After thoroughly enjoying my long hiatus, I’m
raring to go and full of p and v, whatever that is, and I like to imagine you’re just teasing a guy when you look up from the task at hand—topping up the ink levels in the mimeograph machine, or barnstorming your fission statement, I think I heard that right —and say to your co-workers,
“Hey, he’s back! Could somebody shoot me in the head while I’m sleeping?”
Incidentally, those of you still stuck in the Creativity Pod with your caramel lattes long grown cold can spare yourself the effort with the mission/vision thing. Now that The Donald has ushered in the end of days with all the finesse of a three-hundred-pound WalMart bouncer on Black Friday, we’re well aware that they both go “making a shitload of money while selling useless crap to bored consumers, polluting a lake, then going bankrupt so we don’t have to pay those pensions”, except “vision” starts “We see ourselves…” while “mission” kicks off with “Just try and stop us from…”.
And incidentally to the incidentally, allow me to prise those lattes from your hands and replace them with “partially recycled” plastic bottles made from virgin petroleum and filled with tap water labelled “mountain springs” at eight dollars per gallon—three times what you pay for gas in your car.
Gaia, that old hippie chick, withered breasts dangling at kneecap level, now slouches towards Bethlehem, not to be born but to expire with one final, raspy sigh in the Valley of The Shadow of Non-biodegradable Plastic (on the bright side, the discovery of mountains in Guelph should dramatically cut the costs of a Toronto family ski trip, come nuclear winter).
But enough about you.
I was going to call this post “The In’s ‘n Out’s of Gay Sex”, but—
1. The In’s ‘n Out’s double-entendre is terribly overdone, at least in my mind, whose peak of ambition is to make eight-year-olds laugh;
2. I’m still searching Merriam-Webster for the correct plurals for In and Out and I don’t want anyone to think I’m one of those louche non-reader’s who believe’s that everything with “s” on the end, or even not on the end, ha’s an apo’strophe; and,
3. I figured it would be entertaining to lure you in with just “sex” then pour cold Eau Sauvage all over you with “gay”.
And never worry, if you don’t get the jokes I will explain them to you, which is probably why, around 1995, everyone stopped accepting my dinner invitations and started humoring me instead. So to all of you who responded with:
“We’d love to, but we’re so tied up getting ready for the millennium!”
may I just say, “Dudes? Like, soooo totally??!! Random???!!!
The older you get, the more you will experience being humored. To discover if this awful fate is yours, I suggest the following experiment:
Go ahead, tell your rapt listeners for the hundredth time how Beethoven wrote his greatest music while deaf, which is why deaf people love it;
or how much better rhubarb pie was before they put the strawberries in it,
or, if a genuine coup de théâtre rather than thigh-slapping humor is the order of the day, demonstrate how to rewind an unspooled cassette tape with an HB pencil.
Next, casually look away for a second, then quickly and unexpectedly look back at them. (You may want to remove your neck brace for this.)
Not pretty, is it? Their eyes will be spinning in their sockets like slot-machine fruit and, if you’re fortunate enough to have ruined the afternoon of more than one millennial— which I now just assume is anyone younger than me— they may very well be exchanging knowing looks, which in my case would translate to:
“He’s doing so well today, but if he puts up his hand and calls you ‘Miss Smedley’, dial 911.”
Today’s post is about the eternal push-pull of str8 male—gay male and what these two demographics can learn from each other.
KIDDING! Today is about the Paradox of Gay Male Desire … (“Learn from each other”! Man you shoulda seen the look on your face..!)
But first, a musical interlude. You can sing it yourself, I’m out of budget.
Follow Str8-Fellow Dick Road!
Follow Str8-Fellow Dick Road!
Follow, follow, follow, follow
Follow Str8-Fellow Dick Road!
If ever and ever a dick there was
A Str-8-Fellow Dick’s the one! Because?
Because because because because because!
Because of the wonderful things it does!
There! Wasn’t that refreshing? Now settle down.
It’s important to realize that gay men do things, sex-wise, that straight people have never, EVER, done, or even THOUGHT about.
That’s our “donnée”: Gay sex is weird and repugnant. OK? Hold that thought.
And in this era of equality and acceptance—where in Canada two guys can tie the knot, have group sex at the wedding breakfast and divorce before dinner; where in Nigeria they now cut you up into only 10 pieces with a machete instead of 12—weird and repugnant though it be, man to man ugly-bumping is now something we actually talk about.
Tabernac de bavardage! Whatever that means! And because straight people have never EVER done anything except lights-out, close-your-eyes, missionary position sex in a state of holy wedlock with the same person for all time, or even THOUGHT about anything else, this of course, now that we’re actually talking about repugnant gay sex, makes repugnant gay sex super enticing.
Let the logic of that sink in for a moment. OK, ready? Jeezus! We haven’t got all day, here!
Let us now add to this Kinsey smoothie some bitter, roasted nuts in the form of The Paradox of Gay Male Desire, admirably formulated on a napkin by Albert Einstein in 1972:
Paradox of Gay Male Desire, napkin formula created by Einstein while eating at “Fred’s Garage and Live Bait Also Now We Do Burgers!! Except Sundays!”. (Private Collection, Zurich).
(Where gg= happy gay guy with possible addition of one or more fuck buddies, divided by having to wear the bra, with panties optional, and minus the angry girlfriend, multiplied by a straight guy and an exponential number of dudes who just came to watch.)
Or, as Einstein put it in layman’s terms:
“Every gay guy wants sex with a straight guy – but if the straight guy has sex with you, he’s no longer straight! Just ask Alan Turing! Hey, anybody wanna Fresca?”
Now, it’s obvious that your average str8 dude, once he starts thinking about all the manmeat in his life, all that dick sloshing around in those boxer shorts or old worn-out Stanfields, and available at the office, at the golf course, at the gym or during confession, and then starts thinking about all the things he can do with it—I mean, those little monsters in our pants are unruly but at their best moments undeniably impressive—well, Murgatroyd, at that point it’s just a matter of time…
(… continue to » Part II )