Radiant halo of queer sexuality
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Too much of a silly romantic to care for gay bars I treasured every transgressive, sometimes painful sexual encounter.
A damningly meaningless sentence from an entry on gay pop music.
That sort of collusion with confusion may be OK for poets but I should clarify.
Excluding the most benumbed or carnally mercenary of our species we'd rather squirt our sexual juices beautifully, colorfully, interestingly.
Those of us in the childish romantic cadre want the receiver to be our beloved, our reification* of paradise in a person.
Given the funny nature of humankind we replace or substitute, we color our evolutionary compulsion with a halo captured, borrowed, translated from elsewhere.** Antiseptic gay men go about fucking and sucking oblivious to our almost spiritual sexuality.
Love may not come but there's the raffish boy met on the corner, the beauty who shares with us only the confused perception of the other: we supply each other with the dirty urban glamour.
My friends, my point is to evoke and celebrate those moments when without love, our lust captured an object of desire and invested him with a momentary glory. The sun will rise and we'll see him with the same eyes as everybody else and wish him only gone.
Unless it is your or I who is last night's unwanted baggage.
* More or less translate the transcendent into the corporeal, I do love my theology.
** Purple prose night at Pansexual Sodomite. The ghost of Genet or is it merely Edmund White channeling through me.