The rich really are different.

I’ve always been frankly mystified by people with money, more so the old money trust-fund-casualty variety that the nouveau riche. They just have a whole different set of trivial concerns that someone who has to scrap and struggle to get by can’t grasp. It wasn’t until I moved to New York for college that I saw just how chasmic and Metropolis-inspired the gap between Have and Have Not truly is.

Up in penthouse apartments and gated communities with rooftop gardens and swimming pools, wealthy people willingly starve themselves down to nothing, pay high-priced scalpel men to transform them into weird parodies of the earthbound gods they fancy themselves to be, and exhaust themselves attaining spectacular levels of comfort in order to keep up with the friends at the country club, this while the people they transport in to raise their kids and clean their houses fret over bus fare versus lunch and how the hell they’ll ever pull off college tuition.

It seems profoundly stupid that what I call “First World Problems” (aka “Foibles of The Rich and Idle”) can prove lethal, but in the case of one Andrew Embiricos, 25, a life of too much privilege, too much opportunity, too much wretched excess came to a fateful fade-out this week with a last breath inside a plastic bag.

Maybe too much love really is worse than none at all... (read the full article)

When I was 14 years old, my mom apologized for having me circumcised as an infant.

I was in the back seat of the car while my dad was driving, and though I don’t quite remember how the issue came up, I do remember feeling, naturally, horribly awkward about discussing my penis with my parents.

My mom said it hadn’t been explained well by the doctors, and that once the nurse brought me back to her with my “fists clenched and white,” she knew she’d made a mistake.

“I don’t care,” I said.

“I don’t think about it — can we just change the subject?”

I didn’t even know what an uncircumcised penis looked like. I knew something about it having skin that would cover the tip, but I couldn’t picture where that skin attached. Did it just hang down from the head like a second scrotum or an earlobe?

The mysteriousness of it turned to a perverse curiosity, and it happened that my first boyfriend, who I dated when I was 19, was uncut. By then I’d learned what to expect by watching porn, but I couldn’t have predicted how turned on I’d be to see an uncircumcised penis in the flesh. The shaft seemed more thrust forward and determined, without that circular scar in the middle that would break up the shape, and I loved the way my boyfriend’s cock could tuck itself into a sheath when flaccid — it looked just as hot to me then as it did hard. (read the full article)

Look, times are tough.

Deep down, we’re all wanting to foment an urban riot, join a vicious gang, start a fire, and serve up a serious beat-down.

The trick is to plan ahead for if and when the law catches up to you.

Frankly, the only reason I haven’t been murdered yet is because I expect to be murdered by everyone around me, so just as I take steps to avoid being snuffed, I also plan ahead for my eventual arrest — in the sense that I want to take a really great mugshot.

Not since the ’40s Golden Age of Hollywood when producers foolishly — and futilely — tried to crack down on the bad behavior of their stars has the fallen celebrity perp walk and mugshot been as highly scrutinized as it is now. Lately, it seems like everybody — from the entitled A-List, to the wannabe D-List — are flaring out pretty damn spectacularly. Sloshed Hollywood actresses are staging jailbreaks that wouldn’t be out of place in a Charlie’s Angels episode, and with even mainstream models willing to engage in bow-chick-a-bow-wow porn exposition to get out of a clinch, gay porn stars who get busted have got to bring their photogenic A-Games to keep up.

So, if you are a pro who finds himself altered, unruly, and jizz-spattered at the wrong place and time — or like me, you want to be well-versed in mugshot composition just in case — here’s what to keep in mind in order to be ready for your big close-up — all of it guaranteed to give you the Jane Fonda effect over the unfortunate Nick Nolte: (read the full article)

Why is this pouty little leather boy so sad?

Can’t he find someone to spank him no matter how badly he begs for it? Could it be that he can’t land a proper master who can deal with his glamor?

Maybe it’s that he has difficulty achieving sustainable menace and swagger because it’s so obvious — even masked and geared-up — that he’s disarmingly cute with his sassy pair of lips and “Please don’t hurt me — I’m fragile” eyes.

Perhaps — nay, certainly — he is the human equivalent of the lonely fox from The Little Prince:

“To me, you are still nothing more than a little boy who is just like a hundred thousand other little boys. And I have no need of you. And you, on your part, have no need of me. To you, I am nothing more than a fox like a hundred thousand other foxes. But if you tame me, then we shall need each other. To me, you will be unique in all the world. To you, I shall be unique in all the world…but you must not forget it. You become responsible, forever, for what you have tamed.”

How much do they make? Who’s servicing a Hollywood bigwig? Who got screwed out of a part by a competitor? Who got infected with what on the set?

The porn business has hardly ever been what you could call gossip-free — you could always count on a particularly tawdry arrest or some vicious smack talk between rivals — but lately the industry’s self-imposed sealed-lips policy seems be in jeopardy of some leering insider prying.

Too much information about what’s going on above, beneath, and beyond the San Fernando Valley has Smut City’s identity crisis kicked up to a fever pitch. The Internet has done more than just change how porn is made and disseminated — it may now be altering the means by which the biz keeps its own secrets.

The Leaks Revolution that’s rocked government, the military, and Wall Street now has its own XXX variation, and nothing — real names, addresses, telephone numbers, birth dates, criminal records, and now, even HIV statuses — is off-limits. (read the full article)

See the brunet getting it at both ends?

He’s having one. It’s a very tough experience to document, much more illustrate, but that’s it right there.

Orgasms are pretty much a dime a dozen in gay porn. Most play largely identically in staging and reaction, though you probably have some stand-outs in your mind that you cherish.

Yes, it’s great seeing guys get doused, but for me the Holy Grail of cumshots is depicted above. As great as the still frame is, it can’t even begin to do justice to the real time unfolding. This is more than just a spectacular pop-off. It’s more than even an edged-to-the-brink release.

This is a glassy-eyed, teeth-shattering, mind-altering, limb-flapping, open-the-floodgates, speaking-in-fucking-tongues violent full body orgasm. (read the full article)

You don’t get to fuck someone and take it back, even if you are a straight “celebrity.”

That’s just life.

A few weeks ago, it was reported that the current season of MTV’s The Real World was going to feature Dustin Zito, who was once a gay for pay actor (dubbed Spencer) on Fratpad. During the premiere of the show Zito confessed to having taken an opportunity after high school to be cast on a website of guys living together.

The show did not mention that these guys were also fucking each other.

Now, FratPad management has taken down content featuring anal sex scenes of Zito and has begun sending notifications to bloggers who have featured images, or linked to images of these acts, to do the same. I have never heard of a porn company giving up the opportunity to profit off of an individual’s celebrity status, which begs the questions: how much is Fratpad getting paid, and how homophobic is MTV being? I guarantee that if a female cast member had done the same thing, it would not be received with a cover-up. It would be happily exploited.

I understand the issue of content copyrighting, but welcome to the blogosphere, where images float through like water in the sea.

MTV, don’t make me start pulling out my Ray Bradbury and George Orwell references. Just because your demographic has probably never cracked open a book doesn’t mean we haven’t. This goes beyond a little anal action; the press is democratized and will not be silenced. To those who may ask to censor such material I say “Suck it!” And if you don’t know how to suck it, just ask Justin Zito; I’m sure he can show you how.

My earnest side wants to call it right-on, but my cynical one is side-eyeing:

TSA screenings are rapidly becoming something out of a dystopian sci-fi epic, and the latest hubbub manages to encapsulate all the requisite hot-button elements: citizen-against-the-system indignation, Constitutional citation, the increasingly spread-thin meaningless “terrorism” in American culture, a lawsuit, the horror of physical contact, protestations being scrawled on the torso, and a nearly naked, tousled-haired colleg guy in his underwear causing a ruckus.

Here’s the facts: Aaron Tobey, twenty-one and hailing from Virginia, wasn’t too keen on passing through airport X-ray machines this week on the way to his grandmother’s funeral, so he opted for the controversial pat-down instead. That involved voluntarily removing most of his clothes to reveal the Fourth Amendment written across his chest and abdomen.

It pretty much went south from there, Tobey ending up cuffed at detained for about ninety minutes, questioned about “his affiliation with, or knowledge of, any terrorist organizations, if he had been asked to do what he did by any third party, and what his intentions and goals were.” Though he was ultimately not charged with disorderly conduct, Tobey is still seeking $250,000 in damages.

So which is it: legitimate resistance against overreaching safety measures that are quite possibly just for show, or a contrived stunt characteristic of white populist anti-government paranoia self-fulfilling its own existence?

Maybe both?

We can claim innocence, but we have all been guilty of perusing the clientele of certain men’s “dating” sites such as Manhunt, Grindr, LifeOut, or Scruff.  

These sites have essentially grown into the 21^st century edition of cruising. While there is a site that caters to every type of guy, they all usually feature the ability to post a profile picture. Not that I look thoroughly through these sites or anything, but I have become increasingly aware of the poor choices made with these pictures. As the classy gentlemen that we all are — and seeing how we would hate for our friends or family find out that we are on such sinful sites — we prefer not to use “face pics.” This no-face practice has led to a trend in profile picture subjects that are simply comical.

Let me break it down: (read the full article)