It’s called Reality Porn, but in truth it’s anything but. In the new Fantasy Boys theater, Inner Circle members find the guys they’ve had their eye on for years — the one’s you never approach, in some of the hottest, and in other cases some of the strangest scenarios you could dream up.

The set-ups range from everyday (a trendy tatooed personal trainer [Tristan, of Cruierboys fame] working over his skinny, rock boy client) to absolutely stupid (two hunky football players and a Roman soldier, a young bike messenger and a naval officer in full uniform…)

In all cases, the sex is hot and the dicks are larger than average. The guys are into what they’re doing. It’s that wonderful combination of sensations in which you’re in the edge of laughter and then you notice you’ve got a hard-on the size of Minnesota.

It’s a great time to consider joining Nightcharm’s Inner Circle. There’s literally more porn than you can handle, and isn’t that the way we all like it?

Anthropologically, he’s known as Heroicus Humanus.

Street name: He-Man.

In the antediluvian landscape of the distant past, his was a breed of peerless renown. It was he who led the war-glutted ice apes as they cut a battle swath through the witch-haunted marshes of the untrodden west.

Naked and armed with only a broadsword upon blazing Lemurian shores, he alone drove the invading sea serpents back into their charnel citadels of the deep. He-Man used his cavernous cleavage to suffocate the Lizard King atop his jewel-brindled aerie, then beat back and anally subdued the Troglodorian Brotherhood as they marched upon the eldrich gates of Myr where slumber the star-spawned ones.

Now he’s an extant loner wayfaring the Big Apple, teetering on the brink of extinction…and topless…perpetually topless.

You’d swear it all sounds like a syndicated TV pilot from the 80s starring Lorenzo Lamas, but it’s actually the brilliant, just-for-the-hell-of-it inspiration behind the culty blog findheman.com.

Its mission statement is clear: devote an ironic chronicle to a swarthy New York longhair in cargo pants and a Mohican pullback ‘do, create a fabulously overwrought mythos around him, document his movements on a weekly basis and elevate him to Web-wide stardom. (more…)

When it comes to pleasure, size doesn’t matter; as we all know it’s quality, not quantity, that counts. But let’s admit it: a big penis is undeniably compelling. Big shoulders, big lapels, and big hair may come and go, but the big penis never goes out of fashion. Especially during an election year…Take that Hillrod!

Hat tip to our favorite semiotic pit stop: BagNotesNews

“I just wanna hang out with him so bad, man! Why won’t he call?!”

You’ve got a Man Crush: the state of not actually being gay… just gay for somebody in particular, as in “Dude, you’re totally gay for him.”

It’s a hetero thing.

On the evolutionary scale of gaydom, it’s the emotional spin-off equivalent of Joanie Loves Chachi to our Happy Days: a goofy simulacrum, a jejune take-off, a wacky send-up. Never daring enough to vie the NC-17 and too coy to go full-frontal, it plays like a G-rated apery of the real deal.

Its exact inception is impossible to pinpoint. Historically, the very moment that a man was first esteemed and thus set apart from his peers based on his physical prowess would have been the stone’s throw that commenced the ripple effect down the ages.

The primeval hominid who struck a spark with his flint or felled a mastodon no doubt drew his fair share of admiring tribesmen and exalted cave paintings immortalizing his exploits.

Gladiators — the prototype for modern-day pro athletes — prevailed the literal and figurative laurels from the crowd. (more…)

One of our favorite, hot, hot stories from the Inner Circle, Steve Giammarco’s B-52 at Edwards AFB, has been given the royal treatment by our new friend, excellent cartoonist Kenzie LaMar.

This is naughty stuff, and we can’t keep it to ourselves. For your enjoyment, a favorite passage, and a couple of Kenzie’s kick-ass drawings:

Gripping the elastic of his boxers, I let go of his toy. It quivers but remains at the same angle rising up toward his navel as I stretch the band up to clear his bone and slide them along with his fatigues down until his kneecaps show. Fuzzy blonde haired balls are pulled tightly against his body. What a studpup. From this angle I can see the cleft of his ass pressed against the steel grate that serves as flooring on Deck One. How will he explain the cross-hatch marks on his ass and thighs?

(more…)

As a kid I grew up with my mother and grandmother’s copies of Rona Barrett’s Hollywood and The National Enquirer scattered around the house.

My grandmother especially was unapologetic about the gossip rags, and her ardor made it all the easier for me to revel in them too.

Some of my sweetest memories involve everyone in my family lying around on Sunday afternoons discussing Robert Redford and Barbra Streisand having sex together on the set of The Way We Were. Or at least how we imagined they were having sex together. Tabloid time like this was considered quality time in my family.

To this day I still argue with friends about the veracity of The National Enquirer, and why I still read it — explaining how the potential threat of high-cost litigation keeps the paper trustworthy. This pretty much guarantees that whatever sort of outrageous revelation they are publishing is fact-based (well, maybe). (more…)

Fred Faurtin is a raunchy, lean, and hung French top with an intense appetite for ass, and Derrick Hanson is a willing and submissive bottom. But he knows better than to give in right away. In the latest scene from our friends at Raging Stallion Derrick and Fred work through an epic and sweaty fuck by way of a gorgeously demeaning blow job.

The leather isn’t over the top; it’s a turn-on, and the whole scene sizzles with the best of what you can expect from a man dominating another man and taking what he wants.

We don’t make a fuss over every scene that comes through our members area, the Inner Circle, but for this one we’re getting out the trumpets because tension is always a good thing, in our book, when large cocks and larger egos are in the throes of sexual warfare.

The Fat Lady has sung. The last dog has died.

And still she hangs on, clutching her barely-there 2-percentage-point victory in Indiana. From her cold, dead hands, children. From her cold, dead hands.

What I will miss most about my Hillary — for yes I am a supporter and yes I would vote for her again and yes, yes, I know, she is sooo cooked — is the way she would look at Barack Obama during the debates. That frozen glare behind the frosted smile. The slight up tilt of the forehead. God, that was priceless!

There would be ol’ Barry sawing away and saying nothing, all misty uplift about change and hope and the American people, slipping ever so carefully into just the palest of black preacher cadences, something for the home team, no Reverend Wright, of course; more Miss Diahann Carroll in an Oleg Cassini gown glossing her way through Aretha: R. E. S. P. E. C. T., ladies and gentlemen. That’s what y’all mean to me.

And there would be my Hillary in all her late-blooming, newly blondized, Georgette Klinger radiance, the robot who suddenly grew a heart and look ma, she’s even warm to the touch! All red-carpet razzle dazzle beside the dour law professor, with his down-turned lips and his solemn — here I risk a racist word — dignity. (more…)