I’m here to talk about bimbos!

Biblical bimbos!

Photogenic Mormons are doffing their tops for the good of their faith. And I’m conflicted.

Sure, there’s no better score than a guy with self-esteem problems — the sort of “issues” that cause him to seek out religion and beefcake photography. Yet still, I can’t help feeling skeptical.

Under the aegis of its parent company Mormons Exposed (I kid you not), the Men On A Mission Calendar features “twelve handsome former missionaries who have dared to pose bare-chested.”

The project is supposed to be all about the spiritual beauty that comes from within, not just trading in sculpted torsos and great abs. The copy writes itself:

“Rod loves his position as a missionary, spends hours on his knees, and will give you the shirt off his back. Turn-ons include topless testifying, constitutional amendments, and tending to the lepers.”

Have a listen to the venture’s co-founder and producer Chad Hardy as he elaborates on the calendars raison d’etre and try to keep a straight face: (read the full article)

Money’s too tight to mention.

Let’s face it — it’s an economic jungle out there, and a Handmaid’s Tale-esque near future looks imminent for us all.

So what’s a witty, studly writer/blogger to do when times get tough?

If you’re the enterprising Bucephalus Alexander (reference!), you get a webcam, whip that cock out, and crank it for the masses.

I’ll confess that I had zero frame of reference for webcam modeling when I interviewed the charming and statuesque Mr. Alexander (one of the few legitimate exhibitionists I’ve ever encountered), and so when we decided to have private session together — purely for research purposes — via Skype, I wondered if it would all be terribly awkward and strained, sort of like watching an animal in a zoo.

Wrong!

Maybe it’s the voyeuristic Body Double-style kink of having a complete stranger stripped to thrill and willing to follow your directive. It could be that the interactive nature of the exchange is a dream come true for a porn lover. It’s probably that Alexander — with his salt and pepper hair, classic ectomorphic physique that’s just made to boast clinging white briefs, and cathedral of a cock — radiates an affable, playful sexuality that made me feel like I was in the room with him.

Either way, this peeping tom definitely likes to watch. (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)

Completely. Not. Gay.

I don’t have guilty pleasures.

If you love something — be it purebred or mongrel — it’s worth loving, and there’s no shame in that.

If I could go through the flat-screen looking glass and become part of the narrative world therein, then certainly I’d be the fourth and lone male member of The Carrie Nations in Beyond The Valley of The Dolls, engage in a threeway on a bed full of money with John Phillip Law and Marisa Mell in Danger: Diabolik, or be in a red loincloth and thigh-highs chanting “The Penis Is Evil!” in Zardoz.

Still, if I ever was truly given the chance to emigrate from this mortal coil into Movie Land, I’d seriously contemplate taking the plunge into the early ’80s schlock opus known as Hercules. Not just for the spectacle. Not just for the awesome production design. Not just for the killer robots.

For the incredible sex god called Lou Ferrigno. (read the full article)

There’s Kitsch. There’s Camp. There’s Chintz. There’s Schlock.

And then there’s Cheese.

Like pornography itself, Cheese is difficult to define, but you know it on sight. The garishness. The cluelessness. The depthlessness — it’s all perfect in its velvety edibility. Not all male objection is cheese; even in the goofiest of get-ups, a classically-featured Francois Sagat will still maintain a cool mystique. An Adam Killian or Zeb Atlas? Not so much.

Cheese is about more than just wacky production values and irony-free presentation that results from the aggressive marketing of sex. It’s a state of being. Compare Cleopatra to Kim Kim Kardashian (the Angelyne of her time?) or Michelangelo’s David to a Big John Blow-Up Doll. For every ethereal male icon we gay men put on a pedestal, there are any number of cheesy heartthrobs parked on their asses back in the cheap seats.

What follows is a tribute to the Velveeta Gods who forever spread it on thick and require refrigeration after opening… (read the full article)