We know there are fanatics out there.

Guys who go off their nut, out of their skulls, totally bonkers for foreskin.

Guys who feel terribly deprived — more than that, outraged! — at finding themselves circumcised by some cruel play of fate and modern science, who try one sad scheme after another to grow back that silly little millimeter extra.

And yes, we plead guilty to catering to this obsession. In the lovely literature we publish in the back of the Inner Circle — those fiction tales designed to enlighten, teach and be read with one hand — nary a circumcised cock ever lifts its bare head in anything like triumph.

So it’s time we spent a few moments in heavy thought on — what else? — cock. The uncut kind. (more…)

Shower rooms.
Locker rooms.
Jockstraps.

The words alone cast a drowsy, aphrodisiacal spell on us. And it’s no wonder. They take us back to the days when the jumble of adolescent male bodies in a high school locker room was the first place, as far as our secret desires were concerned, where the rubber met the road.

Our first sight of a jockstrap might have been in the mirror but it didn’t take on real force until it was glimpsed making its grooved, scooping way around a buoyant pouch, just slightly above eye-level as we sat tying our sneaker amid the slam of locker doors.

The trio of shower room, locker room and jockstrap has been plot enough for many a porn film, and as soon as we see the familiar bench in a deserted room with a row of lockers looking on like somber tin soldiers, we pretty much know what’s up ahead. Blowjob City: Population 2. With casual walk-ins dropping their towels and swelling our small town to, at times, an orgiastic metropolis. (Bukkake Nation, anyone?) Then everyone ends up in the shower for a bangup reprise, but with different partners. Wash, rinse, repeat. (more…)

Ah, to be a pole dancer in a strip club! (like Elizabeth Berkley in the fabled pussy extravaganza Showgirls, at right)

That is the simple wish of so many of us! — including a chubby young lady who comes on stage in Jerry Springer — The Opera and tells Jerry that all she ever wanted to be was a whorey stripper swirling around a pole in a glitter G-string.

“I don’t give a fuck no more,” she tells the onstage Springer audience, who are trying to shout her down with chants of “Loser! Loser!” “I’m tired of laughing and I’m tired of crying. I’m tired of feeling and I’m tired of always trying. I want to do some living because I’ve done enough of dying. I just want to dance, I just want to …fucking dance!”

The longing that Alison Jiear expresses in the song is quite touching and one of the opera’s suite of showstoppers (which also includes “Chick with a Dick” and a wife-stealing tranny shaking her stuff in wifey’s face as she brings down the house with “Talk to the Hand, Bitch.”)

Jerry Springer — The Opera comes from — where else, other than Japan, would they get this loopy over American junk TV? — England, home of Masterpiece Theater! The opus is set to land on our Puritan shores any minute now, but if you can’t wait and don’t want to shell out the big bucks for an import CD, staring David Soul (from Starsky and Hutch, yet!) as a very convincing Jerry, then… (more…)

Sun, sand and Anglo Saxons!

Ah, Australia! Dear to the heart of all man-watchers, famous for lifeguards with their butt-cleavage on public display in folded-down red Speedos. A beauty not lost on one Underwear company from Down Under, Holeproof Underdaks.

The gimmick of their ad campaign is to always find a reason for a well-made man to undress in public. As the gal says in the following ad, “Nice Luggage: (more…)

For a snapshot of the gay psyche, you couldn’t do better than the online, all-gay forum DataLounge.

A 26-year-old was wondering what to expect if he hired an escort. “There’s 2 in Las Vegas I’m considering — both around my age. I’d be grateful for some serious advice!”

Instead of advice, he was sideswiped with moral judgments: “Why would a 26 y/o need to hire an escort? Just how ugly are you? “; “Sounds like something Kelly Clarkson would do”; “Bring your crack pipe.”

The prize bit of nonsense was this ode of self-congratulation:

“I’m so glad that I’m 37 and never had to even think about hiring an escort. I want guys to like me for me, and that means more to me than some whore who has fucked the whole city… I’m not necessarily into younger guys, but I take amazing care of myself and look really great. Maybe you should do the same and stop living some crazy vapid existence.” (more…)

Kirk Cameron, twink-cutie from Growing Pains, now an evangelical Christian starring in low-budget Christian movies about — what else? — the fiery destruction of the world.

As crazy evangelicals go, Kirk is pretty accommodating. How accommodating? Watch him squirm with delight as the good Reverend Quacktard instructs him on how God made bananas — really big ones

A fascinating show-and-tell that all Nightcharmers will profit by:

MEMO TO GOD:
We love your bananas, but prefer the ones that, you know, squirt.

“I didn’t hit rock bottom, and I didn’t turn to a particular church,” says David Papaleo, better known to us as the big-muscled porn star “Tom Katt”.

“I just started praying. I asked God to help me with what my life was becoming.”

God told him his life “wasn’t correct,” the big man tells the Dallas Voice, a gay and lesbian community paper. And so the former Falcon posterboy, former “bisexual,” former steroid bunny became not only a born-again evangelical, with aspirations toward the pulpit, but a born-again heterosexual, as well.

Exclusively heterosexual, if we are to believe the newly corrected Papaleo, right, who admits, with admirable frankness, to having had more boyfriends in his life than girlfriends:

“I felt I had to stay away from women because, hello, I was doing gay porn; no woman was going to have anything to do with me.” (An assertion the Dallas Voice let pass without comment but that we find odd — and somewhat unobservant in light of the current data on the overwhelming number of woman turned on by man-on-man porn.)

“It just didn’t click,” he says of his many boyfriends. “It can’t just be a physical thing. And I never really found that I could have an emotional-spiritual connection with another guy.” (more…)

“I felt a hand draw closer to my zipper,” the excerpt begins — a memory of sex on the subway that appears in the “Sex Issue” of HX, a glossy New York bar guide.

“He, with his banker’s cut and pinstripes, oh so slowly pressing against my stuff; no accident and my body knew it. Train frottage! I screamed internally as my bulge grew in excitement …”

Those were the days, my friend.

Pre-Rudy Giuliani and his Death-to-Sex squads. Pre-AIDS, which convulsed the city, swelled emergency rooms, and made stopping the transmission a city priority, resulting in the shut down of baths, theaters and backrooms.

Oh — sigh! — how we miss those lusty, free-for-all days! When we were all Tom Selleck clones, with gay wardrobes full of interchangeable man-gear, like Troy, above, a Stud magnet from Xodus. (more…)