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…)

Warning!: an epidemic of cornholing-for-cash is upon us.

If you’re young, gay, and/or hard up for bucks, you may very well fall prey to whoring married men and lecherous geezers who are rabid for cock.

Alexyss K. Tylor — cable access hostess of the Atlanta-based Vagina Power and YouTube sensation — is ready to bust some ass wide open and expose the urban skin trade … with a vengeance! (more…)

Who didn’t love Tammy Faye, who died this past week (but not before doing the full hour with Larry King)? She was crazy in that crazy American way. Singing and crying and loving on Jesus, then in the next breath telling you all major credit cards were accepted.

Her trademark was the triple-ply false eyelashes, mascara-streaked tears bubbling out through the blissed-out smiles, and an ability to sing, laugh and cry all in the same hallucinatory moment.

It was a talent later imitated but never quite equaled by another screaming-Mimi of the Christian Ministries, Jan Crouch, the Jayne Mansfield to Tammy’s purer, more sincere Marilyn.

Sincerity, that is, as far as it went for a wiggy televangelist like Tammy who would sprint off to dismal foreign slums for a day and wrap her on-camera arms around a starving child — some adorable wretch with big suffering eyes and flies alighting on his lips — and then all at once something kooky would happen.

The script would fly out of her head; Tammy could never linger too long on the negative. A sunburst would break through the tears, one of her notorious outbreaks of inappropriate giggling. She’d start praising the lord and thanking Jesus for all her own gifts, which could be yours too if you sent in the prayer money. Then, mission accomplished, sticky child removed from arm, she would store the big hair back on the private jet and fly home to one of several plantation-style mansions in the subdivisions of South Carolina. (more…)

By Zeus, Dick rules the heavens!

Yes, several sightings of the Celestial Phallus have made the news this month.

Certainly you’ve heard of, if not been visited by, the miraculous Divine Penis.

That Wing-ed Divinity, its proud erection and stiff little winglets so like those of the Christian dove or the Rococo cherub (its later appropriations) was beloved of the Ancients — and is still worshiped by many a Modern today, hey boys?

1. Down from Mount Olympus

First up this month was the rebirth of Zeus, Apollo and all the gang in the annual party dance-show Broadway Bares, a charity event to benefit Broadway Cares/Equity Fights AIDS.

This year the theme was Myth-Behavior and so laurel wreathes and just a hint of toga, no more than a few shipwrecked shreds, covered Broadway’s most sensational boys and girls of the chorus. Everywhere gods, demi-god and just plain hunkeroonies stripped down to their raw, near-naked talent, in obedience to those tenets so oft repeated on Inside the Actors Studio, peel away the layers, serve the character. Yes, boys and girls, Art was in her temple.

Featured was a jaw-droppingly salacious number, Heroes, in which a roll call of the major Greco-Roman beefcake came to life (Hercules, Odysseus, Adonis) and went against humpy reimaginings of the Minotaur, the Cyclops and a campy Harpy played by a comic actor.

Our favorite moment: the Sirens, appearing in all their Neptunal, sea-weedy weirdness, singing — this, the genius touch — the theme from Love Boat (”Aw-hhh, Love. Exciting and new. Come aboard. We’re expecting you…)

In addition was the annual Stripathon, right, which needed no theme more eternal than cowboy hat, boots and a jockstrap. (More Myth-Behavior photos and details )

This year’s show was so successful (a record-breaking $740,000 haul) that Variety reports talks are now ongoing with an unnamed Las Vegas casino to bring the show permanently to the Strip, rebaptised for a less New York-centric audience, Peep Show. (more…)

Ever wonder why men don’t lock eyes unless they’re going to fight … or fuck?

Or why adolescent boys leave empty seats between them when they go to the movies?

That is the burning question today over on AlterNet, kicking off a long and ponderous meditation on manhood by a professor of American culture. The essay’s title: Don’t Look Gay: Why American Men Are Afraid of Intimacy with Each Other

Yes, we’ve made this trip before — many times before –but let’s strap ourselves in for one more thrill-packed, hands-in-the-air go-round on the Cyclone, that splintery old roller coaster of cultural frettings over men who just can’t handle heavy duty man-on-man, dick-in-ass action — the wimps! … and definitely not our kind, darling.

“On Saturday afternoon at the Cineplex you can see them: adolescent boys, there to watch one of the action films that Hollywood makes with an audience of young males in mind,” begins John Ibson, who teaches courses on male sexuality at Cal State Fullerton. “What’s distinctive is where the boys sit in the theater. Though they might’ve come to the movie together and might even be close friends, they’ll leave an empty seat between them.” (more…)

My body, my shame.

Modern life has become a funhouse mirror in which our selves are grotesquely reflected back, the more warped the closer we look. Cheekbones aren’t high enough, abs aren’t defined enough, skin isn’t lustrous enough.

Worse yet, our bodies just seem broken down if you trust what TV is telling you.

In 2007, if you don’t have restless legs or sleep apnea, then panic attacks or Chronic Fatigue are taking their toll on you. Even if you manage to dodge those bullets, who doesn’t exhibit symptoms of Social Anxiety Disorder? It’s a Cronenberg dystopia wherein even if our bodies aren’t actually medically failing us, we fear on some emotional level that they must be.

Enter the latest shame-based syndrome: SPS, Small Penis Syndrome.

Its street name is “the locker room syndrome”. Fitting that this disorder is rooted in childhood trauma since experts are positing that’s when men’s insecurity regarding their physical sexual identity begins.

Now the subject of a comprehensive UK-based research project conducted by urologists at the Hallamshire Hospital Porterback Clinic, we’re left to anticipate the potential profits the pharmaceutical industry can reap by targeting male insecurity on a whole new level. (more…)

We always knew Angelina Jolie was a goddess but, Jesus, we had no idea!

Behold Our Lady of the Wal-Mart.

Patroness of the Checkout Counter, Mystic Rose of the Tabloids, Guardian of Children in Every Color of The Rainbow.

Pray for us.

Or adopt us.

Yes, Angelina is simply too impossibly beautiful for even committed and confessional dickhunters like us to resist!

The painting Blessed Art Thou has an asking price of $50,000 and was intended, says artist Kate Kretz, to address “the psychological ramifications of celebrity worship, particularly as they relate to class and consumerism.”

Though she has painted and exhibited for 20 year, none of Ms. Kretz’s previous work has ever garnered the attention she received when the painting appeared at a Miami art show in 2006. Predictably, a small but vocal group picketed the event.

“The title Blessed Art Thou,” she wrote on her blog at the time, “is taken from a line in the Catholic prayer Hail Mary: ‘…Blessed art thou among women.’ Our culture is deifying celebrities, but in the Bible, it is the meek who are blessed. (more…)

Jacques Lacan was a French psychoanalyst who advanced the work of Freud by reinterpreting some of the masters’ basic tenets. Lacan wrote extensively of a “mirror stage” in a child’s psychological development. Above, Philadelphia artist Rebecca Fuchs has applied Lacan’s theory to her stunning new series of photographs.

Lacan maintained that infants pass through a stage in which the external image of the body creates in the psyche a mental representation of the Self — or an I. For Lacan, this mirror stage establishes the ego as fundamentally dependent upon external objects, on an other. In Lacan’s world, without an other the I doesn’t exist.

Fuchs shows how bathrooms and locker rooms become, for many of us, places where the mirror game takes on a highly-charged, precarious connotation. She stages her photographic narratives in public restrooms and school locker rooms to highlight the acts of mimicry and performance associated with such spaces. Locales where, she writes, “the self is performed and peers are mimicked.” (more…)