“Arcing ropes of jism.” How could I not open my song of praise to Queens of the Stone Age’s Josh Homme and not feature that description? I had to work it in somehow.

Sure, flying jism is a visual you’d associate with a porn site — but not a Joe Cocker song. And yet that’s the way Homme — the sexy and smart frontdude for the Queens — describes his reaction to a certain snare drum sound that he’s been “chasing” (to mimic and record) ever since he heard it on the Cocker tune.

The jism quote was featured in a recent Pitchfork interview that celebrates the release of the Queen’s exhilarating new album Era Vulgaris.

The title is Latin for “common era.” But don’t take that as an arty snub against our culture’s Last Days cluster fuck. Homme enjoys the times we’re all wallowing in, and considers the current zeitgeist a character building challenge — or as he puts it: (more…)

That dick! Those lips. The legend.

The mantle of legend demands an epic quality and universal recognition that few can command, especially within the turnstile world of porn.

If there’s a face of gay porn, it’s larger-than-life Jeff Stryker — he of the hillbilly drawl and raging ramrod — the rarest of stars whose status extends beyond the porn arena and secures an immortal place in the collective consciousness.

Stryker’s ascension to stardom in 1985 during smut’s Video Revolution is the mythic porn equivalent of Marilyn Monroe’s.

Young Midwesterner Charles Peyton was discovered via a typical modeling ad by directors Matt Sterling and John Travis.

As Norma Jean was made over into Marilyn, Stryker was manufactured into the cherub-faced, Goliath-endowed hard body we know today (some claiming as with Monroe that a cosmetic facial enhancement was involved in bringing the new creation to life) and thrust into the spotlight with a PR machine at his back. (more…)

It all started with a simple profile on a big muscle guys website. From there fame claimed a new denizen.

Actually it was Raging Stallion that did the claiming. And you’ve gotta give big props to the studio’s model scout. Dirk Jager is an amazing male specimen.

Raging Stallion “came across my profile and sent me an e-mail asking me if I’d be interested in doing video work,” Dirk explains. “I said yes, and they sent me the ticket.”

The thoroughbred hails from Berlin. Has piercing blue eyes. A humongous uncut cock. And the most perfect set of abs ever sculpted into flesh.

Dirk articulates carefully in broken English that he is “strictly top.” And we couldn’t imagine it any other way!

His “real life job” is in graphic design but the furry giant has also done some side work for Sexgaymes, the Australian porn studio. And guess what? Our members area, the Inner Circle, is featuring Dirk’s burn-down-the-kitchen scene — complete with an award winning deep throating session from co-star Tag Adams — in our Sexgayme’s theater.

Check out these scortching vid caps — and then join us inside. NOW!

(MEMBERS / non-MEMBERS take a free tour)

Yes, yes, we’re squeezing yet another piece out of the movie 300!

That total popcorn experience that is so homoerotic it goes out of its way to be homophobic — is that classic gay panic or what!

Classic Hollywood, that is; not classic Greek.

The Spartans, as we have all learned by now, when not slashing, gashing and slaughtering, did not tremble or shake when confronted with the willing mouth or open anus of a fellow hardbody warrior.

Part of what made the warrior caste in Sparta so elite was the homosexual sex, which was — do you love it — mandatory. Pairing up with a lover was thought — with perfect Euclidean logic — to strengthen unit cohesion, not weaken it.

In fact, experience had taught them so. There were famous fighting teams, famously devoted to each other. You would think that our own military brass — with all the mutual fucking and sucking that soldiers, marines and airmen have enjoyed over the years — might have learned the same lesson. Alas, no — a modern bias that plays out, anachronistically, in the film.

But if 300 gets their history wrong, they nail it with the hardbodies. Particularly, the mighty, mighty bod of Gerard Butler, whose wall-to-wall chest span and six-cylinder six-pack are featured front and center in every 300 poster, as well as on the box of the Playstation spin-off.

We haven’t seen a male body sold this hard since the glory days of Steve Reeves. (more…)

Whoa!

Whoa!

…and Whoa!

Behold Charles Dera!

Is he not a Tom of Finland come to life? He’s even doing that wide, lecherous half-smile that Tom would put on his Rock-Hudson beautiful studs.

Every now and then, Nightcharm goes slightly nuts over a male model.

Readers of these pages are well acquainted with our out-of-control Rafael Verga problem (here, here, and even here! Should we start looking for a 12-step program?)

And our Anderson Dornelles idol worship (was there ever a hotter Jesus? — here and here).

And our constant breakdowns over the beefy slabs of footballer ass and thigh on display in the Dieux du Stade calendars, which in out last outbreak took the form of a Julien Arias gran mal seizure , and a Sean Lamont petit mal episode.

Let us now stare directly into the sun of our latest nuts-making distraction. (more…)

Sure, there was the wonderland of his body: gym-sculpted, perpetually tanned and glowing. A body made beguiling by its distinct halves. Above the waist: smooth, taut, sharply defined. Below: thickets of dark hair covering his groin, legs and beef-meaty ass.

And his dick. A stout cock deserving the literotic term cudgel. Fully engorged, its circumference suggested death by suffocation, should it be lodged too deeply, for too long, in too avid a throat.

And yet it was Lex Baldwin’s face that set him apart from the blond blur of early 90’s gay sexbots.

Baldwin’s face was classically swarthy. His countenance solemn, a look that signaled stern indifference. But indifference with a concession — you could blow him. He’d give you that. Maybe.

With the bull-like flare of his nostrils, he appeared perpetually angry. The strong cleft of his upper lip exaggerated the downward turn of his mouth. A determined sulk that guaranteed no meat — other than a steak — would ever enter that pouty mouth. (more…)

Like we needed a new excuse to run even more photos of guys in underwear!

Still, thank you New York Times.

Last week the paper that boasts of being the national arbiter of “all the news that’s fit to print” discovered what has been fit — for two decades now — for gay guys to wear under their pants.

That is, when we deign to wear anything at all.

Our dear Gray Lady, flagship of America’s elite opinion-making newspapers, is now fainting with the news:

Men’s underwear has gone flamboyant.

Men’s underwear has gone positively sexy in the most glorious bun-huggy, dick-pushy way.

In a report on colored, patterned, basket-centric briefs, amusingly entitled But What if You Get Hit by a Taxi?, the New York Times made it official for the slow class, that is, the Metrosexuals. (more…)

Thank you Wikipedia.

In a rather delightful entry on Gay Icons, Wikipedia lists David Beckham alongside George Michael, St. Sebastian and Peter Pan as iconic gay dreamboats.

That would explain — as if any explanation were needed beyond the evidence of our own two eyes — what occurred last Saturday in Valencia, Spain.

It was during a football game when the cutest fanboy in all the world breached security, ran onto the field and, in his adorable big-eyed Iberian way, asked the Becks for the same thing anyone in their right mind would ask for — a big ol’ hug.

Of course, the Becks, somewhat astonished but not exactly surprised, gave him one — at least in the form of an understanding pat on the head?

In exchange, the boy offered his shirt –and it seems his pants as well (at right.)

But then, wouldn’t anyone? — again being in one’s right mind as our overarching assumption. (more…)