He boasts more aliases than Sean Combs and Martin Bormann combined.

He’s been reified by Jack Nicholson, Vincent Price, Burgess Meredith (twice), Robert De Niro, George Burns, Susan Lucci, Richard Burton and Elizabeth Taylor.

He had his way with Rosemary and got all up in Miss Jones.

He’s the ubiquitous Satan, Prince of Lies and Lord of the Flies, and of all the are-they-or-aren’t-they? names roving around on the gaydar, he’s the one most overdue for a big coming out. We’re talking millennia overdue.

As one of the most recognizable figures in world culture, he’s also one of the most enigmatic. In various contexts, he’s merely the symbolic projection of the natural instinct within man, a living entity bent on leading us all astray, Hell’s overseeing whip master and God’s right hand man version of Karl Rove.

The lone unifying factor: he’s hot as hell and bad as he wants to be. (more…)

Arab men are now one of the hottest niches in gay porn.

The niche is not exactly new; it is the Arab nature of it — primarily those young Arabs who have flocked to Europe for work — that gives it a new face.

Visual Aids? Above are several scenes from Arab Men (Part I), one of the most popular titles in this category; at right the porn star Huessein, who through his adopted porn name and porn bio promotes his Turkish ancestry and who set off a comments war in these pages when we dared to describe him — and please don’t start up again — as “a beautiful ugly man.”

But the niche itself — well, it’s a classic archetype of the erotic imagination.

The Great Dark Man, Quentin Crisp used to call this eternal figure. Not exactly dreamboats, but dream brutes.

The Great Dark Man, while never fully detailed in Crisp’s brightly-lit epigrammatic prose, could be readily inferred from the writer’s autobiography The Naked Civil Servant.

The politically correct reader is certain to disagree with me, but it seems clear that our fey, outré Quentin had a rather Jane Eyre-ish sense of himself — as a lowly, compliant substitute female — whom this Great Dark Man would set off, as black velvet sets off pale but completely artificial pearls. (more…)

“How verdant is the heather, how manly are my loins?”

The song rings down the glade as the Highlands meet the Lowlands.

The kilt is back with a vengeance, though it never truly went away.

Old by 19th Century standards when it was popularized by the Scots, the garments are becoming more visible than ever. The Scottish Military still requires them as a uniform. In Europe, rugby players and their roughneck fan base don them on and off the field. They’re even turning up on the runway. Now the kilt even has a fab subcultural acronym: the M.U.G., i.e. the Modern Unbifurcated Garment.

Why the resurgence at this time in history? Aesthetics for starters. The look is undeniably hot and surprisingly complimentary to nearly every type and age of man.

Legs characterized by granite thighs and vascular calves can often be a man’s best feature after all. The kilt accentuates the power of the waist, the breadth of the shoulders, the contours of the hips. (more…)

What a beautiful ass!

Our new college hunk Brett has heard this comment from teachers, preachers and guidance counselors ever since he began packing his butt in the pin-stripe uniform of his high school baseball team.

And it’s true, wouldn’t you say? Taut, round. (Imagine tracing your finger along the contour — for hours.)

So when they photographed him on the Fratmen campus and made the mistake of giving him this same complement — he just rolled his eyes and blushed a little … then gave ‘em more of his best side. (more…)

Super Bowl? Frankly, we prefer the Oscars.

Super Bowl for us is about the new beer commercials where guys make ever bigger jackasses of themselves and, of course, the always good for a laugh half-time show. (Will Britney be this year’s surprise, wowing the fans as she runs onto the field in straight jacket, amid screams and white-smocked orderlies chasing after her with butterfly nets? Only to be met by Dr. Phil rising out of the stage in a sinister puff of smoke, joining his bullfrog basso to her moany contralto for a kick-ass rip on Joey Ramone’s I Wanna Be Sedated. We can only hope.)

As for the actual football game that is played at the Super Bowl: not really our thing, darling. Football players, however … another story entirely.

And apparently we’re not alone. (more…)

That guy.

We’ve all encountered him at one point or another. A big, swaggering no-neck as full of himself as he is protein shakes and Creatine.

He could be a construction worker, drill sergeant, police officer, lunkhead gym teacher, or gym rat fixture.

He’s vain, ego-driven, loud, devoid of a selfless thought in his head and prone to flaunting his body — all attributes that should make him a complete turn-off. Yet, on some primal level, he arouses us against all reason. While we may hate ourselves for it, that distinct urge to put him over a chair and jack hammer away at his adamantine loins gets the better of us.

Champion bodybuilder Brad Hollibaugh is that guy. At least onscreen. In real life he’s a recognizable name on the bodybuilding circuit, holder of countless titles, a former college wrestler, a father and grandfather, as well as a soft-spoken gentlemen who just happens to be built like Hercules.

Thanks to the cottage industry of self-produced Muscle Worship DVDs, he’s become a bona fide sex symbol, not quite Porn Star, not quite performance artist. His persona comes straight out of Archie Comics and mail order Charles Atlas ads: the dreaded Muscle Bully played to the hilt. Via his web cam and DVDs, we get to experience this unique specie’s daily life, be it measuring his massive biceps, showering languidly, singing his own praises, or admiring himself in front of his mirror, mirror on the wall.

Of course Mr. Hollibaugh’s confirming what we’ve always suspected: the Muscle Monster is a skilled cock tease who just loves to be admired and really doesn’t care who’s doing the eyeballing as long as he’s the center of attention. Hollibaugh actually gets the irony he’s playing at and what makes his act all the more glorious to behold is his genuine wide-eyed rollicking in his own astoundingly pneumatic bod. Few men can claim to inspire such a collective case of blue balls as this man does. (more…)

Titian. Red Blond. Ginger. Strawberry Blond.

Orange Red. Auburn. Copper Blond. Burnt Orange.

Redheads may come in a variety of shades, but we’ll never mistake that for being prosaic. Only an estimated one to two percent of the earth’s population can say they boast natural red tresses. Scarcity breeds a fetishistic cred.

That’s why we love our Copper Tops.

Running your fingers through a fiery red brush cut. Clasping rippling porcelain flesh. Beholding a golden red trim line south of the navel (now forever known as the Fire Crotch). Having a pair of glacial blue eyes gaze up at you … or down at you … or back at you with wild carnal abandon. These are the few moments in life that can truly be called rapturous.

Though it’s often bemoaned that women are the ones typed by hair color in popular movies, literature and culture at large, men are ultimately just as branded by their locks. Brunets are sultry and intense, while blonds are vivacious and doe-eyed ingenues. Just a passing glance through the last bastion of every hoary pulp convention — the daytime soap — will suffice to evince that maxims are deathless.

But redheads? They’re the wild cards that break from the pack and run the gamut. Down through the epochs they’ve been cast as firecrackers with blazing tempers, fearless and brazen non-conformists, comical rogues, formidable heroes, deviant tricksters and tarty jesters. (more…)

Well, it used to be a jockstrap.

But, of course, the jock couldn’t work miracles all by its lonely. It needed a nice heavy sack to make the ribbing expand — one’s own “meat and potatoes” as our dear, departed Anna Nicole once said in a rare lapse of taste.

Second best friend would be one of those Styrofoam cheaters that “shape and lift,” the Wonderbra of jockstraps.

Third in line — and the real subject of this entry — is a new invention, the Nuttybuddy.

The Nutty what?

It’s the stronger, tougher jock cup to protect — ah yes — “your boys.” Invented by ex-pitcher Mark Littell, the Nuttybuddy is twice the price ($20) of the usual athletic cup.

But Littell, 54, claims that nine seasons with the Kansas City Royals and St. Louis Cardinals gave him an inside track on both fast balls and ball fastenings.

To make his point, he gamely puts his own jewel box in danger in a — surely unintentionally hot — but hilarious, dick-centric clip that is burning up the bandwidth on YouTube today.

Let’s go the videotape, shall we sports fans? (more…)