Via Gawker:

Rep. Christopher Lee, (R) [or (D) if you watch Fox] of NY has just been busted giving his best Guys With iPhones pump on Craigslist, seeking a wo…man (?) to help him repeal ObamaCare, defund federal money for greedy 13-year-old rape victims, and also to reenact Michael Douglas’s “Oh! Ooh! Ooooh! Ooooooooh!” cumshot from Basic Instinct.

“Fun,” “fit,” and “classy” Lee passed himself off as a 39-year-old divorced lobbyist (yeah, baby…sexy and evil…) in order to score some non-Biblically-defined trim, and found it in a 34-year-old chick from Maryland who works in oppressive, socialist government. Anyway, girlfriend knew something was up, and after a modicum of research, made Lee as a nasty-assed liar and forwarded all their correspondence to Gawker.

Lee’s voting record on marriage equality isn’t that transparent, but he is a proponent of DADT (can’t have tawdry hook-ups in the military) and is on board with the Repubs’ “OK, so there’s you-asked-for-it rape and then there’s real rape…” end-run around abortion rights, so we’re sure he’s utterly fair-minded when it comes to keeping the government out of people’s personal relationships.

Whatev. Lee, actually 46 (Daddy….) with a son to boot, is trying to blame a security breach that resulted in his computer getting hacked. Could it be ACORN that’s responsible, or George Soros? We’ll just assume the shirtless flexing pick was intended for, what — his P90X progress blog? Happily, Lee’s spokeshack is adamant that “The Congressman is happily married,” and “the only time he or his wife posted something online was to sell old furniture when they changed the apartment they keep in DC.”

Is that the sound of Gloria Allred doing her money dance we hear?

OK, so admittedly this type of well-meaning but nonetheless ill-advised type of fantasy vigilantism will no doubt result in numerous unprosecutable criminal foilings and even a chalk outline at some point, but still, this is my ideal romantic fantasy and should be a TV series, so screw all that.

A young blond police officer/reporter/community activist is nearly robbed/carjacked/gay bashed by thugs when Ba-Bam! — the friendly neighborhood crime fighter known only as Phoenix Jones intervenes and wipes the pavement with his attackers. Our doe-eyed ingenue can hardly believe his eyes, whispering “Who are you?” as he runs his fingers up against the undulating rubber abs of his mystery benefactor. “I’m no one,” Phoenix — Daredevil by way of Diabolik — smiles, full-lipped and cryptic. “And I was never here.”

Undeterred, our intrepid sleuth tracks down the body-suited enigma, drawn into his nighttime world, delving into his murky past, and struggling with balancing his own professional integrity against his duty to keep his inscrutable protector’s secret. Corrupt city politics, new criminal adversaries, and the impossibility of a romance torn between day and night daunt but never defeat our pair. They finally do it in season three, and since there’s no risk of divorce or pregnancy to derail their hot, bondage-themed sex life — in which our hero refrains from revealing his identity — the show will never jump the shark.

“He ties me up. Touches me. Makes me watch. But he never lets me see his face…”

Spidey’s leading lady is down! Is Kraven the culprit — or Green Goblin?:

“It was only a matter of time before one of the endangered cast members of ‘Spider-Man: Turn Off the Dark’ finally escaped, and that time is now. The New York Times is reporting that Natalie Mendoza, who was concussed last month when a piece of rigging hit her in the head while she wasn’t even on stage, is in the process of exiting the beleaguered Broadway musical. Mendoza played the part of Arachne, a new Spider-Man villain created by ‘Turn Off the Dark’ director Julie Taymor.

Citing anonymous sources, NYT’s Arts Beat suggests that Mendoza’s departure from ‘Turn Off the Dark’ was hastened by the terrible injuries suffered by her friend and castmate Christopher Tierney, who is recovering in hospital from a hairline fracture in his skull, a broken scapula, a broken bone close to his elbow, four broken ribs, a bruised lung and three fractured vertebrae.” (read the full article)

‘Taint saying nuthin’?:

“A Fresno high school student is headed to court this week accused of committing a sex crime against a teammate on a wrestling mat.

Preston Hill, 17, has been charged with sexual battery after he performed the move [depicted, top left] on another student during wrestling practice. Hill is also facing expulsion from Buchanan High School, which is just outside of Fresno.

Hill claims he was taught the butt drag by his coaches.”

Guilty are the Damned!:

A state appellate court in Luzerne County, Pennsylvania has upheld the murder conviction and life sentence for ex-adult performer and producer Harlow Cuadra in the 2007 death of Cobra Video producer Bryan Kocis. Mr. Cuadra, 29, “sought a new trial claiming mistakes were made by the judge Peter Paul Olszewski Jr., before and during the two-week trial in March 2009.”

Among his challenges, Cuadra claimed secretly recorded audio tapes played in court “violated Pennsylvania’s wiretap law despite the recordings taking place in California.” Performer-mogul Brent Corrigan was one of two men who taped those conversations. In a five-page ruling issued on Oct. 14, the Superior Court upheld Cuadra’s conviction and sentencing, stating Olszewski’s rulings before and during Cuadra’s trial were “well detailed and well-reasoned.”

Being a hot bitch was supposed to free his ass, but inside the Big House, he’s just what he was on the outside:

Currency.

It started off pretty reactively and imperatively off-the-cuff.

A recent spate of gay teenage suicides. A “Meh — they’re better off dead, anyway.” shrug from the Moral Watchdogs of ‘Merica. A despairing sense of communal entropy in which even dead kids are chalked up to a “win” for the Moral Majority and their values.

The It Gets Better Project at first seemed to come too late — a bid that couldn’t save those we knew had already fallen through the cracks, but that might keep others we couldn’t yet put a face or name to from following.

Well-intentioned is one thing, but who really anticipated that It Gets Better would become the life-altering (and maybe even lifesaving) message it’s become?

Within just a matter of weeks from its late September debut, It Gets Better had effectively gone viral, inspiring countless contributions from all walks of life and becoming the new go-to Gay Civil Rights meme. The New York Times credits it with directing a steep upswing in traffic to The Trevor Project. Coming Out stories are no longer simply shared through-the-fire experiences exchanged in small circles of friends; now, they’re clarion calls disseminated across distances of age, class, and race. (read the full article)

Leave a beautiful corpse.

James Dean wanted to and did, and long after he sanctified the union of cruel, swift doom with untimely struck-down youth, Tinseltown’s downmarket flip side – gay porn – seemed tailor-made for a never-ending series of sad, lurid fades-to black.

The advent of AIDS — Death come to town for an extended stay — claimed countless beloved players of yesteryear, and with contemporary ones foolishly buying into the false security that they can bring it to heel, more are bound for passage on Charon’s ferry.

Suicides and O.D.s have long been the Second and Third Horsemen of the Apocalypse galloping on the horizon, haunting footsteps like a black cats prowling the night. Then there are the starlets who were unfairly extinguished for no fault of their own, leaving behind Black Dahlia cold cases for the armchair sleuths among us.

For all the talk about Hollywood being run by the gay mafia, it’s really gay porn that’s the repository of all our dreams and fears. I’d argue that our connection to noteworthy moments in the medium and the array of stars who have populated its pantheon is stronger than our regard for too-straight and too-pat La La Land; it’s here that our true love for physical perfection and mythical sexual prowess is mirrored back at us, and with those reveries come the demons of age, disease, and death that daunt us.

Join us now as we open up our case files and chronicle a luckless lineup of ruin-bound porn muses who plummeted hard from the heights of Olympus, withered the moment they set foot outside of Shangri-La, or fell prey to the Jabberwock’s claws that catch.

Some dreamboats just get lost on their way down the Yellow Brick Road… (read the full article)

Love is the drug…

Roxy Music said it best: the things that fulfill us can often be the very yawning wells that consume us.

Society conditions us to believe that institutions like family and marriage — along with “pure” sentiments like love, hope, and faith — are indisputably positive forces that compel us to act rightly. A lovely sentiment, but still false.

Any curtain-closing kiss can fade to deep, devastating black even after the credits roll, and anyone who’s loved too well knows the treacherous paths our hearts can lead us down — a desert-spanning Lost Highway dotted with signs reading “Danger Ahead” and “Dead End” under the shadowy wingspan of the looming vulture.

For all the lurid curiosity lavished upon sex crimes, too often it’s overlooked that love crimes can be the more monstrous and psychologically weird offenses; this is the dynamic in which selves start to inextricably entwine, superegos begin to topple, and shared fantasies of blood and death find an outlet. Pair killers — Bonnie and Clyde, Martha Beck and Raymond Fernandez (aka The Lonely Hearts Killers), and “Schoolgirl Killers” Paul Bernardo and Karla Homolka — bound by inhibition-drowning desire and lethal codependency turn up again and again in the annals of True Crime, each seeming to strive to top the vicious, predatory eroticism and all-cylinders-to-oblivion self-destruction of the duo that preceded them. Soul-mirroring love is the goal we all strive for, but we’re never admonished of the peril of fulfillment, the folly of storybook love; sometimes, finding our idealized mate signals the very crack of doom, and as we lose ourselves in symbiotic abandon, the question becomes not so much Happily Ever After? as it is:

Will we kiss or kill?… (read the full article)