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Sunday, July 31, 2005

Titpig's Frustration, or Sitges Part 1

Jean-Marc, April 1990

On N'oublie rien de rien
On S'habitue, c'est tout

-Jacques Brel

The late morning sun blazed hot and dry into the little Citroen Deux Cheveaux winding through the hairpin curves of the coastal road between Barcelona and Sitges. The cloth top was pulled back and the radio blared static more than music. The back was piled high with a mountain of mismatched luggage which shifted as we swung back and forth, Mediterranean on the left, vineyards on the right scattered across the dry craggy landscape.

I lit a Ducado and looked at the beautiful boy driving. He was a twenty-one year old student at the university. I was a thirty year old libertine plotting the second leg of my hedonistic adventure, having just spent two delightfully slutty weeks in Barcelona sampling as many pleasures as I could given my utterly retched Spanish and barely-remembered, thoroughly barbaric high-school French. My driver was just the latest in a string of pearls. I was in heaven.

The drive isn’t that long, about thirty kilometers, but it took a forever. By the time we had located my hotel, brought up all my bags, had lunch and enjoyed a farewell fuck, it was happy hour.

As I made my way down the large tile staircase I heard laughter and voices coming from the courtyard. English, in a variety of accents hit my ears for the first time in weeks. I strolled out through the large French doors and looked around.

“Don’t be shy, luv”, a voice called from a small crowd of men seated at scattered tables, “We’re the friendly sort. Oh my, dear, you look confused. Do you speak English? Where are you from?”

I opened my mouth, but the words didn’t pour. I had pushed English so far into the back of my head that I had trouble finding it again. Finally:

“Yes, I speak English. I’m from Boston.”
“Another American, how lush! Although my name is Charles, everyone here calls me Sydney after my hometown.”
I manage a big smile and shook his hand. He’s quite tall, wiry thin, past forty, over six feet tall, with a mop of strawberry blond curls. “Oh she’s too cute! We’ll be the best of friends, I just know it.”
“Australian?” A dull, flat Chicago voice spoke up. “I thought you were English.”
“No” I said, still looking up at Sydney as I stood next to his table, “Definitely Australian. I can hear it.”

Introductions continued as a burly bear of an Irishman asked what I’d be drinking. I took a beer, knowing full well that I’d never remember all those names. Syd asked all the particulars and I gave him a brief synopsis of my time in Barcelona and a description of my lovely driver, how we met and how he came to drive me there. “Oh you are a nasty little whore” Syd smiled and winked, “We have so much in common!”

We finished our beers and hit the town. Sitges is a small fishing port turned artist/poet retreat turned Eurogay beach resort with over a dozen bars, saunas and discos. The narrow, winding streets were packed with people on that warm evening in May, 1990. Syd showed me around, with most of the gang in tow. We hopped from bar to bar, surveying the crowds and making witty observations regarding who might be inclined to which sex act with whom how often. The endowment of one might be discussed, the voracity of the other analyzed with many scatological references thrown around. Syd had been there for a month, and was planning to stay all summer, so he knew everybody already and showed me off like a new toy. I returned to my room early for once during this vacation, around 2:30, and crashed into a black sleep.

I quickly established a pattern. Syd would set upon the beach at the prearranged spot near a breakwater like a mother hen. A young Cockney named Tony and I had a place of honor on his blanket. The assorted Brits brought straw mats and clustered around. We were all gathered by noon, lotioned up and lazy in the heat, mercilessly critiquing the pale and overweight Americans and Germans stretched out on the beach lounges. The gang made a wager as to who amongst us would be the first to land a Russian. The Berlin Wall had fallen that previous winter and we all anxiously anticipated a flood of Eastern Europeans. They never materialized, alas!

Late afternoons were given over to a nap in our rooms, or reading and letter writing. It was a quiet time to recharge before the riots of evening.

We’d regroup in the courtyard of my hotel before packing off for a small, elegant bar named Azul. The décor at Azul was bright white, accessorized in brilliant cobalt (of course). The bar was run by a pair of very friendly English guys as a cruisy early bar, with bright blue shots passed around every thirty minutes. Needless to say, by the time we left Azul, we’d already be quite lit, singing loudly and ass-grabbing each other.

After Azul we might go to the Parrot for more drinks or straight to dinner, then on to the early discos like Bourbon’s or Mediterraneo (which opened during my stay in Sitges). The late disco, Trailer, didn’t ever open until 2:00. Bourbon’s was a small dive that played old Disco Hits, cheap and always crowded. Mediterraneo was also popular, very chic and contemporary, with the most peculiar urinal arrangement I’ve ever seen. They had six of them arrayed on a four-foot high partition in the center of the room, three on one side, three opposite. No matter where you looked, all you saw was spraying dick, left, right or straight ahead. It was an odd sensation staring directly into the eyes of the guy pissing in front of you. The ceiling was mirrored for a full panorama.

One evening shortly after I arrived, Sid and I were having beers at Azul when he asked me my type. I rattled off my usual tripe about finding something interesting in almost anyone.
“But surely you must have a preference: short, tall, young, mature?”
“Well” I slowly replied, “I like my men masculine”
“Not much taller than I”
“They have to be a bottom. I don’t get fucked.”
“Never?” Sid looked aghast.
“So what do you like in a cock?”
I thought for a second. I wasn’t in the habit of announcing preferences at that time. Finally I looked up into his eyes and said with mock seriousness:
“I like dicks and balls so small that I can fit everything in my mouth at once and chew on the foreskin with my molars.”
Sid hugged me. “My dear Bucko, I have just your match. He’s this divine German with the smallest equipment I’ve ever seen!”
I didn’t quite know what to say. Sid had taken me too literally. He hadn’t seen that, in addition to cocks and balls, I frequently had my tongue planted in my cheek. We let it drop with a good laugh just as the bartenders started mixing another round of complimentary blue shots.

That evening Sid brought this absurdly small, balding blond man over to where I was standing at Mediterraneo. “This is Peter. He’s German, luv. He’s been dying to meet you.” Syd made a silly face at me and practically made me shake Peter’s freakishly small hand. We quickly established that Peter spoke almost no English, but had a fair command of French.
“Peter will make you very happy, dear” Sid beamed. “He’s hung like a ten-year old!”
“Oh, gawd!” I looked away. “That was a joke!”
“You sounded serious”
“Well” I replied irritatedly with Peter’s tiny face smiling dumbly at me, “I wasn’t.How do I get this midget to go away?”
“I’m afraid you’re stuck with him, luv.” With that, Sid turned and ran.
Peter grinned idiotically.
“Mon dieu” I muttered.

I had gained a new puppy. Peter followed me everywhere, interrupting me whenever he saw me talking to someone. My buds thought it was funny, but I’d been in Sitges for several days and hadn’t hooked up yet. I found the whole thing vastly demoralizing. The more I shooed Peter away, the more enamored he became. Insults, threats and ignoring only made matters worse, as he seemed to like it. Two additional nights of this lunacy went on until, on a quiet night at Bourbon’s, I relented and went back to Peter’s room.

He reached his tiny head up to me and began covering me with soft, pillowy wet kisses, an urgent tongue darting around my teeth. It felt like an evil, dimwitted goblin was cleaning the inside of my mouth with a leech. I leaned back and took my shirt off, grabbing his boyish hands toward my nipples. He tugged sluggishly and reached down to open my fly. I pushed him back on the bed roughly. Peter looked confused for a moment, then his simpleton smile returned.

I tore roughly at his clothes. When I ripped open his jeans, I finally saw it. His hardon was no bigger than my index finger! It was paired with the smallest testicles I have ever seen, each no bigger than the end of my thumb. His thin body was frail and did little to entice me. I rolled him over and saw a very shapely ass, however, and I stroked it, making the hairs stand up in static charge. “Spank me” he hissed, first in French then English. “Hard, please…”

I gave Peter a good spanking until my hand hurt, his cheeks going pink then quickly red up to his tanline. His voice became progressively urgent until it was a shrill screech imploring more. I grabbed his miniscule cock and balls and gave them a good hard squeeze, but his reaction was one of pain undiluted by pleasure. I was familiar enough with the difference to stop, as I had no wish to do harm. As he was kneeling doggy-style on his bed, I finally opened my pants and pulled out my half-hard dick, waving it in his face. Peter moved his face to the side, so I jerked it back and slapped my dick against it a few times. He responded with tightly closed eyes and mouth, so I figured I wasn’t going to get any head. I reached back to his red stinging butt, licked a couple of fingers and felt between his cheeks. “Just slap it” he whispered. I’d had enough.

Jumping off the bed, I went to grab my shirt.
“Where are you going?” he implored, in French.
“I don’t know, I don’t care”
“But we are just starting”
“Tu ne rien veux faire” I shot back.
"Tu ne veux rien faire" he corrected.
I screamed that the only thing I hate more than someone correcting my French is a lousy lazy lay, threw my shirt back on and left.

I went to Bourbon’s for a cool-down. After the second beer and I felt better. So far the luck I had enjoyed in Barcelona hadn’t rematerialized. I was cranky and feeling horny. Moving near the dancefloor I surveyed the offerings. From across the room I spied a very cute little muscleboy. He was wearing a most unlikely combination of tanktop, white jeans and black dress shoes. I am just 5’6, he couldn’t have been more than 5’4, with beefy chest, strong shoulders and killer legs nicely filling out the jeans. I smiled and made eye contact, but he looked away. Moments later a tallish American walked over to him and handed him a beer. Shit! Just my luck!

I stayed for a few more beers but no one seemed interesting, so I hit the john on the way out. As I took my place in the waiting line, the door swung open and there was the cute muscleboy again. We made eye contact immediately and both smiled broadly. As he approached me, he stuck his index finger in his mouth and slowly ran it down my chest and crotch. I turned to follow him but the crowd closed in and I lost sight of him.

On the beach the next day I put off Syd’s inquiries about my terrible evening, but he begged for all the details, both he and Tony hungry for dirt. Angrily I told them about what a bust the evening had been, and how sour my luck had been in Sitges.
“Well, luv,” Syd stated with a roll of the eyes, “Maybe you should hit the gym. You’re not going to get anyone on your face alone anymore.”
I was suddenly white hot angry. “What do you mean?”
“I just think that you’re a bit plump in the tummy.”
I stood up and without thinking bitch-slapped him.

The Brits were shocked. My frustration had boiled over and I’d behaved horridly. I quickly apologized, but Syd wouldn’t accept it.
“I had that coming, but you’re still a plump bugger.”
I grabbed my bag and stomped back to the street running along the beach. I felt angry and ashamed and wondered what the hell I was doing. I lit a cigarette with a shaky hand and walked back toward town. About fifty yards up I bumped into the studly Frenchman named Claude, a boyfriend of one of my Brit buddies. He asked what was wrong and I spilled out my guts with a couple of tears.

Putting his arm around me, he cooed some words of encouragement to me in French and rubbed my shoulder. We sat down and talked everything out, his hand gradually inching up to my thigh and stroking it. I returned the favor, making circles running from his thighs up to his rapidly thickening bulge. Our breathing became labored and quick, but sitting on a bench with pedestrians passing all around, we had to break the spell or cause a scene.
“What do you want to do?” he asked.
“My hotel’s just up there”
“Do you want me to come over?”
I thought a moment, lighting both of our smokes. “What about David?”
“We broke up last night. He’s an imbecile.”
“Are you sure?”
“We broke up.” We looked into each other’s faces
“Well, come on then.”

Walking up the hill to my hotel, we bumped into Muscleboy and his American heading down to the beach. Claude waved them over.
“You know them?” I asked.
“The Frenchman, yes. The American no.”

We stopped and said hello and I was introduced to Jean-Marc, just like that.

The American was a therapist from San Francisco. He ran a weekly support group for men coming to grips with the circumcisions they suffered as newborns, which even in my mania for foreskin I found absurd. He and I were cordially distant. Throughout our little four minute chat, Jean-Marc and I kept making eye contact, but I couldn’t follow the lightning fast, slurry French he and Claude spoke.

They excused themselves and continued on their way. I looked back just once.

Claude and I raced into my hotel room and stripped each other naked in the empty hallway outside my door. His superb cock stood at attention as he grabbed my tits and twisted them tightly. I flushed and instantly got piston hard, dripping copious precum.
“I have a friend back in France who likes this. I see you do, too.”
All I could do is growl and implore him to continue as I turned the key and pushed open the door. Real titpigs like myself are always on the lookout for someone with the right touch and Claude was an expert. I fell to my knees and slurped down, easily taking all of his dick into my throat. Making our way to the bed, I reached up and began massaging his ass, exploring for his hole in the tangle of hair between his cheeks. He smelled tart and very manly. Pulling me to my feet, he pushed me on the bed and blew me poorly, with unnecessary gagging and coughing and teeth much in evidence. At least his hands stayed on my nipples, helping me to focus. Finding his hole, I wet a finger and played around the opening of his anus.
“I might be tight” he breathed, “I haven’t been fucked in a while.”
“It’s OK, I’ll go slowly.”

I was slapping my balls against his broad ass less than five minutes later.

We came in waves and torrents, curling up like two puppies afterwards. I dozed off for a bit, my arms wrapped around his broad chest, our smell in my nose.

I woke up to a pounding migraine all alone in the dark. Rolling over, a wave of nausea roared up and I barely made it to the bathroom. Streetlights cast slivers of puss-yellow light against the walls of my room as I staggered out. The music and laughter from the rowdy bar across the street pounded into my aching ears. I fell back into the bed but could not get comfortable. Outside my door I heard shuffling against the tiles as every sense was heightened to increase my discomfort. I buried my head into a pillow and moaned softly.

Hours passed with me coming in and out of awareness, mixing dreams and reality in a blurry mental soup. It must have been just before dawn when I opened the French doors and stepped out on the balcony for some air and a smoke. Leaning against the rail on the balcony adjoining mine was a tattooed English Skinhead fag. He nodded at me and softly said hello. I smiled wanly. Asking if there were anything wrong, I lifted my head enough to make eye contact and explain that I was sick with a migraine. He asked if I had any water and fetched me a fresh bottle, for which I was most grateful. I thanked him and returned to bed for the next thirty hours.

To be continued…

Friday, July 29, 2005

Corporate Welfare

Bristol-Myers Squibb, more commonly known to us as BMS, has reported second quarter profits of 1 billion US dollars. More importantly, however, is all of that is TAX FREE.

"Overall results were helped largely by $294 million in tax benefits that enabled the company to pay no taxes."

So, let me get this straight - a working stiff has to pay his share of taxes on the lousy 30k that he grosses annually, so that a huge multinational corporation (henceforth, MNC) can pay zero?

This, my friends is what we refer to when we're talking about corporate welfare. Let us reform corporate welfare as we know it, as they did with common welfare. From this point on, we shall refer to it at wealthfare. Because that is precisely what it is - a government hand out to companies that are very profitable.

So, I suggest that we demand that these hand outs to corporate billionaires end immediately.

"This country has a $6 trillion national debt, a growing deficit and is borrowing money from the Social Security Trust Fund in order to fund government services. We can no longer afford to provide over $125 billion every year in corporate welfare -- tax breaks, subsidies and other wasteful spending -- that goes to some of the largest, most profitable corporations in America." ---Congressman Bernie Sanders, May 15th, 2002

"Due both to lower basic tax rates and to myriad loopholes, corporate taxes fell from one-third of total federal revenues in 1953 to less than 10% today. Were corporations paying as much tax now as they did in the 1950s, the government would take in another $US250 billion a year - more than the entire budget deficit."
--Chuck Collins

Let us call our attention back to our wonderful friend, Bristol-Myers Squibb. With 1 quarter profits at $1 billion, that means that they are profiting an estimated $4 billion annually. This is out of control.

-- Sales of REYATAZ(R), a protease inhibitor for the treatment of HIV, increased 115%, including a 3% favorable foreign exchange impact, to $183 million in the second quarter of 2005 from $85 million in the same period last year. REYATAZ(R) has achieved a monthly new prescription share of the U.S. protease inhibitors market of approximately 30%. (All of that advertising is paying off.) Sales in Europe continued to grow since its introduction in the second quarter of 2004, achieving sales of $52 million in the second quarter of 2005.

-- Sales of SUSTIVA(R), a non-nucleoside reverse transcriptase inhibitor for the treatment of HIV, increased 9%, including a 2% favorable foreign exchange impact, to $167 million in the second quarter of 2005 from $153 million in the same period last year, primarily due to U.S. prescription growth of approximately 5% for the second quarter of 2005.

Global Sales: $19.4 billion
Charitable Donations: Nearly $650 million in product and cash contributions
So this means that the generous, tax free, corporate billionaires were nice enough to give roughly 3.5% of their total sales

Here's the contact information for this lovely little company that provides us with the necessary toxins Reyataz and Sustiva:

Chief Executive Officer:
Peter R. Dolan
345 Park Avenue
New York, New York, USA 10154-0037
Call, write or email them on their web form and ask them why they do not have to pay taxes, while the rest of us, who can barely afford their products do. Further, if some PR person tries to tell you about how much charitable giving they do, remind them that it only constitutes 3.5% of their total gross receipts!

You Substantiate Our Horror

Beloved minions,

I have noticed over the last 10 years or so a the development of a disturbing trend amongst my people. It has become apparent that some of my brothers (and to a lesser extent sisters) in Queerdom are starting to believe in that stain on humankind - equality.

This ridiculous notion which has seized some of the slower homosexual minds (more often than not those that were trained in "accountancy" and allied "professions") is best summed up by the continuing debate over gay marriage.

It seems that my comrades in the United States of a Miracle have been indulging themselves in a foolish exchange on this issue with the hated breeder majority. I say to them, "Stop!" It is merely an attempt by the enemy to divert our collective attention from the pressing issues we face. Poverty, disease, violence and class oppression are the matters we should be engaged in resolving. We should not waste our time arguing that two blokes and a cocker-spaniel constitute a family.

Here in Australia we have resolved this matter neatly. Commonwealth law was amended been amended to ensure that the detestable institution of property called marriage is restricted to breeder filth. Being queer is not about slavishly aping the bizarre rituals of the the lesser section of the species. It is about being freed from such bonds. It is about forming our relationships on new terms in which we respect and honour ourselves, our lovers and our people in general not bind ourselves and our love to property. Frankly, seeing two dykes debase themselves and their kind at a "civil union" ceremony makes me sick.

All forms of marriage should be abolished. It is very simple. In this way we can protect the Queer principles and break the legacy of privilege that has been built up by the heterosexist elite.

At this point I must say that until recently even I, your fabulous correspondent, was duped into supporting this marriage rubbish albeit reluctantly. In another place I said things suggesting that we should have the same legal rights as hets. Fortunately a Wise Old Queer took me aside and gently disabused me of this notion with the immortal words "Don't join the fuckwits darling - remember the Principles". I was suitably chastened and enlightened and I withdraw those ill chosen and misguided comments.

However brothers and sisters, gay marriage is merely a symptom of the deeper malaise with which we struggle. Now that my ideological purity is restored I would like to turn my attention to the growing dominance of the moderate "lesbigay" traitors.

Comrades, I grow increasingly weary of visiting our public haunts only to find them populated with mindless legions of twinks, clones and the Queer Eye for the Straight Guy audience and hearing them chattering endlessly about investment portfolios, designer trousers and that delightful little terrace in Surry Hills.

Don't get me wrong. This is not a rant against being a mincing faggot, quite the contrary. I have no problem with the swishes, nancy bois and fairies. I have more than a large streak of the sissyfag in me. I walk with a graceful gait and have the well enunciated tones of the modern homo. In my opinion the more fey and limp wristed you are the better.

No, what I'm angry about is the moderate "lesbigays" who seem to think that the fight has ended simply because they can watch endless repeats of Will and Grace in the comfort and treacherous privacy of their "McMansions".

I'm sorry but just because you're young, dumb and full of cum and you've told mummy that you like sucking cock doesn't mean you've made a meaningful contribution to your people.

However, as usual Matty the Damned has your salvation at hand. It's my job to tell you how fucked you are but I have a corresponding responsibility to give you the solution too. The following was first published around ten years ago, but it is relevant today. Without further delay I give you:

Chipper's Guide to Being a Gay Man in the 90's

1. Act Straight.

2. Go to the Gym twice a week. Alternatively, buy a Soloflex. Restrict exercises exclusively to those which build upper body muscle tone.

3. If you're circumcised, get your dick fixed.

4. Date only men who look as good as you. This will encourage others to aspire to your high standards.

5. Lie about your age if you are over 23 years old.

6. Purchase Calvin Klein underwear and wear it often.

7. Consider a body waxing.

8. Buy records and tapes by artists who are rumoured to be gay, but haven't come out. Share the rumours with your gay friends to spice up conversation on social occasions. Also, buy Donna Sommer records.

9. Purchase exclusively those fashion, entertainment, alcohol, tobacco, and travel-related products which are advertised or featured in the pages of "Out", "10 Percent", "Genre", "The Advocate" and similar publications. Avoid contact with persons not doing likewise.

10. When on the receiving end of a homophobic epithet or hate-speech, such as "All Fucking Faggots Should Die!", ignore the perpetrator, and act as though you didn't hear it.

11. Observe the AIDS crisis carefully. Avoid giving lesbigays a bad image by participating in an embarrassing protest against governmental or commercial neglect of the health crisis. Wear a red ribbon instead, as it is far more dignified, and doesn't risk giving lesbigays a bad image. If you get AIDS you needn't increase your participation in such activism. Why bother if you're going to die soon anyway? If you are HIV-, pepper your conversation with references to the friends you know sick or dead from AIDS, to draw attention to your red ribbon.

12. Tell your boss you are gay only after proving to her/him you are a valuable employee.

13. Don't come out of the closet until you have a mastery of guidelines #1-12.

14. Load a .57 Magnum with one bullet, point it at your face, and pull the trigger.

I trust I've made myself clear.



Wednesday, July 27, 2005

Your Bucko, Boston's South End, 1993

Urbanism and Rampant Faggotry

Ever since Jehovah smote Sodom, urbanism and buttfucking have been linked in the human experience. We are by our very natures urban creatures. We relish the anonymity of the crowd and seek strength in the solidarity of the close-pressed, shoulder-to-shoulder life that cities offer. Large metropolises are a place to reinvent oneself away from the forced conformity, harsh judgments and narrow minds of suburbia and the open expanses of God’s Country.

Now I’m drawing distinctions here. Homosex happens everywhere you might find two men and a quiet moment. But I’m referring specifically to the delirious life found in a neighborhood where the video store is stocked with equal parts of Dirk Yates and Bette Davis, Cadinot and Truffaut, Jeff Palmer and Julia Hoffman. Why is it that in a few years we enterprising fairies can turn a boarded-up war zone into a mini Boulevard de Strasbourg, replete with sidewalk cafes and florist shops?

Is there something in the gay gene that instinctively draws one to subways and skyscrapers the same way one is born craving, say, fine footwear or foreign magazines?

Conventional wisdom says that, as social outcasts, we take sow’s ears and indefatigably turn them into silk clutches in an effort to “make a home for ourselves”. Maybe so, but that sounds to me as if we’re lusting after some version of hetero “normalcy”, and that fits in poorly with my actual experience. We outclass the pedestrian normative without even trying. That’s truly the wonder of the gay gene, not any penchant for window treatments.

The old concept of the Gay Ghetto is becoming a quaint anachronism like drop-in VD clinics as we have carved out safely fabulous swathes in entire cities. There is no longer any reason for us to stay huddled in basement bars in the West Village or locked away in precious parlor-level rehabs when we have resurrected entire municipalities. Gentlemen, you are now free to roam about the cabin.

As a youth, I followed the scent of Paco Rabanne and Chanel for Men to the various enclaves favored at that time. We moved our Roseville collections from Beacon Hill and Back Bay to the Fenway, then finally to the South End. We left a trail of renovated duplexes and roof decks everywhere we went, to be priced out by growing throngs of Yuppies and empty-nesters who’d somehow never seen the charm of those places until we’d finished with them. The flower boxes were barely planted before the rents had doubled and our sleazy hangouts had been gentrified into boring coffee shops or brass-trimmed fern bars.

And we’re taking our act on the road. Fort Lauderdale is quickly becoming a locus of attention for freezing fags everywhere, and certain gay neighborhoods like Rio Vista and Victoria Park have already flipped over faster than a twink with a plumber in the kitchen. We’re still light-years behind the Northeast in producing any great culture, but at least I know where to get croissants that taste like they came straight from a boulangerie in the shadow of Sacre Coeur. And I find that comforting even as the Russian mafia and breeding Eurotrash have taken over South Beach, leaving it to Kristen Bjorn models and confused Chicago tourists clutching their outdated Damron guides.

The Preferred Perverts List

Here at the The Spin Cycle we like to share the love around. Being total attention sluts, we feel obliged to return all favours no matter how depraved. So beloved reader if you will cast your jaundiced eye across to our Links side bar you will see that we have added two new links to our line up:

  • Emma Beverage - poet, activist and blog-goddess. Her surname is just TOO cool.
  • Up Close and Personal - This is the new blog from one of our favourite AIDSMEDS sisters, the Fabulous Davidwas2now1.

Think you have what it takes to be a Preferred Pervert? If so post a comment with the URL of your site and we'll give it the consideration it deserves.



Tuesday, July 26, 2005

Today in History

"In 1985, a spokeswoman for Rock Hudson confirmed that the actor, hospitalized in Paris, was suffering from AIDS. (Hudson died the following October.)"

This is the 20th anniversary of the event that made AIDS an issue for the rest of Amerika. I remember this event being talked about when I was a child. I had no idea what they were talking about but, I kept hearing words like, "oh, not Rock Hudson" and "I never thought he was a homosexual". Naturally, in the innocence that youth provides, I was clueless.

Now, today I am able to think about this event and the events of the past 25 years and reflect on their meanings. The literature says that, "AIDS made its appearance in 1981 when an increase in Karposi's sarcoma and a rare lung infection alerted the United States Centers for Disease Control that there was a problem." (Cascade AIDS Project)

Well, we have come a long way from the days of G.R.I.D. and Gay Cancer. But, still today in the United States, "2 young Amerikans become infected with HIV every hour". (Advocates for Youth)

We have people like Andrew Sullivan telling us that, "How are you supposed to scare people when the treatment is this simple, this effective and this easy?" For a very well written critique of Mr. Sullivan's post read what Joe Perez has to say on his blog.

On this anniversary of sorts, I am going to remind people that yes, there are HIV/AIDS medications and sometimes they are effective for some people. However, those same medications are no cure, often have terrible side effects, and can cause a host of other organ problems, are incredibly expensive, and do not work for everyone because of resistance.

1981: 122
1982: 453
1983: 1,481
1984: 3,474
1985: 6,877
1986: 12,016
1987: 16, 194
1988: 20, 922
1989: 27, 680
1990: 31, 436
1991: 36, 708
1992: 41, 424
1993: 45, 187
1994: 50, 071
1995: 50,876
1996: 37,646
1997: 21, 630
1998: 19,005
1999: 18,454
2000: 17,347
2001: 17,402
2002: 16,371

Death rate extrapolations for USA for HIV/AIDS: 15,244 per year, 1,270 per month, 293 per week, 41 per day, 1 per hour, 0 per minute, 0 per second.

Bottom line: people are still dying from AIDS here and around the world. The things that allowed AIDS to get to the magnitude that it was at in the '80s are the same - racism, sexism, classism, heterosexism. We have to fight against all of those -isms to get the root of the pandemic so that we can someday offer a generation a world without AIDS.

Monday, July 25, 2005

Up Ya Bum!

Since the Lovely Buckles has placed the arse firmly on the agenda I think it is instructive for us to consider what can go wrong when we experiment with this most glorious of body parts. Now like many men, I am a great fan of shoving things up my shute - mainly cocks, but dildos, vibrators, suitable fruits and vegetables, fingers, tongues and toes (to name a few things) are welcome at my backdoor.

Nevertheless gentle reader, things can go wrong and whilst I have never encountered any of the problems that I am going to relate here, many of you are not as sharp of mind and sense as I am, so listen up.

We have all, I'm sure, heard of the highly amusing tales of pervert males ending up in the casualty departments of hospitals needing all manner of curious items extracted from their chocolate freeways of love. Light bulbs, curling irons, ice picks and even the U bend from a sink have all found their way into the fundaments of idiots resulting in great pain and distress for the patients and much mirth for the medical staff.

However my favourite tale of a misused tail is this one. Allow me to quote the case report:

Rectal Impaction Following Enema with Concrete Mix
by Peter J. Stephens, M.D., and Mark L. Taff, M.D.
from the American Journal of Forensic Medicine and Pathology 8(2):179-182, 1987.

This article describes an unusual rectal foreign body resulting from homosexual anal erotic activities. The patient had used an enema containing a concrete mix which became impacted and required surgical removal. The use, abuse, and complications of enemas are reviewed.

Key Words: Anal eroticism--Colorectal injuries--Enemas, cement--Foreign bodies--Paraphilias.

During the last 20 years, sexual habits have changed in western society. Both homosexuals and heterosexuals have shown an increasing interest in anal erotic practices, including the use of enemas for sexual enjoyment. We report a case of a klismaphiliac who had an impacted foreign body in his rectum following an enema with a concrete mix.


A 20-year-old man presented to the emergency room complaining of rectal pain. A well-nourished, well-developed man without signs of intoxication was admitted in no apparent distress. Digital examination of the rectum revealed a stony hard mass. Abdominal plain films showed a vertically oriented, low-lying radiopaque object in the rectum. A spherical radiolucency was noted in the upper pole of the mass. A blood alcohol level was negative. No other drug testing was performed.

Upon further questioning, the patient said that approximately 4 hrs earlier he and his boyfriend had been "fooling around." After stirring a batch of concrete mix, the patient laid on his back with his feet against the wall at a 45-degree angle while his boyfriend poured the mixture through a funnel into his rectum. After the concrete mass hardened, it became so painful that he sought medical care.

Under general anesthesia, the anus was dilated and two Foley catheters were inserted alongside the rectal mass to relieve suction. A concrete case of the rectum was delivered without incident. The rectal mucosa was intact with a hyperemic and edematous appearance.

The patient was kept overnight and discharged uneventfully the following morning. The attending physician recommended a psychiatric consultation, but the patient declined.


Examination of the specimen revealed a perfect concrete cast of the rectum, measuring 12 X 7 X 5 cm and weighing 275 g. A thin layer of feces coated the surface and crevices. Grooves in the mass were consistent with rectal mucosal folds. A layer of concrete was chipped off the upper part of the specimen and revealed a white plastic ping-pong ball. This corresponded to the radiolucency observed in the abdominal x-ray.

Oh dear.

The top picture you see here is of the "cast" removed from that stupid fairy's clacker. Note the shapely and faithful reproduction of his boy-pussy. If you had two you'd have a fetching pair of bookends.

I have encountered some dumb queens in my 30 years on this planet but this fellow has to rank up there with the best of them. Indeed the "best of them" includes the fool's boyfriend. It's bad enough when a poofter asks "Hey I've got an idea, why don't you give me a concrete enema?" but when his boyfriend replies with "Yeah, sure love! Let me grab the funnel!" you've just got to shake your immaculately coiffed head.

But comrades it seems that fuckwittery abounds and medical reports document countless similar problems. Not all of them are done by dopey fags, however. One story recounts how an old man troubled by his piles, would push a particularly troublesome one back into place with an ammunition shell he souvenired in World War II. One day whilst performing this procedure the shell managed to become lodged up the old fella's arse and he had to toddle his little self down to the hospital to have it removed.

When the doctor asked if the shell was spent the silly old cunt was reported to have replied "Oh no, there's enough ammo in that shell to blast a Messerschmidt out of the sky."

Consequently, the bomb squad was called and a special lead box had to be constructed around his geriatric backend to effect the shell's removal in a safe fashion.

This habit of inserting stupid things in bums is seemingly a habit peculiar to men, so boys - take care. If you're going to shove things other than your best mate's cock up your freckle think first. Make sure you can pull it out on your own, don't use cement as an enema or you may find yourself being talked about here.



The information in this article was sourced from this site.

Sunday, July 24, 2005

Ass, or The New Dark Meat ( )0( )

Finally! A picture that captures the color of my eyes!

“Never did Nature indicate another altar for our offerings than the asshole. Ah, but God! Were not her intention that we fuck assholes, would she have so exactly proportioned this orifice to fit our member?”
Philosophy In The Bedroom Donatien-Alphonse-Francois de Sade

I am a connoisseur, a gourmand of ass. A shapely, accommodating ass can more than make up for a weak chin, yellow teeth or a double-digit IQ. I can be aroused simply by looking at a round upturned bubble-butt. Fleshy globes and meaty bunghole will always get a second date.

I have three qualifiers when picking up men:
1) They must be HIV positive;
2) Unless overwhelmingly desirable, they should be uncircumcised;
3) They should be prepared to get fucked good and hard.

I cannot fix a beginning on my craze for man-ass, as I seem to have been born with it. I remember going to the municipal pool for swimming lessons in Old Town, Maine where my maternal grandparents lived. I couldn’t have been more than six or seven and already I was loitering in the locker room for a peek. As most men are somewhat modest in such situations and turn toward the locker, I was treated to a vista of ass. That suited me just fine.

Adolescence came early to Bucko, and by the time of seventh grade showers (at age eleven) I couldn’t help but notice that I was in advance of my peers. I also quickly caught on that any shyness felt on my part was more than compensated by the opportunity of examining my classmates at close quarters. As my passion for foreskin seems to have already been established with my asslust, I found little interest in the cut little toad-stools the communal showers showcased. But they were a veritable symphony of ass. Guys I wouldn’t have thought about twice became the objects of secret little crushes once I laid eyes on their derrieres lumbering toward the showers, butt bouncing and jiggling as it passed by.

By the time I graduated, I had made a mental dossier of nearly everyone at Weymouth North High School, and these provided an endless reservoir of sexual fantasy. Football jocks, gymnasts, freaks and nerds all became fodder for the shooting cannon under my bedsheets. My fascination tends toward full, wide, squishy butts that bounce and spring when kneaded or slapped. Hard muscular butts are exceptionally pretty, but have the tactile qualities of silicone implants.

And, as you are now all aware, I was already a hopelessly slutty little tart. I met men on subway platforms, in bookshops, in coffee houses in Harvard Square and the tearoom of the Boston Public Library (in the basement, so elegant with all that marble). If I could have, (and I sometimes could) I’d have had ass for breakfast, lunch and dinner. A taste only brought out my appetite, and I have broken a few beds in the hunt for satisfaction.

Age, race or demographics rarely meant much to me back then. I’d bring home scores of bottom boys irrespective of any consideration beyond the beauty and accessibility of his ass. I was a ravenous bottom-feeder. I’d go home with a couple in their forties and spend all night porking their behinds one day then keep a date with a luscious ballet dancer the next. I was conducting an exhaustive survey (one I’ve yet to complete) and my inquiring mind went to great lengths to find fresh subjects.

I’ll relate why I find bottoming personally distasteful another time, as this isn’t about my sorry little butt, but rather a description of the pleasure I find in the winking loveknots of others and I intend to stay on point. I will simply say that I have encountered no real resistance to my strict top-only rule since my late teens.

These days I usually begin my quest in a bar dedicated to the pursuit of momentary pleasure. I am not a phone book and have little interest in the collection of random phone numbers. If I call you back, it’s because I enjoyed the opening salvo and am interested in a follow-up volley. Life’s short, so why waste time on encounters not ripe with guiltless hedonism?

After having successfully qualified a perspective hole, the only thing left is to find our cars and figure out where we’ll be playing. I generally prefer to be the one entertaining, but am flexible and can follow as well as lead.

After some heavy facesucking and titplay, the clothes come off and we’re ready for a more detailed examination. Groping and fingering are next on my agenda, as I inspect the goods and tickle my tonsils with prepuce overhang. As I am currently living in a small two room apartment, I shall as likely as not stretch you back on my custom-made solid cherry farmhouse table and come in close for a sniff.

Foreplay having been accomplished and clothes strewn about, we make it into my bedroom for a more serious work-out. I have spent many years perfecting my craft and respond to signals and mumbled requests. I take my time and open the delicate flower with patience and persistence. One, two then three fingers find the prostate and massage it lovingly and with consistency. I enter the sacred grove only when asked in, but don’t wait for a second invitation.

Initial penetration is a delicate matter to most, though no all of my playmates. Sometimes one’s eyes are bigger than one’s sphincter and I have no wish to cause injury. I’ll let the head of my dick loiter in the vestibule for a spell. It is generally thrusting hips and urgent demands that prompt my further explorations of the lower bowels. I want it most when he’s screaming for it.

I prefer a slow, rhythmic push, pull, push, with occasional near withdrawal and rubbing of my cockhead just inside the opening before thrusting back in. Speed and force slowly build into a driving piston. I like to make it last and will take breaks for refreshments or a smoke between rounds, chatting and bonding on different levels of sensation and intellect.

Man-ass is best savored in positions that foster mutual pleasure and deepest insertion, such as:

• Bottom on his back: I personally favor this one, because we can kiss, my tits are readily available for pulling, and I can suck on his rod while firmly planted in his fundament. This position feels the most intimate.
• Bottom on his side: Good for starters or in a change of pace, this position affords me the most pleasure when I’m standing next to the bed (or table) and have the best access. This is also more comfortable for bottoms with lower back problems, although keeping that leg up can be taxing for more than twenty minutes or so.
• Bottom on top: For the bottom who wants to maintain some semblance of control on the proceedings, this one is preferable. I’m fine with this as well, because his dick is right there bouncing on my chest and is readily accessible for frigging.
• Both standing: There is something undeniably kinky about this one. It’s an especially interesting way of finishing up, with the Bottom’s hands gripping the footboard and me pounding away. Extra points are given for seeing his legs quake.

The all-too common practice of Bottom-On-His-Belly is not much fun for me, except as a first course. The pleasure taken in watching my cock push in and out between a pair of melons is offset by the lack of kissing and the inaccessibility of my tits. This posture always struck me as too cold and passive. But if any of you pillow-biters out there would care to show me how hot it can get, they’re welcome to give it a whirl.

Now, with all the emphasis on the fun afforded by ass-fucking, I’d be remiss if I didn’t spend a moment discussing hygiene and cleanliness:

• Just because I love ass doesn’t make me a scatpig. Of all the byways and cul-de-sacs of the human psyche, that one is beyond my comprehension.
• A proper Bottom should always wash out thoroughly before contemplating putting his hungry hole into use. They sell shower attachments, dude. Get one.
• Shaving is optional in my book. Asshair brings another whole dimension to the experience, making for a musky aroma and a certain aesthetic appeal. But extra caution in bathing is absolutely de rigor. Musky is not a euphemism for shitty.
• Just because I’m a control freak doesn’t mean that I’m wrong in wanting to verify the freshness of a given ass for myself.
• Analingus is strictly at my discretion. Even after a thorough cleansing I reserve the right to limit this practice to my whimsy. Sorry!
• That having been said, I have been known to toss many a salad and understand well the relaxing and therapeutic properties inherent therein.

One final word on the whole Santorum/ooze issue: fucking ass is not for wimps or pansies. The occasional dirty finger comes with the territory, although I’d like to think that my dirty dickhead days are behind me. The fact remains that a dedicated top needs to handle such an encounter with tact, discretion and finesse, excusing himself for a quick wash-up at a quiet moment, not interrupting a full-on assault to clean his nails. Some shit does happen, but bad manners are always poor form.

Saturday, July 23, 2005

JD: Guardian Angel #18, or Immaculate White Hightop Ponys

I have no photos of JD. But I do have this particularly poignant picture from the time. The man in the trucker’s cap is LB, I’m the guy next to him with the Amish beard and glasses. One could say that LB saved my life, and there’d be merit in the claim. When I met him I was twenty years old and my life was in tatters. Endless nights of drugs and men had taken quite a toll on Bucko. My best friend was a hopeless speed freak. I worked seventy-two hours a week in a liquor store, but with the minimum wage of $2.10 per hour could barely pay the rent. I was ripe for the plucking, and LB came along just in time.

LB had lived a relatively easy life, secure and a bit hum-drum. He’d graduated from a trade school in Boston, then went to a community college and got his degree in computer science. He toiled away at a boring IT job for a very old and proper Boston bank, content to be part of a team lost in the cogs of an immense machine. He was twenty-four when I brought him home from a bar near Fenway Park called the 1270, after its address on Boylston Street.

I’ll not linger on the early years, as it has little bearing on the story I’m telling. But it is true that, thanks to LB, I was able to escape the liquor store and establish a retail career. We enjoyed two years of staid matrimony, or the closest we could achieve in the early 80s. LB was strict and a bit stern, his Protestant practicality contrasting sharply with my ad-hoc bohemian anarchy. We tried to live in a common middle ground that neither espoused fully. We felt secure in an uneasy way, aware that any wind could topple our house of cards.

In our third year LB began what was to be a downward spiral of depression, alcoholism and the rampant overuse of Valium. At the time his main symptom was one of exhaustion. He couldn’t summon the courage to participate in life beyond his work, and took to going to bed absurdly early, generally between 7:30 and 8:00. On strict orders, I kept his condition from his friends and family, but grew restless rambling around in our apartment alone every night. When I brought up the fact that, at twenty-three, I had needs that required attention, LB suggested that I look elsewhere. Our only caveat was that I’d never take time from the small bit of socializing that we’d still do now and then.

At first I felt a gust of liberation blow right through me. LB and I had a rather pedestrian sex life at the best of times, and I retreated into fantasy as it became less and less frequent. I committed myself to having as much fun as I could find, and I found the opportunity to explore plenty.

I returned to an old haunt from my wild days. It was a sticky-floored dive on the wrong side of Beacon Hill called Sporter’s. I was assured discretion because none of LB’s bourgeois friends would ever be seen there. Sporter’s didn’t have a sign out front, because if you didn’t know it was there, you had no business being inside. It consisted of three rooms. One entered through one of two bullet-pocked doors from Cambridge Street into a large, dark room with an oval bar running front to back in a Tiki Hut theme. The walls were hung with greasy, nicotine stained mirrors trimmed with faux bamboo. In one corner an ancient ice machine sputtered and coughed, next to it first a pinball machine, then later a video game. To the right was the original backroom, which had cases of empty long-necked beer bottles stacked and waiting for their eventual pickup. Off this were a men’s room that was foul, and a lady’s room that was worse.

To the left was another room with a bar and a space for shows and dancing. I don’t recall any parquet on the dancefloor, just a small 15x15 foot cul-de-sac with a small, elevated DJ booth against one wall, a filthy, fingerprinted mirrored wall in the back, assorted lights overhead, and a third wall with a locked “Lady’s Room” that either the DJ or the bartender could buzz open.

There were very elegant nightclubs in Boston, I’d even worked in one when I was nineteen. But for the scavenger hunt I was on, Sporter’s worked out best. The crowd was very mixed, and Sporter’s popularity waxed and waned with shifts in demographics and fashion, but at this particular époque the crowd was unpretentious and working class guys (mostly from the North Shore). There was a crowd of old lecherous regulars clustered around the big bar on wobbly and torn black vinyl stools, but they were more interested in booze than boys.

I won’t catalog my various tricks from that time as, again, it has little to do with JD, and I don’t wish to tax the bandwidth of any more than I am already. But it is fair to say that I was out from two to three nights a week and never went straight home. I enjoyed myself thoroughly and collected asses like one might commemorative spoons.

It was a warm spring Thursday evening in 1983 when I pulled open the door to a busy 2-for-1 in progress. Taking a quick tour, I got a pilsner glass full of scotch and soda from the back of the bar and surveyed the takings. 2-for-1 was very popular, and the place was packed with hopefuls. Pushing through the louvered doors to the dance room, I stepped inside and made my way through the crowd.

Tell me I am crazy
That I'm wasting time with you
You'll never be mine
That's Not the way I see it
Cause I feel you're already mine
Whenever you're with me
People always talking 'bout
I don't care about your other girls
Just be good to me

Standing around, I spotted a face in the crowd that I hadn’t seen before. His broad shoulders and toned pecs filled out with the wifebeater he was wearing to good effect. He had a square forehead, strong jaw, loving-cup ears and luscious, full lips. His auburn hair was a tight mass of natural curls cut short. His arms were cut and chiseled, and in the cleft between the left bi- and triceps was a homemade tattoo that spelled “JD” in greenish-blue ink. His light-colored jeans were skin tight and showed off a fabulous ass and large basket. His shoes were immaculate white hightop Ponys. Giving him the once over, I looked away toward the dancefloor. Some guy asked me to dance, and I said “Why not?”

Friends are always telling me
You're a user
I don't care what you do to them
Just be good to me

As I danced I looked over at the crowd pressed tightly around the opening to the dancefloor, squinting past the lights to see if I could catch a glimpse of him, but he was lost in the sea of faces.

You may have many others
But I know when you're with me
You are all mine
Seem to always listen
To the bad things that you do
You never do them to me

I reconciled to the thought that he was probably just out with friends anyways. He seemed to be with a group of people, among them several girls. He was probably straight. He was probably…

People always talking 'bout
I don't care about them other girls
Just be good to me
Friends are always telling me
You're a user
I don't care what you do to them
Just be good to me

Just then he sauntered on to the dancefloor with a woman in her late twenties and took up space right next to me. I tried to play it cool, but I felt him staring me down. Looking over, we made an eyelock as we continued dancing, ignoring our partners. I was transfixed by his bright, clear blue eyes.

Is a game of chances
So I'll take my chance with you
And you, I won't try to change
Talked about it and
I'd Rather have a piece of you
Than to have all of nothing

After an eternity he moved his head to my ear, and in a rough Bostonian growl said: “I’m thirsty, buy me a beer.” I reached over to my dance partner to thank him, but he’d already left, and I hadn’t even noticed. I was walking off the dancefloor with one of the sexiest men I’d ever met. I was hooked before we made it to bar.

But just be good to me
In the morning Just be good to me
In the afternoon or evening
Ooh yeah
Just be good to me

We made the thinnest excuse for small talk I’d ever attempted, and in a rare moment felt shy and nervous. To try and disguise my awkwardness I became aloof and almost monosyllabic, which is most unlike me. I gulped my scotch and chain-smoked Parliaments.

I'm not the careless type
I won't tie you down
When you need me
I'll be around
I'll be good to you
You be good to me
And we'll be together
Be together

He had come out with his sisters, one of whom was celebrating a birthday that evening…he lived in Medford. I lived in Jamaica Plain… I worked downtown... Yeah I knew Tommy, we worked together…Great guy, good friend…

Me? Big enough, bigger than most...See for yourself…Shit yeah, you’re fuckin’ hot...No, can’t come back...Got a lover asleep at home...Took his car...You got a place ?...

La la la la la la la la
La la la la la la la la
Just be good to me

We left Sporter’s almost immediately and jumped into LB’s Subaru. I pushed a cassette into the stereo and blasted Siouxie and the Banshees as we made our way through the light nighttime traffic to Medford, JD directing me the five miles there. He lived at home with his folks at the moment, having just left a bad situation (JD was always just emerging from a bad situation). As we exited off I93 I asked where we could find some privacy. After much tooling around and red-light facesucking, we settled on an athletic field on the campus of Tufts University, under the bleachers. Ever-practical LB had a blanket in the car.

Opening his pants, JD had a huge fat white dick lined with blue veins running down to the foreskin (which I wasn’t expecting but appreciated ever so much). After much gobbling and probing, I flipped him on his back and delivered a frenzied fuck using spit and precum for lube, punching his chest with my fists and bending low to blow him while still up his round meaty ass (one of my specialty numbers). We came together in a mini thermonuclear explosion.

Dropping him off after an exchange of numbers (he knowing when to call so as not to get LB), I raced back through Downtown and up the Jamaicaway, taking the dangerous curves at 60 mph. I washed up a bit and crawled into bed next to LB. He stirred, asking the time. “Late”, I replied.

JD and I settled into a routine. We arranged with our employers to take the same days off. I would get up early, drive LB to work and meet JD at Dover Station on the old elevated Orange Line. We’d chat about our lives and little kitchen-sink dramas. I would try to find his limit of toleration in hard-core Death Disco and Punk with the likes of The Birthday Party or Flux Of Pink Indians on the stereo, but he’d only laugh and strum out the beat on his thigh. He labored under the illusion that I was a Southie tough, and I did nothing to disabuse him of it.

Our lovemaking grew more intense, more intimate, more sexually daring. I’d had many sportfucks and I’d had loving relationships, but never the two together before. Within the proscribed rules of engagement, JD and I let down barriers and bonded in a deeply emotionally way. But I was unwilling to give up the comfort of the home LB and I had nurtured, and JD was unwilling to get responsible. I knew that he did drugs and ran with a rough crowd. He loved me passionately but couldn’t bring himself to make a commitment, and I couldn’t bring myself to ask for one.

LB went on a business trip about four months into this. I dropped him off at the airport that evening and tore over to Medford to pick up JD, who had packed a bag in anticipation. For one week we played house in that apartment in Jamaica Plain, both on our best behavior. JD would meet me for drinks after work, I’d prepare a dinner for him. I was utterly enthralled and completely overwhelmed by the depth of my feelings. And JD surprised me with his domesticity. I caught myself wondering what if…

On the last day of LB’s business trip, we went to a swimming pool on the Esplanade along the Charles River at JD’s suggestion. He flirted shamelessly with several guys in the locker-room as we changed into our suits, and I found it all wonderfully endearing. We sunned ourselves on lounge chairs on that summer afternoon, rough-housing around the pool (until we incited the ire of the lifeguard) and laughed and laughed. After taking a shower and changing, we took the short stroll over to Sporter’s for a beer. Although the dance room was closed during the day, the DJ was in there practicing his mixes and working some new lights. As we both knew him quite well, we asked if we could slip in and enjoy the music. On that magical afternoon, the DJ put on a private party just for us, and we danced and carried on, eventually collapsing into each other’s arms.

On the way home, we got very quiet. Neither one of us wished to break the spell or go back to our ordinary lives. That night we went to bed early and cuddled tightly.
I knew that we’d broached an unspoken boundary, pushed the limit on the parameters of our relationship. JD and I had discussed options and the future a thousand times, and each time drew the same blank. I couldn’t continue any more with the status quo, it was tearing me up. I was wracked with guilt over what had become a through cuckold of LB, and was determined to pick up the pieces of my life with him. JD knew something had snapped as I threw his bag in back, and I drove him home in silence. We wouldn’t see each other for over two years.

By then LB and I had broken up and I had moved back into downtown. I had a great job with Scandinavian Design and had carved out a new life for myself. The store had over a dozen windows looking out on Park Square, and I’d while away my time watching people pass by. That was when I saw JD sauntering past. In a flush I ran out the door and called out. I practically attacked him, grabbing and shaking and burst into tears, full of oaths. After a moment he eased me back and introduced me to his companion. I looked up, a bit confused, and saw a glum, skinny young man glaring back at me. To me he looked no better than the ratboys who worked those same blocks after dark and, in fact, that’s just what he was. JD looked good, but thinner and less well-kept. He had dark rings under his eyes and the two of them looked tired. JD tried to make plans for later, but his boyfriend would have none of it. He’d heard all about me and was less than pleased with having me rematerialize. With long sideways glances, they continued down the sidewalk. I excused myself and had a good long cry in the stockroom.

Thus continued a pattern between us: When I was free, he was involved, when he was free, I was embroiled in yet another flawed relationship.

But we would sneak each other in and out of our lives, regardless. Sometimes I’d locate him and we’d have a couple hours of intense fucking during a free afternoon. He had an annoying habit, however, of showing up at a bar with some improbable piece of trade, coked out of his gourd, and suggesting threesomes which the trade would find singularly unappealing. Drugs took over JD’s life, making him more impossible than ever. I’d still try and see him, but the effort was rarely rewarded, and I put him out of my head as much as I could.

Life moved on, five years passed. I had burned trough a highly combatitive four-year relationship with a beautiful South American, and lived in New York for a year. Everything in my life was altered from when I’d met JD, but I still had a burning love for him. It was unrequited, as we had lost contact and I didn’t know where he was. Friends would tell me that he had moved to LA or Florida, no one knew exactly where. JD was just gone.

Then, just after Thanksgiving in 1989, I was getting some breakfast at a café in the South End where I lived, my back to the door. It was very busy and there was a clamor of cups and plates and that high, hard laughter heard whenever gay men are gathered. Over the din, I heard an unmistakable voice bitching about not finding an empty table. I looked up from my paper and there he was, vastly transformed. The years had been unkind to the beautiful man I’d met at Sporter’s. He’d lost so much weight and his face had altered into a charactiture of himself. His strong jaw had hardened into a set grimace. His nose had taken over the center of his face as his cheekbones seemed to break through his ashen skin. His temples were sunken, and his hair was almost all white, although he couldn't have been more than thirty-five. His bright blue eyes were sunk deep into their sockets. To be honest, for a second the only image I could think of was Wayland Flower’s old Madame puppet, but without the high coloring. I stood up and went over to him quietly.
“Oh my God!” hugging with some of his old strength.
“You want some breakfast? I have a few minutes.”
Eyelock… Forced Smile… Face Touching…

I bought JD a nice big breakfast and we brought each other up on our lives, laughing a little bit desperately. Neither of us wanted pathos to creep in and an artificial gaiety prevailed. We soon discovered that we lived less than two blocks away from each other. And we were finally both free. He invited me over for a drink that evening.

I rang his bell at the appointed time, and a big, burly guy met me at the door. Obviously one of JD’s straight trade drug buddies. I didn’t know what to expect, but suspected no good could come of the evening. I was led down to a basement apartment in total disarray, with pizza boxes and beer bottles covering the coffee table and much of the rug around it. I could hear JD’s voice cackling and joking with someone in the kitchen. I took off my coat and cleared a spot on the sofa, taking a beer offered by the guy who let me in. After a moment, JD came in looking drawn and oh so thin. With him was a woman I recognized without placing where. I was introduced to his sister for the second time in my life, and then to her husband (“Sexy bastard, huh? Keep tellin’ her not to leave us alone, I’d have his pants off in a minute”). The evening was subdued, with JD having a couple of beers and an anxious sister leaving around 9:30 (“So’s you’ll get some rest, ya fuckhead!”). Hugs and kisses at the door, a joke regarding the je-ne-sais-quoi of straight guy’s asses, and a long glance shared between the sister and me. I shut the door and returned to the couch.

JD told me all about his adventure with AZT, how he couldn’t tolerate the side-effects and stopped taking it. He’d found a Mexican herb that worked better, he said. His sister had already flown him down twice for treatments and he felt so much better. I looked deeply into those eyes and lied about how I could tell. We slept together that night curled up tight after some mutual fellatio. I dared not fuck his now-bony ass.

We continued to see a lot of each other that December, reminiscing on the “Good Old Days” which were decidedly a mixed bag and had only begun seven years previously. He would not let any self-pity intrude on his life, and I was too terrified to let my guard down. We settled down into a ghostly approximation of our old relationship. I’d meet him for a beer at Fritz after work, he’d cook something simple afterwards. I took him out once or twice, but he’d disapprove of the elaborate meals I favored and the money spent.

We spent Christmas Eve together that year, but had a strict no gift rule because he couldn’t afford anything and I didn’t want to make him feel bad. Sex had drifted out of the picture completely by then, and we were content to simply be together. The next morning, his sister came to pick him up to spend Christmas with her family. I spent a quiet Christmas with my sister, too.

Weeks passed and JD’s phone would just ring when I called. My roommate picked up his call one evening while I was out. He’d be staying with his sister for a while, he said. He left a number, but I didn’t call it. My JD demon was thoroughly exorcised, and with all the loss I’d experienced lately, chose to let his sister handle him. I had a little cry and moved on.

As a postscript, I did see JD one last time.

It was the next summer, 1990, in the brief interlude between my Spanish vacation and my escape to Paris. Jean-Marc had come to Boston that July for a week to meet my friends and family and collect me. I was completely enthralled with my little French enmerdeur and had endless fun showing him off to everyone.

We were walking down Tremont Street one hot afternoon when we bumped into JD. He was a walking skeleton, but a jaunty walking skeleton in immaculate white hightop Ponys. After introductions were made, we struck up a conversation centering mainly on hot incredibly hot JD found Jean-Marc. Although happy for me and all, wouldn’t I, couldn’t I get Jean-Marc to agree to a threesome, just once, before we left?

“It would make my whole summer”, JD said.

Jean-Marc, not understanding a word being said, asked me repeatedly to translate what was being said into French. I made up an almost plausible alternate conversation to placate them both, figuring out a way to have Jean-Marc end with a “Non”.

I shrugged, gave JD a big hug, and said “Maybe next time, baby”.

Friday, July 22, 2005

Common As Muck - Bent As Fuck or Why I Hate You

Growing up queer in a conservative rural industrial town was an isolating, unpleasant and hardening experience. "So what?" I hear you ask, "You're not alone in that, get over it you whingeing poofter!"

This is very true and I don't intend to dwell on those experiences in this offering to the Blogosphere. Rather, I want to share with you how I got over that upbringing.

Though I had come out (or been dragged out) at the grand old age of 13, by the time I had left school and gone on to university I was a very unhappy young chappy.

I soon discovered, however, that tertiary education was more than just classes and tutorials and the pursuit of a degree - it presented a rare opportunity to expand the scope of my nascent political self and, for a change, I took it. That opportunity came in the form of the philosophies and teachings of Homocult - The Perverters of Culture. Some may remember that I referred to Homocult in my first post here so at this point I will explain a little about them.

In the late 1980's and early 1990's a number of radical queer groups had sprung up around the world, mainly in the UK and the US. Queer Nation, OutRage, Subversive Street Queers to name a few were campaigning to challenge the heterosexist status quo - and they were all ok. But then there was Homocult.
Homocult appeared in 1990 in Manchester, England with a rabid call to "smash the moral state." Unlike the other queer radicals, Homocult made strong connexions between sexual identity and class. Rather than make feeble calls for "gay rights" and law reform Homocult when further. They not only attacked the heterosexual elites, they turned their ferocious wit on the complacent "lesbigay" establishment.

They began with two members and at the height of their activities in 1993-95 it is thought that they had a maximum of between seven to twelve cadres. Mainly active in the UK and England their particular campaigning techniques were exported to Australia too and that is how I encountered them.

In 1994 I had been elected as the Organiser of the campus queer group and was given a large collection of propaganda and campaign materials which included the unholy and shocking works of Homocult. As I read these glorious documents one in particular stood out to me. The Manifesto which I published in my first post on this blog (Equality is a Myth). In fact it was one line in that Manifesto which was my salvation:

We are the natural aristocrats of the human race.

Suddenly I understood. The reason I loathed myself was because I had fallen for the perfidy of the breeder majority - that rancid lie they use to oppress and crush myself and my people. I was not a sub-human secondary to them in all things. I was better than the bland, colourless heterosexual drones that surrounded me. My people and I were not their equals we were their betters - superior in every sense of the word.

Homocult challenged everything. Notions of race, gender, ethnicity were eschewed. Our power would not come from compromise or giving up our standards. Thus our purpose was clear. We formed a small cell of committed queers who applied the Homocult technques. By night we plastered everything in sight with campaign materials some of which you see in this post. We worked by day to take control of the vast student union structure and used our new found power to eliminate all who would oppose us - fundamentalist christians, conservatives, uppity "lesbigay" moderates all fell before us as they saw their funding withdrawn and their ability to participate curtailed. All procedures and rules that stifled us were revoked and replaced with such mecahnism as would perpetuate our regime.

Homocult raged against the privileges of the wealthy and the oppression of the working class and the disadvantaged. The supported the struggles of striking miners in the north of England and the plight of manufacturing workers as their traditional industries collapsed in due to the greed and self interest of capital.

I intend to publish here many of the images and other works of Homocult in my future posts. My collection is extensive and it should be shared with others so that the righteous may be enlightened and the enemy cowed.

Homocult taught me many things. It taught me that I am powerful because I make myself powerful. It gave me pride and purpose. It showed me how to make my enemies quiver with the fear that I had once felt. Ever since that dreadful day in 1994 I have known myself, my purpose and the means by which I would achieve it. The devices of wit and intellect were made available to me and my people.

Above all I remember the chilling warning issued by Homocult to the effete moderate "lesbigay" traitors:

We will drag you kicking and screaming from your mansions of secrecy and privilege;

We will make clothing from your lily-white skins;
We will burn your history to warm our future.

You have been warned.



Innocent Debauchery Lost

Your Bucko at 18, 1978

I grew up on Boston’s South Shore, the Irish Rivera. It runs from the bleak and gritty urban wasteland of South Boston and Dorchester right through to the disappointingly familiar barnboard tourist traps of Plymouth. I lived in the chainlink jungle of Weymouth, part scruffy beachtown, part dead milltown, part Levittown of cramped capes and ranch houses. A bus ran on the main road at the end of my street to the subway in neighboring Quincy, and from there I could be in downtown in minutes.

South Station is an enormous granite crescent facing into what is now one of the main nodes of the financial district, now all fresh and shiny with sleek skyscrapers, a landscaped park, and beautifully rehabbed Victorian Gothic commercial buildings. It, and the commuter lines from the South Shore, has been recently restored with shining brass and terrazzo. But in the 1970s, when this story takes place, it was a grimy, hulking block facing weedy empty lots, boarded-up blight and treacherous surface roads. In winter the wind blew strong off the nearby harbor and one needed to negotiate through huge slushy puddles across an urban wasteland. In summer the heat and oppressive humidity could wilt the most determined pedestrian.

But determination had its reward, because the slog amid taxis and busses led to a decrepit movie house named, appropriately enough, South Station Cinema. SSC had an old battered marquis, the neon and bright bulbs long left in dereliction, a single dim bulb over the box office the only illumination at street level. Covering the façade was a large white backlit billboard with replaceable letters announcing:
“All Male Cast”
“Continuous Shows”
“Adults Only”

Posters for Boys In The Sand were posted long after the film had stopped playing. It didn’t really matter, because few of the patrons actually cared much which films were being shown on its two screens. One didn’t go the SSC for cinematic excellence. One went there for the men sitting in the bright vinyl seats, loitering in one of the johns behind the screens, or in that odd little room furnished with a cot and a single red bulb in the ceiling.

You paid your fare ($5, if memory serves) at the box office and quickly entered the gloomy lobby. The first thing that struck you was the smell of Pinesol. For years after just the smell of pine disinfectant would make my pants tent in anticipation, like some queer Pavlov pup.

I was seventeen the first time I ventured up to the door alone (I’d made one other entrance two years previously in the company of an Anglican Priest, but that tale’s for another day). It was a crisp autumn evening in1977. I encountered no resistance at the door and scampered in quickly, my eyes surveying the scene. The décor was early rec-room: greasy paneling, stained dropped ceiling suspended in a brassy aluminum grid, buzzing florescent lighting casting a bluish pallor on everything. The rug was an abomination, once red, white and blue, now mostly a well-worn grey. A large ashtray was the only furniture, and over it was a hand-lettered sign forbidding smoking in the theaters. The ambient noise was the moaning and bad music from the films being played beyond. There were two restrooms, one marked Men, the other Ladies, though obviously women weren’t welcome. They were equally neglected and nasty, with an overpowering urine stench mixing with the Pinesol. At the back were two swinging doors, each with a yellowed backlit sign overhead, leading to two smallish screening rooms.

Each screening room had seats for approximately 250 people. At times it was standing-room-only, especially on holiday afternoons. Other times one could count the patrons on both hands. It was the luck of the draw, and I was never able to establish a consistent pattern.

I’d make my way down til I found an empty seat, hopefully not too far from the aisle. Up on the screen would be a porno somewhere half-way through. I preferred to come in in the middle of a scene, as the exposition and set-up were rarely of any interest. I’d settle in and look around, surveying the scene.

It’s easy now, with the ubiquity of home porn viewing, to write off the scene in a porn theater as the “Raincoat Brigade”, and of course, there were plenty of coats to be seen. But the crowd was amazingly diverse: young, old, all races, all ethnicities, all backgrounds. Some were obviously there for the anonymity, others could be very friendly.

As I’d survey the landscape, looking left and right as much as on the screen, I’d catch the face of someone who, for whatever reason, I found interesting. The occasional spark from a lighter or matches up off in the chairs in the distance defied the admonition outside. If I were lucky, there’d be a guy nearby with an interesting face whacking off slowly. Sometimes there’d be someone standing against the pegboard wall, intently looking about and rubbing his crotch. Frequently there’d be a couple of men reaching into each other’s laps, but that was rather poor form. Generally one refrained from much physical contact with others in the actual theater. That was reserved for out back, for the area on the other side of the door next to the screen marked “Restrooms”.

Should an especially fine ass or pair of shoulders saunter down the center aisle, I would note his clothing and make a remind myself to examine the guy more closely when I got back there. Other times, eye contact would be made with a neighbor. Should I be interested or curious, I’d get up and walk down toward the screen, hard-on anxious against my jeans, to that magical door.

At first it was hard to make anything out in the dim shadows. There was a small corridor with several doors: a padlocked fire exit, one marked Men, the other marked Ladies. There was usually a small crowd milling about, some men leaning against the wall smoking, others keeping moving in and out of the toilets. The stalls inside would be the scene of frantic movements, low moans and occasional piercing screams of delirious pleasure. The action made the cinematic sex nearby redundant, distant, and clinical in comparison. The atmosphere was electric!

As I have always been quite aggressive, I’d be one of the ones milling and looking into faces. Sometimes I’d be grabbed by someone and groped. If I found him sexy I’d open my pants and let him stroke me a bit. If not, I’d pull away and shoot a withering glance. Because of my age and looks, I held a special power over most of my compatriots. I had my choice, and I reveled in it. I could be picky one minute and part of a gang fuck in the Ladies room the next. Crowds would gather, and I’d pick from the lot.

I have so many warm (and wet) memories of times spent in those darkened rooms.

I remember the short, sweet-faced Italian man with the beautiful ass pulled tight over his blue Dickies, his short sweet uncut dick bouncing off his belly as I fucked him silly.

I remember tag-teaming a man in a suit, his pants around his ankles on a filthy tile floor, with half a dozen different guys. He got my load in last, already fucked open and oozing the other’s semen.

I remember the glory hole between the stalls of the Ladies room, which in my innocence I used as a window to peer through, sitting on the throne with a cock in my mouth and one in my free hand.

I remember discovering the cell with the cot, a biohazard of a place, which quickly became my environ of choice for one-on-ones.

I remember vividly the cold water in the sink as I try to wash the “Parisian Manicure” out of my cuticles, with little success.

But my fondest memory will always be meeting my first boyfriend. He was a clever, sweet and very cute man in his mid twenties. I can’t remember his name, but I shall never forget his face. After our tryst in the cell with the cot, he suggested we go out for a drink. When I told him my age, he almost fell over and laughed gleefully. He knew of a place where I’d be quite welcome, and offered to take me there.

The establishment was opposite the Public Garden where the Four Seasons hotel now stands, and it was called, quite simply, The Bar. The Bar was a disco, with a dancefloor lit from underneath. The crowd was an odd mix of leather, drag queens and hustlers. I think that he was testing me, seeing to whom I’d gravitate, seeing if I would be recognized by any of the regulars. I wasn’t, as I wasn’t much of a barfly until I turned eighteen (the drinking age at the time) and hadn’t been out much. Due to my age and the atmosphere, it would have been easy to mistake me for a hustler, and I was indeed approached by some very unlikely characters that evening, whom I rebuffed. In my naiveté it never occurred to me that I could get bids on what I so gladly gave out for free.

I guess that I passed the test, because we left after a couple of drinks and went back to his Beacon Hill apartment for an encore. I left just in time to catch the last bus out of Quincy back to Weymouth. In the train, I remember noticing the smell of sex on my hands and curious if anyone near me could smell it too.

I was happy. I was sated…until the next time.

The Ills of Capitalism

Today, yet another sign of the tolls that capitalism has had on medicine. Not only is it costing the lives and liberty of the poor, but its effects have reached those with the means to purchase healthcare. Dr. G. Steven Kooshian, 54 was indicted by a federal grand jury. His crime was under-dosing his patients with HIV/AIDS and charging their insurance companies the full price for the medications and the treatments.

It is unsure whether anyone died as a direct result of his actions - an investigation on that matter is still pending. But, the grand jury did indict him on conspiracy and fraud. His former technitian, Virgil Opinion, while still guilty of the crimes he committed himself, had the decency to blow the whistle on Dr. Kooshian.

Dr. Kooshian was fined and put on court probation in the past for prescribing steroids to people that were not his patients. Clearly, this man has been bit by the need for greed. He was so interested in making an extra buck that he prescribed steroids to individuals without remorse. He did make a statement to the medical board that he was, "ashamed and humiliated by the realization of his unprofessional conduct.''

Wait - it took a court and medical board review to make him realize that his conduct in that matter was unprofessional? He did not realize that cash for scripts is a dangerous and destructive practice? Furthermore, if he was on court probation and medical board probation, why was he not being more closely monitored?

When others commit non-violent crimes (like the sale or possession of drugs) they are very closely monitored by the authorities. But, this "doctor" is out putting people's lives at risk and he gets a slap on the wrist so that he is able to do it all over again with higher stakes? This is unacceptable.

Not only was his practice tainted, but the FDA had him certified as a Clinical Investigator. Scary to think of the clinical trials he might have reported back on. Perhaps he tainted that information as well.

Clearly this is yet another sign that the practice of medicine has been tainted. Stories like this appear at an alarming rate. How can medicine run like a business? The object of business is to make as much money with as little cost. Should it be acceptable to do the right thing, even if that means that you will not make as big of a profit? Medicine should not be for sale.

Organising in Ohio

Ronnie is currently busy organising and working on various issues concerning HIV+ people in his local community and won't be able to post here for a couple of days. But rest assured Gentle Reader, Red Ronnie the Socialist Sissyfag will be back and putting his tastefully styled (by union labour of course!) and shapely boot into the establishment before you can tap your ruby heels.

Until then you'll just have to enjoy the brilliant wit of myself and the lovely Bucko.

One other thing; We here at the Spin Cycle delight in reading the works of the Master Blogger from Mexico, Desolation Angel. You should too. You can find the link for his site Borrowed Flesh in the side bar on this page.



Wednesday, July 20, 2005

Ronnie's Badge of Honour

In this offering I intend to make it clear why I support the comments of my fellow Spin Cycle blogger Ronnie in his entry They Need Us More Than We Need Them. Ronnie's questioning of the role of the pharmaceutical industry in the lives of HIV positive people has sparked a fierce and almost completely one sided debate in the community forums of - forums to which both Ronnie and I belong.

Essentially comrades, this is about activism and the activist is motivated by three basic concepts:

  • Educate
  • Agitate
  • Organise

As activists we seek to apply these concepts in an attempt to bring about change. As a democratic socialist I believe that capitalism is exploitatative and inherently corrupting. It is as simple as that and I could see that idea at work in Ronnie's Spin Cycle post. Pharmaceutical companies as part of the capitalist system seek profits first and foremost, above even the interests of their consumers - those from whom they profit.

In a potent and timely challenge to those preconceived notions which serve to perpetuate the manipulation of oppressed people, such as those of us who live with HIV and AIDS, Ronnie simply asked what influence "Big Pharma" exercises over all the HIV/AIDS magazines, websites and other organisations it funds. He used the example of the development of a prophylactic vaccine for HIV to underline his point.

Ronnie's post recognised the way in which capitalism disempowers and divides us in an attempt to profit from our misery and he dared to suggest that we should take back power and take responsibility for ourselves.

In the often bitter debate at many correspondents demanded to know what alternative there is to the current system. Well I've got one and it's very straight forward - we need to bring about the democratic socialisation of industry, production, distribution and exchange if we are eliminate the exploitation of consumers and workers. This includes the socialisation of the means of development of life saving treatments for diseases such as AIDS. HIV treatments and their means of production should belong to the people, not to the select and privileged few.

Many at aidsmeds suggested that Ronnie had no right to ask such a question. I say it is his duty as an activist to ask it and Ronnie has carried that duty out. Ronnie has shown us that complacency must not be permitted. The mark of Ronnie's success in this was that among all the handwringing and carrying on, his question was indeed answered. An explanation of aidsmeds editorial policy was given and thus we have been informed.

There is no doubt that provides an excellent service and access to quality information but surely there can be no harm in questioning the role of it's pharmaceutical industry backers? Moreover there was criticism of Ronnie that he made his statements here at the Spin Cycle, well why not? That is what this blog is here to do - to question. Ronnie more than happily answered directly his detractors and critics at aidsmeds in the community forums over there and he did so in friendly and non-confrontational way.

In the process of answering, Ronnie has been vilified, abused, patronised and derided for his brave stand on this issue and this comes as no surprise to me. Those who question the status quo usually receive that sort of treatment. I know that Ronnie is more than strong enough to withstand the opprobrium that has been heaped upon him in this debate - it is in his activist nature.

Ronnie, I say to you congratulations. It is inspiring to see another HIV+ gay man standing up and following the activist path laid down by ACT-UP and other progressive and radical HIV groups and movements. I am proud to be associated with you here and at You have undertaken the activist challenge and brought us and our cause great distinction. With regard to the slurs, insults and barbs hurled at you I say one thing:

Wear them like a badge of honour comrade.