We will refrain, for lo we are way tactful, bychez, from pointing out that the nomenclatural congruity here is somewhat … what? Ironic? Perfect? Obvious?

Well, actually, some Star Trek characters themselves function as erectile dysfunction medications, if you believe some of my friends, and I wouldn’t, particularly late on a dark and stormy Friday night. Because they’ll say anything to get you out of the house so they can get back to WoW or Battlestar Gallactica or their nightly recitation of the entire Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy (I am SO not getting invited over for Red Dwarf now, eh?).

Star Trek Character or Erectile Dysfunction Pill? Score: 60% (6 out of 10)

Um. Wow.

And I’m not even sure if that’s in a good or bad way.

No. No, I am sure.

It’s both. As in, I think when I looked at this my brain was broken into tiny pieces, but I kind of liked it. And that’s probably illegal, somewhere.

Boytaur.net.

Surprisingly few Harry Hamlins or even Harryhausens, all things considered. Pervs nowadays just have no sense of tradition!

I should explain.

After all, that’s what the blog is for: for you to come here and have bizarre things explained by me, as if they were entirely normal and if you were raincoaster, they would be, trust me. Remember, a poisonous spider bit me once and it died. We are very far indeed through the looking-glass here at the ol’ raincoaster blog, yessir.

One of the first blogs I really became addicted to was an innocent little cooperative blog called Chimera House. There were five or six posters there, and although at first it was confusing, eventually it became clear to me that all of these people lived in the same house and had schedules which never overlapped, so they were using the blog as a digital way of leaving notes on the kitchen table for one another. So far, so simple.

So you’d think.

Now, as anyone who’s ever lived with roommates knows, things can get heated, especially when one has to rely on the old note-leaving thing, and it doesn’t help when they’re posted on some server in Cupertino or wherever and getting a couple of hundred hits a day, either. Things did, indeed, get heated, heated to an extent far beyond anything Gawker or most of the civilized world‘s ever seen. Two of the posters ended up having an affair and then a nasty breakup when the girl switched to sleeping with a different roomie and leaving him heated mash notes on the blog for all to see and then deciding she might be lesbian after all, since it was “less work”. But this was as nothing compared to the drama when a clueless outsider appeared and the talk on the blog was all, should we let him post or not, and all he doesn’t know and what he doesn’t know won’t hurt him, but then ultimately it became clear to everyone that, as much as they were having a blast ragging on him in the blog, it was just not practical to have one roomie so out of the loop, so they looped him in.

And at that point the blog began to get, in the way that blogs that are microcosms of society will eventually get, a little bit of what you’d call media attention.

At which point, the blog owner made a new Page explaining that this was the blog of a person with multiple personality disorder and it was the way that all the various personalities, who obviously could not communicate face-to-face, would keep in touch. The blogger said, I am a person who is like this; some people consider it a disorder, but I’ve recognized it and learned ways to manage things so that while the situation isn’t resolving to anything approaching normalcy, it’s working for us. So the rest of you can just fuck off.

Which I thought was pretty damn sane.

Which brings us, in a roundabout way, to Boytaurs. See, Furries are one thing, and costumes are all very amusing for awhile and so on, but the thing about Boytaurism, if I may coin a term, is that it refuses to be constrained at all. You’re not zipped into some cheap fursuit that smells faintly of chemicals and strongly of the guy who sold it to you on eBay. You’re not wearing a corset you can’t wait to rip off at the end of the night. Boytaurs and their ilk exist completely online; they are avatars in the purest sense of the word. You can literally be any form you want in the boytaur universe, although you’re obviously going to be more popular if you have a face like Orlando Bloom and a body like David Beckham (with some extra legs or a tail or whatever). And you know what? You can have those things. Who needs a magic wand when you’ve got photoshop, eh? Zeta Male no more, in the universe of your own creation.

So, what is a boytaur?

boy·taur \’boi-tawr\ n 1 : a guy with four (or more) legs 2 : a guy with any of a variety of multilimb or other transformations 3 : a guy who enjoys the company of boytaurs, and is thus a boytaur in spirit

There’s something wildly, almost primally, attractive about a guy with four legs: the crowding of long, sculpted thigh muscle, the four calf muscles bobbing and working in rhythm with his four-legged walk, the four strong male feet supporting his powerful boytaur body. Boytaurs know this attraction well, and it is our constant joy, both to have and to share.

Of course, many boytaurs don’t stop with four legs. Some add more legs, going six-legged or more. Some add extra arms. And many, enjoying all their boytaur feet, decide to go wristfooted as well.

Other boytaurs have completely different transformations, or none at all, but are still boytaurs in spirit, enjoying their augmented bodies, and sharing that joy freely. boytaur.net is dedicated to helping that sharing go on across the internet, all around the world.

Brought to you via AtomicFez, the only person on the internet whose surfing habits are even stranger than mine.

The saddest thing is, of course, the likelihood that this chart represents the culminating physical pleasures of this poor Zeta Male’s life.

Yes, Rodney Scott McLagan of Hobart, Australia, hereinafter and for the rest of his natural life at the very least known as Octopus Sex Man, has been released from custody with a $1500 fine and a suspended four-month sentence for possessing 31,000 images of pony, snake, dog, tiger and octopus porn.

Said the judge:

“Without the opportunity for normal sexual relationships fantasy is often indulged. It also emerges from the report that you are particularly self-conscious about your teeth.”

It is reportedly the first case of British teeth being responsible for a shokushu goukan fetish. Still, better that than throwing him back to try to swim in the human gene pool; It’s polluted enough in those waters. The Zeta Male is (surprisingly, given his usual body composition) the very opposite of buoyant.

I suppose that’s why he likes the bottom-feeding octopus.

The Dream of the Fisherman's Wife

Operation Global Media Domination

Indeed, no sooner had I cried to the heavens with wailing and the rending of garments (well, they were slightly torn already, but surely that counts? Like, God wouldn’t be picky about placement in linear time, would he? Ya think a deity doesn’t have better things to do than fart around with continuity details? Puh-leez!) about the loss of my paid gig than the clouds parted (probably accompanied by the Red Sea, but I can’t tell from here…anybody got Google Earth?) the angels sang (NIN’s Year Zero actually; it was lovely) and the mysterious Manolo handed me a sweet and juicy gig that’s probably ultimately going to pay better, take less time, and definitely means I don’t have to read Gizmodo anymore.

It’s a scary, only-virtually hedonistic place in there, Gizmodo: the kind of Xanadu that a Zeta Male imagines is heaven…imagines from the comfort of a Barcalounger in his mom’s basement. IE his mom’s basement, but with more stuff!

Anyway, I lost a job and, true to form, I whined. I mean, if I hadn’t whined you’d have had grounds to send in a missing person’s report, as I’d obviously have been abducted and replaced with some sort of replicant. Some pray, I whine. What can I say? The payout rate is better when I do it my way.

Fun blogging to re-commence in 24 minus n hours!

Which reminds me: for some reason I thought there was an underwear hook on this post…if it re-occurs to me, I’ll make an underwear-related post to explain. Gawd knows what it was, only it had something to do with doctors and Amy Winehouse.