Some kids are just born cynical.

Some of my earliest memories revolve around me side-eyeing various things proffered to me by the adult world. I couldn’t bear watching the disruptive beastie in any monster movie get blown away, and I wept openly when The Creature From The Black Lagoon bit it because I couldn’t understand why loving the swimsuit-clad heroine not of his kind (as perfectly thematic a realization of childhood gayness as you’ll ever get) and defending his own turf marked him for villainy.

For four years in a row my elementary school forced me to sit through a screening of Annie, and I grew to hate that redheaded little bitch; why should she be rewarded with a rich sugary daddy just for being an optimistic simp while all the ethnic girls embittered by poverty and orphanhood are told to go screw in the gutter? To this day, I still think the There’s No Place Home coda from The Wizard of Oz (Dorothy gets wise in the book and emigrates) is bullshit. Kansas could suck my wake.

Few things had more than fairy tales though, the majority of which seemed to be sanitized (as in dumbed down) for the stupidest kids among us. Snow White and the loyal huntsman should’ve just iced the Wicked Stepmother in her sleep and shacked up together. The Princess On The Glass Hill waiting idly for a paladin to rescue her had me yelling “Just slide your dumb ass on down it!” The big reward for the miller’s daughter in Rumpelstiltskin is marrying her captor/would-be executioner and getting pregnant by him. Dipshit Rapunzel spent how many years trapped in that tower when all she really had to do was use the shears to shank that lezzie witch, cut off her own hair, climb down it, and make a break for it.

Since Disney became the conglomerate that packages and mainstreams all the tales of The Brothers Grimm, Hans Christian Andersen, and Lewis Carroll off the pages and into the multiplexes, it’s fitting that the studio has fallen under the withering glares of grown-up kids who resent its lame gender paradigms and prostitot tween horrors. Why, I ask you, are all Disney princesses golddigging bimbos? Why can’t animals ever be more than friendly, singing helpmates? And why the hell are all Disney villains so dastardly, flamingly gay? (read the full article)

Ah, Everytown.

Remember the good ol’ days — good for some, at least — before we had Muslim Presidents, civil rights, hippies, working women, vegans, and non-lobotomized gays? Don’t you wish you could retreat into those preserved-in-amber Towns That Dreaded Sundown and escape all this terrifying Communist cha-cha-change?

Me neither, but such towns-that-never-were — the Mayberrys, Hootervilles, and Pleasantvilles — are sacred in some circles, and now Riverdale, home of the Archie Gang, just got a little bigger thanks to the arrival of a new addition. I’m talking about new kid on the block Kevin Keller, Riverdale’s first openly (and readers are emphasizing that modifier) gay transplant who’ll be hitting the pages come September.

Since everything in Post-Dubya U.S.A. is a convoluted Liberal conspiracy designed to corrupt children and take something away from the God Wads, Kevin’s entrée is, natch, polarizing, and the Gays with their fiendish insistence on existing are the culprits. Reaction from the Freepers is typically subtle: “An extremely marginal and diseased viewpoint,” “Giving the Arabs yet another reason to seek nuclear weapons…,” and “Next we will see a misunderstood islamofascist terrorist” are the more clever examples of the ‘Merican perspective. And hey, that’s the go-to reaction for the American Right: take two words that scare you and/or you don’t understand and combine them, thereby creating a red-baits-bull buzzword that makes even less sense when conjoined. Kevin’s “Bitch — you serious?” face says it all. (read the full article)

Movies are the repositories of all our unfulfilled dreams, while television depicts the daily life we can only wish we had, but it’s the Internet — above any other media form — that exists to chronicle the singular predilections we can’t necessarily share with anyone in particular.

Few sites can claim to narrowcast to such a select audience as the candidly unpretentious Nadshot website, a chronicle dedicated to the spectacle of comic book characters taking wince-inducing kicks, punches, lasers, and other various implements to the groin. A brief peruse will drive home the realization that everything in the Twenty-First Century has assumed the mantle of art form and idee fixe.

Comic books have taught us a lot, like how having a double life is healthy and rewarding only for the beautiful and genetically-blessed, or that for every highly-specified metahuman ability, there’s a tailor able to produce a corresponding lycra ensemble.

Still, in paneled universes where the human body has the resilience of Silly Putty and the sight of body-suited paladins smacking the shit out of each other always carries with it a latent erotic surliness, it’s good to know that even the chosen ones and their Adamantium gonads are humbled by the might of the Big Wind-Up.

We’ve all been to that bend in the river, haven’t we? Where the woodbine twineth — among other thangs.

In case you’ve forgotten what a thang looks like, our master artist Josman draws a whole slew of tumescent ones for the R.J. Marsh story The Way Things Are, which you’ll find in the Inner Circle.

A potent, hardon-making tale, it is also beautifully written — something we’ve come to expect from this author. For the way things are is that nobody in this story is gay. Nobody at all. All the guys tell us that several times. And yet…

And yet each one of them finds their way to that bend in the river. (read the full article)

Here at Nightcharm, USA New Josman illustrations are always a cause for standing on our heads and reciting the Jabberwocky with wild hiphop gestures.

Josman’s illustrations make us dizzy — correction dizzier, with all they have to show us about phallic fun. And we do mean phun.

The Master has taken his digital pen and paint to a heart-tugging tale about one fellow helping out another. You see this other fellow — that’s him, above, in the white T with the nipple ring — he’s stranded (wouldn’t you know) in the middle of nowhere. Funny thing about nowhere: You can’t go shopping there, or take in a movie, or order an Orange smoothie from some cute bucktooth hayseed behind a counter. Boys being boys though, our two heroes figure out a way to flitter away the time … and each other. (read the full article)

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. (read the full article)

You never know whom you’re going to see at the dirty book store.

And if you’re a married guy on the low, low, how low-can-you-go down, you may have a lot of thrills and chills in your future.

The shock of recognition, for instance. That one’s a bitch.

And that kind of zingy, tingling alarm is really what Family Values, our new Inner Circle story by master-writer Bob Vickery, is all about (with illustrations by the great Josman):

Here’s a taste (But watch it! It may be too hot for you, Orson!):

And that’s just an inkling of what’s about to … um … come.

(MEMBERS / non-MEMBERS)

Nightcharm’s master illustrator aligns with premiere queer erotica writer, RJ March, in the Inner Circle’s When Rufus Sings. It’s an erotic tale of a straight guy tricking out on his girlfriend with a hot male model, whose room is covered in naked studies of himself. Well, those photos couldn’t be any hotter than the series of hard-edged, high-impact illustrations Josman turned in for this nasty bedtime story. (read the full article)