This is the way the world ends
This is the way the world ends
This is the way the world ends
Not with a bang but a whimper.
ASK.
I hate when I’m failing to be understood. What am I doing wrong?
If I had the miasma to make GIfs (which I pronounce “Jiffs”) I would have made this series years ago, because Arthur is wonderful, and if you know me at all you know that I know this, and the choice of George as the cold opening’s protagonist is really apt.
In fourth grade, there was a boy with Aspurgers in our class. His name was T. T. was Catholic, like me. We lived close enough that we went to the same Sunday school, that means I was on Sunday-school behavior with him once a week and an asshole to him five more. My mother sat with his mother in the church cafeteria, did crossword puzzles, listened to his mother tell her all the problems he had at his old school.
T. was a bitch. I was already a faggot, I wasn’t gonna be a bitch. All I remember was that he cried a lot. He didn’t have any friends at school.
Once, T. said we were all products of evolution, we came from monkeys. I told M., T. said you’re a monkey. M. went apreshit on T.. and T. cried, ran from the room. Ms. Mongaleeza, the English teacher, didn’t do shit. (She’d replaced a well-loved veteran mid-semester. Nobody could blame her for her fallacies.)
A special-ed teacher came to the class: “What you need to understand,” she said, “was that some people feel things differently.” I don’t remember her name. All I remember was that she was Jewy with frizzy hair and glasses. “You don’t know how other people will take something. You’ve got to be nice.”
You don’t have to be nice. Few people are nice. Fewer still in school. It’s better to be popular. I wasn’t popular, but I had friends. I was a faggot even then. If others didn’t know, I did.
What did she want of us? To be T.’s friend would mean to be made a pariah. The therapist’s fallacy is that she’s made to advocate for the unhealthy, the abnormal, while the rest of us are trying to hold desperately onto our normalcy. How far can we be broken down before we become her clients, too?
Not to many years later, I’m sixteen at a bus stop in the suburbs listening to “Californication” on my iPod. A man had just come in my ass. A man, 26. He’d shown me porn. He’d said, I know that guy. Viper, I bet his dick’s too big for you. This guy’s own dick was 10 inches, easy.
How does kindness figure into this? We’re all falling in and out of vortexes—swirling emotions, processes. There’s no cartoon to paint our portrait, no antlered child to sweep us up in sympathy.
In fourth grade, once, at recess, we surrounded T. We joined hands and whirled about him. Someone grabbed his lunchbox, tossed it on the roof. I don’t know if he ever told that tale. The teacher didn’t come that day to scold us.
But is it better to grow up misunderstood, taunted, or to have enough friends and to ostracize your self? To live a secret life that sews its stitches into you long after the story has been told—as if the secret can never be expunged from the memory of muscles—as if speaking truths cannot alleviate the base physicality of pain and desire, want.
(Source: miakosamuio)
Kansas City Trucking Co. (1976, Joe Gage)
Flava Works files another lawsuit…
Plaintiff is recognized nationally and internationally as a leader in the field of production and distribution of adult entertainment due, in large part, to the goodwill and namerecognition associated with its trademarks, as well as the high quality content that is associatedwith its copyrighted material.
Last I heard, a blatant lack of concern for the safety (at least according to the Chicago Department of Public Health and a second hand account from the friend of a model affected) generally doesn’t coincide with “goodwill”. Perhaps they mean goodwill towards subscribers.
This lawsuit is pretty ridiculous for several reasons:
First, the 26 John Doe infringers are named for their activities on a handful of Yahoo groups. Yahoo groups. Really? Those still exist?
Two filehosting sites are named as defendants: Oron and Filesonic. Filesonic? Really? Filesonic which no longer acts as a free filesharing platform? Isn’t this what one calls beating a dead horse?
Third, Flava’s attorney Meanith Huon, and this is just lovely, was charged with sexual assault in 2010. He was acquitted, apparently, largely based on the testimony of a bartender who stated that the alleged victim had been drinking, which, as well all know, means she couldn’t have possibly not wanted to fuck him. Her barefoot escape from his car across a cornfield quite possibly could have been a post-orgasmic frolic.
Huon later sued the “Above the Law” blog for 50 million dollars after they posted an article which wrongly alleged he was a serial perpetrator. The three articles linked to by AtL all referred to the same previously described incident, but their intrepid reporter thought they referred to different events. He apparently failed to read the datelines. They do tend to print those things in such pale and tiny fonts. But seriously, 50 million dollars?
I’m all about innocent until proven guilty, but again, this doesn’t read as goodwill towards men. And I think I’d want a lawyer with something a little more official than a gmail address.
vii. delta of venus
character makes
standards, make boundaries,
yield behaviors
which build character, but Lynn
said that sort of thing
wouldn’t work for me,
that it would let me take Refuge in semantics,
in the mechanism of thought.
Black
Gay
Man
(2001, by Robert F. Reid-Pharr)
“Even and especially when I encounter the nameless trick, even and especially when the tricking happens in the blank, barely penetrable atmosphere of the dark room, I am aware of the immense contradictions at play, the pleasure and the danger located at the end of the cock, pleasure and danger that are intimately linked and that work together to produce the electricity of the encounter. Essex Hemphill writes, ‘Now we think as we fuck. This nut might kill. This kiss could turn to stone.’”
“What is striking…is the fact that so few white artists, critics, intellectuals of all stripes, male or female, lesbian or gay, have found it necessary to cover themselves in the mantle of dinge queen, rice queen, or what have you. The desire for black, brown, and yellow flesh remains largely unspoken within either academia, or even within popular publishing. Not since the mid-eighties and the release by Gay Sunshine Press of Black Men/White Men have I seen a sustained articulation of cross-racial desire by any white person, though the evidence from the personal ads, the 900 lines, and the porn magazines suggests that dark meat is in exceptionally high demand as we enter the millennium.”
Both quotes from the essay “Dinge”. This is all very important, readable, and surprisingly sexy and funny. I come to Reid-Pharr from his work regarding Samuel R. Delany, which was a fantastic gateway considering his interest in “funkiness” amongst other things. Also, see his delightful little ditty on the Million Man March, “It’s Raining Men”.
I
hate when I know I’ve fucked somebody and they have no recollection of ever having met me. This is liable to happen on a semi-regular basis in a city of 300,000 people. Am I that unmemorable? Or do I have a better memory for casual sex than most? I certainly don’t remember the owner of every dick I’ve ever sucked. But this has happened a handful of times in the past few years, and I’m certainly not as slutty as I used to be. If it’s any consolation to my self-esteem, I generally remember these men for how awful the sex was; the gentleman in question was kind of a douche-bag, and I didn’t buy the fact that he met his older boyfriend in known cruising grounds when he was merely trying to get out of the rain under a picnic pavillion.
Twenty-Six
by Jonathan Kemp (2011)
Commenting on the action later to a friend, one of them will say, ‘I took two cocks up my arse at once; it felt fucking great,’ thereby proving the inadequacy of words, demonstrating how they wring dry the intensity of every moment and hang it up for inspection, hang it out to dry, colourless and mistaken.
The Young Homosexual
by Lee Dorian, 1965
“Just straight sex is nothing,” remarks a UCLA man during an investigation. “For real kicks you’ve got to make it with a fag, preferably a Negro fag, or have a hallucination. Pot (marijuana) or peyote (the hallucinating cactus) is the only kick left.”
OMFG WISDOM
Every year a man lasts increases his sexisness quiotent by ten, so long as he isn’t the sort to lie about his age or leanings.
Butchie is sexy incarnate, and I don’t think Omar would disagree.
Who would I be today if I never had sex?
If I waited for someone I loved?
If I waited for someone I was daiting?
If I lost my virginity to another virgin?
If I waited for seventeen, or sixteen?
If I lost it to someone my own age?
If the first time I was on top?
If I’d tried it with a girl?
If I hadn’t used a condom?
(There should be an entry, forthcoming, about the use of condoms. I can count the times I didn’t use condoms. I can’t count the times I’ve had sex.)
If the first time I’d only done oral?
If the first time wasn’t good?
(He was a stranger.)
If it hurt?
(He was big. One of the biggest I’ve had. Does it ever hurt the first time? You hear talk of adrenaline rushes. I was listening to Californication on repeat those days.)
If I’d never pierced my dick?
(The timeline’s hazy here. I know I pierced my dick sometime around my sixteenth birthday, which was sometime around the time I first got fucked. I remember part of the psychological underpinning for piercing my dick was that I’d need a month to recover, that I couldn’t hook-up. Was I delaying a repeat performance or the initial repose? It was probably two months after the first, a month after the first time bareback, when I didn’t know how to say “Yes, but…” When I thought everything was either yes or no.)
If I were uncut, and he wasn’t, or if he was uncut?
(The first uncut dick I sucked. I remember that. He was small, and German born. He told me how on Sesame Street there, the opening number had a bunch of naked kids dancing around. He loved classical music, and he said, “they left you your frenum, and you put a needle through it.”
A year and a half later, he fucked me again, but it was like lifetimes in the future. The first tiime, I hadn’t thought of myself as a sex-worker. When fear, uncertainty are lost, the magic is lost, too. That last time was a transaction.)
I remember now the first man in Philly who paid me to fuck him. He was a regular. I was funny about bottoming that first year. I don’t remember why, but it probably had a lot to do with the shared bathrooms in the dorm. There was nowhere comfortable to douche. He had a parrot and collected firefighter memorablia. I could show you his building. He was a regular, but then he wanted me to bottom, and I asked for more money then and never saw him again. I remember seeing him two years later, which was like lifetimes in the future. He was sitting on the front stoop with a young guy, petting his hair. I was tripping balls; he didn’t notice me. That moment stuck. I’d never thought of myself as replacable.
Who isn’t replacable?
So what are we waiting for?
(If I’d waitied, or if I’d been born years later, I’d have been given Guardasil, I’d have one less thing to worry about. I can’t think of any other identifiable difference.)
The preemminent what-if, of course, is what if that first man, the one I haven’t yet mentioned, is What if that man hadn’t taken me to the Motel 6 and paid me to probe my ass with stiff plastic dildos—i.e., what if I hadn’t been offered money for sex? I’m not ready, right now, to think about that.)
You can’t think about sex without thinking about your first time, but the truth of the matter is I’ve had many first times:
The first time I plaid with myself,
The first time I saw another dick,
The first time I looked at my asshole in a mirror,
The first time I saw a hard dick,
The first time I measured my dick,
The first time I saw porn,
The first time I fingered myself,
The first time I stuck something other than a finger up my ass,
The first time I came,
The first time I took a picture of my dick,
The first time I made an internet hook-up,
The first time I got fucked,
The first time I had bareback sex,
The first time I topped,
The first time I could have had sex but was too afraid to ask for it,
The first time I was paid for sex,
My first toy,
The first time I shaved off all my pubic hair,
The first time I fucked a virgin,
My first boyfriend,
The first time I slept in another guy’s bed,
The first time I had sex while high,
The first time I had sex while drunk,
The first time I had sex while tripping,
The first time I had sex when I didn’t want to,
The first time I had sex without coming,
The first time I engaged in heavy fetish play,
The first time I tried to count how many people I’d had sex with,
The first time I videotaped other people having sex without participating,
The first time I told someone I was sex worker,
And there’s more, but I’m getting bored. What I’m thinking is that there’s so many firsts that a single what-if interogative is inconceivable. The only one that would fit would be, “What if I were a nonsexual being?” That’s like asking, “What if I were a panda?”
(I feel like, now, getting bored with writing, and trying to be conclusive, I’m losing the energy I built up in remembering all this. My drive is to dig out my old notebooks, the records of my behavior, but they won’t satisfy anything. So I’ll just stop Now.)
Girl: You watch porn?
Boy: Yes.
Girl: Why can’t you just…picture us having sex?
Boy: Because that makes me sadder.
I don’t understand straight people. Or maybe I don’t understand straight women or straight men or the children of the rich, the lily white. Mostly, I don’t think I understand straight people.
Advert from A4A, a MSM hook-up site, for a sexual health survey. Fucking aweome marketing penetration.
Do you think Tea Partyers know their tax dollars are funding a government funding the UN Program on HIV/AIDS which is funding this group which is buying ad sites that show up next to advertisements for Real Bear BFs and The Best Shower Enema Solution?
It all makes me smile.
My god, he fucked me so many times. It was a bad idea to look back on my LiveJournal tonight. But I really liked him, and the money was good. So why does it feel bad?
You can love a client—that’s the thing they never tell you—the ones for or against this thing.
I loved being with him. I loved the money, his cock, his company. It always seemed like America’s Next Great Dancer, or whatever it’s called, the one with the British lady, was on while he fucked me. And the Gun Oil. He fucked me with lube called Gun Oil, and it was wonderful.
But it’s been years now, hasn’t it? And I want to still love him, as I loved the gun oil and cumming on my chest.
