Pansexual Sodomite

Inhale exhale smoke until you start to bake
So smoke a lot you’re on the spot
You may have a stroke
Puff and puff and puff
Little boys shouldn’t smoke

Before he made movies like The Girl Can’t Help It Frank Tashlin created some wonderful early Warner Brothers cartoons like the hilariously nightmarish Wholly Smokes.

Why the Hell I started smoking cigarettes again I’ve forgotten.

That I put up with Charles’ cigarette smoking was a sign from the very beginning of how instantly smitten I was with him. Ordinarily smoking meant I wouldn’t even meet you for coffee.

Naturally I wanted Charles to quit. Sometimes I’d pick up his pack of Carltons and say that if he was going to smoke I guess I might as well do so myself. He’d just laugh and - rightly - tell me to not talk like a fool. Some drunken evening I must’ve finally lit one. And another. And I must have liked them: soon I was buying packs of them.

As our relationship became hellish I doubtlessly smoked more and more. Again I was a cigarette addict. And the stress of being in love with someone addicted to cigarettes, marijuana, heroin, opiates and eventually crack cocaine stripped me of the wherewithal to quit.

After we parted I thought it would be easy to push cigarette out of my life. They aren’t sublime: they are expensive and pointless, deadly and foolish.

But even when Charles wasn’t living with me anymore I continued to pick up the pieces for him as best as I could. That is: he continued to make my days difficult. My smoking irked Alex. Her response was perfectly fair: I’d promised to quit. The promise was honestly made: I didn’t know my own weakness. And that relationship wasn’t always easy either.

I tried Welbutrin. The drug made me paranoid. I remember the day I ran out of the house because I was overcome with nameless dread of nothing in particular.

I tried myriads of strategies. Sometimes I seemed to win. Until something upset me. I don’t know if the quick boost in dopamine was at the root of that: a mild diminution in worry.

Smoking had become an intolerable burden. In the last several months the effect on my breathing was worrisome. And I could afford it. Each month is a struggle to make the mortgage payment. My cigarettes were one of my major expenses.

But I didn’t stop trying. At least twice a month I’d try to quit. I’d last a day or four.

Finally came the time when I tried to quit and succeeded. At least it seems that I have. I hope so.

Richard
March 31, 2008 • Permalink • Leave a comment • Top↑

In one of his moments of hyperbolic rhetoric Nietzsche says something about looking into the abyss to find it peering back at you. I felt as if that happened last night.

It was a rough night. Got up and read some every couple of hours: continuous, restful sleep just wouldn’t come.

But an imaginary forced feminization scene did.

For the innocent: in forced feminization aka sissyfixation you order a (willing) guy to put on makeup, lingerie and other feminine garments. And mock him for his supposedly secret desire to do so and revealing his true nature. This is mainly a bisexual transvestite fetish. I don’t know how many gay crossdressers enjoy it.

Now, I’d long ago realized that a submissive gay transvestite could be lots of fun to spend time with.

But when approached by males who want to be made feminine as a form of humiliation I’ve always been repulsed. Femininity as a source of shame has always seemed a shameful, disagreeable fetish. Too sexist.

Perhaps this came to mind as I’ve come to understand that forced feminization is the only way some men can meet needs stemming from gender dysphoria and an inability to accept same-sex desires. It still pushes against my erotic ethics and ethics.

Doesn’t matter. It will never happen,

Richard
March 16, 2008 • Permalink • Leave a comment • Top↑

Again, I’m sure I could find a more ‘perfect’ example: this was all alone in a folder of an old computer.

I had no idea what a fixation I had with blonde hair until a friend told me he’d never seen me cruising anything but blonde guys. That was hardly true. But I guess some invisible cultural conditioning has caused me to take the most pleasure in blonde, pale and frail.

That never bore any relation to the reality of who I slept or fell in love with.

I’m just as trite as the next guy.

Richard
March 08, 2008 • Permalink • Leave a comment • Top↑

It was helpful of the publisher to provide the bisexuals tag.

There’s a whole subculture of heterosexual transvestites - and it is easy to forget that most crossdressers are straight men - who use ‘forced’ feminization and cuckoldry as a means of coping with their closeted transvestitism and same-sex sexual desires.

I wholly prefer self-accepting gay transvestites. Emotional acrobatics and psychological subterfuges aren’t things I want to have to deal with.

Richard
March 05, 2008 • Permalink • Leave a comment • Top↑

Wasmen in lace a series of crossdressing porn novels?

Roses in the hair is a nice touch, nothing wrong with a little bondage. I can’t decode his face but he doesn’t look miserable. The guy in the background appears to be in some sort of military drag. Was the story set in the war in Vietnam?

Richard
March 05, 2008 • Permalink • Leave a comment • Top↑

Sometimes this image floats into my mind.

Someone my own age. He’s a bit fey. His hair would be gray but he dyes it. Just a shade too emphatically. But I don’t mind.

The bright colors he chooses to wear somehow don’t look foolish. The clothes he wears fit so perfectly that he almost seems like a walking mannequin. You wonder if the has his socks dry-cleaned.

I never tell him that his facial expressions sometimes leave him looking a bit spinsterish.

Oh, he’s more than a trifle gossipy and bitchy at times. But when he snuggles up and rests his head on my should he makes me feel much stronger than I could ever be. And for that I’d forgive anything.

Richard
March 04, 2008 • Permalink • Leave a comment • Top↑

I’m a bit late for the William F. Buckley, Jr. obituary party.

Oddly for a pansexual sodomite I was a fan.

Many, many years ago as a lad I heard this voice coming out of the TV while my daddy was watching the news. The vocal tones and diction were so attractive that I went to see what he was watching. It was Buckley. What he was talking about I don’t recall.

His drawl and vocabulary were fetching. This led me to buy The Jeweler’s Eye. And, later, other collections of his miscellaneous prose.

William F. Buckley, Jr.’s led me to take an interest in politics (long since abandoned) and contemporary culture. It ramified out in atypical ways.

Buckley’s essays led to Normal Mailer’s, The New York Review of Books. It caused me to discover Susan Sontag who in turn led me to Allain Robbe-Grillet, Genet and all sorts of culture far from Buckley itself. Buckley proved an entry point to a larger world.

While Buckle’s politics could never be mind I continued to enjoy his essays for several years. And The Unmaking of the Mayor about his whimsical run for mayor of New York City remains to this day one of the most entertaining books on American politics I’ve ever read.

Often I’ve found myself deeply annoyed with friends whose politics are closer to my own whose disgust with Buckley led them to make idiotic accusations.

I never found his prose style remotely pretentious.
I’m sorry your sub-literate slobs but he did use those long words correctly.
He wasn’t’ a racist: Buckley is best understood as naïve.

On Firing Line some of what people complained of as condescending came from his participation in formal debating. That style of debate is probably still best seen in the Oxford Union debates.

The epistemology of debating is persuasion. Not simpleminded notions of proof. This is part of our heritage from classical Greece that became a part of English education and persisted into the 19th century. The English universities were founded often with a mind to training clergy. They also became the first proving grounds for politicians.

This is also the basis for much juridical epistemology.

People all to fond of objectivity - many of whom purport to celebrate subjectivity and relativism - find this disgusting.

I never felt that his wealth and my poverty gave me a reason to resent Buckley.

The interest in American politics that he sparked in me sustained itself on writers likely Buckley and on the other end, the socialist Murray Kempton. Highly educated, gifted prose stylists, witty - a word probably much despised nowadays - urbane.

It was when public discourse shifted from the Buckleys and Kemptons to Limbaugh and the like that my interest in political conversations died. Wit was replaced with rancor. Irony with sarcasm.

William Buckley’s columns grew less interesting over time. I felt his enjoyment in political analysis peaked and passed when he was in his fifties. But he could continue to knock out desultory columns in minutes and did so.

I didn’t need to agree with him to enjoy the aesthetics of his presence. Nor did I let my disagreements lead me to disgust.

That he died comfortably while still at work makes me happy for him.

I do mourn his passing.

Richard
March 01, 2008 • Permalink • Leave a comment • Top↑

“In drag” tells us this is supposed to be a drawing of a transvestite.

I feel a huge conflict about the depictions of crossdressers at times. Especially when I run across them in old paperbacks. I shouldn’t. These were works of exploitation. They weren’t crafted with love or care. They were pumped out quickly to satisfy a market.

But it still always nags at me to look at something like this and know that when the artist drew it for all he knew it was a genetic female. It was only an editor or publisher who later decided to label her a transvestite.

Of course the illustrations of the same time that clearly show a man in woman’s clothing are those that treat male femininity as a form of humiliation. Even worse. And the goal of most crossdressers is passablility. Not the subtler aesthetic of ambiguity.

I should just shut up.

Richard
February 18, 2008 • Permalink • Leave a comment • Top↑

I don’t intend to turn this into an erotic photography site but while I’m not feeling bright enough to write anything I figure some homoerotic and heteroerotic photographs won’t hurt.

There are plenty of photos I find more sexually enthralling were I willing to go look for them. This young man I found buried in a folder. I downloaded it years ago.

Nice slender both, though more muscular that I would’ve cared for back in the 1970s when it was taken. I was most fond of young men without muscle or fat: just bones and pale skin.

That it is from that decade is a strong part of the appeal.

Guys with long hair. How much I loved - still love - to look at them. Even butch guys. I can’t say why - but it makes sense given my age - nothing is more sexually enthralling in a male than shoulder length or longer hair.

Richard
February 11, 2008 • Permalink • Leave a comment • Top↑

I love being extra polite to guys who look as if their bones would break if stared at.

I want to open doors for them. To carry them over the threshold.

To be sweet to them.

Sure I want to be on top of them, to control them.

But when I want them to be beneath me I want to feel their power.

Sexual enslavement - as it were - by a hot bottom boy is very sweet.

Richard
February 09, 2008 • Permalink • Leave a comment • Top↑

Huckabee’s comments comparing being gay with polygamy (which is not an orientation but shouldn’t be outlawed) and bestiality (which is mostly impossible) should be a reminder to call queer men and women and their sympathizers and supporters that it isn’t just Karl Rover and Bush II.

Fundagelical opposition to same-sex affectional and erotic orientation will prove a permanent part of American political culture. It is just that with the Regan presidency they became more vocal and active. If you hide in log cabins because of your fear of taxation you deserve every rotten thing that might happen to you.

Know your enemy.

Richard
January 30, 2008 • Permalink • Leave a comment • Top↑

I’ve never read Mister Sister.

The Eric Stanton cover is a bit creepy.

Just knowing it is about a femme gay guy invokes my primary sexuality. I want to throw the creepy man on the left off the train and offer comfort to the lad.

I guess I’ll never escape these sort of feelings as foolish and dangerous as they’ve proven to be.

Richard
January 29, 2008 • Permalink • Leave a comment • Top↑