I’ve had a not-so-secret obsession with Damon Dogg ever since I started reviewing gay porn a little less than a year ago. I usually review two or three movies a week, but my heart always starts racing a little faster when one of Damon’s titles is on my assignment list. I know there are people who have negative feelings toward bareback porn, but movies – porn and Hollywood alike – are made with the intent to entertain. Just like Quentin Tarantino isn’t telling the general public to shoot one another by directing violent films, Damon isn’t recommending everyone go out and fuck each other bareback. He’s simply making a movie for people to whack-off  to – so whack-off I will.

Scene one of The Cumming Acockalypse features Jack Kash getting “his porn cherry popped” by Damon. There’s lots of manly kissing and nipple pinching, and you can hear the tremors in Jack’s voice as he cums in Damon’s ass. Next, Cole Hudson (Damon’s “new cum dump”) gets broken in, first by Jerry Stearns in scene two and then again by Damon himself in scene three. Scene three is actually a flip-flop fuck, but I think it’s safe to say Damon’s broken in by this point. Scene four was filmed on Halloween day and features a festive “Masked Intruder” on screen running a second camera as well as Mitch Tyler, Damon’s “trick with a treat.” Damon doesn’t fuck in scene five, but while he directs, Jesse O’Toole and Chad Brock do. They make a great pair, and I especially loved the casual conversation between them and Damon at the end.

The Cumming Acockalypse doesn’t have the shiny gloss of other studios’ films. In fact, none of Damon’s films do. But they certainly don’t have that bargain-basement, random let’s-throw-a-couple-scenes-together feel either. I mean, shit – the movie has its own original soundtrack and theme song. If you don’t like bareback porn, I can’t help you. But if you love watching real men fucking raw, then The Cumming Acockalypse is all you, baby.

3 out of 4 stars  Reviewer: J.D. Luvdacock

Director Kyle Henry and screenwriters Jessica Hedrick and Carlos Trevino have crafted an eye-opening gem of a collection. Fourplay offers up four short stories both hilarious and emotionally powerful. Each of the individual films follow seemingly ordinary characters who find themselves thrust into some very unusual sexual situations.

Skokie, the first film, sets a wildly funny tone. Marcy (Amy Jean Johnson), a mild-mannered, closeted Christian woman, is dog-sitting for her married friends Gail (Sara Sevigny) and Roger (Paul Dunckel). Gail is the secret object of Marcy’s affection, but her relationship to Gail’s puppy Myra is a bit more strained. Despite Marcy’s best efforts, the pooch treats her aggressively and insists on licking her like a piece of meat. One night, during a deep sleep, Myra crawls under the covers and inadvertently inspires some erotic and stimulating dreams. Soon, Marcy finds her affections for the dog growing.

The second short is more dramatic. Austin follows Kai (Atticus Rowe) and Lily (Danielle Rene), a thirty-something straight couple who are in a bit of a sexual dry spell. During a night out, the pair discusses whether or not they’re ready and willing to settle down and start having children. Lily is concerned that their relationship is becoming stagnant. The night takes a strange, but exciting turn when Lily passes by an adult DVD store and figures out a way to spice things up.

Tampa, the third short and most delightfully over-the-top short, will be of most interest to gay men. In this mostly dialog-free comedy, expressive newcomer Jose Villarreal plays Luis, a stocky young man with a small package who is looking for a quick fling in a public restroom. Soon, an incredibly raunchy gay orgy ensues! Sadly, though, none of the horny participants want to let Luis in on the fun. Luckily, Luis is able to let his imagination take over and he soon finds himself in the throes of a weirdly religious sexual awakening.

Finally, in what might be the most shocking, yet profoundly moving entry, a cross-dressing prostitute named Aliya (Paul Soileau) arrives at the upscale home of her latest client: an elderly quadriplegic named Tom (Gary Chason). Tom can only communicate by blinking his eyes. Though initially nervous, Aliya decides to give the situation all of her energy and show Tom the best night of his sex life. In the process, she ends up enjoying the encounter just as much as he does. This one is particularly intense, which makes its many heartfelt and humorous moments all the more satisfying.

The cast, made up of refreshingly realistic actors, is universally excellent. Paul Soileau and Amy Jean Johnson are particularly memorable. In challenging, frequently unglamorous roles, they manage to make sure that their characters are consistently sympathetic. Director Kyle Henry, too, is someone to keep an eye on. The shorts are executed perfectly with engrossing cinematography and colorful set design. He gives each of them their own tone and personality while maintaining his own directorial style.

Fourplay handles a wide variety of extremely taboo subjects with sensitivity. The film follows people who either have or develop strange sexual habits, but never judges them. In the hands of a lesser filmmaker, some of these segments could have been exploited for the sake of quick, easy laughs, but Kyle Henry, Jessica Hedrick and Carlos Trevino have great respect for their characters – and it shows in every scene. The film aims to, in Kyle Henry’s own words, “provide understanding for characters participating in sexual acts that might otherwise be considered deviant and to depict sex acts as potentially cathartic moments in our lives as human beings.” It succeeds with aplomb. We can’t recommend Fourplay more highly. It’s even better with repeated viewings.

Fourplay is coming to DVD and VOD on May 14th. You can pre-order your copy now at TLAgay.com!

“I’m a 34-year-old NBA center. I’m black. And I’m gay.

I didn’t set out to be the first openly gay athlete playing in a major American team sport. But since I am, I’m happy to start the conversation. I wish I wasn’t the kid in the classroom raising his hand and saying, “I’m different.” If I had my way, someone else would have already done this. Nobody has, which is why I’m raising my hand.

My journey of self-discovery and self-acknowledgement began in my hometown of Los Angeles and has taken me through two state high school championships, the NCAA Final Four and the Elite Eight, and nine playoffs in 12 NBA seasons.

I’ve played for six pro teams and have appeared in two NBA Finals. Ever heard of a parlor game called Three Degrees of Jason Collins? If you’re in the league, and I haven’t been your teammate, I surely have been one of your teammates’ teammates. Or one of your teammates’ teammates’ teammates.

Now I’m a free agent, literally and figuratively. I’ve reached that enviable state in life in which I can do pretty much what I want. And what I want is to continue to play basketball. I still love the game, and I still have something to offer. My coaches and teammates recognize that. At the same time, I want to be genuine and authentic and truthful.

Why am I coming out now? Well, I started thinking about this in 2011 during the NBA player lockout. I’m a creature of routine. When the regular season ends I immediately dedicate myself to getting game ready for the opener of the next campaign in the fall. But the lockout wreaked havoc on my habits and forced me to confront who I really am and what I really want. With the season delayed, I trained and worked out. But I lacked the distraction that basketball had always provided.

The first relative I came out to was my aunt Teri, a superior court judge in San Francisco. Her reaction surprised me. “I’ve known you were gay for years,” she said. From that moment on I was comfortable in my own skin. In her presence I ignored my censor button for the first time. She gave me support. The relief I felt was a sweet release. Imagine you’re in the oven, baking. Some of us know and accept our sexuality right away and some need more time to cook. I should know — I baked for 33 years.

When I was younger I dated women. I even got engaged. I thought I had to live a certain way. I thought I needed to marry a woman and raise kids with her. I kept telling myself the sky was red, but I always knew it was blue.

I realized I needed to go public when Joe Kennedy, my old roommate at Stanford and now a Massachusetts congressman, told me he had just marched in Boston’s 2012 Gay Pride Parade. I’m seldom jealous of others, but hearing what Joe had done filled me with envy. I was proud of him for participating but angry that as a closeted gay man I couldn’t even cheer my straight friend on as a spectator. If I’d been questioned, I would have concocted half truths. What a shame to have to lie at a celebration of pride. I want to do the right thing and not hide anymore. I want to march for tolerance, acceptance and understanding. I want to take a stand and say, “Me, too.”

The recent Boston Marathon bombing reinforced the notion that I shouldn’t wait for the circumstances of my coming out to be perfect. Things can change in an instant, so why not live truthfully? When I told Joe a few weeks ago that I was gay, he was grateful that I trusted him. He asked me to join him in 2013. We’ll be marching on June 8.

No one wants to live in fear. I’ve always been scared of saying the wrong thing. I don’t sleep well. I never have. But each time I tell another person, I feel stronger and sleep a little more soundly. It takes an enormous amount of energy to guard such a big secret. I’ve endured years of misery and gone to enormous lengths to live a lie. I was certain that my world would fall apart if anyone knew. And yet when I acknowledged my sexuality I felt whole for the first time. I still had the same sense of humor, I still had the same mannerisms and my friends still had my back.

Believe it or not, my family has had bigger shocks. Strange as it seems today, my parents expected only one child in 1978. Me. When I came out (for the first time) the doctors congratulated my mother on her healthy, seven-pound, one-ounce baby boy. “Wait!” said a nurse. “Here comes another one!” The other one, who arrived eight minutes later and three ounces heavier, was Jarron. He’s followed me ever since, to Stanford and to the NBA, and as the ever-so-slightly older brother I’ve looked out for him.

I had a happy childhood in the suburbs of L.A. My parents instilled in us an appreciation of history, art and, most important, Motown. Jarron and I weren’t allowed to listen to rap until we were 12. After our birthday I dashed to Target and bought DJ Quik’s album Quik Is the Name. I memorized every line. It was around this time that I began noticing subtle differences between Jarron and me. Our twinness was no longer synchronized. I couldn’t identify with his attraction to girls.

I feel blessed that I recognized my own attractions. Though I resisted my impulses through high school, I knew that when I was ready I had someone to turn to: my uncle Mark in New York. I knew we could talk without judgment, and we did last summer. Uncle Mark is gay. He and his partner have been in a stable relationship forever. For a confused young boy, I can think of no better role model of love and compassion.

I didn’t come out to my brother until last summer. His reaction to my breakfast revelation was radically different from Aunt Teri’s. He was downright astounded. He never suspected. So much for twin telepathy. But by dinner that night, he was full of brotherly love. For the first time in our lives, he wanted to step in and protect me…”

There are two things in life that I love: gay porn and rock-n-roll. So when Falcon Studios’s Rock Star! came across my desk, I snatched it up like it was an expensive piece of jewelry on the set of a shitty movie and I was Lindsay Lohan. To be honest, I pretty much do the same thing with every film in which Paddy O’Brian has a scene, but I would’ve been just as excited had he not be on the cover with a DaBella guitar in hand and his fat cock standing erect. Luckily, Rock Star! lived up to my expectations.

Paddy, of course, plays the rock star himself, and Colby Chambers and Alex Graham have their hands full with him as his manager and promoter respectively. In the first scene, however, their hands are full of each other’s dicks. After sucking each other off in Alex’s office, they move to the couch where Colby gets slammed and Alex gets covered in cum. Scene two features Ray Diaz and Jimmy Durano blowing off some life-on-the-road steam poolside, while scene three focuses on Paddy’s bodyguards, Sebastian Rossi and Cal Skye. Cal takes Sebastian’s cock balls deep, with both his mouth and his ass, but while they’re busy getting hot and heavy, an uninvited guest sneaks into Paddy’s home. Joey Cooper finds Paddy in the living room and strips down in order to entice the “straight” stud. Paddy gives in – it doesn’t take much – and before you know it, Joey is on that dick like white on rice. Paddy fucks him hard, working up one hell of a sweat, and then something legendary happens: he eats his ass. Paddy has never tongued a guy’s hole on film before, but that doesn’t stop him from going all out. The whole scene is rather glorious.

Rock Star! is a fun movie. It’s not the most inventive piece of film I’ve ever seen, but it’s good and the hook-ups are hot. Though I’ve seen him in other films, Cal Skye really caught my eye this time. He’s a handsome specimen and a nice addition to an already beautiful cast, but – as always – Paddy is the star. If he ever goes on tour, you can bet your bippy I’ll be there with my groupie cap on, praying he picks me out of the audience for a backstage rendezvous. Joey Cooper ain’t got nothin’ on J.D.

3.5 out of 4 stars  Reviewer: J.D. Luvdacock

The old adage, “one tenth of all men are gay,” seems to be one hell of an undershot, at least when it comes to Hollywood in the 40s, 50s, and 60s, according to gas station attendant-turned-trick and pimp Scotty Bowers. In his autobiographical Full Service, Bowers recounts tale after tale of himself (and others) tricking the bejesus out of Hollywood’s biggest actors and actresses – and as it turns out, Rock Hudson wasn’t the only closet case. Also a little limp in the wrist (at least when the cameras weren’t rolling) were Walter Pidgeon, Cole Porter, George Cukor, Cary Grant, Randolph Scott, Vincent Price, Spencer Tracy, Noel Coward, Steve Reeves, Tyrone Power, Raymond Burr and even J. Edgar Hoover and King Edward VIII (the one who abdicated his throne to marry Wallis Simpson, who – according to Bowers – also had a thing for the same sex) among others. Bowers even goes as far as stating that British actor Charles Laughton was quite fond of not washing and allowing massive amounts of smegma to build up beneath his very large foreskin. (For those of you not in the “know,” smegma is a creamy-chalky white substance made up of “exfoliated [shed] epithelial cells, transudated skin oils, and moisture.”) I won’t spoil the surprise, but there’s another Laughton-related gross-out awaiting you somewhere around page 200.

Full Service is a fun read, especially if you’re familiar with Hollywood’s Golden Age and know each one of the names Bowers drops. For a guy in his late 20s, I found myself Wikipedia-ing a bunch of people as I read, but some names were so big that it simply wasn’t necessary. If you’re alive and claim you haven’t heard the names Katharine Hepburn and James Dean before, well… I can only assume you’re just forgetful, because you have – I’m sure of it. Lucky for us, however, Bowers seems to remember his entire life and with the help of co-author Lionel Friedberg, he re-tells it beautifully. Each chapter is more enticing than the next and by the end you’ll be fully satisfied – not unlike the lot Scotty’s “customers.”

3.5 out of 4 stars  Reviewer: J.D. McRead

As far as big league gay porn studios go, Naked Sword is in a class all its own. With mr. Pam once again taking directorial reigns, Truck is another fine production from a studio that isn’t too fond of the standard “three fucks and done” protocol followed by their competitors (okay, some studios throw in a bonus fourth scene). Instead, Naked Sword likes to have a little back story – not always a full-on plot, but certainly a little more substance than your average dick flick; a bit of foreskin to chew on in a world of circumcisions.

Truck is a gay bar in San Francisco – a real life watering hole for those a little limp in the wrist – and just like any other facility in which gay men congregate and consume alcohol (and possibly other intoxicants), sometimes things get down and dirty. Truck’s owner, Paul Miller, shares with the viewer the bar’s hottest and wildest stories and leaves it up to a cast of professionals to act it all out. Christian Wilde and Jake Genesis hook-up before the doors officially open for the day (the film’s single best moment is when Jake takes Christian’s entire load in his mouth), Conner Habib and Mitch Vaughn take part in a beer pong game gone awry, Brayden Forrester shows Tate Ryder some good old American hospitality, and Randall O’Reilly gets an unofficial invitation to the bar’s “speakeasy” night in the form of Christian Wilde’s cock.

The whole “based on a true story” premise serves this movie well. Truck is hot, steamy, and full of gorgeous men – not unlike the bar itself. Leave your inhibitions at the door, grab a drink and get ready to get-off: Truck is coming for you, and cumming hard.

4 out of 4 stars  Reviewer: J.D. Luvdacock

It’s been a long time since a gay porn movie with this heavy a plot has come across my desk. In fact, unless you’re talking parodies, porn films in general with as many theatrical elements as His Mother’s Lover has are a veritable rarity; a needle-in-a-haystack if you will (even if that haystack is cum-covered and moans a lot). But that alone isn’t what makes this film good – yes, there’s plot, but the actors all put in amazing performances (acting and fucking don’t always go hand-in-hand), the director hits the mark, and it’s shot beautifully as well. If it weren’t for all the cock-sucking and ass-fucking, it wouldn’t surprise me one bit to see His Mother’s Lover on a list of contenders at the Sundance Film Festival.

Chase Austin plays Robert, a teen who’s caught getting it on with another male student (Travis Irons) at his private boarding school. After being flogged by the Headmaster and given a suspension of no less than four weeks, Robert heads home to his mother (Magdalene St. Michaels) and her new fiancé, Daniel (Boston Miles). Right away Daniel and Robert eye each other up and, as you can infer from the title alone, things heat up quickly. But it’s not all about the sex, a number of bombs are about to be dropped and hence I will spoil the plot no more.

Take your time with His Mother’s Lover. Since it’s a bit lengthy, you won’t really have a choice, but my point is that this is not solely a jerk-off film. Of course it’s fine to rub one (or two, or three) out, but stick around for the rest of the film once you’ve cleaned off your tummy – this one’s not to be missed.

3.5 out of 4 stars  Reviewer: J.D. Luvdacock

Puckered little buttholes
Leather everywhere
Men that can say “fuck me”
With just a piercing stare

Chains and masks and dildos
Harnesses galore
The Dom released by Hot House
Has got it all in store

Mr. Franco “Gloves” Ferrari
Knows how to own an ass
J.R. Bronson takes it
Like college kids take class

James Ryder is one sexy dog
Trenton’s got him leashed
Their combo made me feel as high
As that time I smoked hashish

Next we get a threesome:
Derek, Jake, and Tate
So many fucking muscles
I barely can see straight

Mitch Vaughn’s a fan of gagging
On Jimmy D.’s fat cock
He also likes it up the butt
So deep, you’ll be in shock

Franco’s back for the final scene
But this time he’s the sub
He eats Jordano’s handsome prick
Like fat kids eat their grub

When it’s finally over
Your shaft might need a rest
The Dom might go and wear you out
But consider yourself blessed

4 out of 4 stars  Reviewer: The Porny Poet

To be completely honest, Cum Pig Men titles weren’t always at the top of my list of must-see gay porn. No one loves a little raunch more than me, and while there was certainly plenty of that in past Cum Pig titles, they were also often peppered with men who were less than attractive, less than erect, and more than a little fucked up. However, that trend began to change with Blast Your Spunk – a film I was lucky enough to review a few weeks back. At first I thought it might have been a fluke, but then Suck Swallow Repeat fell into my lap. I’m very pleased to report that things seem to be on the up and up over at Cum Pig Men, because director Leo Greco and producers Scott Morris and Gord Reece have put together another fine all-oral, cum-swallowing flick.

This time around our cock-sucker extraordinaire is the handsome and wide-throated Evan Hart. Once again we’re in sunny Ft. Lauderdale, and if I have one major complaint about Suck Swallow Repeat, it’s that it was filmed at the exact same location as Blast Your Spunk. To the untrained eye, it could pass as the same film. But that’s not to say the action isn’t hot, because it certainly is. Evan makes his way through the “clothing optional gay guest house,” sucking each and every dick he comes across, including those belonging to Rylan Matthews, Landon Stone, Jacques Luvire, Blake Savage, Jacobey London and Antonio Kava, among others.

Following standard Cum Pig Men protocol, the cast is all light skinned – mainly white with a few men of Hispanic descent here and there – and much of the action takes place poolside or at least outdoors. But the cocks are sizeable, the cumshots look tasty as all hell, and there’s not a single guy who looks like he might’ve just came back from meeting up with his meth dealer. Good times, good film. Luvdacock approved.

3 out of 4 stars  Review: J.D. Luvdacock

Our internet-obsessed society was once less technologically inclined; a date was often procured by meeting someone face-to-face beforehand; apps like Grindr and their GPS tracking of the nearest piece of ass didn’t exist; and your best bet for a one night stand or almost-in-public quickie was at your local bar or club, where dozens – if not hundreds – of other men gathered with the same thing in mind. Tom Cardamone remembers those days well, and his novella, the aptly-titled Pacific Rimming about a man sexually-obsessed with fucking Asian guys, is the proof in writing.

A tougher read than its 77 pages of text might suggest, Pacific Rimming conjures both incredibly beautiful and disturbingly real images laced with rampant drug use, over-indulgent drinking and wanton sex at every turn. There’s no mention of DOMA or the fight for marriage equality, no speculation on the future of gays in politics, the military, or professional sports. What you get is essentially one year in the very obsessed and very addicted life of an unnamed main character/narrator. Night after night he hits the town, meeting up with his friend Cricket to score some blow from their dealer (a woman using the street moniker Hard Honey), drinking ‘til he can barely stand, and inevitably hooking up with a boy of Asian descent who may or may not be aware of our narrator’s penchant for taking men of his particular flavor home. His relationships scarcely last through the night, with an exception here or there lasting a few days or a week, depending on the boy’s flight back home.

There’s no mysterious, underlying plot to discover, no rising/climax/falling/resolution mess to bother with. You don’t get a lot of background information and there’s a hundred different places the story could go once we’re done reading it, but there’s something in Pacific Rimming that everyone can relate to, especially gay men – young or old, black or white, Asian-obsessed or open to all kinds. We all know what it’s like to feel lonely; we’ve all felt that emptiness inside and searched for a way to fill it up, if only temporarily. Pacific Rimming is a story of lust, desire, obsession and need, but it’s mostly a story about the craziness that those feelings can lead us to.

3 out of 4 stars  Reviewer: J.D. McRead