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)

There are two red-flag, deal-breaking traits that can instantly make a man repellent, and both start with a V.

Violence and Vanity.

Look, we all go for a certain manly vigor, but if a guy flips out over everything and starts bashing his head against or wall or has a stockpile of weapons, that’s a whole other bag.

Conversely, you don’t want a guy who’s such a supercilious, preening peacock that he instantly seeks out any reflective surface and acts like he’s gracing you with his presence. No, that kind of excessive self-regard is enough to send me clamoring for the nearest window, and boy, is it everywhere lately.

What maketh a douchebag? It’s a sobriquet everyone throws around, but do you ever ask yourself what that state of being entails? I would define ‘baggery as being comprised of at least two of the following elements:

1) An aggressively macho swagger usually manifested by ostentatious clothing and hairstyles, curious gesticulations of the hands, a reliance on a Zoolander pout as a go-to expression, and the tendency to drape yourself in gold and jewels.

2) The penchant to ascribe to a sexually mercenary ethos in which any and all sex partners are just minor collisions you hit and forget.

3) An unjustifiably self-aggrandized level of self-esteem of both your personal charm and physical pulchritude — I would argue many is the douche who suffers from a weird body dysmorphia that makes his mirror image look better than it actually does — that must be the result of too much parental positive reinforcement and too few peer-delivered beatings.

4) The embracing of a morally bankrupt Bad As I Wanna Be, Bitch! ID-based personal philosophy that totally overrides the Superego while simultaneously colluding with the easily swayed and solipsistic Ego.

5) Far, far too much easy access to electronic and digital media.

So yes, Douchebaggery is tough to singularly define, but like obscenity, you know it when confronted with its distinct presence. (read the full article)

Money’s too tight to mention.

Let’s face it — it’s an economic jungle out there, and a Handmaid’s Tale-esque near future looks imminent for us all.

So what’s a witty, studly writer/blogger to do when times get tough?

If you’re the enterprising Bucephalus Alexander (reference!), you get a webcam, whip that cock out, and crank it for the masses.

I’ll confess that I had zero frame of reference for webcam modeling when I interviewed the charming and statuesque Mr. Alexander (one of the few legitimate exhibitionists I’ve ever encountered), and so when we decided to have private session together — purely for research purposes — via Skype, I wondered if it would all be terribly awkward and strained, sort of like watching an animal in a zoo.

Wrong!

Maybe it’s the voyeuristic Body Double-style kink of having a complete stranger stripped to thrill and willing to follow your directive. It could be that the interactive nature of the exchange is a dream come true for a porn lover. It’s probably that Alexander — with his salt and pepper hair, classic ectomorphic physique that’s just made to boast clinging white briefs, and cathedral of a cock — radiates an affable, playful sexuality that made me feel like I was in the room with him.

Either way, this peeping tom definitely likes to watch. (read the full article)

Imagine as a gay man that you had to forever be trapped in your worst phase of emotional development. Frozen in your most naked uncertainty, shame, self-doubt, isolation, and vulnerability. This is your beginning and your terminus. Do not pass go. It doesn’t get better.

Now you know what it’s like to be a hardline Moral Conservative.

This is the zone of arrested sexual maturity that all the Family Researchers, Concerned Mommies, and Don’t-Teach-The-Wittle-White-Kids-Anal NOMers not only are condemned to abide in but choose to abide in. And this is the emotional dungeon they expect us to dwell in.

You see, being a sexual hysteric who has to avert thine eyes from exposed lady parts and men’s high-sitting, provocative hindquarters is a choice. There’s nothing natural about it because it requires so damn much work. Yes, you may be able to have an adult sexual relationship with a man you have a genuine regard for in which you navigate issues like STI prevention and dating exclusivity with a certain adult grace, but sexual moralists instead worry about aping the unions of mythical people who lounged photogenically by waterfalls and talked to the animals. You can enjoy porn in the same manner that a moderate drinker can handle booze, but self-flagellators fancy themselves sexual werewolves who’ll terrorize the countryside if they see anybody jizz onscreen. And yes, you can crank one off by yourself with the knowledge that you’re not hurting anyone, but these latter-day buckle-heads? If even one motile sperm cell doesn’t end up in wifey’s Garden of Eden and fertilize an egg that will become a precious cherub, then they’ve just committed murder.

So really, that curvaceous, hirsute, marble-fleshed hot piece with the cascading stream in the corner of your screen is a flagrant genocidal maniac.

Like Hitler. (read the full article)

Idol Thoughts. Idol Worship.

Idol Hands…

Physical beauty can sometimes be all about deception. Think of insects who collectively form a flower-like configuration to evade predators, or how the Venus Fly Trap lures prey into its jaws with its colorful and inviting lobes. We put beauty on a pedestal, yet too often it’s more deserving of the gutter, for all the good it brings to the world.

Yes, some lookers are what I call Alraunes — gorgeous husks that house little more than yawning voids of nothingness within, shells that could just have easily been brought to life through some arcane alchemy involving a mandrake root and the jizz of a hanged man. Soul and conscience are absent herein, and only the ceaseless drive for personal satisfaction and appetite remains.

Dicks, all of them. (read the full article)

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