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|Thursday, July 13th, 2006|
Many governments pay for sexual reassignment surgery. New law is being - slowly and clumsily - created to establish the rights of persons who have abandoned the bodily gender with which they were born.
Tentatively and far too tardily we see a social space for transsexuals begin to emerge. The persistence or racism and homophobia tell us that it will never be perfect.
The average moron will continue to see a ‘tranny’ as a freak. But a freak with a place in the world.
I doubt similar limited acceptance of male transvestites will accompany this.
Aside from men with a special fetish a penis under a skirt will remain frightening.
Ordinary people want simplicity, straight lines and square angles - a black and white emotional and moral world.
Gender identity may be more stupefying than politics.
|Thursday, January 19th, 2006|
With Alexandra away I've found I don't write as much as I once did. Many of my days are spent in suspense waiting for her to return to me from the UK.
And part of me has yet to recover - may never recover - from Charle's death even though our life together had ended.
The rest of my life is consumed by mundane things like a broken water pipe, paying taxes and finding the will to clean the floor properly.
Today I did watch my first Yaoi manga. I'm not going to make a habit of it. It could be addictive. If it had been about when I was a lad I'd probably have wasted hours dreaming of pretty boys with funky purple hair.
Oh, I've done a fair amount of that anyway.
|Monday, November 14th, 2005|
|Sunday, October 2nd, 2005|
|And Yet Again ...
Well, as long as I'm having this mad urge to type here again …
Unable to think of a damned thing to say I invited readers of my main personal weblog (says something when you have to qualify it that way: but I do have secondary and impersonal ones as well.) to ask me
I didn't expect a response. Who the heck am I to be giving advice beyond "Don't do what I did?"
To my surprise three folks asked my advice in short order.
That each got one or two long replies proves that I'm either vain or a sap if not a vain sap.
Gay frat boy asks me if he should have sex with the (ahem) brothers who've been hitting on me.
I write him a longish response before it hits me that this is probably some guy spinning a fantasy. As Dear Abby probably would've I advise against opening himself to abuse or humiliation (not that there's anything wrong with either in a context where you can enjoy them).
A married (!) man asks what he should do about the bottom who wants to call him "daddy" and wonders when they'll get together again.
My instinct was to tell the man to drop dead. But in putative good faith he asked. So I gave him an honest reply. Which, sadly, wasn't in the silly bottom guy's favor. Leaving me feeling like a traitor.
Most recently an Aussie lad wanted my comments on his fear that in being gay he was less likely to find a life partner. He seemed almost as deeply buried in the twilight zone as the married man. He wants children: ugh! And while I'm theoretically sympathetic of course to same sex marriage, really, cultivating that sacramental crap squicks me a bit. If two people really love each other they'll stay together. Even straight people have managed to do that.
But it does make a good change of pace from those clueless ninnies who think I can tell them how to get a job modeling for Calvin Klein or replying to transpeople about the murder of Gwen Araujo
|One Year or So: Whew!
Quite a time I’ve had.
Charles became addicted to crack, forcing me to finally throw him out of the house that I mortgaged myself to only to please him.
Alex(andra) became a part of my life. Suddenly I wasn’t just saying that I could love any gender permutation but actually doing it. (Proving if only to myself I wasn’t a phoney.)
But Alex isn’t a native USian so she can’t stay here forcing me to live alone half the year.
Finally meet Felix who lives up to my expectations.
Charles overdoses and dies on my dining room floor.
Really haven’t fully recovered from that. I bond rarely, very, very rarely. I don’t mean romantically or sexually. If I honestly say that I really care about someone I’m saying something that I’ve all too rarely been able to say.
Most people would bore me to tears if they were worth crying about.
Losing one of the fewer than five people that I feel strong affection for cuts me to this day.
Funny since I’ve yet to recover physically from the impact he had on me. Falling in love with Charles was the biggest mistake of my adult life.
Currently my life is tied up in some seemingly insoluble economic issues but, damn, that is just the way it goes. No point in whining in a world where people are starving.
I’ve let my movie watching sink to the lowest level imaginable watching cheesy T&A and beefcake movies. Which commit the unforgivable sin of not being amusingly exploitative.
But I do discover with great joy the genius of Stephen Chow. I haven’t felt this much fanboy pleasure since I saw my first Tom Baker Doctor Who.
Music. Still trying to catch up with the last eight decades of pop music. Today’s first listenings included the latest Jamiroquai, an Esther Phillips collection and a couple of CDs so uninvolving that I’ve forgotten what they were.
Reading: even if I’d spent my time wisely I’d never have time to read all that I might. Lucky me.
I have various web projects in the works that may or may not give me a bit more economic ease.
Since Alex left I haven’t had a single decent night’s sleep. It is a choppy mess. I may be awake at 3:00 a.m. and asleep at 1:00 p.m. When you face a foe you know you can’t beat you just try to bend out of harm’s way.
Life is like spam. There’s no way to beat it. Some of it you can filter out.
Even with bitterness and reasons for pouting I’m glad to still be here. One day I’ll be forgotten mater rotting in the ground (or a neglected urn of ashes).
The sound of one hand clapping is the audience admiring its own show.
Life is disappointing, amusing and, well, what would you do with your time otherwise?
All my best,
|Friday, September 30th, 2005|
My beloved Alex's own site is public. There are some shocking photographs there. I'm so sorry to have ruined your illusions.
Box, What Box?
Drop by the site. If you are transgendered I hope you'll encourage her to write more about that aspect of her sexuality. It isn't as if she's ashamed of it. But artists need their encouragement.
|Tuesday, July 26th, 2005|
|T H A N K S
I'll own I should probably thank each of you individually for the comments and emails about Charles' death.
Somehow typing "thanks" repeatedly would feel me leaving a bit false: you can't bring the same emotion to each email.
And the effort of clicking reply isn't something I feel much up to right now.
I'm recovering but the days still seem leaden. Everything takes so much effort.
Anyway, my very real thanks.
|Saturday, July 23rd, 2005|
|Wednesday, November 24th, 2004|
|Fat! Fat! Like a water rat!
Well, that was Herbie Popnecker.
Seems to be a day, night when I describe the worst effects of my four years with that sweet, foolish, self-destructive nelly gay guy, Charles. As bad as it has been I'll never be able to begrudge the day I heard that Southern femme gay male voice on the phone. If your sexuality is normative then you'll never be able to understand how this portion of my erotic spectrum is rare. And feminine gay men are rare nowadays (and those that are about are mostly too damn young!).
I was lifting weights and riding my bicycle constantly when I met Charles. To be in as good a physical condition as possible was my goal. Mostly for my own sake. Live as long and as well as possible (since there don't appear to be reruns or sequels up for option). When I started being desirable to a sexual partner wasn't even an afterthought. But the revival of my physical wellbeing brought about a revival of my libido and its unfortunate partner my romantic nature (shouldn't have read those Celtic love stories in high school I guess).
Charles ate crap. Charles eats crap. Like a fool I let that modify my own behavior. And I became inactive, sluggish.
Nobody would want me. I wouldn't expect them to (and I deeply regret damaging your eroticization of me).
So I've got barbells and dumbbells to lift. Hours on my bike to ride. To get back to what I was before I met the love that should've kept its mouth shut.
So I've bought a heaping helping of protein powder and will grab a few pounds of flax seed to grind and eat (really for that I do need a Domme with pet fantasies).
Time will pass, the excess fat will metabolize away. What a stupid thing to have done to myself. There are sweet, loving people I could meet. But until I render myself acceptable then I must just work and wait.
|Tuesday, November 23rd, 2004|
It is a silly enough truism to be the title of a pop psychology book: the more often you give up the more easily you give up.
Long ago I wrote about the Worst Roommate of All Time. I thought she was the slob supreme. Then I met Charles.
At first I made efforts to keep the house clean. Only to find him using the floors and furniture as if they were all trashcans.
It was not long after I spent a day on my hands and knees pulling up the carpet because he wanted to see the hardwood floors that I finally got fed up. I stopped cleaning up. Slowly, inexorably our home went from looking like a mess to something from hurricane footage.
I used to threaten to take photos and post them here. I never did. Who would I shame but myself?
This is where Charles' name still being on the title deed to the house freezes me. I can start tidying up but there's not much to stop him from coming back and littering the place as a hobby.
Though I've kept him away pretty well recently. Continuing my recent trend of using imagery from D/s I gave him the Dom look and used the Dom voice. It was interesting. I'd never seen him walk backward out of a room before. Suddenly he was packing boxes and scrubbing the kitchen floor. Another sign that with some people power exchange is useful.
But I've kept him away since. The house really is quite filthy. I won't allow anyone in it. So even given overcoming other limitations how would I meet someone even for casual carnality (to which I admit I'm not greatly given).
Wonder if that local transvestite submissive whose great fantasy was cleaning up after people is still around.? This place is bad enough to give her a month of orgasms. I could buy her a French maid outfit. Those things are so silly I could only laugh at her. Which might be what she wants.
Reality intervenes.(Nasty old thing!)
I'll be off work for three days starting Tuesday. One of my goals is to start bending and picking up. Scrubbing and polishing. A long list of boring chores and needful things.
But - who knows - maybe the day will come when I can invite someone in my home without blushing?
My romantic need to be pleasing is greatly parallels that of a male submissive in a D/s relationship. At least that is something a friend said to me not long ago. I see you over there making a face. You think that is a morbid thing to say. Me, I see the truth of my friend's insight.
Most people, at least I'm led to believe, see love, romance, sexuality as almost transparent. I delight in gender color and am keenly attuned to power relationships. While you are looking directly and uncomplicatedly at your beloved I have a large array of lenses, prisms, levers wheels and balances that would do Rube Goldberg or at least the inventor of Mousetrap proud.
The desire to please has many permutations. Vanilla to be sure but sometimes there are other flavorings.
More than the drugs, more than anything else maybe what ultimately killed my relationship with Charles may mostly have been sex. If you are exceptionally naïve you may be feeling as I often do that I've deceived you. That I'm not just the nice man you've thought. Well, friends and neighbors, I'm a swell fellow. But I'm also a biological male. I like my orgasms.
Charles often confessed a desire for me to control his behavior. While part of me can easily be submissive another part enjoys control, direction. There's pleasure in power exchange, role-playing and in helping and improving another person's life.
Sex between Charles and myself became negligible, eventually nugatory. Without my partner, lover, whathaveyou giving me orgasms I felt no impulsion to guide his behavior. Really I got where I'd just as soon have him away. Not that I cheated on him even when that would've been more of a possibility. When my affections are fixed on someone no chastity device could make me more monogamous.
But there was liquor. While a little alcohol can be an aphrodisiac a bit more leaves you as randy as saltpeter.
The sad moral of this story is that if Charles had cared more for his …
His duty to his romantic partner. Yeah, I'll go with duty, responsibility, obligation. Why not? We talked about this the second day we met. And when you seek to establish an enduring romantic alliance if you neglect sex you invite all the consequences.
Anyway, if Charles had been more sexually caring, responsible, respectful then he might've never been allowed to become addicted to crack and might not be pining away in another town wishing he still had his lover and his home.
Without establishing that history of erotic responsiveness he kept me steadily ready to leave. Indeed I should've left him much sooner.
Romance can always go beyond the erotic. But it cannot evade the erotic.
|Monday, November 22nd, 2004|
|An eerie limitation of erotic adaptation.
As I said earlier I've been talking to a friend who wear dresses, adapting almost helplessly, probably only transitorily to her sexuality.
The adaptation has oddly compacted my erotic self. Right now I'm almost unable to think sexually outside the spectrum of males who wear dresses.*
I've never been a transvestite admirer or tranny chaser. My mentions of transgendered people are mostly prompted by email exchanges with transvestites and transsexuals. Some I've known for a few years, others have written to me about something in the weblog.
I'm not even sure what a fantasy about a crossdresser qua crossdresser would be. I like the image of a guy wearing those women's slacks that cut off above the ankle. But that isn't sex.
Almost every image of a crossdresser that I have is of someone I know however dimly. You don't violent friends or even kind acquaintances with your imagination.
So I'm not having the lively fantasy life you might expect of a celibate man.
This phase will pass. I'll confess I find it a little irksome but inescapably funny.
* And genetic women but that I could probably live happily as a heterosexual isn't something I care to talk about in polite company.
|Fool in the mirror
I wrote a while back about some of my 'virtual crushes,' i.e., crushes on people I know only through the web.
One of them is older than the relationship that just ended. Sounds a little foolish to allow something like that to persist so long. Guess it depends on how you picture a crush. For me it is a mix of aesthetic pleasure and an admittedly idealized image for measuring real life with. A repository of kindly sentiments and silvery syllables.
My crushes are chaste, not like the manufactured dream harems of adolescence. I allow them only for happiness not foolish yearning. I'm very protective of them and hope to maintain some of them for a very long time.
Several weeks back I started exchanging emails with an old online friend I hadn't been much in touch with for some time. Telling about the failure of my love of the last four years. The talk turned more serious. An ugly word serious. People often invoke it for the most tedious and drear things. But seriousness carefully managed is as pleasurable as frivolity.
A few months back I wrote an entry about why I don't do instant messaging. Given that an ocean separates us I installed Yahoo Messenger and ilikenellyguysdurham returned to the land of IMs after a very long absence.
Though my friend was born male her perception of herself is as mostly, perhaps entirely feminine. So I'll use the feminine pronouns (repeatedly saying 'my friend' would get tedious).
For the first time in my life I've seen someone else and displayed my own image via webcams. So I've seen her (and she's seen the image of what I think of as the 'child molester' - more on that in a future entry). It has been interesting.
Quite slyly she ate a banana while we chatted. Do you know those old Tex Avery cartoons where Wolfie is ogling Red? His eyes launch from their sockets then slap back into his face. She ate the banana with such geometric care and elegance I felt as big a fool as Wolfie. Surely I'm not given to that kind of easy lasciviousness? Guess I was. Though I felt less a fool to find out I'd been intentionally manipulated. Ah, you learn all sorts of new things about yourself.
I like toes, ankles. Not to forget wrists, necks and belly buttons. No portion of a body doesn't invite devotion. She has strong erotic feeling for her feet.
I've sometimes called my sexuality adaptive, it is the path by which I came to pansexuality. Example by example I slowly discovered the beauty of every gradation of gender quality. Well, often I've wondered if I don't sound like I'm full of it, if I'm not full of it? Claiming vaingloriously much.
Until I adapted to her. I could almost see the neurons in my brain establishing new connections and alignments. If you are my age you may remember the old Bell Labs science cartoons. Hemo the Magnificent would show us how the circulatory system works. I watched my mind and libido at work until, damn, I became a foot fetishist.
What proved it to myself is even more blush-worthy than the banana. One night she put on a show of shoes. I was happy enough to see them. In the middle of the night I awoke to see her toes.
It was in the morning at the shop when I found myself staring at a bookcase not even knowing that I was standing there that I realized I'd gone off into some sort of - oh what, trance, epiphany? - focused on her toes. Took me an hour to force myself out of it.
Nutty as it sounds I treasure the experience. You take your exaltations where you find them and should never begrudge yourself any of them. That is for Baptists.
So we've been getting very serious. You may rightly say, Richard you sound like you are being a fool. I agree.
I'm coming out of a relationship, a time when you're famously vulnerable. Though she and I have known each other for years it has been at a large distance. Though we've exchanged thousands of words we've never even heard the other's voice. And geopolitics may forestall any lasting relationship (damn visa regulations).
But it has helped me recover from what I've lost. I've learned more about myself. And laughed at myself. If you can't look at the mirror and see the fool looking back, well, poor you.
|Thursday, November 18th, 2004|
|On the death of love and trying to recover.
That it had been so long since I posted on LJ I simply did not know. Charles' drug addiction, the end of our relationship and the fallout simply blanked LJ from my mind.
(Originally posted yesterday I think.)
I'll be seeing my former lover sometime today. Haven't in almost a week though we talk on the phone. The calls can be draining. He repeatedly tells me that he loves me. I'm sure he does. I love him but as a friend - no matter what happens - he'll always be someone I cherished as deeply as I can. Whether we can remain friends is yet to be proved.
As of the first of the month I cut him off financially. Well, sort of, through a friend I've made sure he has money for sodas, cigarettes and gasoline. Since I no longer expect him to pay part of the mortgage on the house I started giving him the money from the monthly disability check deposited in my account. It took him about ten days to spend every penny on pot and percocet.
He needs to rent an apartment, to try living on his own. Something he's never done in his thirty-one years. If he'll try to take care of himself he can count on me for extra money, advice and some of my time. If he can't help himself then there's nothing I can do for him and I'll eventually be forced to shut him out of my life.
I'm still need in much recovery, there are legacies of our relationship that need to be bared and banished. I find the presence of other people almost intolerable and it is only by an act of hard will that I can cope with working at my used bookshop at all.
The house needs to be reclaimed from his horrific untidiness. Since his name is still on the title deed knowing that he has the right to enter at anytime freezes my will.
My health and my sexuality need to be rehabilitated. The latter isn't that hard: I know what I need to do and how to do it. Good health isn't an esoteric secret that requires quack diets and the secrets of radio and TV gurus. Sexual recovery is harder. The penis is a tricky master and potential partners aren't apt to be forgiving of failures.
There's lots more I could say but this is long enough for now. My attempts to recover my life will surely fill many future entries.
Indeed I hardly blogged the mess at all, here are the few I posts on Pansexual Sodomite:
I sent my lover to the loony bin!
One of the saddest nights of my life
On being needed ...
|Wednesday, September 22nd, 2004|
|Russ Meyer, thank you for many happy evenings
All honor to Russ Meyer. Self-confessed pansexual sodomite I am but along with the artist once again known as Prince I can think of few people who made a more compelling case for the joys of heterosexuality. Incompetently I wish to do honor to one of America's masters of erotica. To hell with philosophers, economists, editorial writers: isn't enlivening the erotic life nobler and more valuable than the vaporizings of the classes that think themselves thoughtful and useful?
Russ Meyer is dead. Along with Frank Tashlin, Busby Berkeley, Frank Capra, Edward D. Wood, Jr. and Herschell Gordon Lewis he is part of my private pantheon of the happiest that American movies have had to offer.
Like many I discovered him through Faster Pussycat! Kill! Kill! And like many who might not confess it I wanted to grovel in the dust and lick Tura Satana's Varla's boots. Not that I didn't appreciate the economy of his cinematography.
Myself I enjoyed Meyer's backwoods black and white soap operas best: Lorna and Mudhoney</em>.
And the world would've been a poorer place if we hadn't met the sexdoll come to life Kitten Natividad in Beneath The Valley Of The Ultravixens. A charming amalgam of Thornton Wilder, addiction to anal sex and evangelical radio preachers.
Good Morning And Goodbye was my personal favorite. Mostly I think because of Stuart Lancaster. Of all Meyer's regular cast I most strongly wished Lancaster had been blessed with more fame than guest appearances in The Invaders. He was a wonderful voice for an idealized, highly individualized everyman. Not that the average man can ever be so compelling.
Not to short Hal Hopper's cantankerous characters their stint of appreciation.
I often felt that Meyer wanted to do more with Hadji but he either never discerned a starring role for her. I'd much rather have been with her than Alaina Capri in Good Morning And Goodbye. Capri I think was best left as an object cuckold fantasies.
I watched them all Wild Gals of the Naked West, Beyond the Valley of the Dolls, Blacksnake, Mondo Topless, Supervixens.
I think Russ Meyer's mix of technician's mastery, gusto and humor was singularly American. When those work together well American popular culture isn't anything to despise. You understand why in this limited sphere it isn't any wonder that Europeans willingly surrender to a bit of American cultural imperialism. We can be knowingly naïve, innocently manipulative.
Russ Meyer made me smile, made me laugh. To anyone who can do that consistently I'm happy to offer my homage. I'll pretend he's passed on to a paradise of wasp-waisted, hugely bosomed, intelligent and passionate women.
Something of a one-man studio, Meyer produced, directed, financed, wrote, edited and shot 23 tantalizing but teasing films that pioneered a genre of skinflicks with much violence and large-busted women but little sex. The titles of the X-rated fare that made him millions are descriptive — "The Immoral Mr. Teas," "Erotica," "Wild Gals of the Naked West," "Heavenly Bodies," "Mudhoney," "Mondo Topless," "Common Law Cabin," "Supervixens" and "Europe in the Raw."
Russ Meyer, 82; Iconic Sexploitation Filmmaker
Born in Oakland, California in March 1922, Russell Albion Meyer got his start in film when his mother, a nurse, gave him an 8mm camera.
During World War II he made training films with the Army Signal Corps and shot newsreels in France and Germany.
He then turned his hand to photography, shooting some of the earliest Playboy centrefolds.
He made his film debut in 1959 with The Immoral Mr Teas, one of the first 'nudies' - soft-core sex films - to turn a profit.
Cult film-maker Russ Meyer dies
Los Angeles Times critic Kevin Thomas once wrote: "No one projects heterosexual male fantasies with greater gusto and resolute dedication than Meyer, who at heart is a Puritan and who has always been a bigger tease than any burlesque queen."
Soft-Core Porn Film Maker Russ Meyer Dies in L.A.
|Thursday, August 19th, 2004|
|A crack in my heart
I thought I'd be posting more here. I'll try to get better about it. Some of the explanation of my silence is at the bottom.
It has been around for a couple of months but I'm only now starting to make it really visible: Gay Pop Culture
. I wanted to segregate news items from my more personal stuff.
Can't remember if I ever mentioned it here. Normally I don't lay claim to it. But I wanted to make my main sexuality weblog less frivolous. I know I already mentioned Sexy Pop Culture, a wholly cynical venture. Did I point you to the low Sex is funny
Lucky enough to know someone who had a copy of the tape I finally got to see John Hurt in The Naked Civil Servant
. Enjoyed it hugely.
Finally: Charles has become addicted to crack
. If it weren't for my various weblogs I think I'd have gone berserk.
|Tuesday, July 6th, 2004|
|Bought a taxicab today
I bought Charles a car. Happened a bit more abruptly than I'd intended. One of the cab drivers that have been taking me to the shop since Charles' Ford Escort died told me that he wanted to sell is old taxi.
This driver has always struck me as an exceptionally kind and honest man. He spelled out the car's problems. But he only wanted $400. Here in the sparkly 21st century cars cost as much as houses did when I was a kid (admittedly gasoline cost about fifteen cents). And they aren't even aircars that let you zoom over the city.
We took the car on trial. Charles would use it for a few days, we'd show it to a mechanic and if were satisfied I'd pay for the car on Friday.
Within an hour of taking the car Charles hit something and shattered the passenger window. I've been waiting for that accident for years, thankfully I wasn't in the car. But I figure I've bought an old taxi.
Don't get me wrong; I'm not mad at Charles. He's bright but he's ditzy. I've been watching a DVD of an early Jim Backus sitcom, I Married Joan. It is an early situation comedy from the 1950s. As you can imagine in every episode Joan does something goofy and 'hilarity' ensues.
Easily I can imagine myself appearing in I Married Charles wherein each week would bring the latest in my spouse's hijinks. I, ever the straight man in life's own sitcom would handle it all with a deadpan. George Burns used to stand outside the "fourth wall" smoking a cigar and commenting on the show. I'd be at camera left, incinerating a steady flow of Carlton Menthol 100s.
If there's one reason Charles shouldn't risk losing me is I've accepted every damnfool thing he's done. I'd rather he hadn't run over the obstruction placed in the parking lot with the intent of keeping him from driving a certain way and ripping out another car's gas tank.
I won't humiliate my beloved by expanding on the catalog of his exploits in carelessness and wastefulness. As long as I can dig out the nickels and dimes to pay for his foibles I can just shrug and say that's Charles.
It is when the fundamentals in our life together aren't working I'm faced with the prospect of leaving him to cope with his own messes without me.
So the quotidian soap opera-cum-sitcom continues.
|Saturday, June 12th, 2004|
Last night Charles and I watched The Vicar of Dilby
. During one episode Charles sat on the floor with his head resting against my knee. How often I’ve wanted that. I don’t mean him being on the floor. Just the silent affection.
He was feeling very vulnerable. Weighing heavily on both of us is my telling him that our relationship hasn’t given me enough. That once I have the money I may very well leave him. When he is loving and vulnerable like that the terrible havoc it will wreak in his life if I go strikes me hard.
But I need to protect myself. I’m not young. With each passing day my chances to get what I want out of life lessens.
Charles has done many terrible and foolish things. I’ve paid for them, forgiven them.
But I can’t forgive a lack of romance and passion. With full acknowledgement of the practical parts of the lives of two people living together without passion the rest of the relationship becomes trivial.
Charles’ can’t be faulted. I said come and live with me and he said "Okay." That I didn’t get more is my own fault for not having taken more time and care to ensure that I would.
|Tuesday, June 8th, 2004|
|Twinkle, twinkle little twink.
Terminology for a post-gay world?
I guess Orlando Bloom who has to have chest hair applied as special effect is the preeminent twink in these early years of the 21st century.
When a friend referred to his teen years as his twink years I wondered why he couldn't be a twink now: he's hairless, slender, attractive.
Perhaps some queer theory academic has written The Homoerotics of Male Body Taxonomy: The Visual Discourse of Queer Male Sexuality or something equally silly sounding. I'm not a queer theorist but I like to type.
It'd be handy if we had a word similar to masculinity and femininity to describe the varieties of male sex appeal: malelinity?* Not that I'd suggest such ugly jargon.
When does a guy pass into or out of the boundaries of twinkishness (twinkhood?).
Urban Dictionary has a few definitions:
A young, naive, lolita-like gay male.
Sounds like something I might've made up. Which, given the general popularity of twinks, disqualifies the definition.
A smooth-bodied, almost pre-pubescent looking young gay male. From "twinkie" (as in Hostess twinkie)- soft and full of cream.
That etymology sounds too good to be true. Better than the only suggestion I'd heard before was twinkle, as does the little star you wish on. The implication was that twinks are effeminate.
Almost pre-pubescent works for me. It was certainly my type when I was just out. The people who run twink pay sites don't seem to think so. They are mostly grubby young guys. Possibly that portion of the definition matches either the predilections or prejudices of it's author.
A term often used in homosexual circles to describe a man with a smooth, youthful, only slightly-muscular, physique.
Vague enough to not arouse much objection.
So a twink must be smooth and youthful. How young? I remember the happy surprise when as a young queer I saw a couple of guys with a little gray in their hair whose youthful charm aroused me. Some blessed alignment of eyes and smile. Is there a mandatory requirement that you pass in your twink membership card when you hit 20, 25, 30?
When do the muscles get so large that you must be ousted from the twink club? Are you escorted from the twink lounge to the hunk lounge? Can a hunk be a twink? Are bad boys twinks? Can I come up with more pointless questions?
Yes. Some would include, say, Matt Damon or even Brad Pitt (was he a twink when young and a hunk now?). Justin on Queer as folk is surely a twink. But not Emmett: can nelly guys be twinks?
And some sweet looking young lads are faux twinks. Off comes their shirt and you discover you have a bear in twinks' clothing.
I guess we must each define our own Platonic twink archetype.
* Not that I'm averse to coining nonsense: Androgynosexual, Androgynophillia.
|Saturday, June 5th, 2004|
Assorted recent, mostly queer male, erotic ramblings by the Pansexual Sodomite, aka me. Many wholly about sodomy and its wonderful permutations, others about the peculiar joys of finding yourself in the illimitable condition of pansexuality.
To be honest but inaccurate I can’t help but think that kempt A&F boy belongs on bottom and should reserve his lips for things other than fashion advice (is this the gay equivalent of sexism?).
When the object of interest came to the register I realized I’d been looking at a flat-chested woman in a guy’s shirt and torn jeans.
The pretty guy wasn't ...
She followed him around the store while he acted as if she weren’t there. Bet he’d have broken down in tears if she told him to go to Hell.
Fag hags (Do you have one?)
I have one gay friend who visits Durham from time to time. It is always a great treat to see him. Mostly because he’s a swell fellow. That he has an enormous gift for cheap, unbridled hedonism and is a gay man makes it even more enjoyable.
Gay man: straight friends
I’ve encountered only a couple of other gay guys nutty and sad enough to be members of the virginity fraternity. Now I’ve got enough romantic, monogamous lunacy to become a romance writer (sadly for my pocketbook I lack the other soulless attributes required for that profession).
All the lonely people ...
Enjoying Diana Rigg’s “m. appeal” seems more like acknowledging the natural order of the universe than expressing sexual preference. I’ve never had an Emma Peel sexual fantasy, even when she was in the getup from the Hellfire Club episode.
Unrealized sexuality: heterosexuality
Perhaps you have thought about giving sodomy an honest chance and are looking for the Sodomite’s Instruction Manual.
Searching for sodomites
He was as thickly muscled as anyone gets without becoming a pro bodybuilder. His harsh face suggested contempt for everybody I around him: that he was as likely to kick you aside as ask you to move.
Unrealized sexuality: butch gay men
I’ll grant the honorable frustrations of gay men who wish they could relive their past more wisely. But I really think they are mostly wishing they could recapture the desirability they had when they were young. Physically aging is cruel: we can’t muster the admiration we once evoked in the pretty ones.
Unrealized sexuality: pansexuality
|The fantasy of internet crushes
By now I guess 87.3% of the population has met somebody through an online dating service, personal ad or feverish instant messaging. Aside from a few Luddites and people like my business partner who has no need of one at home has a web browser (or two if you've got the cash for an upscale PDA). Far too many of us are reading weblogs, live journals, blogs.
The folks met in the flesh are dealt with cleanly and quickly. Well, not for those foolish few who invite their Internet date to a lavish meal or don't know who to feign an excuse or just tell the guy to shut up. But they are met, viewed, evaluated, cataloged and mostly we move on. Or we are and they do.
What about the ones who never had a chance to get away? The guys who seduce you with a thirty word personal ad, a seductive profile, an enlivening weblog or witty rounds of IMs? You don't read them with intent to fall for them. Their charm is unanticipated. With the instant messages and profiles there is an implied promise. In online forums, groups, clubs and blogs they are just typing away.
A small passion is conceived; maybe you wish you could find something that sounds important, interesting, funny. There's no adequate way to bond and your desire evaporates.
I've had my online crushes. They've been benign. An evening when I wished, really wished … (OK, maybe a few nights). I was never fool enough to give they feelings weight. The reasoning part of me knew my feelings were just the stirrings of imagination. I've never felt there'd be sense in pursuing a long distance relationship even with someone I'd met. When I was dating using the web the guys who were too far away did make me sad. All the good ones seemed to live far, far away.
A tiny bit on Yahoo but much more when I was busy on Live Journal I found myself wishing that someone was near. Oddly the two times someone was going to be in my neighborhood I ignored their invitation. The problems with the guy I still live with left me all too tempted to folly.
I knew what a couple of my Live Journal crushes looked like. More often I didn't. They had an erotically compelling personality. I seduced myself not with their surface but the qualities of who they seemed to be.
One of my Yahoo crushes posted his photos. His appearance didn't stir me in itself. But coupled with his persona he looked more lovely than he would've without words to attach to the images. Something about him made him seem as though he'd be a nice complement. Thankfully he was too distant because he was too young.
With maybe two exceptions my wish I could have to chance to know these folks more intimately (in all shades of the word) didn't make me fret. The couple that did make me wish I could modify geography, age, whatever it took, well, I've done some dopey things but wouldn't ruin a happy exchange by trying to achieve the unlikely if not impossible. Had the web been about when I was younger I'd have made a huge fool of myself.
And I kind of treasure these inadvertent arousals, even the sometimes-powerful if impossible feelings of affection.
Sadly I do know of people who've reduced themselves to misery by moving hundreds of miles away to be with someone they loved but had never met. Far away from family and friends, dependent on someone who proves a spooky stranger.
Some people fall in love with a poster or pin-up boy and make love to him with their hand. Others obsessed beyond sense establish web shrines to him (really to their enslavement to image they've superimposed on his face and body).
So I can't help but suspect that there are gay men out there who felt as though they met the man of their dreams on the web. Met him in a very limited way. Not face to face. His banter or his photos left you panting.
Or you did have a date, met in a bar or a nice dinner. Maybe even spent a night together. He hasn't returned your calls. Never will but you are still pining for him.
Even if you haven't had a crazy passion for someone you've never met, or only met once you must know a few gay guys who think they've met their 'soulmate' on the web and can't rest until they get him. Current Mood: About time for bed.
|Thursday, June 3rd, 2004|
|Unrealized sexuality: fini
In writing about my unrealized sexualities I've confessed that I could've enjoyed being slapped around, slapping around. Found pleasure in boys in dresses, people who are hermaphrodites or have achieved biological conditions for which there are no names. Loved women and maybe even a rough hairy daddy.
How young were you the first time you felt if only I knew what I've discovered when I was younger? I couldn't have been older than 25 the when that regret hit me.
Sure, I wish I could send the clock rotating manically in reverse and find myself young again with life's accumulated insights. Know myself as a pansexual man at, say, eighteen. A good age because there's no legal doubt about your parents' power over you.
Thinking clearly though I don't know what I would've made of my freedom if I could send myself back in time and biology. The penis will always have its sway. Even if you are a romantic schmuck like myself and would've blurred love with lust. My life could've had a greater variety of bodies. Doesn't mean I wouldn't have made equally dumb mistakes albeit with people who weren't just femme gay guys.
I'll grant the honorable frustrations of gay men who wish they could relive their past more wisely. But I really think they are mostly wishing they could recapture the desirability they had when they were young. Physically aging is cruel: we can't muster the admiration we once evoked in the pretty ones.
For some gay men that loss of social sexual potency is a loss of all they valued in their lives. But if you are lucky to be one of the people for whom being true to yourself is a real pleasure, adds value to your days then, hey, the increased depth of insight and empathy isn't anything to be dismissed. Pity there are so few of you.
One must give style to one's character!
Nietzsche said something like that.
Which doesn't mean you need to indulge in Oscar Wildean vampishness.
Being a camera for experience is an illusion. Everything about us is contingent on time, geography, biology and thousands of minutias that can't be accounted for.
You have to define your response to being alive somehow. Reach into your mind and shape the chaos of impressions. Something like that. We do it reflexively, most do it unthinkingly. (I hate it when I'm overwriting but some days I just can't shut up.)
Did I choose to care more for feminine gay men than butch or merely conventional men? Maybe. Masculinity as I knew it wasn't a good part of my childhood and youth.
Maybe not. Reaching back into my brain in the months after I first came out I remember lovely exemplars of soft, bitchy, shy, sassy, timid but always nelly young gay men. So my special predilection was alive even as I first began to know myself as a young queer man.
Their glitter, scent, ravishing silly ways remain will remain alive in my memory. Maybe I could've lived with and loved other people. But I got my snatches of passion and beauty. Only a fool wouldn't be grateful.
(And with this the series does really end.)
|Monday, May 24th, 2004|
|What a damned slob!
I'm not what you'd call stylish. Any 'queer eye' directed my way would say that guy needs work, lots of it.
When I was a young homo I might've liked to polish my exterior. But it would've been costly and time consuming. I think the idea did cross my mind once or twice. Blowdryers were a bore and given my extremely curly hair tended to militate against enhancing my sex appeal.
Back then living in jeans was still novel and casual was more colorful than simply a t-shirt proclaiming a simpleminded slogan or peddling corporate product. Maybe most importantly you didn't see grandma wearing them at the mall. My favorite shirt was a hippy paisley thing with wooden ties for chest (left open) and wrists. (My second favorite shirt was sewn by my mom and so long that a short boy kept it for a nightshirt.)
In my permutations of cheap cotton, denim, corduroy I probably looked like rough trade, a street hustler (given the offers I turned down this was probably more than whimsy). It worked well enough. Probably even now there's a 'butch' quality to looking like you don't give a damn. The first boy who got me out of those jeans said I looked "threatening." Now I was about as threatening as a melted ice cream cone but snuggled up to a bit of boy fluff who is going to critique their perceptions?
The A&F boy has appeared since then. Even if I had the planar cheekbones and buff body nobody could ever mistake me for one. I've grown comfortable in my sloppiness. To be honest but inaccurate I can't help but think that kempt A&F boy belongs on bottom and should reserve his lips for things other than fashion advice (is this the gay equivalent of sexism?).
(All sorts of personal truths withheld at this time.) Looking like someone just risen from an evening of bargain whoring if not the gutter doesn't evoke the response it once did. But I'm far too set in my slovenly ways to reform.
|Sunday, May 23rd, 2004|
|The guy who wasn't ...
The pretty guy caught my eye as he entered the shop.
Nope, that isn't true. 'He' wasn't pretty: skin was a bit off, nothing special at all about the features. I'm not sure how many people might've cast second glance. I'm as big a fan of compelling eyes and harmony of chin and cheek as the next person but there are nuances that interest me more than conventional cutie-pie-hood.
When the object of interest came to the register I realized I'd been looking at a flatchested woman in a guy's shirt and torn jeans.
A redneck cliché of the 1960s when, mirable dictu longhair was popular among young men was "Har, har, you can't tell the boys from the girls." Sometimes walking behind someone on the street I couldn't. That feeling was a treat. My incipient appreciation of gender ambiguity could've told me much about myself if I'd been a quarter as self-aware as my pride often made me think.
Her sex doesn't matter I did enjoy my surprise.
|Friday, May 21st, 2004|
|Tuesday, May 11th, 2004|
|Monday, May 10th, 2004|
|My lover is too good-looking
Following up my note about the desire for an erotic ideal conflicting with accepting the available guy.
I guess some folks see themselves as merely available. Maybe they are. Like all of us the weigh their imperfections against the seemingly flawless sex objects in the magazines, movies or on the next bar stool.
Finding themselves the lover of one of these immaculate studs they wonder how long it'll last. When will he go in search of someone unblemished as himself.
That assumes that living with beauty is the same as looking at it from a distance. And even when you look at the photos of sexy men it probably isn't always the shape of their pecs or size of their phallus that grabs you. Even in porn it can be the ironic smile, the bashful or commanding eyes.
When you are grazing through the web or watching movies perfect faces and bodies are infinitely replicated. Even in the world of superficial eroticism a distinctive mouth, way of walking, some detail.
If the average gay man saw some the guys I've fallen for he'd just shake his head. OK, I have a kink. You probably have one or many as well. You may not know them all. Thick fingers with strong knuckles maybe? A certain pattern of chest hair?
You who may think yourself flawed compared to your beloved may have mannerism, quirks of appearance that excite him. I remember one boy whose nose was too large for classical beauty. I loved that nose.
If he's an awesome hunk and you two stay together after the morning after there's more than looks at work. That only lasts so long. Maybe it is great sex. No small thing. Being handsome doesn't make anybody a good lover.
If it is shared laughter, pleasure in the same things then you are giving him something he can't get from someone who might be better looking.
Maybe he will stray. It is easy for accept what you have and go off for what you think you want. And then kick yourself for years thereafter for your mistake.
|Friday, May 7th, 2004|
|What can you say ... ?
This entry is about physical congress with canines. I'm going to do my best to keep it from being picked up by the search engines as such. AWStats tells me that during the first six days of this month 1118 people have arrived at Amorous Propensities looking for information about d*g sex.
Back in Atlanta I had a good friend who grew up in the most abysmal hinterlands of Pennsylvania on a small family farm. Whatever my note about him may suggest to you my friend was an attractive gay who was wholly sane sexually. When I knew him he had a varied, vast and vanilla gay man's sex life.
As a horny youth my friend found that calves were willing to fellate him. He happily enjoyed this until one nicked his penis. Then he figured it'd be wisest to settle for what his hand could accomplish. He is the only person I recall who confessed to quadruped/biped sex.
In skimming BDSM erotic stories I've seen a fair number where the submissive was humiliated by being forced to service dogs and even horses. Possibility has never been a requirement of fantasies or many a night would be empty of Carmen Electra and Colt models.
Months back there was a story about d*g sex in some South African newspaper so I noted it in Amorous Propensities which varies between oddities and serious issues. Just a moment ago I thought to actually look up d*g sex on Google. I have pride of the first two listings out of 4,160,000!
That people search for it only 300 - 400 times a day evinces the topic's limited appeal to specialists only. I suspect Ms. Electra and assorted models are searched for far more often.
Much later a South African scientist explained how that story and all similar stories are hoaxes. Interspecies carnality is a myth, folklore. I recorded a portion of his explanation in Amorous Propensities as well. Interestingly people started leaving comments denouncing the scientist. Tracking them back to their IP or domain showed they had a vested interest in preserving the myth: they all run sites promising to show you this impossible sex act.
Now I never criticize any sorts of sexuality however outré. Or consensual sexuality. Probably these fantasies are divorced from consent. Not that I want to condemn anything that remains virtual and in the mind. Though I did run across a heterosexual site devoted to men who raped women and then ate them. That did send my inner John Ashcroft banging his head against the wall.
Sexuality continues to provide odd, unexpected and sometimes horrifying examples of the mind's infinite capacity to go in ways that disgust and frighten us.
I don't have anything edifying to say or a moral truth to share.
|Wednesday, May 5th, 2004|
I've been so neglectful of my LJ I forgot to tell you guys that we got the car back. One problem down, 851 to go.
|Tuesday, April 27th, 2004|
|Racking my brain for lucre ...
You guys have read me on and off bitch that I'm heading toward financial apocalypse.
Long reluctant to pollute my personal weblog with any form of moneymaking I broke down and put the familiar text ads up. A little money started trickling in. Enough to cause me to become an Amazon.com affiliate. More money came in. So I added AllPosters.
More money. I think I may be doing well enough to begin to dig myself out of the economic pit I've been living in for the last couple of years. Though I'm not sure if any amount less than Bill Gate's annual get could cope with Charles' ability to vaporize cash. Anymore I have to give him allotments of $5 or $10 since if he has any extra he'll lose it as he has his house keys.
Hence my creating queerpopculture.com and sexypopculture.com (and more to come). An effort to get more hits, achieve greater search engine indexing. I'm spending hours on my markup and installing scripts and too much of the time I might give to writing about something I care about is employed in discovering and noting things that don't interest me at all.
So I'm often too busy now to properly keep up my Live Journal. Hopefully that won't continue.
It is very odd having people buy electric mixers, MP3 players and the like via my site. The several folks who've bought books on fellatio were more expected.Sam
here, a butcher Justin Timberlake has proven my most popular listing.
Not to my taste but my stats shows he's the most popular bit of gay erotica I've featured. In digging around I've discovered that there actually are a couple of collections of early homoerotic photography that I might like to own myself.
Other popular items have included genital torture, Ralph Loren towels and far more kitchen appliances than I could've ever imagined.
Maybe I can get the bathroom sink, the front porch and the car fixed. Or create sites on turkey-basting technique and humor for pastors.
Anyway that is what I've been up to.
|Monday, April 26th, 2004|
|Another URL, another dollar
I have no life. I’m spending almost every waking hour working. When I’m not at the shop I’m at my computer.
I’ve noted my nearly constant battle to not fall into total insolvency. Thanks to what I’ve done with Edifying Spectacle I’m slowly beginning to dig myself out.
Hence this mass media exploitation weblog:http://sexypopculture.com
I’m not suggesting that you visit it. I’m just trying to propagate the URL to web spiders.
|Thursday, April 22nd, 2004|
|Wednesday, April 21st, 2004|
|Er, but, anyway ...
Heck, I can’t stand it.
I hope all the transgendered people that I’ve never met and never will have the best of lives. Whether their goal is to remain aloof from gender or embody the gender that they wish they were born with.
I wish I could have this, that or another thing. But bitch, straight-acting bisexual, fembot, tender one who needs to be catered to. All that would matter is that it endured.
|Guilt-free tranny fucking (how many will dump this in their spam bin)
My friends on Live Journal and who read Pansexual Sodomite have castigated me for expressing overmuch nicety for certain aspects of my sexual appetites. I'll cast aside my respectful hesitancies and express just lust.
If I could relive my youth again and know where my sexuality would take me I would've had sex with a guy with breasts or a woman with a penis. Can't say whether the distinction between the two would be in their or my mind. OK, probably mine, I'm too acutely alive to the nuances of gender quality. Transgendered people are understandably focused on the specifics of their own sexuality.
Why? What is the beauty I see in the androgyne?
I enjoy all gender qualities. Often I writhe against the merely one or the other. My lust seeks someone who embodies both (in so many different wonderful ways) and who for me (if not him/her self) strides above either.
My fantasy ideal would be a lovely young man with breasts. Had I understood myself at a young enough age it might be a genetic male who was striving to become the woman he felt himself to truly be. Way back he'd have probably been tawdrily painted, living in a slumlord's apartment. However I might have meant to be in my lust would've led me to take possession of this creature (sounds like a damn bad poem but I him/her isn't appealing).
My fantasy hermaphrodite would be happy with its breasts and penis. Probably she'd have only cared about being playfully forced and centered her sexuality in her anus. Maybe lovingly but with unknowing selfishness I'd have accepted what was so hungrily offered.
Nowadays there are coolly self-created hermaphrodites, shemales in the land of porn and less aware lust. When I was young and would've been much more able to have what I wanted they were mostly weaker. Certainly less aware.
Commiseratingly I'd have had what I wanted of at least one 'tranny.' Made her my bitch if she'd so needed. I wish I had.
(Um, does this satisfy you folks who find my empathy a sign of Puritanism? No guilt here: give me a hole and I'll use it.) Current Mood: Well?
|Saturday, April 17th, 2004|
Two o'clock in the morning isn't a time I welcome being awake but I'm reconciled to it. Often I let the dog out for a piss, smoke a cigarette, check my email. In my teen years I often had trouble sleeping, no, sorry masturbation wasn't always a cure. Over time I learned to entertain myself when restless in bed. Back then I assumed I'd grow up to be a mathematician or theoretical physicist and I'd lie there playing with patterns of numbers.
Biology and society forced me to grow up. No complaint, adolescence is an experience best left to the young. My early morning thoughts are usually of commonplace things: what I need to do at the shop, divers things about my weblogs, all the evil things that time an entropy may precipitate.
Ineluctably I think about myself sort of meta-ponder my thinking about myself. It could easily be suggest that my self-absorption is a sign that adolescence isn't something I've really left behind me. I get a kick out of my self-exploration: the examined life may not always be worth living but it is entertaining.
Last night my mind when back to an afternoon on Peachtree Street in Atlanta when I was eighteen. Not far from the High Museum I wished I could have sex with a boy who had a girl's breasts.
A boy with a girl's breast not a woman with a phallus. That was how I pictured Hermaphroditus (based on what I don't have any idea). It'd be years before I discovered that I had the capacity for finding womanhood or mostly womanly attributes sexually desirable.
As far as I knew there were no such people. Biological androgyny was something of myth only. Like many notions that I didn't have the will or know-how to make real it went out of my head.
Several years later in San Francisco this old erotic dream returned. Answering an ad either in The Advocate or The Berkeley Barb I called what must've been a pre-op transsexual. An ignorant young man I dimly knew that sex reassignment surgery existed but nothing really of transsexuals even though I'd met a couple. The voice on the other end was very creepy and told me I'd have to make a donation. I hung-up don't know if it was the fee or the voice. Happy enough with nelly gay boys I forgot about it. A few years during a phase of sexual self-discovery I rediscovered those desires.
Last night's minor revelation I treasure for a couple of reasons.
When I see the word 'ladyboy' the accent is on the boy. When confronted with the images aimed at shemale chasers I'm not seeing anything close to my young self's dreams. Often you wonder if there is more silicone in the face than the breasts.
The granularity of the self-insight is my real pleasure. The broad outlines of our inner lives aren't that hard to discern. But the truth and value is in the nuances, inflections, details.