candid memoir by Robert Mainardi, the artist’s friend and major collector.

The reclusive Harry with the all too pubic name led a most improbable, counter-intuitive life.

Far from being a dabbler who was moonlighting from a career in advertisement or magazine illustration — the natural habitats you would think for such a polished draftsman — Harry Bush was, for many years, a deeply closeted Pentagon employee, who took up illustration only late in life, after a brief drawing course in a community college.

Right from the start, in the mid 1960’s, when he sold his first illustrations to the covertly homo Physique Pictorial — a notorious cavalcade of “health cultists” and “male nudists” in gaily striped posing pouches — all the hallmarks of the Harry Bush style were in place: The easy flow of his line; the concentration on blocky buns and heavy dicks; the All American faces that had about them a national lyricism as authentic as Norman Rockwell’s.

Harry Bush was, as Hard Boys points out, a mass of contradictions. He worked under his own name yet lived in fear of losing his Air Force pension as some sort of retribution for being a pornographer. He cut himself off from his family before they could cut themselves off from him. Inculcated with the occupational homophobia of the military, he was revulsed by the world he had entered — the noir side of Hollywood with its hustlers, Johns and fly-by-night models — yet continued to draw that world as a joyous homosexual playground.

Here was a man who brought a lighthearted humor to his celebrations of hard-bodied surfers and manboy teenagers — porn with a wink — yet was relentlessly cantankerous in private, bitterly grousing about the gay scene, never failing in his many handwritten letters to wrap the words gay community in mocking quote marks.
(read the full article)

Outing. It’s not just for politicians, celebrities, pro athletes, and your dad anymore. You don’t even have to be three dimensional to have people wondering which way you swing.

Cartoon characters are facing the same laser intensity of gaydar as anyone else in the public eye.

What was the deal with Snagglepuss? Did little Jonny Quest have two daddies? Were Vanity and Hefty the gayest of the already queer manly commune known as the Smurfs?

And didn’t The Peanuts‘ Peppermint Patty and Marcie seem different than the frillier girl members of the Charlie Brown posse? On some level we’ve always suspected that the tastes of Scooby-Doo ’s Velma Dinkley leaned more toward Josie & The Pussycats than Thundarr The Barbarian.

Few characters elicit the amount of near-unanimous speculation as the Reagan Era phenom He-Man does. For grade schoolers in the 80s more taken with Dick than Jane, He-Man & The Masters of The Universe was weekly catnip. Years later we’re sure the series meant to present us with a robust action hero who could teach us valuable life lessons. What we really appreciate it for are the curvaceous bodies- rotoscoped over actual bodybuilder models- swaggering toward the camera, the brazen flexing, rippling limbs grappling in combat, and shots being framed from the back between clenched asses and gigantic thighs. (read the full article)

“The stage is a truck stop by a Highway of Hopes.”

So begins HvH’s new anthology of homo-hot tales, set somewhere to the left of the Twilight Zone. “Michael is waiting, his eyes fixed on the poorly lit restroom door…”

And what Micheal will find in that restroom and through its gloryhole is a strange sort of … perfect love. (read the full article)

 
Here’s a little white porcelain planter that seems to be a design collision between Marcel Duchamp and John Waters.

Drawing inspiration from the bonsai, these Park Planters by Science & Sons bring the furtive and feral side of the city park right into your living room. But safely and daintily. (read the full article)