Tight bottomed, stud puppy Turk is back in our Cruiser Boys theater! While Turk’s in the shower, majorly handsome, muscular, goateed peeper Justin breaks into his hotel room.

He spies on Turk’s lean, smooth body in the shower before being discovered. And no, Turk does not call security. Rather he freely presents himself as the fine sexual object he is. Wouldn’t you?

The perfectly matched, dark-haired, nicely toned pair work up a sweat fucking and sucking hard. Whatever Justin was there to steal, he forgets, because all he ends up with is a sweet, tight ass milking his dick. Oh wait, I bet that’s what he wanted in the first place!

Watch this hot duo in the Inner Circle now. It’s your chance to peep on a peeper.

There was a time when the portmanteau term “cumshot” wasn’t a fixture in the English lexicon.

Before mass media forms made us intrinsically self-aware of our appearances and physical prowesses, it’s doubtful the male climax carried the visual wallop it does now. More likely it was internalized — regardless of the sexual pairing — and not subject to the self-direction and theatricality that it is now.

Porn forever changed how we have sex. Thanks to the visual medium of sex, we’re aware of how to frame, position, and pace the act. Certainly the bulk of our sexual fantasies are staged just like fuck flicks, with awkward transitions edited out and big finishes lensed at ideal angles in the porn shoots of our minds. That’s not necessarily wholly bad or good; it could be argued that porn has created unrealistic expectations and a glut of camera-fetishizing narcissists, but I can say it helped me figure out exactly what I want, who I want if from, and how I want it.

It’s not enough to just hit the mark anymore — you have to time the big finish, choose what body part you want to land it on, and really deliver a gusher of a crescendo. The element of performance — of offering a bravura turn — now preoccupies us. I remember seeing a stand-up act on TV in which a comedian related how everyone in L.A. was an aspiring star; when he stopped at a gas station, even the attendant told him he was an actor, and he knew exactly what sort when he finished pumping, pulled out of the tank, and proceeded to spray all over the windshield. (read the full article)

Our favorite kind of bigots — the friendly, condescending, “hate the sin” type — are here for us, and even though one of them menstruates (“Unclean! Out of my tent!”) and the other clearly wasn’t born in the true God’s image (A god who isn’t downy white?! What’s next — lady gods?!), they know something we don’t:

Jesus is comin’ back! (read the full article)

Most of us have gaydar, some sort of queer sixth sense born out of being a potentially invisible minority. But all that does is tell us if someone like (insert your favorite hunky male celeb here) is gay. The modern queer on the prowl needs more specific info than that.

What we need is Pig Bottom Gaydar! How else could we pick insatiable pig bottom Aaron Lamb out of a gay crowd? Like if he forget to wear his pig bottom t-shirt that day, or forgot to carry his boom box which normally blasts some pig bottom aria, we’d be clueless and pig bottomless.

To hone your senses, you’ll want to study this raw, uncut, intimate scene from Pounded, brand spanking new in our Treasure Island theater.

Aaron gets roughly face fucked and barebacked by lean, nasty, uncut Jason Stormme. The camera takes you right in the middle of these wild fuckers. Plus there’s bonus footage about how Aaron became the pig he is today.

Join the Inner Circle now and watch Aaron get deeply fucked. The more he gets fucked, the more he needs to get fucked. The more you watch, the more you’ll need to watch. Porn’s funny that way.

Modern Primitives. Raves. Extreme Sports. The Trickle-Down Economic Theory.

Bodybuilding.

They were all big for a time, but ran out of steam in the New Millennium. That’s not to say they’re necessarily extinct. More like extant — trends still practiced by a devoted subculture of acolytes well after their mass appeal has played out.

Musclemen are seeming rather dated now. Almost quaint, really — the stuff of Sword & Sandal epics, Playgirl, and low-rent musclehead gyms where they’re still venerated as earthbound gods. I can’t say I particularly think of bodybuilding as a sport. Like golf, bowling, or non-competitive cheerleading, it’s more of an activity, and its virtues don’t necessarily translate that well across all strata as much more than novelties.

I’ll admit to having a yen for bulky men with a natural curvaceous mass, but the image of grotesquely disproportionate, emaciated hulks with distended silverback gorilla abdomens and the hue of rotisserie chickens does absolutely nothing for me. (read the full article)

My mind reflexively catalogues terrible porn dialogue for future use. You always end up needing it later. An offhand remark like “I’ll tell you a secret: I like to suck dick!” could conceivably be met with a reply of “Really! That’s interesting — because I like to get my dick sucked!”

I have to admire the inspiration of any porn player who has the sense to call out “Oh! I’m getting fucked!”…while getting fucked, which is rather like shouting “Help! I’m rolling down a hill!”

Even highly baroque and stagey porn set pieces — a secret agent massaging an Arabian sheik’s groin and asking “Is this some kind of a weapon?,” only to be assured “No — that is just my royal penis!” — could prove handy. (read the full article)

I hardly ever go the movies anymore.

It just doesn’t really do it for me like it used to, and I don’t particularly miss it. Maybe it’s the idiots who can’t stay off cell phones for a whole ninety minutes. It could be that home theaters have made the movie viewing experience much more pleasurable in terms of controlling content and ambiance.

Or it might be that I just don’t really get excited by actors anymore.

I’m finding that I can’t really distinguish the latest discovery-of-the-moment from the incarnation who preceded him. Young actors are starting to all look alike to me — I’m not confident that I could pick James McAvoy, Robert Pattinson, Cillian Murphy, or Orlando Bloom out in a line-up even if one of them attacked me on the street — and there’s always some new Brit, Irish, or Australian import (sultry vamp and nekkid-ass werewolf from Being Human, you get a pass) who seems to miss the boat to stardom before I can manage to get acquainted with him. Stateside, the crop of sloe-eyed domestic actors are all like hypertrophic twelve-year-olds, forever “in search of the right girl” and apparently quoting from a callow ’50s pop ballad. Hollywood comes off, like so many formerly great American institutions, as more desultory and phoned-in than ever; just as I haven’t been buying much in the way of new music because everything is Auto-Tuned to death, I find I’m turning to cultier, more obscure movie fare from previous decades and other countries. (read the full article)