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You know you’re a media-obsessed moviephile when you watch gay porn and dig the sets.

It used to be that actors and directors were the ones to watch when it came to mainstream crossover status; now, the sets themselves are turning up in big legit products and later getting outed in all their if-these-walls-could-talk iniquity.

The Age of Porn Creep is such that an Academy Award-nominated movie like The King’s Speech could be lensed on a former jizz-spattered UK Naked Men set. Even pop stars like Lady Gaga and Beyonce find themselves seating their royal asses in locales once occupied by bare-assed gay porn stars. How long before a glitzy Hollywood epic and its downmarket porno double filled with lookalike tableaux and stars simply opt to divvy up their shooting schedules between day and night?

The digital era has changed porn just that much — not just how it’s made but where it’s made. Yes, the sex acts themselves are still highly-contrived and intricate, but porn is losing some of its theatrically in terms of actual production value. I’m one of the rare people who’ll admit to liking the artifice of studio-produced porn over guerilla amateur porn; I like the idea of a movie about sex. The days of fuck flicks being filmed in tiny movie studios and outdoor lots — often converted from warehouses and even grocery stores — is dwindling. Today, a typical porn shoot takes place in otherwise mundane flipped private residences, known in the industry vernacular as “porn houses.” Usually, these are owned by producers or directors, or lent out to crews by private management companies on a film-by-film basis. They tend to be fairly easy to distinguish for the keen-eyed viewer; a generic rent-a-home will have a blandly anonymous showroom look, while a director’s domicile will often boast a disco ball, headache-inducing day-glo paint, a Gay Interest bookshelf, and an immense painting of Cher circa Moonstruck looming over it all.

Only one question remains: with the trend for prefab cookie-cutter gay porn production in full swing, which elements of old skool all-male action shoots will adapt to the new standard, and which will fall by the wayside like a flimsily painted backdrop? (read the full article)

It’s one of those humiliating scenarios that can only ever take place in the movies, and when I saw it as a kid, I secretly hoped, wished, dreamed that it would happen to me.

Beverly D’Angelo plays it to perfection in National Lampoon’s European Vacation: as Mrs. Griswold, she performs a sultry if ill-advised torch song/strip tease for hubby before the family’s new video cam, which ultimately leads to their ensuing sex play being accidentally caught on tape when he sets the thing down and neglects to turn it off. While on a European tour, the tape is stolen, and later — to her horror — she discovers the footage has been released theatrically with her front-and-center as a carnal cardboard stand-up.

The title of her unwitting porn debut?

The Slut In The Shower. (read the full article)

How much do they make? Who’s servicing a Hollywood bigwig? Who got screwed out of a part by a competitor? Who got infected with what on the set?

The porn business has hardly ever been what you could call gossip-free — you could always count on a particularly tawdry arrest or some vicious smack talk between rivals — but lately the industry’s self-imposed sealed-lips policy seems be in jeopardy of some leering insider prying.

Too much information about what’s going on above, beneath, and beyond the San Fernando Valley has Smut City’s identity crisis kicked up to a fever pitch. The Internet has done more than just change how porn is made and disseminated — it may now be altering the means by which the biz keeps its own secrets.

The Leaks Revolution that’s rocked government, the military, and Wall Street now has its own XXX variation, and nothing — real names, addresses, telephone numbers, birth dates, criminal records, and now, even HIV statuses — is off-limits. (read the full article)

Look at this image and tell me that the porn industry isn’t in need of some serious regulation.

It’s easy to forget that a porn set is actually a workplace. I live in abject terror of dying in the bathroom; whenever I get in or out of the shower, it’s like a Final Destination setpiece for me. Imagine the leering sadism of the director here — all these sharp corners and unyielding surfaces. He could have easily had these guys go at it in the shower, which is perilous enough, but no, the bastard actually made them fuck in the sink. Are these poor models insured? Do they get workers compensation? My God — they’re literally one quivering hand away from a dislocated shoulder or a head injury!

You monster!

See the brunet getting it at both ends?

He’s having one. It’s a very tough experience to document, much more illustrate, but that’s it right there.

Orgasms are pretty much a dime a dozen in gay porn. Most play largely identically in staging and reaction, though you probably have some stand-outs in your mind that you cherish.

Yes, it’s great seeing guys get doused, but for me the Holy Grail of cumshots is depicted above. As great as the still frame is, it can’t even begin to do justice to the real time unfolding. This is more than just a spectacular pop-off. It’s more than even an edged-to-the-brink release.

This is a glassy-eyed, teeth-shattering, mind-altering, limb-flapping, open-the-floodgates, speaking-in-fucking-tongues violent full body orgasm. (read the full article)

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. (read the full article)

One of the unsung pleasures of gay porn: the faces men make in unguarded moments.

I love when the men will obviously sexually connect and gaze at each other amorously, and I love it when one snarls with disdain because he clearly loathes his co-star. It’s hilarious when a guy winces in horror as if he’s been sprayed with rattler venom when an unexpected blast of jizz hits him in the face. You can also usually tell when a guy has to hold himself back from lip-locking onto a dick as it goes off because he doesn’t want to spoil the money shot.

What does this face convey in this candid moment? It’s a very ambiguous expression, so it could reflect any number of sentiments:

1. “I am so bored. This guy can’t fuck worth a damn. Where did my life go wrong?”

2. “Jesus. I can’t believe I took the whole goddamn thing.”

3. “Motherfucker, I told you: don’t cum on my face. You promised.”

4. “I think I’m in love with your cock, man.”

5. “Well, I’m a human cum rag — and I enjoy every last little second of that.”

Deadly doubles. Troubled twins. Fractured fugues. Doomed doppelgängers.

If you’re a fan of delirious movie pop psychology, then you know them all. Hitchcock, Lynch, De Palma, Castle, Cronenberg, Verhoeven, Argento — each has delved into the weird Persona-esque blurring of identities that invariably leads to homoeroticism, and barring that….muuuuurder!

We’ve all heard the cliche: somewhere in the world, each of us has a physical double, but have you ever wondered if that could really be true, and better yet, what if you crossed paths? Would it all end in dizzying tragedy a la Vertigo — or better yet, Folly Under the Big Top like in The Legend of Lylah Clare? Maybe a family inheritance, a devastating secret worth killing for, and campy drag theatrics would ensue like they did in Homicidal, Dressed To Kill, and Dead Ringers? Would you prefer the Black Swan/Mulholland Dr. art house treatment, or take the full-throttle Showgirls exploitation kick that has you and your shadow self alternately trying to kill and fuck each other for fame?

I’ll take all of the above, preferably in the form of an identical cousin like in Twin Peaks, or screw it — two of them to give Patty Duke a run for her money. However will we distinguish the designated scold and the dumb middleman from the the evil one?

He’ll be the one who does porn. (read the full article)

Stone-faced phlegmatism versus pinch-faced overplaying.

Which will prevail?