Homoerotic words & pictures
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Someone who ordered a book from Books Do Furnish A Room and tracked down my weblog. A conversation about gay novelists drifted to my sexuality (by way of homoerotic poetry, which Ronnie was hoping to help me appreciate). I thought I'd twist it into an entry since somehow it seems odd if I don't write about my sexuality every so often.
I'd said (abridged, edited):
You've run into one of my odd biases. I don't have strong sexual responses to literature. When I do it is always in some odd detail and almost about personalities. Probably one reason Hollinghurst's "bossy bottoms and timid tops" resonates so strongly with me. I have a past filled with bossy bottoms.
It is like erotica in general. Keep your naked bodies (ahem, well ... ) but a random photo of a boy in a sweater I'll remember for years. (Of course my sexually ideal people do not appear in porn: no market.)
And thinking about it one of the recurring themes in my sexual daydreams have been about people I've seen in real life.
I guess I can sort of recapitulate that for me it is all in odd details spotted here and there and not conceptualizations.
Ronnie sent me links to the images of a couple of very lovely young guys. This is actually much appreciated. I've exerted plenty of time trying to find examples of the kind of gay male that appeals to me with very little luck. I never save the pictures, remember the links but I do smile for a few moments.
The photos of the boys were fetching; I have a weakness for long hair. Nothing beats ponytails. Though my lust for slender smooth boys has moderated through the years (in a way I consider healthy). Then again if I weren't partnered I might own a book of them.
Increasingly the qualities that have come to stir my erotic self aren't the ones lying on the surface. I felt desire for Charles the first time we talked on the phone. He had the distinctive voice of a nelly gay guy born in the Southeastern US. My recollection of the telephone conversation is so vivid I sometimes wonder if all it takes to ensnare me is a certain way of saying "You go girl!" (Or think of the omph a black transvesite can put into thanking you for lighting her cigarette.)
( -- Actually I find men of great clarity or just a little creativity sexually appealing independent of their other qualities but they are so rare or unavailable to never have given me any stories. I have a knack for aligning myself with the unreasonable. -- )
Sometimes his wrist hangs limp in a way that always stirs me. "Something in the way [he] moves . . . " Flipping through my mental catalog, quality of motion is certainly what kept many pretty memories from fading. From the way his ass shifted as he walked to how he picked up a cocktail. And pose, there's nothing quite like a certain kind of louche slouch.
There are plenty of idealistic smiling faces but you don't see much of boys wearing eyeliner. In hours of heavy Google searching I've found a few earlier photographers like Wilhelm von Gloeden or rare instances of symbolist androgyny. I like boys with lilies.
Looking at pictures of lovely twinks is fun but in my sexual daydreams it is usually some boy I glimpsed on the street in San Francisco many years ago. (Some time I need to return to my a couple entries where I tried to address the idea of people you've passed on the street as the real 'sex symbols.')
And my sexuality tends to tug my sexual fancies this way and that.
… I think I've passed beyond replying and wandering off into the pornography of typing about sex.