When I was eighteen I did what many budding homos from the burbs did. I moved to Hollywood. My mom helped me secure my first apartment, gave me her old car and wished me luck for finding work.

I’d have gotten a job sooner, and not depleted my minuscule savings so quickly, if I hadn’t lived right down the street from Santa Monica Blvd and its prize pink jewel: The Pussycat Theater — with its always flashing, always tempting marquee.

And there was a new enticement each week. Who wouldn’t want to explore The Opening of Misty Beethoven or Beyond the Green Door? It didn’t bother me in the least that these were 100% heterosexual porn films. Straight or gay — if a film featured buff guys with boners thrusting about various orifices, I was interested.

If only the colleges in California taught what colleges across the country are now offering: Porn-studies. I would have gladly returned to school (something I swore I’d never do after escaping high school) to learn more about my “calling.” And I would have launched my career as a porn publisher much sooner — instead of waiting until I was 40 and intrepid and slightly crazy. Think about it. Studying the theory of porn, the art of porn is a fascinating compliment to the blind, instinctual consumption of porn. I would have felt so much more balanced. (more…)

Ay, there’s the rub…

The enigmatic French term for it is Frottage, more colloquially, the dry hump, frotting, bagpiping, scrumping and perrear.

But there’s also: The Safety Dance, grinding, cock2cock, cock knocking, dubbing, sandwich dancing, dogging, the Princeton Rub and cock surfing.

It all comes down to putting your dick anywhere other than the big three orifices.

That’s a continent of erogenous zone to cover.

The Greeks paved the way and all-male college campuses took it and ran with it. It’s a favorite of wrestlers, jockeys, bikers, anyone who’s ever taken an abstinence pledge and straight-identified guys who still like a good man-to-man groin grind. It’s something we’re all into in one style or another. Most likely it’s the first form of sexual stimulation we discovered as children by means of some inanimate object. By the time we’d reach our teens, we’d upgraded to another partner.

The expected dick-on-dick friction standoff is just the tip of the iceberg. Thighs, legs, pecs, biceps, faces, asses and feet are all equally game, the full-on body surf being the pinnacle. It’s probably the most instinctive and intuitive form of sexual intercourse – practiced by the most hesitant beginner and the most seasoned veteran – either as a form of teasing or as the big show stopper.

Plus, it’s got range: clothes on or clothes off, standing up or laying down, face to face or back to front, sober or blitzed. Some men even do it unconsciously while they sleep. (more…)

Beware Nightcharmers!

The evil bunnyman is back to haunt our Easter morning dreams.

Not one thing or another, he appears as a sort of manthing, a creature with buff body and hellish costume head.

How many men have been led astray by this sinister hallucination, who comes always during the nighttime of the soul, chatting James Stewart out of his mind in Harvey or opening a portal into yet another mad world for Jake Gyllenhaal in Donnie Darko?

It was the bunnyman, was it not, cinema scholars, who sent Jack Nicholson right around that final bend in The Shining when the spooky cottontail was spied out of the corner of the eye, sitting eerily on a hotel bed in full head-to-toe rabbit suit, about to give a blow job.

Oh, evil is the evil bunnyman. How evil? Just ask Alice when she’s ten feet tall. (more…)

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.

Indeed, what could be more wholesome and natural …. with one slight but very modern twist.

Here we invoke the shade of the now forgotten Jeff Gannon:

In the wake of the gay-escort scandal that would reveal Jeff Gannon to be not only a Republican mouthpiece planted at White House press briefings to ask friendly, Bush-idolatrous questions but that he himself — a studly Lex Luthor lookalike with bald, cue-ball head — was a gay hustler with a website that sold dates, underwear, and his own bodily secretions … in the wake of this the most delicious “Family Values” scandal of 2005, ol’ Jeffrey faced the hostile questioners with a bland Lex Luthor smile and the sort of uncanny clairvoyance usually left to Allison DuBois. (more…)

Absolutely Elegant Entertainment: “We do have standards, after all.”

If you need a little extra Chirstmas cheer, maybe try one of these god-awful but secretly kind of hot titles from Nightcharm’s closet of shame. Yes, it’s gay Christmas porn. You probably don’t have enough of that in your life.

And neither do your co-workers. If you’re looking for the ultimate gift to take to your company’s Dirty Santa party, this might be the only real option. (more…)

Is it only gay men who understand the concept of So Bad It’s Good?

Take the Literary Review, a small, upper-class British journal that gives out what it calls “the most dreaded award in literature” — the Bad Sex in Fiction prize.

Each year the current crop of first-rate novels are scanned, offending passages that make the short list are published in the magazine, and then at a ceremony, the winner is announced.

A celebrity hands out the award — Mick Jagger, Sting and the particularly appropriate Courtney Love have all taken turns at the podium — and, in keeping with the spirit of the thing, the trophy is a kitschy objet d’art that in its vague, abstract way resembles a couple, as they say, “in congress.” They being the Literary Lions of Great Britain’s Critical Establishment — or at least the ones plying their trade at the Literary Review.

Everyone has a good laugh at the expense of the author, who, of course, being a swell guy or gal, shows up (only Tom Wolfe refused). The designated victim gives an archly witty speech to show he is not as bad as all that and then chuckles along with the backstabbing quips like an amiable but, alas, drooling hunchback of Notre Dame being carried through the streets as the King of the Idiots. Sharp elbows are everywhere in evidence as hilarity cascades through the peanut gallery.

All in fun then — except, oddly, not to the Literary Review. Behind the cozy smugness of the ceremony, the journal seems quite taken with its role as fiction censor. One suspects that scores are being settled. The stated reason for giving the prize — “To draw attention to the crude, tasteless, often perfunctory use of redundant passages of sexual description in the modern novel, and to discourage it.” — has about it the sound of Orwell’s “boot stamping down on a human face forever,” his master metaphor in 1984. (more…)

10. Stop with the Plywood Gloryholes, Please!

Not all productions have to have King Kong budgets. Cheap-o amateur releases have their own charm and enormous followings. A straight- looking dork with a tough set of pecs and guns to match can succeed at being sexy, lurid, erotic, brilliant, and worth every penny.

Thing is if we buy an amateur video, we should pay amateur prices. Yo, Mr. Porn Producer! Crummy lighting and plywood sets do not require putting your house up for a second mortgage. Renting a room at a Days Inn, as well as some Jenna Jameson videos for your star to watch, does not make this an Andrew Lloyd Webber extravaganza.

On the other hand when we buy the latest $79.95 big-budget bonanza, we damn well better get our money’s worth. It better be excessively overblown — in every sense of that word! Shot in villas and on foreign shores. For 80 bucks, we want a cast of thousands — great looking men having fantastic sex with hallucinatory sunset lighting everywhere.

And a soundtrack we can dance to.

9. Spare us the Shaved Man-Pussies

Shaving is for pussies — literally. Listen up, you princes of porn, you big-balled sultans of swing. The only part of you that should be shaved is your head — so that it more resembles a dick. You — no matter what you may feel deep down when men shower you with gifts and call you a movie star — are not a woman. If you were, a trimmed quim might be cool. Female genitals are hidden inside the body so it makes sense to clear away the brush.

But dig it, you’re a meat puppet, Jocko. It’s already hanging out there, ready to go. Bald pubic areas look awful. They infantalize and neuter a guy. It may be next to godliness, but when it comes to sex, there’s such a thing as being way too clean!

8. Not Enough Big Dicks

Sure, there are probably over eight million videos devoted solely to the glory of Monster Dick. We say, why not 80 million?

Cock-worship is at the heart of all things homo. It unites every gay male around one gigantic lingam pole, where we can join hands, revel in our commonality, and go quietly nuts.

If we don’t see the kind of cock that rates its own zip code on an average of one every cinema minute, we might think, oh shit, we’re sitting through The Hours again!

Don’t short shrift us. (more…)