“Can it be that it was all so simple then? Or has time re-written every line?”

Think back dear ones. Before online hookups, Grindr and trashy gloryhole connections via Craigslist, there was the innocent, soft-lit world of video dating.

 
Please note, I find most of these guys utterly fabulous. And given time travel, I’d even have dated several of ‘em. Maybe even the little ‘fashion photographer’ that I’m sensing probably plays on our team now. Gosh, I wonder who’s fucking him now?

“What’s too painful to remember, we simply choose to forget…”

Beauty is the cruelest of task masters.

When it comes to the Pretty Principle, enough is never enough. Between all the body-sculpting, aerobicizing, waxing, hair coloring, moisturizing, and airbrushing, the building of the perfect beast is beginning to wear us down. There’s a quagmire of products that promise to augment your lips, thicken your eyelashes, or brighten your smile, all of which are supposed to unlock some hidden potential you lack in influencing people.

Now, never once has a smile — essentially an involuntary facial reflex we’ve ascribed a social magic to and that any sociopath can flash at will — won me over, nor have I ever noticed another person’s teeth when I meet them. Men will buy penis enhancement pills and women have tried creams that purport to enlarge their breasts, but if I applied that logic beyond genitalia and offered you a product that could, say, increase the length of your arms or legs, would you buy it?

It’s the beauty mandate called tanning — more than even steroids — that I loathe the most. As a lifelong paleface, I’ve been made privy — always without asking — to casual urgings that I should get some sun to make myself more appealing, the implication being that fairness makes you some sort of of photosensitive albino who dwells in darkness with a cadre of bats and mushrooms as your sole companions.

One barely-casual acquaintance (a cunt) I encountered in a gym (wherein everyone always looked as if they’d just traipsed in off the Aegean seashore year-round) advised me that I looked positively anemic and waif-like. All the while I simply took in the extremity of his sun worship and marveled how, at maybe thirty-six, the pores on his arms were craterous, his skin had the tone more so of adobe than sunkissed, and he was developing bastard lines that ran from his eyes down to his jawline.

How weirdly paradoxical the obsession with epidermal beauty is; it would be the nadir of tactlessness to suggest that a non-caucasian should lighten his skin — those who would or even do are viewed as the ultimate of sell-outs — yet we who are naturally fair are pressured to alter our pigment as if it were nothing. (more…)

Feeling dangerous and wild?

Well, go ahead and venture deep into the Inner Circle’s Treasure Island theater ’cause we’re featuring the latest fuck-fest from Max Sohl. Yep, the Treasure Island favorite with his revved-up penchant for cum-crazy guys. Some of the scenes in Fuck Holes 2 result from real ads on real hook-up sites. Other scenes are balls-to-the-wall T.I.M. gangbang fuck fests. All of them have one thing in common: a hole desperate to be filled and spermed.

Featuring some of our favorite public-access cunt boys: Treasure Island Media exclusives Christian, Ian Jay, and Jay Ross. Also displaying their wanton manslut talents are Dick Damnson, Marcelo Masko and introducing T.I.M.’s newest pig-slut Taylor Means who spends an entire day as an anonymous hotel cum-stop.

Can you handle it? We thought so. We’ll see you inside.

Chad States photographs his subjects in the poses and settings they find most masculine, making portraits of masculinity that broaden our ideas of what it means to be a man today.

It’s your spin at the Republican Wheel of Disgrace. How will you publicly crash and burn while comparing yourself to a famous Biblical figure and mitigating all your anti-Clinton sanctimony?

Campaign finance and lobbying fraud are so 2003.

Humiliating your leopard print-clad wife by banging whores, jetting off to Argentina for an Emmanuelle-style tryst, or getting Mommy and Daddy to pay off your mistress entails so many press conferences.

Kid-fucking is the forte of the Catholic Church and those creepy Little House On The Prairie Mormon compounds.

At this point, the only unpardonable GOP transgression is the gay scandal, so have at tripping over every other closet case in that rat race.

South Carolina Lieutenant Governor André Bauer[top pic] (kudos on maintaining the “how ethnic” acute accent) is just the latest potential pink flamingo in a party of old hawks, falling somewhere between Troy King and Charlie Crist. Frankly, his outing by blogger Mike Rogers leaves me torn. Sure, he’s sorta hot by GOP standards — meaning he looks more like a car salesman than a banker — but there are higher limbo bars. (more…)

According to our in-house archive of the definitions and origins of baby names, “Dustin” is a moniker of Norse ancestry and means “valiant fighter.” Or, better yet: “Thor’s stone”. Wow. I can’t argue with that later image. Dustin, our new redheaded fratdude is volcano-hot.

And valiant? Yep, watch our boy lounge, stretch, strip and then stroke his hard ‘n plucky boner to a juicy climax.

It’s all new and designed to bring the last gasps of your summer to a happy close. Check the full video out in the Inner Circle’s Fratmen Theater.

Eighth grade was a tough year for me. I was 13 years old in 1998, in an oppressive yet typical American middle school where “pack of wolves” could accurately describe the student body. I was a big-eyed late-bloomer who enjoyed class more than recess and was irrepressibly talkative. Quickly, I became a focal-point of abuse for my male peers, most of whom were bigger than me, had girlfriends and some of these guys were even shaving.

It was also the year Matthew Shepard was murdered, and the news felt personal. His death coincided with my realization that I was gay. Though I was still in the closet, bullies at my school gleefully pointed out that Matthew Shepard and I shared a first name. They taunted me as they poked fun at Shepard’s story, making clear that even murder is fair game for expressing disdain for homosexuality. (more…)

It’s important to stress that we at Nightcharm do not condone the sort of riotous, over-the-top behavior that’s demonstrated in this new Fratmen video. Weren’t many of us traumatized by this kind of bullying and haze-like taunting while in college? Why would anyone want to watch such reprehensible behavior on a video? And the blatant nudity…well, it’s almost too much to imagine.

And, yet, and yet.

Once the very-straight Max and uncut, blond bisexual beast Gavin squared off in this crazed jack off race — well, we forgot about all about our post-teenage angst and went all gaga for the braggin’, bodies and boners. Never before has rambunctious, obnoxious roughhousing been so hot! We’re true believers now!

Note: We were certain that Gavin was going to shoot his wad all over Max, but by the end, Gavin was unloading his third…but, never mind. Watch for yourself. New and fresh for ya, in our Fratmen theater.