I’ve finally managed to upload a clip on teh interwebs, so you can see for yourself (quick! before it gets deleted).

Oh, probably NSFW. Unless you work for, say, a penitentiary.

Years ago when I went to NYU for film (sssshhhhhh! Now I just tell everyone that I went to Sarah Lawrence before my FTM operation), I made a short film for an experimental video class. It featured some graphic, albeit simulated, unprotected gay sex. I was anticipating some less-than-enthused reactions from my peers (overwhelmingly straight and surprisingly conservative in some respects), but expecting support from my teacher. She was well-regarded amongst students, partly because she was continuing to direct films (she came out with a very critically lauded little film in 2006) and because she didn’t seem to be on auto-pilot like so many of the NYU professors. It was a known fact that she was good friends with some of those who helped establish New Queer Cinema, like Todd Haynes. She even told me she had worked on gay porn before.

So if I expected anyone to support my little movie, it was her. Read More!

Cute, right? The man’s got a jaw that could cut glass, and thighs that could crack walnuts. Doesn’t he look kind of wholesome? Except for the fact that, you know, those red eyes aren’t the result of a cheap camera but actually the evil that dwells within (wasn’t that a Tori Spelling Lifetime movie? No? Well, it should be). But all this just makes him more exciting, especially when you find out he’s a notorious rapist most well-known for drugging, raping and eventually murdering his wife’s younger sister. Oh, don’t worry though - his wife, Karla Homolka, was totally fine with it. (NSFW after the jump) Read More!

Forgive me, babies, for not finishing this earlier. It’s been a couple weeks now since the end of my cleanse. I’d have wrapped this up earlier, but I’ve been too busy macing people on the streets who try to jump me because I’m so goddamn skinny now. Perhaps you’d like to see some before and after photos?

Before:

See the exciting results of eating nothing for two weeks - after the jump!

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So, I know that I promised to keep you kiddies updated daily on the health of my colon, but alas, I’ve had better things to do. Like drinking a quart of salt water every morning after drinking laxative tea at night to, you know, clear my pipes.

Anyway, I’m still alive after a week of not eating anything - which is more than I was expecting. But god, if I was a corpse I’d be way skinnier. I was hoping by now I’d have lost twice the weight I’ve actually lost, but oh well. Today my boss told me I looked “skeletal” and that makes me think I’m on the right track.

Next stop:

After mainlining a standing rib roast and chasing it with 2 gallons of spiked eggnog at Christmas, I realized that perhaps I had put on a pound or two. When I unhinged my jaw to swallow a tray of pancetta-leek-goat cheese tartletts, I knew it was time to drag my FUPA to a full-length mirror. This is what I saw:

After fainting and being revived with smelling salts, I made a promise to myself: that I would lose that weight, and get my groove back. Problem is, I have no patience. I’m not waiting months to drop some weight. I want results now. So I asked myself: what would Beyonce do?

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A story by Wayne Besen from his weekly column on 365gay came to my attention about the mankind project and reminded me how all my friends are total nellie faggots. As the story notes, a main tenant of the ex-gay movement for men is reclaiming one’s masculinity (side note: how can you reclaim what was never there to begin with?).

And of course masculinity is typically associated with the athletic - because what’s more virile than donning some skimpy lycra number and rubbing bumpy parts with other sweaty, muscly men? Except maybe sneaking glances at the dangling members of your fellow rugby players in a locker room that is thick with steam and the intoxicating musk of male body odor. And your teammate next to you bends over to reach for something in his locker, exposing his pert butt cheeks and then, ultimately, his tight manhole. It’s so crowded in the locker room that you are nearly on top of him, and you casually turn, so that your now semi-erect penis ever-so-delicately brushes against his bare thigh. He stands up when he feels it and you touch his shoulder gently and say “I’m so sorry, it’s so crowded in here.” And he says “That’s okay, I understand.” And then he bends over again, looking subtly over his shoulder.

But really, I’ve stopped having sex in the gym locker room. I promise.

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Because it’s getting to be that time of year, I’m providing a helpful list of things that you can get me for Christmas. Those who do not oblige will be swiftly deleted from my Myspace and subject to years of ding-dong ditch.

You probably want to print this out.

10. CROCHET UGG BOOTS.

These are one of Oprah’s favorite things. And if I can’t be Oprah, I can at least pretend I am by feverishly obtaining all of her favorite things and wearing/using them all at once while dressed in blackface and crying out for Gayle King’s gentle embrace.

9. KOPI LUWAK COFFEE.

I’m tired of drinking coffee that I’ve had to digest entirely on my own. Which is why I’m asking for Kopi Luwak coffee, which is made from beans passed through the digestive system of civets. Who else do you know who drinks stuff that’s been shat out of a monkey? That’s what I thought, you filthy plebeians.

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Okay. Now pretend that this is not the face of someone responsible for at least 17 murders:

You’d totally go home with him, right? And up until he drugs you, drills into your frontal lobe, and eventually rapes your still-warm corpse, I bet you’d have a totally fun time. That Dahmer was such a party animal! His hobbies included molesting young Laotian boys, alcoholism, trepaning, necrophilia, and fashioning human heads into stylish soup bowls.

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Two fair-haired girls, one big, one frail. They play in the dirt with their mangled Barbies, a terrier looking on ponderously. The frail one is smoking a cigarette, her hand extended like a monkey’s paw.

“I have an idea,” the thin one says.

“Oh?” The big one is eating the dirt, her face filthy, smeared. This makes the whites of her eyes pop - they’re the size of dinner plates.

“Put your head here,” the little one says, sticking out her palm. The fat one complies. “Now hold still” the little one commands as she draws her cigarette up to the other’s face. A clod of dirt falls from the fat one’s mouth as she responds with garbled sounds. The frail girl takes a noisy inhale from the cigarette before pressing the lit end into the flesh above the fat girl’s lip. The big one moans flatly and her feet flop in the soil.

“There,” the frail one exclaims. “Now you have a beauty mark.” She steps back, licks her lips as she waits for a response from the fat girl.

The fat one’s eyes are watering but after a moment she collects herself, produces a compact from her pleated summer skirt and stares at her new burn mark in the mirror admiringly. “Like Marilyn Monroe!” she cries. “I’m Marilyn Monroe!” She stands and gallops down the hill, clutching her skirt between her thick thighs and still screaming “I’m Marilyn Monroe!”

“Where are you going?” the small one hollers, watching the big girl shrink in the distance. She coughs, spits, lights another cigarette with a book of soggy matches. Clenching the cigarette firmly between her teeth, she picks up the mangled Barbie dolls stuck in the soil. Smooshing their heads together, she makes them kiss. The frail girl leans in close with her cigarette until the heat from the end of it starts to melt the plastic faces of the Barbies, warping them into drippy, elongated knots. “Fatty,” she mutters.

I can’t be completely sure what it is, but for some reason there are more than a couple serial killers that just, well, make me all puffy down there. Maybe it’s because danger is inherently sexy. I mean, who doesn’t love knife fights and bareback meth gangbangs, right? So I’ve decided to do a little series of serial killers that can snap my bean.

Today’s, er, lady killer: Gary Heidnik

More about Garykins, after the jump! Read More!