It’s getting hard to keep up.

Just this past weekend, a second Colorado pastor had to step down from his evangelical church due to an unscheduled outing from the closet.

“I have struggled with homosexuality since I was a 5-year-old boy,” confessed Paul Barnes, in a videotape message played on Sunday for his congregation. “I can’t tell you the number of nights I have cried myself to sleep, begging God to take this away.”

We can think of a lot of reasons for hardline evangelicals to cry themselves to sleep. The least of which would be a little harmless R&R with one of the boys. Just for starters, wasn’t being born the first time traumatic enough without wanting to repeat the trip?

It seems every time we turn around, some new evangelical blowhard — someone you never heard of, from the back of beyond — is catching media fire with an even nuttier stand against Darwin, or medical research, or Walmart (which we have learned not only sells the Brokeback Mountain DVD to “families” but has begun actively “pushing the gay agenda”, according to WorldNetDaily, a Christian publication currently in the throes of “Operation Just Say Merry Christmas.”) (more…)

Ever wonder what the Salem witch trials must have looked like when the young girls went into mass hysterics? Screaming and tumbling and being fed upon by invisible black “witch birds?”

Or what Bedlam might have sounded like when the lunatics were hosed down for the entertainment of guided tours?

Behold our evangelical brothers and sisters in the grip of something called “Holy Laughter,” led by Reverend Kenneth “Papa” Hagen.

Beyond Beyond! (Hat tip to the Evangelical Right website.)

“Haven’t found her yet,” Paul Lynde would say when asked by reporters when he might marry.

The gay and beloved and self-hating “Center Square” on Hollywood Squares, Lynde (left) was always famously searching for “the right girl.” By the time TV fame hit, in the 60’s, both he and the entertainment reporters were in on the joke and no one was surprised when he would erupt in his trademark hacking laugh at the absurdity of it all.

Like many gay men who elect to be professionally “straight” — who are homophobic in its strictest sense, that is, they fear the homosexual (in themselves, in this case) — Lynde was aware of his own absurdity. It was perhaps that awareness, accelerated by alcoholism and career envy, that made him so colossally bitter in private.

We have just witnessed the fall of a gay Congressman, who has of late tried to explain himself but in ways that spin homosexuality further out into the Twilight Zone of rehabs and childhood sex traumas. He hasn’t quite come to terms with how ridiculous he has made himself, not only with underaged staffers, but by his self-defeating, anti-gay voting record.

Time perhaps may be kinder than we can be at this moment. Time may, in her gentle forgetful way, soften the edges as she has with other famous homophobic homosexuals that walked that same mile in the same shoes — shoes that ultimately squeaked and bit into their lying toes. (more…)

Which American painting, do you think, is the most famous? Not the best. Simply the best known.

This was the question buzzing around Datalounge — our favorite all-gay message forum. The candidates put forth included Grant Wood’s American Gothic, Edward Hopper’s Nighthawks, even — a real blast from the past — Whistler’s Mother (more properly known as Arrangement in Grey and Black), a sentimental favorite of the sanctimonious Fifties.

We, however, have to cast our lot with Andy Warhol’s Marilyn – there are hundreds of them, some in large squares that dwarf the viewer, others — the more troubling and profound “assembly line” versions — in slyly ugly diptychs of 50 Marilyn’s back-to-back.

Just on the face of it — if most famous can be measured by most reproduced — our contention is supported by the rough measure of Google’s image search:

Both Nighthawks and American Gothic rate 20 pages each. Warhol’s Marilyn comes in at 28. (Whistler’s Mother doesn’t even signify, poor dear — on life support with a feeble 8 pages worth of acclaim.)

We would also argue, however, that Warhol’s silkscreen is more than a lucky child of Fortune; it is, in fact, a great painting. We wonder if it might not one day rank as the most famous painting of all, edging out the longtime heavyweight, Leonardo da Vinci’s Mona Lisa.

In many ways, Warhol’s Marilyn is the hardboiled 20th Century answer to the Mona Lisa.
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Remove your hair with this wax, that cream, our laser, electrolysis, snake oil, Auzzie Nads, Nair … choose your weapon now!

Is it that important that we wage war on our body hair? How long has this been going on? What sick mind set the wheels in motion that we should venerate the hairless and look down on those gifted with a nice chest of fuzz? Do a search on the web for “body hair” and I challenge you to find one site that doesn’t demand you join the fight against unsightly body hair.

You’ll find three things: body hair removal techniques, Rogaine ads, or pages about hair fetishes.

Bust out a porn magazine (not Bear or Honcho) and you will not find anything but shaved chests, bald ball sacks, and depilated ass cracks. Same goes for almost all porn movies presently. When did hair get so disgusting to us that we need to remove it from the places it was supposed to be? Was there a big memo about killer crab lice? (more…)

I am a ravenous cocksucker.

He’s standing in front of me. Naked. I’m on my knees. Also naked. I’m the drain and he’s the plunger, and our purpose together is pre-ordained.

The stubble on my chin mingles with the stubble on his scrotum; I open my eyes for a moment and all I see are slim hips. I’m moaning (more of a crazed hum, come to think of it). He’s thrusting.

Lovingly, I tug and tickle and — Shazam! I’m bestowed with a bountiful expression of his joy — it’s both delicious and unpleasant, but its unpleasantness makes it even more delicious. We giggle as we kiss stickily. Moments later we’ve switched places and now I’m thrusting while he’s humming crazily…

I know that my lover and I do not dance this nasty tango alone. Porn is chock-a-block with cocksuckers. Girls suck cock. Boys suck cock. Almost everybody sucks cock — even Catholic priests. (more…)

Whenever I’m cruising the Internet, visiting the library, or talking to a friend or stranger, I always have a secret agenda. I’m on a quest for an elusive bit of information.

As I grew up, I was intrigued by the old saying, “Men only want one thing.” As a prepubescent kid, I vaguely suspected that the phrase was an allusion to sex. Today, however, I know that “sex” is a very broad concept, and that no two men necessarily get off on the same thing. (If you don’t know the sheer vastness of male sexual identity and expression, you haven’t spent enough time looking at porn on the Internet.) So I’m always digging around, reading between the lines for the one thing that all men really want. I think I finally figured it out.

As a bit of very brief background, my research into gay history introduced me to the Greek Isle of Lesbos, an historical island of mythical proportions, populated only by women. The inhabitants poetically defined the pure love that can exist woman-to-woman. This ancient society left a legacy of art, literature, and philosophy that has helped to define modern feminism and indeed has even given a name to lesbianism. (more…)

The slinky, silky, secretive nature of cats is very seductive, I admit.

Many gay men love them, seem to have a psychic link to them, are like cats in their own ability to intuit every subtle wrinkle in the matrix.

In this, cats and the men who love them resemble women with PMS. Nothing is too small to set off their high- maintenance wiring. Some of these men are adorable, my best friends even. But I hate their fucking cats!

What’s wrong with me, doc. I’m a fag. I intuit, I read the ether, I channel the zeitgeist. I just don’t get cats.

I hate them because they’re not dogs. A dog runs to meet you at the door and goes into a little dance, jumping, leaping, twirling, sneezing, running circles around your feet. You are their king. This is what it feels like to be somebody’s Ultimate Top. If they knew how to turn themselves inside out, by golly, they would do it. For you. (more…)