Our entry today is in no way related to April Fools’.

Or, well — maybe it is. Bear with us as we sort out our muddled, post Day-of-Folly brains.

Today we’re feeling mystical and considering the Symmetry of Destinies — a term coined by metaphysical author Ray Grasse to describe fated, interlocking lives and how those lives become connected, sometimes through random, often astounding events.

This being Nightcharm, our Symmetry of Destiny example involves a military guy’s testicles.

Yes, a balls-out miracle we felt compelled to share.

Our amazing story is taken from the 1896 book Anomalies and Curiosities of Medicine, and involves a soldier wounded during a Civil War battle between Grant’s army and a Confederate detachment.

The fighting was fierce, hope was slim and a split second after our soldier was shot (more…)

Homo-sploitation? Homo-fraternization?

When dealing with a certain sector of the hetero male population, the line gets too hazy to distinguish. The Crypto-Queer — like the cryptozoological missing links of an Edgar Rice Burroughs adventure paperback or Peter Pan’s faction of Lost Boys — is reliant on a dominant male hierarchy and a pack mentality social system. Whether it’s the thrill of pushing a self-imposed boundary or the effects of too much sexual frustration, men (or more technically, man-children) who are the most rigidly heterosexual will flirt with bemusing nasty-boy behavior gays themselves wouldn’t be caught dead acting out.

Sure, it’s a good thing to be in touch with your animal nature. It’s just that some guys maybe need to consider hormone suppressants.

Crypto-Queers have their own highly-specified customs that constantly verge on the brink of all-out gayness but never actually dare to take the plunge. Common markers include: living in close quarters with other members of the herd in the form or brotherhoods and fraternities, spontaneous bouts of public nudity, skinny dipping, circle jerking, pantsing, taking forever to get dressed in locker rooms, rough-housing standing in for actual sexual interplay, spraying one another with beer and putting maximum effort into contorting the body in order to suck their own dicks. (more…)

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! (more…)

The Cult of Mormon.

America’s longest-running scam? An authoritarian and insular power structure that holds its members in a stranglehold of fear and shame? Establisher of the driest and most score-free college campus ever?

Publisher of a highly-specific guide to overcoming the insidious effects of masturbation that depicts the act as if it were heroin addiction or demonic possession?

All of the above?

Damn right. But there’s more!

The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints finds itself under the microscope as of late what with the recent accomplice-to-rape conviction of self-styled prophet/child slaver Warren Jeffs and the vapid would-be presidential bid of Mitt Romney, who with the aid of his saccharine sons has attempted to deflect sentiments that he’s a Mormon cyborg by staging the campaign equivalent of an Old Spice ad. (more…)

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. (more…)

Jacking off. Wanking. Strangling the Kitten.

Call it what you may. It still leads to the same predestined end: the load blast, our nation’s greatest natural resource.

Allow me to extol but a few of its many virtues:

It’s Slangy! More so than the actual dick itself, the money shot inspires countless nicknames:

Splooge, Man Chowder, Hot Man Mustard, Dong Water, Donut Glaze, Spunk, Number 3, Population Paste, Gentleman’s Relish, Skeet, Load, Man Fluid, Penis Butter, Manthrax, Gizzum, Love Juice, Man Cream, Spew, Seed, Baby Gravy, Pearl Necklace, La Leche, Jizz, Wad, Pimp Juice, Baby Batter, Nut and Man Jam.

As other body fluids go, blood is the more vital, but though it may spew like a fountain in horror films, how many sobriquets has it earned?

Tears are poetic, yet still one-name wonders. And lymph? Please! Back of the line.

It’s Dynamic! Upon reaching climax, semen is thrust outward at ten miles per hour. Nothing beats either spraying all over your own face or dousing that flexing dumb guy who wants to buy your term paper all the way from across the room.

Unless you’re Horst Shultz, holder of the world record for long-distance ejaculation at an astounding eighteen feet, nine inches.

Bravo to Horst, who coincidentally also claims the title for tallest man (twelve feet, four inches) and has presumably laid numerous wives to rest.

They died in ecstasy. (more…)

Fools that we are, we thought it was impossible to top the inanity of Senator Larry Craig’s Wide Stance defense.

We thought no excuse could ever hope to dim the otherworldly moonshine of Ted Haggard’s I Was Only Seeing a Male Escort To Buy Crystal Meth Which I Immediately Threw Away — So What’s the Big Deal?

But we were wrong — so very wrong.

Never underestimate the power of the closet to breed hot-house disclaimers and spawn brazenly absurd cover stories. Stand back you amateurs, you squirming senators and glary-eyed pastors with manic grins, we have a real master coming through!

Let us set the scene. Fade in: Rome.

Brilliant sunlight floods a busy piazza. It is right in front of Saint Peter’s Basilica, which looms over the square like the giant dome-capped head of the pope himself, who, of course, lives in one of its upper tiers. Around the square, which is not square at all but global in shape, are colonnades to either side, like round, embracing arms. St. Peter’s casts no shadow at this hour, for it is noontime and the piazza is filled with tourists, pigeons … and one black-clad monsignor making haste across our field of vision. (more…)

Early on in my single life, I discovered that I could have the man of my dreams in my bed every single night. Yes, the man of my dreams was also the man in my dreams, but that didn’t make our sex life any less remarkable. Keep in mind that erotic dreams tend to be very "real" and concrete. Maybe it has to do with the fact that the sexual instinct is, by nature, practical and down-to-earth. Whatever the case, I’ve never had a hazy, ethereal dream full of symbolism about romantic transcendence. My erotic dreams are down and dirty, full of sweaty grunting and hard thrusting. I also tend to remember my erotic dreams. They don’t fade away upon waking up, just as you don’t forget a really good fuck from the night before. In lucid dreams, you are in control of the action. A part of you realizes that you are dreaming, and you become the director of your own porno movie. (more…)