Boy Copy


People misjudge porn stars. Because porn stars live to fuck, so to speak, and fuck to live, people imagine they are heartless hedonists who spend their day toning their abs and having power tiffs over who gets to use the fluffer first.

This is incredibly demeaning. And only partly true…well, mostly true, but not the whole story. Porn stars put on their jockstraps one leg at a time, like everybody else. And like lesser men, they too suffer the stings and arrows of outrageous etc.

Such was the moment last Wednesday, at approximately 9:57 in the evening, when the men of Raging Stallion — whom on happier days we refer to as a stable of studs, a stampede of rambunctious ponies — came face to face with grief as they witnessed the sudden, shocking going of Chris from the American Idol stage.

Not Chris, not Chris! — the cry went up. Hunky, quarterback-chested boy-beauty Chris! He of the Justin Timberlake scalp stubble, the glittery ear studs, the athletic neck of such promising thickness!

A pall fell over the men crowded into the TV room. Each superstar sat sunk in his own private thoughts with nary a concern for how he was hanging at the moment, vaguely aware that his major manhood was modestly — but ah, not completely, never completely — concealed by a towel.

It had never been so quiet in the grand studio. All filming had come to a stop. Even the sling room issued not a groan, not a moan, not even a voiceless moue of excruciating pleasure. But then the sling room always empties for the American Idol Results show.

Instead all eyes were on Chris, who was going out in the cruel tradition of Idol: bravely singing his (alas, still tuneless) final, losing song.

And while we’d like to say a tear was shed in that room, it wasn’t. Porn stars — like Joan Crawford in The Damned Don’t Cry — have to conserve their liquid flow for the camera.

Different people handle grief differently. Stallion stars Vincenzo and Sarib immediately went back to work. Stood naked before the cameras and started shagging like rabid dogs. This was their therapy.

“You know,” Vincenzo said to Sarib as a yard of schlong slid down his throat, garbling his words a bit but — thanks to a skill learned on the job — still somewhat intelligible, “I really think Lakisha has worn out her welcome.”

“They should have axed Jordin,” grumbled Sarib and rammed Vincenzo all the harder.

You can catch every breakthrough in Vincenzo and Sarib’s joint therapy session at the Raging Stallion Theater in the Inner Circle.

We ask only that you do not judge. Simply connect.

For what man can judge another’s American Idol grief?