You’ve got to choose guys. You can be a “real” man, or you can be a good father. You can’t be both. Real men don’t cry; good dads allow themselves to feel the full range of their emotions. Real men act tough; good dads know how to be tender. Real men earn masculinity bonus points for violence and rage; good dads not so much. As you weigh your options please consider this cautionary tale: my dad chose the "real" man route, and now, as an adult, I have a real thing for licking out other guy's assholes.
In case the causal connection isn’t immediately clear, let me explain. Like all little boys, I longed for an emotional connection with my dad. When his need to be a “man” got in the way of our bonding, I came up with plan B: get dad to confide in me, to openly share his most intimate secrets—make me his “sonny boy” as it were—if I could do that, maybe I’d finally be worthy of his love. (Technically, I suppose that should have been mom’s job but whatever.) I’m an adult now, my dad long dead, but I still look for that kind of intimate vulnerability from the men in my life, especially my sex partners.
What does all this have to do with kissing ass? Well, when it comes to our bodies, the asshole is as deep, dark, and secret as it gets! It’s a part of ourselves we can’t even see without benefit of a mirror, and mostly, we don’t bother. I enjoy sucking cock, but let’s face it, it’s a relatively pedestrian activity. Now if you’re sitting on my face….well, that’s special, that’s a VIP invitation to go where (one hopes) few others have gone. Ask me to lick your hole, and you’re symbolically ushering me into a private, unguarded sanctuary. To me it feels a lot like love….
Monday, May 25, 2009
Panentheism for Perverts
If you’d like to develop more religious feeling in your life, try this. The next time you’re down on your knees in an adult porn-video arcade preparing to suck anonymous cock, imagine that the stranger who sticks his dick through the gloryhole is Jesus. Most guys will find this challenging at first. We attend church and read our bibles, but how many of us really believe? Surely, we reason, that part about how we’re created in his image, how we’re all his children, must be some kind of ancient typo. The outer trappings of piety come easily, but faith is more than slapping a fish bumper sticker on your car. Know this: each of us, no matter our path through life, is like a well in the desert—dig deep enough and you’ll hit divinity. Don’t worry if you find this hard to believe. Just keep imagining that you’re sucking Jesus, connecting with the innermost God-like nature of the soul behind the plywood partition, and eventually you’ll get it. (If the considerable spiritual benefits of this visualization aren’t enough to motivate you to try it, listen to this good news: when practiced regularly, this simple shift in perspective will help you give a better blowjob. You’ll approach flesh with a new fervor that will make you the bathhouse favorite!)
Church leaders ask us to consider “what would Jesus do?” when confronted with a moral choice. That’s fine as far as it goes, but here’s an even more powerful line of inquiry: what would you do (spit or swallow?) if the people in your life were Jesus? When you see yourself as sucking the savior, licking our lord, it gets harder and harder to compartmentalize spirit, harder to believe that God is here and not there. Eternity seems to shine through the formerly opaque muck of creation, as, more and more, we perceive God’s loving hand in all things. What joy to finally know that even cum is communion, sex sacred, and horniness holy!
Church leaders ask us to consider “what would Jesus do?” when confronted with a moral choice. That’s fine as far as it goes, but here’s an even more powerful line of inquiry: what would you do (spit or swallow?) if the people in your life were Jesus? When you see yourself as sucking the savior, licking our lord, it gets harder and harder to compartmentalize spirit, harder to believe that God is here and not there. Eternity seems to shine through the formerly opaque muck of creation, as, more and more, we perceive God’s loving hand in all things. What joy to finally know that even cum is communion, sex sacred, and horniness holy!
The Closet Cronicles
A guy walks up to me in a bar in Oaxaca, and asks if I’m gay. I give him my standard reply, “yes, are you?” Seems I’m the only gay guy around which is odd as there’s not a woman in sight, and the guys are getting more and more friendly. One fellow explained that while he wasn’t gay himself, he did like to fuck gays. Now there’s a pickup line I hadn’t heard before! Another claimed he was really straight because he only went with really effeminate guys. If I’d put on a dress and talk with a lisp, he’d be willing to overlook the inconvenience of my cock. No thanks. Later in the evening I met another straight dude who was hustling me for beer money. Handsome heterosexual men take note: if you’re hard up for a beer flirting with gay tourists is your ticket to drunken oblivion. I’m embarrassed to admit that’s true. I was striking out all over and it was getting late, so I screwed up my nerve and asked a solitary gentleman his sexual orientation. Seemed he came for the “atmosphere.” Looking around me at the white plastic chairs and tables and bare walls, I wondered why he didn’t just hang out at the bus station instead.
What is it with latinos and the closet? To accommodate their fears I’ve gotten hotel rooms with a second bed we never used but dutifully messed up in the morning, lied shamelessly to friends and family, and, once, hid in a quite literal closet when my ex’s snoopy cousin knocked on the door. Here’s the thing though: I love it! Denial is just so damn hot. In my defense, I’m not the only one who thinks so. None of us seem to want someone authentic; someone who is gay and has balls enough to act like it. Perhaps Woody Allen was talking about us too when he said he’d “refuse to belong to a club that would have him as a member.” My friend Steve specializes in bedding “straight” guys. I keep telling him…if you’re blowing them, they aren’t “straight” Afterall, even in my horniest moments I wouldn’t consider doing it with a woman. Please! I shouldn’t waste my time trying to get him to see reason. Of all parts of our anatomy, the penis is not known for logical action. Still, I have faith that one day we will find pride sexier than shame. As important as the rights to military service and marriage may be, the real gay liberation will not take place in the halls of congress, but rather in the hallowed chambers of our own hearts.
What is it with latinos and the closet? To accommodate their fears I’ve gotten hotel rooms with a second bed we never used but dutifully messed up in the morning, lied shamelessly to friends and family, and, once, hid in a quite literal closet when my ex’s snoopy cousin knocked on the door. Here’s the thing though: I love it! Denial is just so damn hot. In my defense, I’m not the only one who thinks so. None of us seem to want someone authentic; someone who is gay and has balls enough to act like it. Perhaps Woody Allen was talking about us too when he said he’d “refuse to belong to a club that would have him as a member.” My friend Steve specializes in bedding “straight” guys. I keep telling him…if you’re blowing them, they aren’t “straight” Afterall, even in my horniest moments I wouldn’t consider doing it with a woman. Please! I shouldn’t waste my time trying to get him to see reason. Of all parts of our anatomy, the penis is not known for logical action. Still, I have faith that one day we will find pride sexier than shame. As important as the rights to military service and marriage may be, the real gay liberation will not take place in the halls of congress, but rather in the hallowed chambers of our own hearts.
Dear dad,
It's true that killing yourself gives you the last word, but it must be a bummer not being around to enjoy the victory, especially since none of us really know what your suicide was trying to say. Maybe some bizarre mixture of protection and punishment; a little "you'll be better off without me," and a lot of "look what you made me do." Guess the whole family thing didn't turn out the way you planned. What a surprise it must of been to discover your boys were not minature copies of yourself. Even your wife--carefully chosen for her complaint, old-fashioned personality--voiced independent thought. Turns out her idea of being loved "in sickness and in health" didn't involve receiving a rose of apology after being (emotionally) beaten. Who knew?
So now you're gone, and nobody knows how to untangle the twisting cords of anger and sadness, love and hate, that bind me--as surely as any physical chains--to you in a sick imitation of love I can neither believe in nor let go of. Dad, you never thought I'd amount to much, and I know how much you like to be right. So to you I dedicate my failure and my despair. I promise not to be happy.
So now you're gone, and nobody knows how to untangle the twisting cords of anger and sadness, love and hate, that bind me--as surely as any physical chains--to you in a sick imitation of love I can neither believe in nor let go of. Dad, you never thought I'd amount to much, and I know how much you like to be right. So to you I dedicate my failure and my despair. I promise not to be happy.
Fear
To you I look normal. Internally, I'm on code red alert, blood beating with dangerous force against artery walls, but nobody notices as I go about my day. Somebody pulled a fire alarm in the building of my body so many years ago, and nobody's been able to turn it off. So now they just screen it out; pretend the sirens aren't wailing, red lights flashing. I can't remember if there ever really was a fire, or if it was all just a hoax, or even a drill. Perhaps it doesn't matter anymore. I just know I'm still scared. That I've never stopped being scared. I am, in fact, devoted to my fear. Maybe someday it'll pay off. Maybe I'll finally figure out what's wrong. Save the day. Maybe they'll call me a hero.
Meanwhile though, it sucks feeling this frantic. Walking down the street I pass a little boy going the other way, and I can't stop turning around checking that he hasn't changed course to come after me with a knife. Here's the thing I've learned about fear: it's better if you know what you're afraid of. The thing that terrifies most lurks in shadow unseen and nameless. So if you don't know what you're afraid of just make something up. It's easy. Here's a list of possibilities to get you started: snakes, cancer, airline travel, public speaking, death.
My favorite substitute fear is the life police. Life police write tickets for wrongful living. It might be for not mowing your lawn, or for not having a job or a boyfriend (or just not having the right job or boyfriend). Maybe your house is too messy or too clean. Maybe you have too much money (filthy rich), or not enough (dirt poor). Life police are everywhere! In fact we've all been life police at one time or another, and we've all got tickets-lots of 'em.
Usually life police just give shame citations (what my 6th grade teacher called "cold prickles"), but for truly grievous crimes community service is required. Community service might involve giving some guy you're not attracted to a blow job, working a crap job for low pay (although you're qualified for more pleasant employment), or just generally making a mess of your life so that other people look better by comparison. Life police are pretty scary, so if you're going to be afraid of something, they make a good choice.
Meanwhile though, it sucks feeling this frantic. Walking down the street I pass a little boy going the other way, and I can't stop turning around checking that he hasn't changed course to come after me with a knife. Here's the thing I've learned about fear: it's better if you know what you're afraid of. The thing that terrifies most lurks in shadow unseen and nameless. So if you don't know what you're afraid of just make something up. It's easy. Here's a list of possibilities to get you started: snakes, cancer, airline travel, public speaking, death.
My favorite substitute fear is the life police. Life police write tickets for wrongful living. It might be for not mowing your lawn, or for not having a job or a boyfriend (or just not having the right job or boyfriend). Maybe your house is too messy or too clean. Maybe you have too much money (filthy rich), or not enough (dirt poor). Life police are everywhere! In fact we've all been life police at one time or another, and we've all got tickets-lots of 'em.
Usually life police just give shame citations (what my 6th grade teacher called "cold prickles"), but for truly grievous crimes community service is required. Community service might involve giving some guy you're not attracted to a blow job, working a crap job for low pay (although you're qualified for more pleasant employment), or just generally making a mess of your life so that other people look better by comparison. Life police are pretty scary, so if you're going to be afraid of something, they make a good choice.
The Joy of Submission
Do this. Go to craigslist.org for your city, and click on "men seeking men." Draw a line down the middle of a piece of paper. Go down the ads and put a tally mark on one side for every guy that wants to suck, get fucked, get pissed on, be daddy's little boy. The other side of the paper is reserved for the fuckers, pissers, and oral tops. Notice anything? With all the dedicated bottoms running around some cities (I'm looking at you Boise) it's a wonder anybody gets fucked at all.
It's counterintuitive. Afterall, getting fucked hurts. And spend enough time on your knees sucking cock and you're bound to get a wad of foul tasting, and quite possibly diseased, goo in your mouth sooner or later. Popular culture tells us that weak guys get fucked in prison, when the truth is everyone is sitting around in orange jumpsuits picking straws, and it’s the loser that has to stick it in. Christian teaching tells us to do onto our neighbor as we would have him do onto us. Who says gay men aren't going to heaven?
You might want to stop reading now. This essay is dangerous. Contemplate the greater desirability of submissive sex too long, and you're sure to lose your hard-on. Our eroticism is built on a lie-- a lie I intend to expose. It's the false belief that the guy standing up with his cock in our mouths is receiving the service, and not us(!), that gets us hot. We need so badly to be givers. Some of us feel absolutely compelled, driven to give. But we'll be damned if we don't get to tell you exactly what the gift is, and just how much you're going to enjoy it. "You're gonna shove your cock up my butt, and you're gonna love it bitch!" What queen hasn't screamed these words to his lover? Ok, it's not true. This is, in fact, precisely what we don't say. But beneath all the sexual theatre, its exactly what we feel. Exactly.
It's counterintuitive. Afterall, getting fucked hurts. And spend enough time on your knees sucking cock and you're bound to get a wad of foul tasting, and quite possibly diseased, goo in your mouth sooner or later. Popular culture tells us that weak guys get fucked in prison, when the truth is everyone is sitting around in orange jumpsuits picking straws, and it’s the loser that has to stick it in. Christian teaching tells us to do onto our neighbor as we would have him do onto us. Who says gay men aren't going to heaven?
You might want to stop reading now. This essay is dangerous. Contemplate the greater desirability of submissive sex too long, and you're sure to lose your hard-on. Our eroticism is built on a lie-- a lie I intend to expose. It's the false belief that the guy standing up with his cock in our mouths is receiving the service, and not us(!), that gets us hot. We need so badly to be givers. Some of us feel absolutely compelled, driven to give. But we'll be damned if we don't get to tell you exactly what the gift is, and just how much you're going to enjoy it. "You're gonna shove your cock up my butt, and you're gonna love it bitch!" What queen hasn't screamed these words to his lover? Ok, it's not true. This is, in fact, precisely what we don't say. But beneath all the sexual theatre, its exactly what we feel. Exactly.
Me: a beginner's guide....
My name is ummm...kundalini kid, and I'm a 43 year-old gay male. I'd love to say I look younger, but no, I don't. Frequent shaving of the sparse and increasingly grey hair on my head, along with judicious use of Just for Men on my goatee, put what I hope is a fashionable spin on mid-life. As for the 40 extra pounds gracing my belly, well, I'm too weak-willed for conventional dieting, and too cheap for the knife, so bottom line, they're staying. But if my looks are not what they once were, my sex drive (not to mention my needs for intimacy and affection) has suffered no such decline.
Fortunately, I live in an age where its not necessary to meet face-to-face before commiting to a sexual tryst. Mere flesh inevitably fades, but a computer profile with its carefully finessed photo (thankyou photoshop!) is forever. Everyone knows that statistics lie, and nowhere is that more true than on homo-hookup sites like gay.com, manhunt, bear411. I sympathize with the 65 year-old who claims to be 24 (good luck man!) but here's a hint: stop using that sepia-toned image of yourself as a lad proudly posing by your horse and buggy. I mean, nobody's fooled. I've met the youthful dudes you intended to deceive, the ones who knocked on your door with innocent hearts and hopeful hormones only to turn away in disgust. They don't understand. Did you actually think they'd go through with it just because they were there and horny? They don't yet know from personal experience the innocuous way a little lie grows into a big one, one year at a time. So I'm careful not to be overly-optimistic with my online fibbing. Among chickenhawks there are subtle gradations of pathetic behavior, and I still have my standards. With the right skincare products, I figure I've got another good five years to be thirty-nine.
Not everyone lies about their age of course. Some big-dicked dudes (and corresponding phallic fakers) imagine that a few extra inches somehow compensate for their decrepitude. They don't. Ditto for the technique queens. You may have spent years on your knees in ballroom bathrooms during the big-band era. Maybe you really can give the best blow job ever. Nobody cares. When it comes to sex these are the only things that matter: age, height/weight ratio, muscles. Please make a note of it. The shallowness (ageism, looksism, nobody's-having-sex-with-me-ism) of the younger generation is much lamented among gay guys my age and up. It all seems very sad until you ask yourself this question: are we having sex with each other?
Of course none of this concerns me now. My secret? International travel. What if I told you that there's a place, probably just a short flight away, where guys will think you're sexy just because you can read these words? Where your command of the English language puts you in command in the bedroom as well? A literature professor's wetdream. A place where plain ole white skin gives you an exotic allure? (And if you're black or, heaven help us, asain, that goes double.) What if I added that these guys sport beautifully brown bodies made naturally buff by honest labor, come with intact penises, and tend to be tops? The place I'm talking about: Mexico. It's all true. I'm here, I'm queer, and I'm not coming back anytime soon.
Fortunately, I live in an age where its not necessary to meet face-to-face before commiting to a sexual tryst. Mere flesh inevitably fades, but a computer profile with its carefully finessed photo (thankyou photoshop!) is forever. Everyone knows that statistics lie, and nowhere is that more true than on homo-hookup sites like gay.com, manhunt, bear411. I sympathize with the 65 year-old who claims to be 24 (good luck man!) but here's a hint: stop using that sepia-toned image of yourself as a lad proudly posing by your horse and buggy. I mean, nobody's fooled. I've met the youthful dudes you intended to deceive, the ones who knocked on your door with innocent hearts and hopeful hormones only to turn away in disgust. They don't understand. Did you actually think they'd go through with it just because they were there and horny? They don't yet know from personal experience the innocuous way a little lie grows into a big one, one year at a time. So I'm careful not to be overly-optimistic with my online fibbing. Among chickenhawks there are subtle gradations of pathetic behavior, and I still have my standards. With the right skincare products, I figure I've got another good five years to be thirty-nine.
Not everyone lies about their age of course. Some big-dicked dudes (and corresponding phallic fakers) imagine that a few extra inches somehow compensate for their decrepitude. They don't. Ditto for the technique queens. You may have spent years on your knees in ballroom bathrooms during the big-band era. Maybe you really can give the best blow job ever. Nobody cares. When it comes to sex these are the only things that matter: age, height/weight ratio, muscles. Please make a note of it. The shallowness (ageism, looksism, nobody's-having-sex-with-me-ism) of the younger generation is much lamented among gay guys my age and up. It all seems very sad until you ask yourself this question: are we having sex with each other?
Of course none of this concerns me now. My secret? International travel. What if I told you that there's a place, probably just a short flight away, where guys will think you're sexy just because you can read these words? Where your command of the English language puts you in command in the bedroom as well? A literature professor's wetdream. A place where plain ole white skin gives you an exotic allure? (And if you're black or, heaven help us, asain, that goes double.) What if I added that these guys sport beautifully brown bodies made naturally buff by honest labor, come with intact penises, and tend to be tops? The place I'm talking about: Mexico. It's all true. I'm here, I'm queer, and I'm not coming back anytime soon.
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