If the Male Unspeakable Region ...
... is the last frontier, I venture that we gay men are the last pioneers. Go West, young man! Civilization follows in your dust!
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Essence of Eduardo
Eduardo (not is real name) consists of the following: shiny jet-black hair, "telenovela" good looks; radiant smile; and the most pronounced and perfect V-shaped torso I have ever encountered. He flashes those perfect white teeth and smiles often, in a way that is genuine and disarming. He's compact; well-tanned; very developed musculature; beefy arms; nicely shaped ass.
Events:
Although we had hooked up online a couple of times, our attachment didn't kick into high gear until we had seen each other in public: after a party we both attended, he texted me and told me that when he saw me he wanted to get down on his knees right then and there.
At a pool party later that summer, I was drinking rum, dipping my legs in and sniffing out the men without much anticipation. One of the hosts referred to me "Mr. Body Beautiful," a rather silly and antiquated phrase, but fortifying to my vanity nonetheless.
As soon as Eduardo showed up I was struck by how attractive he looked to me, especially compared to the other guys at the party whom I had been cruising. We waved to each other; after a while I sneaked up on him to test the waters. He acted warm and friendly and interested. After an appropriate amount of flirting and casualness, I made my move. We agreed to meet a little later at my place.
I let down the blackout curtains in my little "testosterone room," put some porn on the video projector, supplied the requisite alcohol, etc. I think it's possible our session lasted a good twelve hours.
Eduardo carries within himself the easy beach life of Mazatlan, where he grew up, and thus is well-suited for life in San Diego. He is smaller than I, and submissive sexually, which means that my role becomes alternately to play the dominant, all-powerful father, and the loving seducer, with the tenderest of manly kisses and caresses. With Eduardo, I realize how much like my heterosexual brother I am, insofar as both of us are wired to receive "unconditional blow jobs" (my brother's term). I really think Eduardo could blow me for days, weeks, maybe even months, without tiring.
Essence of Man
There is a scene in Barbarella where the heroine stumbles upon what looks like an opium den ranged about an enormous glass globe filled with water. Inside the globe, a half-naked man is submerged and swimming about. He doesn't look particularly as though he wants to escape; he simply swims and cavorts, as though he were a fish accustomed to life in an aquarium.
Soon we notice that the globe is like a giant hookah with long pipes attached. A beautiful, glassy-eyed woman lounging on some cushions passes one of the hookah pipes to Barbarella.
"What is it?" she asks.
In a throaty, sexy voice, the woman answers, "Essence of Man."
I mention this because, when I think about the various men who form my harem-go-round, an ever-shifting carrousel of uncertainties, delights and surprises, I have this desire to figure out what the essence of each one is; to distill my experiences with them to something simple, rich and pure.
It's Not Binge Drinking ...
... it's "self-medication."
On Firing One's Friends
At a certain point in my life, it occurred to me that I had a tendency to attract "complicated" (i.e., neurotic) friends with lots of "problems." I've been told a number of times that friends feel comfortable telling me intimate details of their lives because I'm nonjudgmental and they feel they can trust me to be discreet. I'm an attentive and empathetic listener, and I do my best to offer objective and useful insights. Presumably these relationships were therapeutic for the friends, and I derived some sort of stimulation out of them, and perhaps a false feeling of being wise and stable.
Likely these embroilments also served as a distraction from working on my own "stuff," and particularly, my depression. My self-esteem was such that I didn't really feel that what was going on in my life was that important, anyway.
I clung to some of these friendships out of vanity also, because I felt less attractive, less plugged-in socially, less affluent (two of them had trust funds and didn't work), so that I believed that being seen out and about with these people lifted my social standing.
At the same time, I also began to realize that these friendships were quite emotionally draining for me, and I began to resent the fact that they were so one-sided. I always had my own "problems," but no one seemed interested in hearing about them. There were cursory attempts on the part of friends to inquire about my state of mind - no one could accuse them of impoliteness. But it always seemed to take an enormous effort on the other's part to halt the stream of suffering long enough to give some attention to my little trickle of feelings.
Essentially I was acting as an unpaid and exceedingly sympathetic talk therapist, with only one or two clients, on-call 24 hours a day.
So it took a great deal of courage on my part to say, as it were: ENOUGH! STOP THE MADNESS! Since I'm a writer I did it in writing. Below are two real examples which you may use as templates if you find yourself in a similar situation. Keep in mind, however, that in both cases it converted the relationshits [sic] from "intimate friends" to "forced-smile passing acquaintances."
Letter No. 1
You know, I'm not sure how to tell you this without offending you, but it seems like almost all of our conversations lately consist of your kvetching about how horrible your life is or your obsessing about the latest guy who is apparently not interested in you. It's like a recurring script, and I guess you're simply not aware of it; otherwise, you would realize how incredibly boring and repetitive it can get. It's getting to the point where I don't want to take your calls. It makes me want to complain as well, and I just don't want to be like that, I don't want or need to hear it. It is neither enjoyable nor constructive. If you really need to unload that sort of thing, I'm sure you can find others who are more than willing to listen. I mean that, I'm not trying to be flippant.
The conversations I like best are when we laugh about something or talk about how strange people are or talk about artistic or intellectual things. One of the things I like about you is that I feel you are a genuinely goodhearted, generous and intelligent person and those are few and far between. But there is an undercurrent of negativity and obsessiveness that can be very offputting.
I was torn between trying to communicate this to you and thereby risk offending you, or simply phasing you out as a friend without giving any reason. I hope you understand the fact that I'm trying to communicate means that I do care and would like to salvage the friendship.
Letter No. 2
Dear T-----,
In writing this, I don’t want to beat you up or kick you when you’re down, but I have to point out to you that I found it insulting that you would flag me down in the supermarket in order to unload your personal problems, after having ignored my phone calls over a three month period. As much as I like you, I’m afraid I have too much pride to overlook that kind of abuse.
In the past when I was experiencing deep emotional pain and depression, I sought out a therapist, and found it to be very helpful. You scoff at that idea, and yet what you don’t seem to realize is that it is draining, and eventually tiresome and abusive, to be continually on the receiving end of that. That’s one of the reasons people get paid to do it. It strikes me as arrogant to think that there is no professional around smart enough or sympathetic enough to be able to understand and help you. In any case, at this point I would no longer feel comfortable providing that service to you.
I think it would be better if we waited a while till both of us are in a better frame of mind before trying to resume our friendship. (Assuming you still want to – I know you have your pride, too.) Whatever happens, I do wish you well with all my heart, and you may rest easy that I have never and will never say a word against you to anyone; nor will I betray any of your past confidences.
L
Enfolding Barbarella
Around midnight one night I set up the video projector and 5-foot screen on the balcony and watched Barbarella. This time, I had composed my own soundtrack on the computer: Dionne Warwick (“Walk on by”; “Alfie”; “Theme from Valley of the Dolls”), some Vicki Carr, and other sixties-influenced or psychedelic music; and listened to it on the wireless headphones (out of consideration for my neighbors).
At certain moments I fell in love with Jane Fonda – the lurid costumes could not detract from the bright innocence radiating from her eyes, set in iridescent mascara reminiscent of a peacock feather; and I wanted to enfold her in my arms and carry her off the way the blind angel Pygar does. There is after all nothing lovelier than enfolding or being enfolded tenderly. The passive and active voices of the verb “to enfold” are misleading, in my opinion: “to enfold” and “to be enfolded" are really one gesture.
Some Thoughts on Gay Marriage
Like most people who care about gay rights and the well-being of gay people, I've been following the news and events of the past week. My initial reaction to the news of the California Supreme Court decision was: Congratulations, gay marriage advocates: just in time to lose another presidential election to a Republican. Why are we pouring so many of our resources into something that affects so few of us?, I thought resentfully. Why THIS issue which is so politically confrontational and incendiary? And isn't marriage as a convention a step backward in terms of the development of human relationships? Isn't it just a servile attempt to conform to a stereotype in order to be more acceptable to people who despise us?
But when I actually spent some time thinking about it in strategic terms, I realized, well, of course: the issue is so obviously on its face a matter of civil rights and equality; it has a strong magnetic pull in terms of a general notion of "fairness"; and, besides that, it's bound to have a certain sentimental appeal to the general public (after all, who could get incensed at the idea of Ellen and Portia tying the knot?).
And it appears that this has come about at a particularly favorable time, when there is evidence of a sea change in public opinion about gays. Even to many of those to whom the idea seems distasteful, there must be a sense of: Well, hell, let them do it, who cares - as long as I don't have to watch them kiss and slobber all over each other.
To contradict a Sinatra song, marriage, it seems, IS an institute you can disparage; but it obviously does work for a lot of people. And while most of us have come in contact with toxic marriages, we are also likely to know married people who do have a beautiful, nurturing and lasting relationship which could serve as a model for others.
When a close friend told me many years ago that he was thinking about proposing to his longtime girlfriend, I said: "Why ruin a perfectly good relationship?" I was only being half-facetious, and as it turned out, I wound up serving as best man at his wedding, which, oddly enough, was also the first wedding I had ever attended.
The experience was heartbreakingly beautiful, and the rapturous and poignant emotions I felt at different times before, during and after the ceremony absolutely blew me away. Rapturous because I loved the two of them so much and realized what an incredibly powerful and courageous step they were taking; poignant because my lover had died of AIDS a few years before, and, despite the assurances of friends and family, in my heart I believed I would never again have the opportunity to fall so deeply in love.
In recent years I seem to have had spectacularly bad luck when it comes to dating and making connections with men (don't worry, I've beaten it to death with my therapist), and so I have become pretty much resigned to being a bachelor for the rest of my life. But now this gay marriage thing comes along and, to my surprise, I feel almost physically different.
In fact, on that first day when marriages became legal in California, I thought, wow, I can actually get married right here in my own city. Before that, I think I hadn't quite realized the extent to which NOT being able to marry confirmed a longstanding and deep-rooted feeling of being "less-than." It's a subtle thing that all the self-affirmation and therapy in the world can't quite erase.
And so all these conflicting emotions come to the surface, making me feel alternately elated and depressed. There's a silly, playful part of me that's saying: I want to get married NOW! Let's go, next halfway decent man who comes along! I can't wait for all this dating and courtship bullshit. But the adult in me (who, I admit, has scarcely any sway over my conduct anymore), is saying: Calm down, just keep the idea tucked away in the back of your mind. And, in the meantime, celebrate and enjoy vicariously the joys (and follies) of those lucky enough to go for the gold ... or the platinum, as the case may be.
The important thing is not, WILL I ever marry, but I CAN marry - if I choose to and if it feels right. That in itself is a beautiful thing.
[Photo of the author making drunken-best-man speech at friends' wedding.]
Springtime in San Sargasso
Today is Sunday, May 18. I make note of this so that perhaps in coming years I will remember to set aside time for this day, or days like it, as though it were a secret holiday for me only.
I awoke at about 7 am, which is rare for me (I usually wake up at 9), in the studio apartment downstairs which I've lately annexed as part of my living space. I have a mild hangover; it's been an intense weekend of revelry, voracious all-night lovemaking (with the big strapping guy who takes care of horses for a living) and cathartic laughter (treated Devon and myself to Margaret Cho performance at Viejas last night). I have been relishing the particular stillness and solitude of the early hour. It feels like a perfect time on a perfect day, where the quietness, the birds, the explosion of floral colors and the delicious war of pollen and fragrances force themselves to one's attention, as if to say, I am Spring (masquerading as Summer); I am erupting; I am proliferating; I am ramifying before your eyes; how can you overlook my grandeur?
I have of course been here, in this city (which I have lovingly nicknamed San Sargasso), in this neighborhood, in this house, on days like this before; but since I'm aware that I'm a different person (or, more accurately, a different collection of cells; memories; energy; perceptual filters), I try to pay minute attention to the world and how it falls into me now: miniature scarlet carnations against a white lattice; a hummingbird sharply changing direction; the dying moan of a small plane landing; the soft air that seems to dally in this time of coolness before the advent of the harsh heat of the day. I try to give my attention to the world as it occurs and filters through me, as though my being here, my witnessing of it, were of acute importance; an attentiveness free of anxiousness; a gentleness, like the rivulet of breeze that caressed the cup of a white hibiscus flower I paused to admire earlier on my walk to the coffeehouse.
Again an idea came to mind which I don't think I've ever written down: whereas at times I want to feel disgusted with my self-indulgence; ashamed and undeserving of the excessive, artificial richness and luxury of life that surrounds me, in contrast to the vast misery in other parts of the world (100,000 dead in Myanmar and millions in dire need of food, housing and medicine); there are times like today when I feel as though one has a duty to be and to live inconsequently (though not unconsciously) like butterflies; we may not deserve all of this, but if we are humble, kind, generous and attentive, if at least some few people in the world are free of suffering and arrogance for a time, and working out what it is possible to experience, process and create under such circumstances, then perhaps we are doing all that is required of us.
Perhaps there is a secret beauty and nobility even to my weekend debauchery. We gay men may not produce children with each other (at least not yet), but we do love and care for each other sometimes; and some of us act out and embody a certain wild freedom which I believe is emblematic and encouraging for others who perhaps are not so carefree (at least not yet).
(Just now, as I was polishing this piece of writing, a small orange butterfly alighted among the red carnations. As it turned in profile and fanned its wings, the sun's reflection revealed an iridescent silver and black on the underside, like a coy little offering of treasure ...)
The Joy of Gay Sex Rap, Or: Can Four Straight College Dudes Make Gay Sex Cool?
Browsing on Facebook one day, I noticed a bulletin saying “Gay Sex” was popular in San Diego. I did a double take and, echoing Kyle’s mom on South Park, said, “WHAT, WHAT, WHAATTT?”
There wasn’t much to go on in the Facebook profile, so I jumped to their myspace page (http://www.myspace.com/gaysexrap ). The group describe themselves as follows:
we be the realest gayest homies on the bl0ck of the 6*1*9. just four homies from the hood tryin to keep it real. gay.
And their motto is: Pink aint the new black——Gay Sex is.
Their stage names (or GAY.K.A.’s as they call them):
(_)_) Gay Oral lllllllllllllllllllllllD
(_)_) Anal Assassin llllllllllllllllD
(_)_) llD Cpt Cock Suck
(_)_) Head Pocket lllllllllllllllllD
I thought the names were pretty funny (especially the ninja-like “Anal Assassin”), and it took me a while to notice the typographical dicks and balls. Poor Captain Cock Suck appeared to be underendowed; however, when you listen to “Betta Watch Yo Man” you realize he has no shame about his size and in fact seems almost aggressive about it:
My noodle is standard size for a poodle
Toodles, bitch I’ll slap your dick up
Fucked up tango
My dick is called “Bojangles”
That “Bojangles” bit conjured up a miniature Sammy Davis Jr. flashing a goldtooth smile and doing a softshoe in someone's pants - brilliant!
As I listened to their music, I found myself laughing out loud at their raunchy, witty lyrics and admiring the raw and spirited quality of the music:
I’ll fuck you in yo butt
Until I bust that nut
I’ma jizz in yo eye
I fuckin hate pie ...
I love it in my hole
I’d be rich if my ass had a toll
I’m feeling like some sake
Just give me a bukkake
I’m gay, I’m really fuckin gay
Their myspace photos were amusing as well, and they reminded me of the intentionally goofy, madcap, carefree quality of the band in the 60s TV show, The Monkees. But at the same time, I puzzled over whether they were in fact gay or just goofing in the way my straight friends at Dartmouth used to talk constantly about “bufu” (buttfucking) and rib each other about how so-and-so sucked so-and-so’s dick the night before.
So I sent a message to Gay Sex Rap on myspace, and here’s what they had to say:
Hey thanks a lot man. To be honest we aren't really gay. We are as you said just goofing BUT we do it not just for the laughs. We don't like that homosexuality is such a taboo subject. We think homosexuals and heterosexuals are pretty much the same. They just have different sexual preferences sooo we are just trying to make it a little less taboo. And once again thanks for complementing us on the humor and we do all the music ourselves on our computer using garage band and a internal mic. We just started our video and hopefully it will be coming soon. Also we have 2 new songs we are working on. Thanks for the support.
LOVE,
GAY SEX
Now, how cool is that?
My theory on why most straight men get so freaked out by gays is that all of them have had "gay" thoughts flash through their minds - even if just for a millisecond, and they are afraid that if they don't act aggressively antigay they may be perceived as gay themselves. It seems to me that the upbeat energy and hip point of view of Gay Sex Rap is exactly the kind of thing that can defuse that uptightness. Gay Sex Rap's “so what” attitude is 100mph beyond that, and gives one hope for homophobia-free generations to come.
The songs of Gay Sex Rap are at once an in-your-face celebration of gay sex and an over-the-top, tongue-in-cheek lampoon of rapper attitudes and gay stereotypes. Paradoxically, the songs seem directed to a straight audience, as if to say, we’re not really gay, and you know we’re not really gay, but we’re going to throw gay sexuality in your face so aggressively that it’s going to shock you and ultimately make you laugh at the preposterousness and cleverness of what we’re doing. But at the same time I have a feeling it will be lapped up by the (probably younger) gays who "get it."
Time will tell. In the meantime, color me the number one Gay Sex Rap evangelist …
I, Neologista
Ever since reading Roland Barthes in college, I have wanted to be a logothete. That's someone who invents his own supercool idiosyncratic language (like the Marquis de Sade or the utopian socialist Charles Fourier). But I have to resign myself to being a neologista. That's a word I just made up that means: someone who makes up somewhat witty, yet inconsequential, neologisms. So, here we go:
antigargoyle: in the context of parties or in nightclubs, someone who's all about counteracting or neutralizing the scowling and posturing of the self-hating, attitude radiators (aka "gargoyles") who have absolutely nothing to add to the ambience and suck out all joy and liveliness within a 25-mile radius.
coñoscenti: mashup of "coño" (Castilian for "c|u|n|t" and used liberally in Spain as a pejorative, insult or expletive) plus "cognoscenti" (persons "having or claiming expert knowledge in one or more realms of the fine arts or of fashion" [Websters]). Can be used to flatter people who fancy themselves hip know-it-alls while actually calling them annoying c|u|n|t|s to their face. (singular coñoscente)
Faceborg: refers to the uneasy feeling of being assimilated into an android hive while browsing Facebook.
harem-go-round: a circle of semi-anonymous sex partners who disappear just long enough to seem fresh again before reappearing.
lonelihorny: two intermingled and confounded drives, one emotional and one sexual, source of many bad choices.
preposterific: magnificently preposterous. (Came to mind when thinking about the South Park episode, "Helen Keller, The Musical!")
lipsyncopation: portmanteau of "lipsync" and "syncopation." (Came to mind while watching Betty Butterfield lipsynching to "O Canada." This is a really cool word - I'm surprised it didn't show up in a google search.)
St. Bernard of the Dance Floor: at a rave or circuit party, a member of a group who is somewhat less cool or attractive than the others and feels so grateful for being included that he/she automatically becomes the person who goes to get bottled water for everybody. (St. Bernard dogs were originally bred for rescue by Swiss monks, and in popular mythology have been depicted with small casks of brandy under their necks to warm victims of hypothermia.)
St. Bernard of the Orgy: Florence-Henderson-like individual who runs around making sure everyone has fresh beverages, condoms, lubes, toys, paraphernalia, etc.
swaggot: a young, hippity-hoppity, trendy gay boy who fluffily attends publicity-driven parties and rejoices on snagging the obligatory swag bags.
How can you tell if you've created a neologism? Google it! And high-five if you come up with the message:
Your search - antigargoyle - did not match any documents.
Next step: register the domain name. Someday you'll thank yourself.
(You still get points if the word you invented already exists in cyberspace, but your usage is superior and has completely different connotations: e.g., in the case of "swaggot." But unfortunately "neologista" fails this test. I should have known - what with the Greek derivation and academic taste of it.)
