Wednesday, August 28, 2013

A Mulatto, An Albino, A Mosquito, My Libido

originally posted in the Monthly Breeze

This is a piece a wrote awhile back and it should be noted that the friend that I mention in the piece has since passed away and I miss him terribly. Not a day goes by when I don't think about him. And I dedicate this to him because he definitely held my sorry ass hand through the various highways and byways on the underground railroad of my sexuality. He taught me how to correctly tie my headphones as to not destroy the copper inside. He taught me that any top can bottom if you eat their ass out. And he taught me that love is a currency and life too short to be Scrooge. So enjoy the fruits of your labor old friend, your wealth is most definitely appreciated down here...

Not too long ago I attended a big boy, gay sex party thrown by an old friend of mine. It was his birthday and he’s into that type of thing. Now, my friend and I are pretty cool and when we met awhile back, there honestly was the air of possibility that it could, if the stars were aligned properly, grow into something more substantial. But alas, my friend has proven that his sexual prowess can only only properly be measured on the Richter scale and it became blatantly clear early on that monogamy and loyalty are far down on his list of priorities.

In his eyes, I was the judgmental innocent, issuing out warnings of depravity and shards of morality as he waxed on about his latest sexual conquest. It’s a role I’ve played many a time to many people, and it wouldn’t take a genius to figure out that… it was a lie. But I like the presumption that certain people have of me of being Disney clean innocent. If I could get away with proclaiming myself to be a virgin I would… if it weren’t for the fact I’m deathly afraid of lightening.  

Sex is an odd accouterment to have in your personality’s wardrobe; should it be worn under your clothes or over your clothes, should it be a tiny earring or several gaudy pieces of gold shimmering from every lobe, a hair pin discreetly tucked behind a rogue cowlick or fancy lady church hat with a feather and a boa… it can be a daunting task putting your outfit together for the court of popular opinion. And homosexuality is a suit of a completely different color. I’ve tried again and again and again to keep it under my clothes but it always shows through.  I’ve tried to keep it undercover because it’s a sticky subject to talk about. When you speak of people like Lena Horne or Ozzie Davis or even Barack Obama and you speak of their life with their significant others, it’s a thought of devoted love, sincerity and clean passion; spiced enough to last the years, smooth enough for the appearance of propriety.  This is also the train of thought when you hear that a man and women are going to get married, “How beautiful and appropriate, their souls to be interlinked.”

Then there’s homosexuality, and the first thing that comes to mind is dick sucking, ass fucking, cock lashing, cum on the chest, smacking of the ass… as if Lena, Ozzie or Michelle's clean passion never experienced that. Romanticism is lost in discussions of homosexuality. Hell, the Red States are trying to make us believe that homosexuality doesn’t exist at all and if it does it certainly doesn’t extended outside of the bedroom; we can suck dick and we can get fucked up the ass but we couldn’t possibly care for one another, our love could never reach Shakespearean proportions.

So they would have us believe.

Now, I consider myself to be an activist in the exploitation (and exploration) of love. It’s something that has eluded me for quite sometime now and I imagine it to be the Moby Dick to my Jonah. For me, the goal was always to get married… to a dude… a decent dude… and get some kids. But then there’s my damn libido, wrapped around my neck like a rainbow colored wool scarf. There are words written in Louis Vuitton script on it, “Fuck me”, “Fuck me”, “Fuck me”, “I’ll fuck you”, “Fuck me”.

Lately I’ve been on this big kick of presenting myself in a more “respectable”, dare I say, conservative manner. I’m trying to market myself to the masses here. But there is also the notion of “integrity” and who I am and who I am trying to get across to people. There is such a big part of me that would love to be perceived as Disney clean. There is such an amiable respect the straight laced guy gets from society. I was that guy for so long. I was the one who people trusted with money, trusted to baby sit their kids, trusted to make the right decisions. I still hold onto the belief that I am a “good boy” (despite the fact I drink too much, drive too fast, have a tendency to get high in Vegas and get fucked up the ass while I'm there).

It’s a very delicate line to walk in a society as rich in religious culpability as ours and sometimes I wonder if it is truly possible to be a fully sexualized human being and child of God at the same time.

As I get older I’m becoming more comfortable with the idea that God sees everything we do. It’s not like she’s Superman where you can give head behind a lead wall because she’ll never see, God knows every crook and cranny you stick your penis or where you decide to have a penis stuck in you.

I’ve been trying to come to terms with the simple fact that, we’re all human, we’re all children of God and at the end of the day… we all need to get laid. I think of it as a God given right. Being horny doesn’t make us hedonists or depraved, it’s just a little warning bell reminding us that we haven’t had a decent orgasm in a while.

So with my stick of judgment in my hand and my badge of morality on my jacket, I proceeded to go to a sex party… because I was horny, and hadn’t a decent orgasm in a really long time.

This wasn’t love, and I wasn’t expecting it to be. And it wasn’t evil, and I wasn’t expecting it to be that either. This was grown men in a safe and controlled environment getting their rocks off. The Christian dichotomy still existed, with me at least; it felt so good it couldn’t possibly be right, it felt so good, it couldn’t possibly be wrong. And it’s still there for me; I had a good time, I could be convinced to go again, but I’m awfully afraid that if people knew, they wouldn’t let me baby sit their kids or be able to work on a Disney film.

So I write and I talk and I philosophize that there’s a difference between Sodom & Gomorrah and a Big Boy Sex party and I write and I talk and I philosophize that neither encompasses the full definition of homosexuality. And I hope and I wish and I pray that people understand that and I hope and I wish and I pray that Disney doesn’t exclude me because I’m aware of my genitalia.

“Raindrops on roses and whiskers on kittens, bright copper kettles and warm woolen mittens, men with big titties pierced with golden rings, these are a few of my favorite things…”





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