Category: Gay

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Albert, Prince of Glans

Studio break thoughts:

I don’t necessarily NEED to understand this, but I am slightly curious about why poking a 10 gauge piece of metal through one’s urethra is.. what? exciting? sensual? arousing? visually appealing somehow? medically necessary?

I suppose my interest in body hair is no different, the pubic made extreme, and both sensually and visually appealing, but the modification aspect, the like permanent and aggressive modification aspect of genital piercing has me in a tizzy today. Don’t they make clip-ons?

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Blood and Roses, San Diego Daddies, Bearbots

Oh my aching everything. Yesterday I attacked Mr. Publishing-Agent-Who-Rejected-Bob-Once’s roses, huge Cecille Brunners that formed a lovely canopy over the stairs, but effectively blotted out the sky, the view of the city, and were now growing into the radiator of the car parked on the street below. Mr. P-A-W-R-B-O and his partner called me in for a garden cleanup in April, but as the buds were already setting, I told them I’d come back after the bloom for a mid-summer pruning. The sky and the view have been restored, at the price of my scratched bloody face, arms, legs, and neck, and a deep cut to my knee from a rusty nail–do I need a tetanus shot, or do I wait for it to fester?

Anyway, since Bob is no longer helping with my house expenses, I need to fill the gap in my passive income with some active cash, so please pass on to anyone that you know that I’m available for gardening work–cleanup, maintenance, installation, and fine pruning. I work fully clothed, though, so gardener fantasies should incorporate a fashionable sense of suitable work attire designed to minimize sun exposure.

Davide and I joined my pal and patron Alex for the Giants/Padres game last night. I prefer to call the Padres “the daddies,” and deeply admired the complex crotch-grabbing, and leg-lifting techniques of the visiting team. One guy, as he stepped up to the plate, grabbed his crotch briefly, wiggled his feet on the plate, and then went for a much more involved grab as he bent over and slung the bat over his shoulder. There was several guys who preferred toe-tapping to crotch-grabbing, and my favorite daddy wiggled his hips from side-to-side in a snake-like dance that ended in a sharp flick of the jock. The hispanic guys were consistently the most inventive in both style and technique–is that a racist comment? Oh, I almost forgot the pre-game stretching! Before the game began, right at first base, #35 and his “stretching assistant” formed all sorts of sexy configurations straight out of the Kama Sutra in a most-assuredly successful attempt to get #35 ready for action. I want that job!

Davide has succeeded in momentarily deflecting attention away from my bearbot drama to his. If only we could arrange a visit to Stepford and trade these guys in for some bearbots who listened to our simple commands of “love me” and “take off those plaid cut-offs now.”

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Baskets

Last night Reese asked if we could watch The Bad Seed, the camp classic with Patty McCormack as the perfect child who murders her schoolmate when he wins the penmanship award instead of she, and sets on fire the creepy gardener who knows too much. Reese has been listening to the songs from a musical based on characters from The Bad Seed, Gypsy, and Pippi Longstocking, and was eager to learn about the original characters. We went up to BC’s to watch it on the big screen. I don’t remember it being such an interesting film. Little Rhoda, the bad seed, seemed to represent a transition in feminine identity, or an extension of the anxiety that one saw personified in the femme fatale of the previous generation. After dropping off my little Step Seed at his moms’, BC and I hightailed it to the “Beautiful Losers” opening at Yerba Buena. I bumped into Larry, back in town after his stint at the Whitney to promote more bland art on this coast, Victor, who was a knockout in his cute cap, camel jacket and open-neck shirt, (really Victor, you need to dress like that all the time), Davide, melting in seamlessly with the other 20-somethings, and absolutely none of the art–way too crowded to see anything, but who goes to openings to see anything? And how many times are they going to show Barry and Chris? They are very interesting artists, sure, but there is something other than the Mission School aesthetic happening in this town–take off those curatorial blinders, critics. We then sashayed over to the Lone Star, to bond with all the truly beautiful losers, those few stuck in town while everybody else is engaged in drunken belly-bucking on the shores of the Russian River. I chatted up Misha, who is just about the sweetest thing there is this side of syrup, hugged Drunk Girl, and again the sad Davide and the dashing Victor. I didn’t get to pee in the trough. Chris insists that it’s the only way to get over my paruresis (pee-shyness). Last week at the RR Eagle trough, as things were just about to move forward, a guy walked in and of course my bladder clamped shut, as he sided up next to me, and of course there was a mirror hanging right over everything, amplifying my exposure, and his unabashed google search, so I just blurted out “I’m sorry, I’m pee-shy.” He said, “Oh, I’m sorry,” very gravely, and bowed his head as I gathered up what I could of my pride and shuffled off into the stall.

“What would you give me for a basket of kisses?”

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Bastille Day Party at the Mansion

My Pommes Anna was a knockout–how could one go wrong with butter, potatoes, salt and pepper? It was like a 12 inch potato chip. Davide and I hauled our creation to John’s Bastille Day dinner, hot from the oven. John made a coq au vin that was out of this world, and garlicky escargot, someone else made a sad potato thingy that paled in comparison to my grand galette, and there were green beans, then tarte tatin, a chocolate torte, a berry tarte, and lots of wine, including several 20 year old wines, limoncello (from France?), and stimulating drunken conversation and song.

The guys at the party were arch queens, half wore ascots, and several had matching English accents. Bryan, “with a ‘Y’,” the monarchist, and I discussed our mutual friend and his neighbor, the heir to all the Russias, and Henry II’s children; Lacoste-Sweater-Queen asked if what I did for a living had anything to do with my looking smart–I said, “No, I’m an artist;” Philip wore a lavender ensemble (the colors of the French flag put in a blender); Ted called Davide alternately “David-oo” and “David-ah;” Another guy called him “Doris-day;” John made a brilliant toast tying the defeat of the Constitutional amendment banning gay marriage to the storming of the Bastille, rallying us to matrimonial arms; and Recent-Bike-Wreck-Boy, a member of the SF Opera Chorus, led us through the Marseillaise. At one point we all wore silly French hats, and everybody swooned when Davide tried on the feathered velvet one and instantly transformed into a della Francesca youth.

A lovely evening.

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Bob in Paris, Me in My Bed Again

Bob has taken off for Europe, France, for a big reading in Paris, where people read, then off to Amsterdam and London. Or was it London, Paris, and then Amsterdam? This mean that I get to sleep in my bed again. For two weeks! Woo hoo! I’ve been sleeping in my studio and pretty much staying out of sight of Bob’s Chris-Must-Suffer Evil Eye. He’s going to have dinner with Rem Koolhaas in Amsterdam. I’m sure he arranged this specifically because I will not be on this trip. Watch him get fucking famous. Rem Koolhaas, without me. Fucker. His new book is actually wonderful, as close to linear narrative as Bob’s ever been, and I’d be pleased if he’d get some attention during this awful time. Me? You’re asking about me? There’s not much to report. I’ve been depressed, which I’m supposed to be after leaving my lover of 11 years, right? but having lots of fun playing with Ted, not seeing nearly enough movies, working on some new pieces but not ready to show them to you yet. Tomorrow I photograph D’s testicles, temperature permitting, for something or other, not sure what, but those dangly orbs are calling. Photos soon. Zzzzzz.

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Live Nude Action

Yesterday, while bobbing with the Daves in the hot pool at the Kabuki Hot Springs, my retinas were exposed to the largest live action honker of a penis ever to reflect light my way. It must have been at least 10 inches long. And soft! It hung like an elephant’s trunk, cantilevered out slightly, swingy slowly from side to side. Not that I would even know what to do with such an arm-length appendage, I couldn’t take my eyes off of it. And not that I’m a size-queen. Goldilocks likes hers momma-bear size. I was more interested in my physiological reaction; my cheeks reddening, my mouth watering. What sort of biological imperative was my body struggling toward?

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Crisis Resolved, Bath Buddies

Well, it looks like Stephanie’s financial crisis has been resolved. BC and I began the day addressing our newly separated lives in intimate detail, moving swiftly from boyfriends to girlfriends, awkwardly at first, and then with quite a bit of enjoyment. We know each other so well, and both seem to be moving quickly in the directions that drew us together in the first place, so perhaps that contentment is an acknowledgment of the success that we’ve wanted for each other.

At 3:00 the pizza came. A stuffed pizza, with mushroom and sausage–good lord who dreamed of such a divine combination of sensation and pleasure.

Later we took Steph out to a really nice dinner at Erwin, in Boystown, a new American cuisine restaurant, where they serve martinis that are as big as my head. I had only one–tonight I wasn’t the guy with the lampshade on his head–the crab cakes, and the duck confit/venison dish (is that like mid-western surf and turf?), and the sour cherry pie. Dedicated to my commitment to new experiences, we put Steph in a cab and made our way to the Steamworks.

Now, I’m sure that many of you have experienced this kind of sexual environment before. My relation to my sexuality is quite complex, involving a lot of romance, intense emotional bonding, and eventually sex, which steamrolls into an ever more and more involved and complicated experience. I’ve never been to a sex club. The closest I came to a public sex experience was at the Folsom Street Fair a few years ago when Bob forced me into dropping my pants to compete in the “Hot Cock Contest,” loudly exaggerating, like a proud stage mother, the length and circumference of my faithful friend, which much to his horror, and mine, shriveled like a walnut once on stage. The guy taking the picture even asked–“Does it get bigger?” There is a picture of my loser penis somewhere, not even Miss Congeniality. Okay, back to the Steamworks… Chris was a great guide. I wore my contacts, which I hadn’t worn in perhaps four years, my vision a bit blurry, so it was like walking through a dreamy landscape of naked bodies and artificial attitudes. I can’t get past the attitudes and artifice. I like to talk during sex, to communicate, laugh, say stupid things, promise this and that… I giggled the entire time, not the least bit excited. In the steamroom I fell asleep for a moment to wake up to all these guys gathered around me, suddenly the center of a phallic devotional movement. I giggled again, closed my eyes, and then they were gone. Just like that. Chris led me through the maze, where all these pee-pees jutted out from the walls above like the arm-held candelabras in La Belle et la Bête. Some heads bobbed up and down on the projectiles, while Chris was cruised by this really cute guy, who kept trying to reach for Chris’ special place, only to be cut off by an intercepting mouth or hand, the two only connecting visually. Chris told me that all these guys were cruising me, but I was completely oblivious, even to the two hairy backs in the place. He even guided me toward one of the hairier backs in the hottub, who evidently was interested in me, but I really just wanted to talk about the decorative arts.

It was great to have had this experience and to embrace the mono-sexual me. I’m just not into bodies, that is, bodies free of intellect and humor. A part of me has pined for the sexual freedom of the late 70’s, perhaps because so many of my lovers came of age during that time. I see a great deal of gay identity tied to such freedom and I needed to address my estrangement. I’ve been married since age 18, and always felt a sadness at having missed out on anonymous and voluminous sexual romps. Well, I’m just not not that kind of guy it turns out. I love deeply and madly, and that’s about it. Maybe for only a few hours, but never casually. Ho hum.

Tomorrow it’s museums…

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Fingers and Messes

So I was a little out of control last night. Just a little, and hopefully not all that noticeably so. I vividly remember a finger in my mouth and the smell of soap and the exquisite sensation of arm hair against my cheek. I was at BC’s, watching the finale of Angels in America with some swell Live Journal dudes, only one martini down, but intoxicated by the nearness and warmth of sweet and handsome comrades.

Jack and Steve, let’s play bridge!

Remember Marlene Dietrich’s observation of the bloated and disheveled Orson Welles in Touch of Evil? “You a mess, honey.” I’m feeling a little better today. Thanks for putting up with me, everybody.

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Little Eshter and Bob’s Book-Release Party

I just got back from Bob’s reading and book-release party at Modern Times. Bob began by playing Little Esther’s Love Will Break Your Heart on a portable cassette player, pointing to the tape to emphasize the truth in her pained denunciation of romance. I kept my composure through most of it, although he didn’t look at me at all during his performance, and like an idiot I sat in the front row so that I could greet all of our friends. He read from his Purple Men 2002 story, which is basically the story of our relationship, with details of this or that friend and lover tossed in–our tea and paper and waggling his pee-pee at our neighbors in the morning, our asparagus-scented cum fests, my stalker, our goldfish Francie and Cleo. I lost it after Francie and Cleo, used by him allegorically, relating the fishes’ mortality and domesticity to that of the central characters, Darrell and Trent. Bob’s a great writer, and there’s so much lyricism, humor and histrionics in his narcissistic explorations of the character, “Bob.” I complained for years of having to listen to story after story about L’s asshole at reading after reading, or having his new book named after his former lover, Denny. “When are you going to write about me?” I’d wail, like Lucy, eager for my turn in the spotlight. “You’re going to have to hurt me first,” he always replied, “and you’ll be sorry.”