Imagine as a gay man that you had to forever be trapped in your worst phase of emotional development. Frozen in your most naked uncertainty, shame, self-doubt, isolation, and vulnerability. This is your beginning and your terminus. Do not pass go. It doesn’t get better.

Now you know what it’s like to be a hardline Moral Conservative.

This is the zone of arrested sexual maturity that all the Family Researchers, Concerned Mommies, and Don’t-Teach-The-Wittle-White-Kids-Anal NOMers not only are condemned to abide in but choose to abide in. And this is the emotional dungeon they expect us to dwell in.

You see, being a sexual hysteric who has to avert thine eyes from exposed lady parts and men’s high-sitting, provocative hindquarters is a choice. There’s nothing natural about it because it requires so damn much work. Yes, you may be able to have an adult sexual relationship with a man you have a genuine regard for in which you navigate issues like STI prevention and dating exclusivity with a certain adult grace, but sexual moralists instead worry about aping the unions of mythical people who lounged photogenically by waterfalls and talked to the animals. You can enjoy porn in the same manner that a moderate drinker can handle booze, but self-flagellators fancy themselves sexual werewolves who’ll terrorize the countryside if they see anybody jizz onscreen. And yes, you can crank one off by yourself with the knowledge that you’re not hurting anyone, but these latter-day buckle-heads? If even one motile sperm cell doesn’t end up in wifey’s Garden of Eden and fertilize an egg that will become a precious cherub, then they’ve just committed murder.

So really, that curvaceous, hirsute, marble-fleshed hot piece with the cascading stream in the corner of your screen is a flagrant genocidal maniac.

Like Hitler. (read the full article)

It’s all about two musclebound men in an enclosed space going off on each other.

At any given time, it features a line-up of talent boasting monikers like Ian Loveland, Maximo Blanco, Brock Lesnar, and Nick Catone.

It culminates with one guy bukkaked in body fluid to the glee of a wildly appreciative audience.

It’s not gay porn, though.

It’s Mixed Martial Arts.

I can’t lie to you. On the scale of butch vs. femme gayness, I think of myself as a seven or eight in favor of the former. I’m male identified, have only four pairs of shoes, never use the word “summer” as a verb, and I don’t even have to do anything to attract a woman’s attention. However, the fact that I have never followed a sport or actually sat down to watch an event surely knocks me down the scale a bit, and I could give a fuck about that. Boooooring!

So if you’re like me, you probably have never even thought about what goes in an Ultimate Fighting match — basically, a human cockfight in which I presume you score by doing a good front punch or knee kick or something — outside of the fact that it boasts a roster of ridiculously hot men pounding each other out until one finally gives. (read the full article)

Ask yourself this:

When you think of your favorite porn crushes, how often do you use descriptives like these?:

Brainy. Arty. Dorky. Approachable. Cuddly. Introverted. Literate. Chaplin-esque.

Meet Colby Keller, your Alterna-Gay Porn Heartthrob.

Whether you chalk up his popularity in an otherwise pretty uniform gay medium to a white collar (as in well-educated, not well-funded) labor shift or simply a big, bearded teddy bear doing what he has to in order to survive an upended Titanic of a 21st Century economy, Keller — above all else — comes off as disarmingly, sympathetically real.

A talented artist, gleeful sex hound, and unapologetic pinko sick to his dick of the myth of the all-providing Free Market, Colby Keller is as beloved for his brain as he is for his brawn, waxing intellectually on his excellent blog Big Shoe Diaries, adorning his frame with poetry, and partaking in naked drunk dance parties — complete with playful hat montage!

The scintillating and ever-candid Mr. Keller was gracious enough to allow this humble porn scribe a glimpse into his world, the culmination of which I think we can all agree has resulted in…The…Greatest…Gay…Porn…Interview…Ever! (read the full article)

“All stereotypes turn out to be true. This is a horrifying thing about life. All those things you fought against as a youth: you begin to realize they’re stereotypes because they’re true.”

– David Cronenberg

As much as I hate it, I give:

I am a stereotype.

Yes, I have the Viking blood in me, and that carries with it all the leaden, chilly personality attributes you’d expect.

I have zero mid-range in my emotional spectrum, so I’m either white hot or ice cold about everything. I constantly ruminate about the meaning(less) of life, and ponder how I’ll die, hopefully on a battlefield torn apart by the dogs of war or self-slain by my own hand when the Huns break through the gate and amass to violate me. I can cry stoically and majestically on cue. I sleep very little, and lightly at that. My ear is automatically tuned to female Scandinavian singers with that gorgeous lilt to their voices that makes them sound like they’re about to burst into tears. When I first beheld Max von Sydow’s grave, sorrowful visage in The Seventh Seal, I thought Wow, I finally know true love. I’m forever in a state of feeling overheated, and could happily sleep in a snow bank like a Newfoundland.

I’m working on accepting all that.

Yes, the Nordic disposition may be a heavy load to bear, but the affect — that sturdy, broad look of the body and noble, well-formed cast of the face — is, I must admit, nice compensation. I lucked out genetically with a natural, easily-maintainable musculature, cool blue eyes, full lips, and baby smooth skin that I never tan because I loathe the sun. A former boyfriend of mine used to playfully handle my wrists and ankles and muse “You have good, thick bones, my fair-haired warrior.” Sure, I get envious of dusky Hungarians and babe-like Italians with facial hair and deep, dark eyes, but at the end of the day, I’m surprisingly OK with being a human icicle.

We Norsemen bring our own charmera to the table. (read the full article)

Don Quixote had it right.

Macrophilia. It’s big terminology for a big inkling … as in the intense sexual attraction to literal giants.

Giants — be they the stuff of the grandest legend or the wonkiest sci-fi romp — are as chimerical as the unicorn or the mermaid, creatures born of mankind’s entreaty to find something more magical than itself. It’s that heady ambition that drives Macrophilia, an abstraction that can never truly be realized yet still beguiles its dreamers nonetheless.

Plus it makes for some great fanfare:

Mammoths with unfettered desires and unyielding bodies! Behemoths breaking seams and busting asses! Grasping! Looming! Dwarfing! Crushing! Cyclopean troglodytes who crave the delicate pleasures that only man can provide! Your body — their plaything. Your world — their toy box! (read the full article)

There are moments in your life that are so supremely comical that you could almost believe someone is scripting them.

Picture this: a small group of Neo-Black Panthers are staging a demonstration complete with a crate podium and megaphone on a busy metropolitan street before a crowd of looky-loos. I’m happily on my way. At the exact moment the men invoke the sobriquet “White Nazi Devils”, I — blond, blue-eyed, 6’2” — happen past, the entire assemblage turning to look at me like I just sauntered in out of central casting, prompting me to simply shrug in mortification as if to imply “Sorry?…”

Utterly embarrassing, but even I have to admit it was hilarious.

Even if you don’t have your ear to the political ground, you have to have noticed that Nazis are everywhere lately, to the extent that I’d actually bet that they’re invoked more often in political discourse than even Al-Qaeda or the Taliban. Health care, civil rights, financial reform, secularism — the fuckers are behind it all. They’re such over-used go-to villains that they’re practically on par with vampires. As gays, you find yourself becoming so inured to being equated with Nazis (I can understand how tough it is for Middle Easterners and the terrorist anchor around their necks) that it starts to roll off your back. Middle America just loves casting us as encroaching shock troops out to stage a Christian Holocaust. Still, it’s easy to overlook how interwoven — in some ways imposed upon us, in other ways not so much — the Nazi aesthetic is embedded in gay culture. That image of buff, swaggering, Teutonic-looking guys with shaved pates and copious tats is pretty ubiquitous, meaning somewhere along the line we adopted and reinterpreted the brand upon us. Villainy can be such a perverse turn-on in its way, and the antagonism of oppression is such that its friction inspires a certain erotic hostility.

In the end, Nazis — be they authentic or subliminal, accurate or campy, implied or inferred — are pretty rod-inspiring despite the, y’know, genocide and forced labor, so while we’re not exactly proud to present you with some of our guilty, guilty pleasures, here are our favorite Inglorious Bastards in no particular order: (read the full article)

As a sexually neurotic sort, I’m usually deeply conflicted about my attraction to other men.

I think I’ll feel something, but then a man will say “You know, I think Donald Trump’s on to something,” or “I work in real estate,” and I immediately chill as I think “Get away!”

I develop crushes on TV actors more so than I do movie stars — I think it must be the regularity and intimacy of the medium — and lately I’ve been smitten with comedian Rob Huebel. Still, he drives me mad because I suspect he’s one of those guys who either doesn’t know how to maximize his sex appeal or is intentionally fighting the hot because handsome comedians don’t get as much work.

Rob is super-tall (I rarely get the chance to look up into a man’s eyes) and doesn’t tan, both pluses. The trouble is that when I see him dressed like a stoner or wearing a baseball cap, it just kills it for me. I also can’t get into him when he sports a too-dark Just For Men shade of brunet. I feel nothing.

This photo at right? Perfect. He looks like a gay ’50s movie star, at his apex with very coiffed blond or gray hair, and in more subdued colors. In my head, we both headline The Swinger, he in the Anthony Franciosa part and me in the Ann-Margret one. He doesn’t think I’m oversexed enough to work for his high-gloss smut rag, and baits me like the virgin/whore I secretly am. Then, to prove him wrong, I stage a decadent orgy in which I’m body-painted by men in Fellini Satyricon garb, and he’s positively appalled by what a depraved hoyden I am. Soon, he’s ensconced me in his Malibu bachelor pad to get me off the booze and sluttony, all of which culminates with me crooning a sultry ditty before a wind machine.

I like a man who inspires manic extremes in me.

The poetic French euphemism for it may be more apt than you ever realized.

La Petite Mort, The Little Death.

Sex and death have always been inextricably linked paradoxes, active and brilliant Yang to passive and morose Yin.

Every mythology has played off that dichotomy. Think Lakshmi and Kali, Cain and Abel or Alec and Stephen Baldwin.

The Greeks gods reveled in lust and slaughter with favored or unlucky mortals.

Shakespeare’s works are replete with desire and death.

Era-straddling androgynyne Myra Breckinridge famously averred that every red-blooded American male had, lurking within him, a strangler ready to snap a neck during climax.

And really, what would cock-blocking buzzkill, Friday the 13th’s Jason Vorhees be without an endless supply of nubile, bimbotic summer camp counselors to hack up? Just another Carrie Nation. (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.”