In Ancient Sparta, the only way they could separate the men from the boys was with a crowbar — and crowbars wouldn’t be invented for hundreds of years to come. So it was all fuck, fight, and fuck some more.

Above we see a recreation from the film 300 of the Ancient Spartan Come-Hither Look. Come hither and I’ll kill you — but first, Hector, we fuck! Ah Sparta. Such romantics.

And yet, ASTONISHINGLY, in 300, there was plenty of man ass running around but not a sign of men assing around in that … how shall we put it, classically Greek way. (more…)

It lifts!
It cups!
It molds!

Yes, as the wise old strippers of Gypsy told the young Natalie Wood, you can pull all the stops out till they call the cops out, grind your behind till you’re dead. But you gotta get a gimmick, girl, if you wanna get ahead.

And who doesn’t need a gimmick today! A little extra, a little boost in these competitive, out-sourcing times?

The gals used to call them falsies — bra padding and flying- buttress wiring to augment their pretty little cupcakes — but we guys … well, the best we guys had was the Sling from International Male …

Ah the Sling! How it brings back those sweet, soft afternoons when we were hardened rent-boys on Santa Monica Boulevard, driving equally hard bargains as we “hitchhiked” under the beating L.A. sun, all bulges and pecs and short-shorts — courtesy of El Sling-o!

But that was yesterday! The old Sling would look positively quaint and flimsy against the latest in not-so-little white lies, the new and improved WONDERJOCK from Aussiebum. (more…)

Our favorite fathers of mindfuck, the Italian designers Dolce and Gabbana, are busy seducing farmboys again. This time they have cast their dusky, decadent magic over Canadian mega-model Andrew Stetson.

Stetson is the languid sleeping beauty in Calvin Klein’s new Euphoria cologne campaign (right). A blond, blue-eyed 28-year-old from Ontario who has but a simple dream: to earn enough money as a supermodel to one day purchase a hunk of land and use his carpentering skills to build his own home. Kind of brings a tear to your eye.

But that was before his recent tangle with the wild boys of Milan, Domenico Dolce and Stefano Gabbana. After his recent appearance in D&G’s summer menswear show, we are forced to ask (cue The Shangri-Las:) Can Andrew ever go home again?

The top photo documents an array of menacing mutations — signs that Andrew’s time in Milan has transformed his healthy outdoor tan into D&G’s trademark nightlife wan. A skin hue not unlike the blanched airbrush effect of a Pierre & Gilles photograph. (more…)

The New York Times is scratching its head this morning over the spectacular 70-million dollar haul that the computer-enhanced musclefest 300 took in this weekend. Surreally beautiful but widely panned, 300 has surpassed all expectations, and no one knows why. Could it be the hunks upon hunks of manflesh on display?

All we know is this is definitely a movie we’re getting in hi-def DVD: It has high jerkoffability.

We think it would be suitable as the midnight show in those dirty movie theaters that suddenly turn gay at the witching hour, when the boy features replace the girl features, and people get downright frisky in their seats … and along the walls …and behind the screen.

Based on the Frank Miller graphic novel of the same name and married to Miller’s muscular graphic style, thanks to the breathtaking CGI work (similar to the overwhelming artistry seen in Sin City, Miller’s first comic to hit the big screen), 300 tells of the battle of Thermopylae in 480 BC, a battle still revered and taught at West Point, when 300 Spartans fought to the death against 4000 Persians — and won (in the long run* — see comments). (more…)

We don’t know much about the world of professional wrestling. But show us the picture of a six-foot-six, 280 pounds, blazing red haired guy like Sheamus O’Shaunessy and we want to learn. We really want to learn.

Lucky for us that we discovered Sheamus (how hot is his name?) just before March 17, giving us a holiday-inspired excuse to name him Nightcharm’s pick for Hunkiest St. Patrick’s Day Mascot of 2007. You didn’t think there was such an honor, did you? (That’s OK, neither did we.) (more…)

It is a truth universally acknowledged that a single man with a spectacular body must be in want of a stripper gig in Vegas.

These boys dream of working on the Strip, the only Strip that matters: the Boulevard of Neon that stretches from Glitter Gulch to the Bellagio and Beyond.

And so they have very sensibly put their audition tapes on YouTube.

Who needs a “talent reel” or a bachelors degree in “Tele-Communications” — that college major unofficially, and quite universally, known as the School for Spokesmodels?

YouTube and balls of brass is all you need to get you through those golden casino doors.

Nightcharm presents a gaggle of stripper hopefuls for you to cast your cruel but fair eyes upon.

Score on a scale of 0 to 100. And try, try, try to find some place in your heart where you can be more Paula Abdul than Simon Cowell!
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Well, we’ve never been to Nice, Greece, or ME, but like many a drag queen, we know what hot dick looks like.

When we saw the work of Venetian photographer Piero Pazzi we knew we had found a fellow searcher for … let’s call it truth.

Perhaps most known (notorious?) for his calendars of heartstoppingly handsome Italian priests, Pazzi also brings out a calendar and guide to the luscious — and seemingly available — gondoliers that ply the waters of the Grand Canal — and who knows what else is plied or plowed under those famous midnight bridges?

We’re dreaming, in particular, of a nighttime passage piloted by the sturdy arms of some lordly lad, coming to a lengthy stop beneath the Rialto Bridge with its lace-like stone canopy and Renaissance arches — a place so self-intoxicated with Italian beauty that it was a beloved cruising spot for Sebastian Venerable, Tom Ripley, and so many other twilight males of High Lavender Literature.

None more famous than Gustav Aschenbach in Thomas Mann’s Death in Venice, which bring us to our excuse for running all these diveen-o pictures.

Because of the Thomas Mann classic, Venice, a city already sunk in watery melancholy, will forever have a certain haunted homoeroticism.

Death in Venice provides us as well with a humpy, never-to-be forgotten portrait of the gondolieri, as you will see:

One day an eminent historian, greatly lionized in his native Germany, finds himself for the first time staring at a coarse red-headed man in a cemetery, and in his embarrassment flees — but apparently not far enough.

He decides he must take a trip. Fatally, he decides it will be Venice.
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HBO’s Bill Maher is back from a two-month break. I caught his show this morning thanks to TIVO. Favorite moments abounded. Like Maher asserting the word “worse” right after panelist Carly Fiorina said something about Bush being our president … “for better or for worse.”

And Bill’s New Rules riff on monster-mouthed Colorado pastor Ted Haggard’s miraculous 30 day Gay-Be-Gone conversion was a scream. As Maher told it: “You can’t make a gay man 100 percent straight in a month, especially if that month contains fashion week…A month to change your sexuality? I’ve spent longer than that on hold trying to quit AOL!”

But the best part of the show was also the smartest: Maher’s interview with John Amaechi (right) the former NBA star who recently outed himself.
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