Art Fag: You’re Not Real but I Love You Anyway…
By Karley Sciortino of Slutever
Everyone knows how it feels to fall for someone who doesn’t actually exist, whether it’s a character in a film, or the hero in your favorite a novel, or even the occasional cartoon (as IF you don’t want to bone Trent from Daria). I’ve always had a thing for fictional guys, and have spent the majority of my life lusting not after actors, but rather the characters they play. I don’t want Johnny Depp; I want Edward Scissorhands. I don’t want Matt Dillon; I want the drugstore cowboy. I don’t want Leonardo DiCaprio; I want the retarded kid out of What’s Eating Gilbert Grape. It’s a massive mind fuck.
In light of this ongoing delusion, I’ve made a list of the top five film characters whom I most adore. They are as follows, in no particular order. (I thought long and hard about this by the way.)
1. Hallam, Hallam Foe
Psychos are hot. Freaks are hot. Fuck-ups are hot. Hallam is all of the above. Hallam is a teenage loner who essentially wants to fuck his mother. When his mother dies, he then diverts his attention to courting (or more like stalking) a look-a-like. Serious Oedipus complex. A complete freak, he spends the majority of his time lost in his own alternate reality, painting himself in his dead mother’s lipstick and trying to kill his step mom (who he later ends up fucking?). He’s like the ultimate lost soul, and in my book, demented equals desirable. I’ve always been attracted to the idea of disaster, self-destruction, sexual violence, etc, so Hallam is essentially my dream man.
2. Jimmy, Quadrophenia
Let’s be honest, Mod really is the sexiest of all fashions—so precise, so painfully cool. Jimmy is basically the ultimate Mod, from his tailored suits to his blind arrogance to his impeccable music taste. Not to mention Jimmy’s body is near perfect—washed out, gangly, scarecrow-like. Plus he’s got that classic British wonk face that I just can’t get enough of. I’m even into his slight drug dependency. I love a mess.
3. Mike, My Own Private Idaho
Uhhh… he’s a scarily beautiful gay junkie prostitute with narcolepsy. Need I say more?
4. Jamal, Slumdog Millionaire
Everyone is a sucker for a true romantic. Jamal is the ultimate romantic, devoting his entire life to chasing after his one true love. Super cheesy but whatever. Just looking at him makes me feel dizzy. Plus, I’ve recently developed a thing for Indians—both boys and girls. They’re fucking hot. I’d wear him like a scrunchy.
5. Theo, The Dreamers
I don’t think I really have to explain my physical attraction to Theo, but I’ll do it anyway. That god-like bone structure, those pouty lips, those dark brown curls, that statuesque figure—he’s like a fake person, carved out of stone. The guy is so beautiful it should be illegal. Plus his French accent is hot, and the way he moodily smokes his cigarettes is a serious turn on. So dark and mysterious. And then there’s all the stuff about him being a total fucking sadist… and part gay… and sexually attracted to his sister. Incest is so hot right now.
Style vs. Fashion: Fuck Buddies Tell All
with all the 80s (plus 20s-70s and 90s) comeback looks and free-for-all accessorizing these days, it is down right impossible to know what is stylish and what is just plain stupid. there is a big fucking difference between “fashion” and “style”. without style, you are wearing an advertisement for someone else and paying for it. that’s stupid – sarah palin stupid (her bumpit hair, faux homemaker silhouettes, and shitty shoes make me wonder what she really spent that infamous $150K on. it wasn’t fashion, that’s for sure. ew.).
a clever shortcut to knowing whether or not you are exhibiting your personal style is to take a look at your fuck buddy’s exes. the fuck buddy’s taste in ass is typically mostly aesthetic. if the exes look like ‘tards, chances are, you do too. for example, let’s say i was having lots of raunchy, dripping wet, steamy, bareback anal sex with brad pitt. i am pretty much guaranteed to have great style and probably effortless fashion sense. as much as i hate to admit it jennifer maniston can dress her/himself pretty damn well, so can armgelina jolie. when it comes to british queen of parliament gwyneth paltrowshire, she fakes it better than most (though deep down she is just a beige empty background plastic plant surrounding herself with the “right” people. why else marry that vegan fag from coldplay?).
to keep yourself above the fray, wear the things that really speak to you. when you want to experiment, make sure that shit fits properly and you are working it as opposed to it working you. this season, i would love nothing more than to tramp around in rompers and western shirts, but i tread lightly. when i wear a romper, i will always wear hose underneath because i’m old, pasty, and cottage cheesy. when i wear a western shirt, i vow to wear nothing else with even the slightest semblance of cowboy chic as i don’t support that stupid fucking hick ass racist law in arizona and refuse to appear like i might.
style makes one confident. not smug. confident=will smith (well earned). smug= will smith’s kids (spoiled rotten).
Texas Two-Step … Bosnian Edition
The Sensitive Player By Alex Crevar
Most connect Sarajevo with the war of the 90s, when mortar shells rained down on the capital of Bosnia and Herzegovina. If they think about it, that is. After all, it’s a place stuck somewhere in an area once called Yugoslavia, which is somewhere in that blurry blob in Southeastern Europe among countries with communist-sounding names.
Some really old timers would perhaps remember that the First World War started here when Archduke “l” Franz Ferdinand was assassinated during a visit in 1914. (If you are among this WWI group, you’re likely in the older-than-100 category and I salute you. I also worry, frankly, that by reading this column you’re perhaps not spending your last days as wisely as you might. Suggestion: squeeze into that zoot suit one last time, grab yourself a flapper, put a fresh carnation in your lapel, stash a new jimmy cap in your wallet, wind your pocket watch, leave your worries on the doorstep, direct your feet to the sunny side of the street, and may your final moments be spent cutting the rug or doing the horizontal mambo … walker or no.)
At any rate, the bottom line is that Sarajevo’s a complex place with regard to history and politics, and, more appropriately, for love. They say Bosnia is the place where East meets West. This was the border between the Ottoman Empire and the Austro-Hungarian Empire for centuries. And there is still a considerable amount of Turkish influence. A Muslim town, the sound of muezzins calling folks to prayer can be heard five times a day.
“Okay, Okay … but how are the women?” you’re wondering. “Have I been putting my own jimmy caps to use?”
You are sharp today, my friend. Nothing gets by that steel trap of a mind. Thank you for keeping the Sensitive Player honest. I’ll get to the point.
I know I’ve made proclamations before but let me be clear here: the women are so beautiful that one has problems making it 
through the day. Really. I think it may be the mixture of the different cultures that give the lasses an evolutionary step up. As I sit in my office and try to meet this or that deadline, all I have to do is look out the window and see a gaggle of Bosnian ladies – wielding cigarettes and laughing conspiratorially – and Shazaam! I am transported to a place where pillows are made of chocolate.
Yeah, that’s right, I said it, they’re made of chocolate. And there’s a subtle hint of something exotic wafting about the place … I can’t quite put my finger on it. I want to say cinnamon and bacon. But I think that’s only because of my fondness for bacon. In actuality Muslims don’t eat pork. At any rate, cinnamon is kosher. I mean okay. And the chocolate pillow certainly can’t be argued with.
Maybe it’s because there are so many of them that they seem more beautiful. Something like sensory overload for the heart … and the nether regions. Homeboy just don’t know. He just don’t know. I’ve said it many-a-time but I’ll say it again: I am not the sharpest knife. Ain’t a person ever accused Don Sensi Play Play of that. But I got mad instincts. And when I feel that blood a-pumpin’ and that chocolate-bacon-cinnamon dream starts to wash over me, ooohh-weee: it’s like things get all noodle-ly.
The situation wasn’t any different when I first arrived here in the late 90s for a visit.
At that time troops still patrolled the streets. There were no tourists. There were three foreign-owned businesses in the country.
To make this story less like the dotted line following Billy in a “Family Circus” cartoon, that visit turned into me becoming manager of a restaurant named Texas (one of the three businesses). Again, to cut to the chase: we made mean chicken fajitas and we were the sole importer of tequila and Corona beer to the country. To get even more to the point: you really haven’t lived until you’ve invited a bevy of beautiful Bosnians – all juiced up on margaritas – to come back to the apartment and dance to Stevie Wonder.
During such an episode, I convinced one honey eating at the restaurant to join us back at the pad. That sweetie – let’s call her Wanda to protect her identity and because, come on, Wanda – was Bosnian. But, in the spirit of full disclosure, she had moved to the States during the war and had thus been more than a little corrupted. (Unfortunately for one Mr. S. Player, Bosnian culture is significantly more conservative about chicas running around with chicos.) “Aha,” I thought. “Gotcha.”
“You Haven’t Done Nothing” turned into “Reggae Woman,” which turned into “Sex Machine” (man gotta eat, lawd knows … it can’t be all Stevie). Suddenly Wanda and I found ourselves in the street. Nominally we were looking for a late-night bakery. Actually, I had my pants around my ankles in an alley behind the Old Town.
But, as is typically the case, while she was buttering my bread I was looking at her with a whole new level of respect. It was officially the first instance of my chocolate-and-bacon dream. In this one there was a duck-billed platypus. It was, if I’m not mistaken, wearing an Atlanta Braves jersey and tapping out a rhythm with its tail. Though hard to pick out at first, when I got it, it seemed so obvious: “Of course, Willie Nelson’s ‘Whiskey River.’” That realization came just as the rubber was meeting the road, so to speak. Shave and a haircut, two bits.
Son, we were drunk. I mean stinking and now sticky drunk. So much so that neither of us had a clue of how to get home. We sat down in the National Bank’s doorway and purred into each other’s ears … the purring of cats in heat plus tequila. The next thing I knew, it was morning. I knew it was morning because it was hot and really light. I also knew it because we were spooning on the doorstep as bank customers stepped over us to get into the establishment and get started with their daily business. Wingtips, high heels, pumps, and tennis shoes straddled our early-morning cuddling.
Though it likely sounds a little depressing, it wasn’t. I was invigorated. And she was cute and chirpy, even as she pulled a candy wrapper off her cheek. We made plans for that evening – the evening before she would go back to college Stateside – and I put her in a cab.
I hurried home. I took a nap. Showered. Cleaned my sheets. Went grocery and alcohol shopping. Said a prayer to the love gods. Accompanied it with a dance I like to call the “Lone Wolf.” And then I waited for her phone call.
It’s been nearly 13 years and I’m still waiting … while burning chocolate, cinnamon, bacon, and butter incense. My gods won’t let me down.
Read More The Sensitive Player:
When Ideas Have Sex (+Design)
At TEDGlobal 2010, author Matt Ridley shows how, throughout history, the engine of human progress has been the meeting and mating of ideas to make new ideas. It’s not important how clever individuals are, he says; what really matters is how smart the collective brain is. (via TED)
Recycled Gym Floors Make Their Bedroom Debut
By Ike Edeani
You thought you’d left the sweat-stained, shoe-marked floorboards of your high school gym long behind, eh? Not today. In an effort to recapture nostalgia, designer Søren Rose has introduced the Gymnasium Collection, a limited edition series of cabinets made from recycled gym floorboards, allowing your “kissing under the bleachers” memories to make an everyday appearance.
The current collection is being mass-produced, and merely borrows the graphic lines and simple silhouettes of the court. The cabinets are made using sustainable, eco-friendly materials like renewable pine and controlled Danish oak with water-based fixatives and varnishes.
The Hot Marriage – Sex, Drugs and Synth Pop Stars
By The Wife
Thursday Mission District 10:30pm
My girls have just gone home after a really lovely dinner. I made a savory tart with home made crust; we drank rosé, and laughed until we cried. I am cleaning up the detritus of my little party when I get a text from The Husband telling me that I really must come to the party he is at. You see, one of our best friends, D, is a former porn star turned porn director, and this is his company’s soirée. After a little prompting, I put on a festive, naughty party dress, and I’m out the door and on my way to the bar.
My goodness all the boys are there and they are lovely and sexy as can be! Of course, The Husband keeps getting mistaken for the talent (which he loves). One of our favorite contract porn stars J is in town from the Windy City looking as delicious as ever with his shaved head, big doe eyes, and puffy chest and arms – sigh. The mood at the party is so sexed up and fun. Everyone is there to flirt and have a grand time. It is the start of Pride weekend, and electricity fills the air. The fans are there, the boys are there, and at the bar… OMG I cannot believe my eyes I see the lead singer of my favorite synth pop band from the late 80s. Still huge in the early 90s, still pretty formidable today, this band shaped me. As a matter of fact, I loved this band so much that I wanted to name a daughter after one of their songs (until I realized said daughter would have to be either a porn star or a stripper with a name like this). I went to the bar to introduce myself to said rock god and had a nice moment with him. He was lovely and gracious and kind. The end – kind of.
Back to the party, we saw old friends and met some new ones and when the bar closed, we just weren’t ready to call it a night, so I invited a few people back to our place. As we’re leaving I see our friendly pop star on the corner and I say, “Hey, we’re going back to my place. Would you boys like to come too?” With the sweetest smile, and a look of genuine surprise, he looks and me and says, “Can I?” So, some of us pile into cars, and some of us walk the few blocks to our place. The group consists of two of the hottest, most talented drag stars in town V & H, my dear friend W, famous butch queer about town, D my evil twin/porn impresario, two new friends a girl named M and her gay daddy, an adorable drunkard called J, the pop star and his lovely friend L, and, bien sûr, The Husband and I.
Back at the pad, the cocktails are flowing and so are the lines. (In the interest of full disclosure, the pop star is clean & forgoes the powdery goodness). 
Now the social lubrication is working it’s magic, and we are all getting deep, getting loud, and going mad. Suddenly the only other real girl in the place is topless. People are making out in corners. Drag queens are getting out of face in the bathroom and conversation is reaching a fever pitch. This is a grand party.
I walk out on to the patio and topless girl is blowing D while others are smoking cigarettes and giving only the occasional glance. I’d love to watch, but there are cocktails to be filled and guests to be chatted up – most of the people have never been to our place before and hostess duties always come first. A bit later in the night, The Husband grabs me by the hand and pulls me into my dressing room. Topless girl is blowing D again and The Husband and I pop in for a look. “Why don’t you join her?” he asks. Of course, I do. I always love a go with D. After a moment or two, I set topless girl loose on The Husband, but really I can’t leave our guests for too long, so we say goodbye and wish them well.
Back to our guests with a face full of red lipstick and a knowing smile. The Husband suggests I go wash my face, but I’d rather be scandalous, so he kisses me deeply and calls me a dirty, dirty bird. Soon, all of our guests are piling into taxi after taxi. Our darling pop star stayed until the very end although his friend left hours before. He was lovely, he was naughty- but in case you figure his identity, I’ll never tell what we spoke of. I will say this though—his pants were tight and it looked like he was packin’ a Duraflame!
Read More The Hot Marriage:
Faggus Says: Wear STRIPES and KNEE SOCKS Right Now!
the 4th of july has come (for some of you cum) and gone and that means the sun is in the astrological sign of cancer and that means all the whiniest, most passive-aggressive people with major daddy issues you know are about to have a birthday. let’s celebrate the shitty lives and tiny fashion successes of our two favorite cancer fuckups: lindsay lohan and courtney love. 
some would say they are cut from the exact same cloth, but i know better. while courtney is ‘nobody’s daughter’, all babydoll dresses and dating homosexuals- lindsay is everyone’s daughter, all rebellion and lesbo obsessions. they are both degenerate drug addicts who long for the adoration and warmth that was missing when they were just wee whorey, chain-smoking, finger fucking little lasses.
courtney went from pudgy loudmouth musical idiot to pathetic CPS case with multiple failed attempts at rehab and mothering. her current look is often messy but always sexy, lots of lace and weave and pasty white cold skin. you get the feeling, looking at courtney, that she is as over her tragedy as the rest of us. lindsay thinks she is just getting started, but then so did river phoenix. lilo wears lots of black and restalyne, frequently changing her hair color while consistently dingy because of the pills and her freckles. i would love nothing more than to dip them both in bleach, put a fire hose on them, and then dip in amnonia for good measure, but the whole “sad lost girl” thing is all they’ve got. good news: they have shown us the right way to wear my favorite two trends right now: stripes and knee socks.
lindsay frequently has ashy knees because she gets her fake tanner sprayed on while she going down on samro – her poor assistant. anyway, she does knee socks right, always dark but varied lengths and texture. courtney somehow knows that stripes are all about stark contrast right now, anything else looks clowny. thank you and happy birthday losers!
ps – i hope you readers had a dandy holiday weekend filled with adderal induced starry eyes, stripes on your chests, and socks at your knees…if nothing else
Art Fag: Top 10 YUMMIEST Guy-on-Guy Film Moments
By Karley Sciortino from Slutever
Recently, while flying from Toronto to London, I watched A Single Man—that homo Tom Ford film starring Colin Firth and the hot kid from Skins. I wasn’t expecting the movie to be so sexy, but fuck… the scene where they both get naked and frolic about in the sea gave me such a massive boner, I had to cover up with the in-flight magazine. So embarrassing. This unexpectedly sexy bit of gay cinema got me thinking about other memorable boy-on-boy film moments. I’ve made a list of my personal top ten. This is the real deal. None of that quasi-gay, Brokeback Mountain Hollywood bullshit. Here they are in no particular order. I recommend you jerk-off while reading this.
1. Les Chansons D’amour (2007): Louis Garell’s Gay Sex Scene
This is a French film where Louis Garell falls in love with a chick and then she dies, after which he becomes gay and the movie starts getting good. The gay sex scene is by far the best bit. Les Chansons D’amour is actually a musical, so they randomly bust out into song during sex, which admittedly is a bit weird. But seriously, Louis Garell is so stupidly hot the cheesy singing can easily be overlooked.
2. Twilight (2008): Robert Pattinson Smashing Into Another Dude During A Vampire Baseball Game
Twilight is basically the gayest film ever made. I particularly like this moment—it just feels so real.
3. Y Tu Mama Tambien (2001): Threesome Scene
Being involved in a threesome situation with Gael Garcia Bernal and Diego Luna is my ultimate fantasy. The best part about the gay moment in this film is that you don’t expect it. You’re just casually watching, lost in their hotness, and then WHAM! They’re making out.
4. Milk (2008): The Scene Where They Eat Cake In Bed 
I’m sorry, but I think Sean Penn is super hot. Do other people? I can’t work it out. I think I’m just into people who look like birds. The scene in Milk where he and James Franco eat cake and kiss in bed is so sweet. Ugh… sometimes I seriously wish I was a gay man. Have I made that obvious enough yet?? 
5. Stupid Junkie Faggot (2006): Bunny Sucking Some Guy’s Dick 
Back when my housemate Bunny was an edgy film student he starred in the student film Stupid Junkie Faggot. You can pretty much grasp the film’s concept by the name. The best bit is when Bunny repeatedly screams, “I need some fucking heroin!” followed by him briefly attempting to suck his boyfriends flaccid dick. However, the guy is so junked-out that he fails to get hard, at which point Bunny gives up and stabs him repeatedly in the chest with a scissor. Hot!
6. Mysterious Skin (2004): Car Kiss 
Mysterious Skin is about a little boy who gets abused by his baseball coach, resulting in him developing loads of “issues.” Eventually said little boy grows up to be the kid out of Third Rock From The Sun (except super hot). Then he starts getting with his equally attractive, male childhood friend. You follow? The scene where the two boys kiss in the car always makes me wet. Eww, look at Michelle Trachtenberg’s head.
7. My Own Private Idaho (1991): The Whole Movie 
You don’t really get hotter than a gay, narcoleptic, junkie prostitute. It’s like the holy grail of hot. My Own Private Idaho is a road movie by Gus Van Sant about two male hustlers, Mike (River Phoenix) and Scott (Keanu Reeves). The whole film is masturbation material.
8. Titanic (1997): Leonardo DiCaprio Fucking A Tranny
This is way hot, but fuck those tranny’s hands are huge. Leonardo DiCaprio is so obvs gay.
9. My Beautiful Laundrette (1985): Johnny Licks Omar’s Neck 
My Beautiful Laundrette is cool because it’s a film about a gay relationship that doesn’t make homosexuality the point of the film’s conflict. This was pretty significant when it came out in the mid 80’s. Set within the Asian community in London during the Thatcher years, the love between Johnny and Omar is offered as the one thing that’s simple and good amid issues of race and class. The hottest bit is when a sweaty Johnny lick’s his lover’s neck. 
I want you 80′s Daniel Day Lewis.
10. Wild Tigers I Have Known (2006): My Heart Melts… 
Wild Tigers I Have Known tells the story of a thirteen-year boy named Logan, who enters into a gay relationship with an older boy, Rodeo. It’s more amazing and beautiful than it is sexy, but it’s still very worth seeing. Watch this trailer and tell me this isn’t already your favorite movie, even though you’ve probably never seen it.
Snapshots From a Call Girl – Steven
Steven
$1000/$2000
His house was in the hills of Pacific Heights, a part of town I don’t find myself in often. He asked me to meet him there and although I was wearing six-inch Gucci leather boots that covered my knees, I remember feeling very small as I stood in the giant doorway of his huge home. Generally, I prefer to meet men in public settings before I get to know them, however this was a recommendation from a good client who was also picking up the tab. He opened the door and led me through long hallways, directly to the bedroom.
I was surprised that a man so young could possibly own such an obviously expensive home. While walking through the hallway I noticed family portraits and began to get the feeling it was his parents’.
We entered a room I can only assume was the master suite as it was decorated much too adult for a man of his age. “Take your coat off,” he said firmly. I slowly unbelted the vintage trench I was wearing revealing nothing but the leather boots and a completely shaven new hair cut. “Get on the bed.” The bed was high and I struggled for a second to climb it landing on my back with legs spread open. This was all the invitation he needed and before I knew it his head was between my legs. “God, you taste so good.”
A shudder went through me as his tongue worked me over, slowly at first, than faster, slipping a finger inside me. His finger went deeper, expertly reaching for places he looked to young to know. As he continued to lick my newly shaven pussy, I lost myself in reflection. Occasionally, I will have to think of other scenarios to get off and since I knew this was exactly what would turn him on the most, my mind was a montage of mental images – men who’d fucked me, of men I’d sucked and fucked, men I still wanted to. I was on the verge of coming when the door opened and a man approached us. I was shocked and a little scared at first until I recognized my regular client. “You were right, dad,” said the man in between my legs. “She’s fun.” “I hope you don’t mind,” said my client settling into a blue leather arm chair. “We’ll pay double.”
Read More Snapshots From a Call Girl:
Snapshots From a Call Girl – Benny