Apr 18, 2014

Friday matinée

"Show us the way to the next whiskey bar."
(Artwork by Bob Bienpensant)

Apr 17, 2014

San Francisco (13) --- A walk across the Berkeley campus (Teaser: "Freedom Fries")

University of California, Berkeley---market stand near the entrance

So we're visiting Berkeley across the bay and in particular the campus of UCB, because our first, still unfinished novel "Freedom Fries" is partially set there, with Pamela Woods (fictional) as the dean of Berkeley Law School, John Yoo (real; the legal brain behind the Bush/Cheney waterboarding policy) on the faculty of said school, and a harebrained subplot to abduct Yoo and somehow press him to confess to evil deeds, preferably not by waterboarding. In order to execute the plan we need to know where Yoo parks his car. Zack, Leona and Liz are co-conspirators, and Justin Bieber (fictional) is the school's vice dean; the plot is set in 2009, the year (or more precisely the week) that Justin Bieber, the Canadian singer, finally breaks through.

Not the parking lot of Berkeley  Law School ...

They need to know where Yoo parks his car; else the plan would not work. He has stopped using the parking garage in the basement, and the rumor mill---a defective tool in Yoo’s case with his few friends---the rumor mill has it that he is upset by hostile bumper stickers on his Lexus and scared of water-boarding related scratches.
... but the parking lot of the physics department (you can read it, right: it says: "Parking space reserved for Nobel Laureate.") 

Zack and Leona are at Barbara’s cabin, Liz is studying Supreme Court opinions, Jim is helping her, somebody has to find out. It is fairly urgent. She collects the secret phone---Zack could call any minute now---hides it in her bag, and leaves the office. She will take up position in the lobby, where she will play the Populist Dean. The populist dean is expected of her anyhow, occasionally, and her performance is not without merit (despite mixed reviews), especially on Friday afternoons when people want to go home early, an inclination she applauds with one hand and dismisses with the other. Anyhow, there she stands, expansive as always (not always, only since twenty years), dispensing kisses, Hi’s, compliments (“you look great”), compliments (“you look great”), feedback (“we missed you at the budget meeting, where were you”), more compliments (“where did you get that tan?”), as her academic subjects are drifting toward TGI weekend.

Apr 15, 2014

Handsheets for the erotic writer (6) --- from Catherine Millet to James Joyce

Not really a handsheet, but anyhow:

We haven't seriously researched this, but writing style is not different from finger prints or irises, every author has her own. And the spread of the distribution is wider, think of comparing the foot print of a dinosaur with the touch of an ant or the mark of a rabbit (even inside a genre, just compare erotic writers Susan Johnson and Ludmilla Sanders).

We had this idea to look at a few female erotic authors, their rendering of the climax, the crest, the moment, when he
brings you off with that extraordinary precision soon unbearable, sooner or later after having you mounted with the vacant expression of a mating animal, having you kept there for an hour with his extraordinary erotic fabulations, perhaps after he would have tried out the most acrobatic positions, and the most improbable substitutes (cucumbers, sausages, Perrier bottles, a policeman's luminous white trunchheon), and then he would suddenly become quiet a few moments before orgasm...

...and compose all this into a report of last night's meeting of minds and bodies of John ("Ben") Fletcher and erotic author Brigitta Haagen-Dasz in the second part of the Green Eyes.

Yes, along those lines, more or less, although we'd like it to be a bit more poetic.

Let's think.

Okay, let's proceed this way, let's try to apply a simple elimination filter, not really modifying anything, just eliminating unnecessary, extraneous, or otherwise irritating expressions.

Catherine Millet at home

So, for example, let's not employ the verbification (yes, it exists, and an ugly word it is) the verbification of climax.

By the way, all expressions above are from Catherine Millet, founder and editor of France's leading art magazine Art Press, you may have heard of her and her book The sexual life of Catherine M. It is---spoiler alert---extraordinary---her book, and there's this familiar clustering of superlatives that we will now try to tackle:

Apr 14, 2014

Tuesday matinée

Green Eyes (teaser) --- Germans playing Monopoly

Apologies, apologies, this has nothing to do with the Green Eyes, except that we played Monopoly once, with Sacha, the model for Jack Horn in the novel, and it ended in tears like this (I was Karl Marx)  (click to enlarge):

(find a few lines from the Jack Horn chapter underneath)

Apr 13, 2014

San Francisco (12) --- Bullit

While Chang and I were strolling through San Francisco yesterday, the conversation turned to the peculiarities of the street layout here, each street being its own turnpike, as it were, connecting A and B like Alpha Romeos would in the old days, no, wrong, we mean via the shortest route afforded by Euclidean geometry, straight, that is, straight, regardless of the third dimension---and the opportunities this affords to the cinematography of car chases. So here it is---you've certainly seen it a hundred times already---the car chase scene from Bullit, the 1968 movie with Steve McQueen:

Apr 12, 2014

Handsheets for the erotic writer (5)

We're doing research for another chapter of "This is heaven" (Part II of the Green Eyes), which will relate the story of Brigittå, the passionate writer of romance novels, who has been in touch with John's A-level escort service lately. More precisely, it will relate Brigittå's side of the story, which begins in Chapter 10 (excerpted below).

So here's the sheet, the fifth in the history of this blog (click on the picture): 

(There are a few typos; it must have been the excitement)

"The doorbell rings. Ben of course, or the cops (certainly the cops if anybody knew the real story). I’m asleep. Alex will buzz the buzzer and let homeless Ben in who will explain. Alex will suggest a beer, perhaps, and the couch in the kitchen. Would Ben expect to sleep in my bed? Our bed? Ben and Alex must have bonded during the twenty minutes of my jury absence, the voices in the kitchen sound conspiratorial, familiarized. The phone rings (my cell), which is lying on the computer desk. I’m asleep. Alex answers the phone. It’s for John (surprise), for the escort service (surprise). Alex knows about the escort service, I had told him about the money, or the lack thereof, and the failed outcall on Saturday (on Saturday). John, Alex says to Ben, your real name is John, isn’t it, they need you (he half-grins (I presume) (Alex)). It pays. It pays well. Right up your alley. Outcall. What’s an outcall? You’ll see, you know that stuff. Hold the line. Alex googles “escort + service + Georgia Beach” on the computer on the desk (I can follow him through my half-open eyes), and arrives on the website of the Georgia Beach A-level Escort Service. Why does he do this? To get the numbers right---two-hundred fifty bucks for an outcall (per hour), two thousand bucks (per night) (prohibitive (on purpose) (the rate)). He whispers something to Ben. And where? Lupo di Mare. You know where Lupo di Mare is. Yes, Ben knows (I know). We owe you, dude. Alex slaps Ben’s shoulder (dude) (again), and sees him off---make sure you get paid in advance. John is asleep. Alex returns to the bedroom, resumes his recumbent position next to me, clutches his i-thing, and fidgets with my tousled hair. John falls asleep."

For an earlier teaser of Chapter 10 ("A box of sleepy kittens"), go here.

By the way, the picture underlying the sheet ...

...is by Liliya Peter

Apr 11, 2014

Green Eyes --- Part II (This is heaven) (Chapter 12, teaser: Albert Camus)

Context: John is called to the police station, where Ray is held as in connection with the mysterious death of Neill Palmer. Inspector LaStrada from the homicide unit wants to "chat." And, there's a new addition to the offices of the police department, a goldfish bowl.

The detective points at a transparent ticket holder lying on the counter. It contains a used sheet of paper, crumpled and refolded several times, letter size, written upon in what appears to be an approximately illegible hand. LaStrada flips the ticket holder, and the back side of the sheet appears to be written-upon as well, written in Alex’s hand, to be specific. This was Alex’s suicide letter, the letter I handed to Neill Palmer on Saturday night when the drunken rice queen had asked for a sheet of paper as we met in the street, me staggering home in despair while Alex and Amy-Lou were busy falling in love.

Let me interrupt myself briefly and invoke yet another outlandish analogy. It doesn’t matter which movie we’re talking about, so let’s talk about the last one, Skyfall. Daniel Craig introduces himself to Dr. No or one of No’s co-workers, like Bérénice Marlohe, and says “The name is Bond, James Bond.” And while any other person on the planet would now go, like, “Great,” or “Can you give me an autograph,” Bérénice has apparently never heard of James Bond, grimaces casually, and shakes the stranger’s hand.

Albert Camus (1913 - 1962)

Along those lines, LaStrada has apparently no idea that he’s dealing with one of the most outlandish documents ever featured in erotic writing. He flips the ticket holder, grimaces casually, and reads: “‘Some people expend enormous energy merely to be normal’… Sounds mysterious, doesn’t it, Mr. Lee.”

Apr 10, 2014

The passive tense (Mr E.) (reblogged)

Mr. E., the mysterious voice behind the 50 shady gayshas returned to Thailand. Here's his latest post, reblogged with his permission:

I’d made it a rule never to trust a man who had begged me to piss on him; but on this occasion, he turned out to be right.

It was later at the bar, after he had scrubbed himself clean, that he told me he was a writer for an ex-pat newspaper here in Thailand. As the Vodka flowed, his conversation became loose and he bragged about his career. He bragged of his, “success.” He told me of the formulas and structures that dictated his work. “Make your work read more, interesting, exciting and credible,” he said.
“Mainly use the active forms – nobody trusts the passive voice.”

I could tell; by the number of half naked, Thai muscle men that surrounded him, that he was reasonably rich – and that he liked Thai tops, or “Kings.” “Kings,” are active. They go to the gym, they have shit tattoos and many bully their wives etc… In contrast, exclusively bottom, “Queens,” look fem and flouncy and wear far too many skin whitening products. Subsequently, “queens,” tend to be ridiculed more often - is that because, “nobody trusts the passive voice?”

Apr 6, 2014

It's Obama's fault

(Recent paintings by George W. Bush)

Monday matinée

(I listened to this, in Horowitz's interpretation, perhaps 500 times, so there you have it. My Horowitz was a studio recording; this is a bit slower, and it is somehow even more gripping.)

San Francisco (11) --- Camp Meeker(2)

More from Redwooood Country north of the Bay Area where we are staying during the weekend, thanks to an invite of Karen, our landlady in San Francisco, to her cabin in Camp Meeker.

Karen's cabin in Camp Meeker

Connubial bliss inside Karen's cabin

Sunday matinée

We rearranged the furniture at Karen's cabin a bit.

Apr 5, 2014

San Francisco (10) --- Camp Meeker

À la recherche du temps perdu...along those lines: how does one manage to arrive in San Francisco? We apparently can't make it stick. So we're now in Camp Meeker, 1:30 hours north of SF, in serious Redwood Forest country.


The view from the terrace
We already had dinner at the Bistrot des Garçon in nearby Occidental. 

Apr 3, 2014

Green Eyes --- Part II (This is heaven) (Chapter 9, teaser: Meet Romeo)

This is already the second teaser for Chapter 9. The first one, "Meet Barbette Bienpensant" ended with the words:

“Well, thank you,” Barbette answers. The sun sets, the mood darkens, and the professor is off to find light somewhere else.

Okay, let's reiterate the context: (1) The festival is about to begin. (2) Ben, the black guy whom we met first in the chapter "The hitchhiker's guide to gay sex" in the previous part of the Green Eyes, runs the market stand of Luke's convenience store; Alex sells Bavarian leather shorts for Godehart. (3)  Juliette is Barbette's sister. We met her earlier in the day when she (Juliette) told us she's still a virgin but would do anything for ice cream: 

“Well, thank you,” Barbette answers. The sun sets, the mood darkens, and the professor is off to find light somewhere else. And Juliette stays behind to lose her virginity. And I really need to deal with the Ben-Alex-John problem now, the longer I wait the awkwarder it gets. And I need to deal with Juliette, who has lifted two folding chairs from a stack next to the storage shed, offered one to Alex, one to herself, and is presently sitting next to the Green Eyes behind the market stand as if they will live happily ever-after selling Bavarian crotch shorts.
“I hate her,” Juliette says.
“No need to elaborate,” Alex says.
“John is your partner?” Juliette asks.
“I’ve been asked that before,” Alex answers (not true; he had been asked whether I’m his brother).
“You are…?” Her sentence trails.
“Since seven days apparently.”
“That’s what they tell me.”

Ford Maddox Brown, Romeo and Juliet (1870)

Anything, anything I could say now would make it only worse. There I stand. I really need help. And, you know what, I get it, I get it for once.

Apr 2, 2014

San Francisco (9)

Harvey Milk, former (and assasinated) gay mayor of San Francisco
(Another picture from the superb artist Tony de Carlo, whom we discovered lately)

Go here for the previous San Francisco post

Tony de Carlo

Tony de Carlo: "Bird Man Of The Desert", 18" x 24", Acrylic on Canvas, 2006
(We discovered another superb gay artist, Tony de Carlo; see right column for a link to his site)

Mar 31, 2014

San Francisco (8) --- Lufthansa flight 454 (reposted)

We posted this once before, a year ago, in a post "not about erotic writing," and in blissful ignorance of our future. So here it is again, and this time it is about erotic writing, at least in the sense that it is about us, and our flight into the world capital of erotic writing:

It appears to be difficult to arrive in San Francisco once and for all, this is our 8th post already, but anyhow. Watch the clip, it's fascinating.

Go here for the previous SF post, and there for the next.

Mar 29, 2014

San Francisco (7) --- Pitch-O-rama (1)

We arrive at San Francisco SFO (San Francisco International Airport, why SFO?) and the international press, the paparazzi ("paps"), the adolescent girls and boys, all of them, there's a riot. A blogger with 390,000 page views comes all the way from Europe and there's a riot. Well, no, sorry, that was Seoul, Korea, the airport, when we got mixed up with a charismatic baseball player.

So we feel un-famous and under-appreciated and seek consolation on the internet and find a page belonging to the San Francisco Writer's Conference. We send them a message about feeling un-famous and under-appreciated and get a prompt reply pointing us to an upcoming pitchfest of the Women's National Book Association San Francisco Chapter on Saturday in the Women's building around the corner from where we reside. It would be an opportunity to "connect." We procrastinate, then sign up via Paypal.

Spoiler alert: a pitchfest is about pitching manuscripts to agents and publishers, and we're in possession of such a manuscript, the Green Eyes, gay romance/erotica, easily the most topical subject when it comes to Women's Lib. We're not, however, in possession of  a printer here in our temporary abode, and the battery of the laptop won't live for longer than a minute when unplugged. So we don't have any material to take to the event, not even a calling card or anything that could get agents and publishers interested in our work. Plus, one of the participating agents, Andy Ross, has a post on his blog about this: he, Andy, would never go to a pitchfest, not as a pitcher at least, since he wouldn't survive the humiliation of being turned down by his colleagues. That decides the case. We will go, but not pitch. Perhaps there's enough in it for another short story. That's what failed writers do, they write about failed writers. Do your research.

We're apprehensive nonetheless, and it starts early, at 8 AM, and it rains, and we overtip the taxi driver out of sheer apprehension. We expect a crowd of young women, multi-faceted, multi-racial, done up in neo-Afro-look, i.e., all looking like Angela Davis waiving Angela-Davis-inspired manuscripts---waiving their manuscripts at us, balding, aging, failed writers of gay porn---think of a wind farm during a hurricane.

Angela Davis

Mar 26, 2014

San Francisco (6) --- It's immoral (short story)

We're on our way to San Francisco (still). Spoiler alert: Did you see it coming?

It's immoral

Let me put this upfront: the main exit of motorway A8 into Nice has been under construction since quite a while. Anybody living on the Cote d’Azur must have wondered why a ramp pointing in the direction of the downtown voie rapide, obviously meant to relieve the overworked Promenade des Anglais along the beach, was left for decades to peter out as a useless heap of sand. Two years ago, finally, a swarm of yellow caterpillars had appeared and replaced the sand by an overpass of French proportions, meandering high into the sky as if the gloire of the nation would depend on it. I had followed the activity with some interest and last time I checked, on Wednesday (returning home from an exhausting interview with Inspecteur Dugeny of the criminal branch of French customs about Jyske, my wayward bank), the work was still unfinished.

Nice airport

I’m writing this while waiting for the Lufthansa flight to Frankfurt, which is delayed. I’m sitting on a two-person leather couch opposite to Chang, who sits on another, identical couch. The couch table between us holds a glass of orange juice (Chang), and three glasses of Bloody Mary (Michael) (empty). On closer inspection, the couch table consists of two plastic stools of not quite matching colors. The entire room, a small VIP lounge off the boarding area of Terminal One is stuffed with like couches and couch tables and overhung by a low, impending ceiling. A TV screen on the wall shows a feature about Alain Juppé, mayor of Bordeaux and once-presidential-hopeful who, like most French politicians, simply refuses to go away, despite the time he had to spend in prison. I’m the only one watching, other people play with their i-things.

I’m not sure Chang is aware of what has happened because he is all business and very critical of the booze, as usual.

Mar 24, 2014

Green Eyes --- Part II (This is heaven) (Chapter 3, teaser: "You should read Twilight")

Context:  The happy ending happened an hour ago. John and Alex return from the gay beach. The Georgia Beach Festival (vampire-themed this year) is on. 

We are about to turn the corner of Nick’s Restaurant but held back by a bunch of kids coming from the opposite direction. Teens, mostly, tribal in appearance, piercings, pipe jeans, some Cherokee heads, smudgy mascara, third generation prep school punks who have seen an ocean before and are too cool to remember. They look at us, we look at them, Alex’s arm is still on my shoulder. There’s something expressive about their body talk, as if they barely know each other. One or two are homophobic (if I read them well). “You know where the beach is?” a pale-faced girl without piercings asks Alex (we are standing on the boardwalk). Alex explains about the beach (“This is the beach”).

"This is the beach," (seen with the eyes of Peggy Noonan's statue; in reality this is the beach of Rehoboth Beach, DE, the model for Georgia Beach)

“You locals?” Yes we are. They’ve just arrived per overnight ride in second-hand passenger vans still misparked near the curb, they explain. “Where’s the festival?” The festival is on the grounds of the Surfside Field, between Lake Gerard Park and the beach, half a mile to the north, at least that’s where it was last year.
“That’s where the gay beach is?” one of the homophobes asks. He’s dressed for the occasion, artificial fangs that shine in the sun when he opens his mouth (if they are artificial, that is).
“Taylor, come on,” the second homophobe says, “you can do your sodomy later, when your penis is grown.” Alex is patient, he explains about the gay beach.
“You guys are gay?” the girl asks.
“You guys are vampires?” Alex asks back.
“Yup,” the second homophobe says.
“Real ones?” Alex asks.

Mar 23, 2014

Mar 22, 2014

San Francisco (5) Potrero Hill

Potrero Hill, that's where we reside, on 1229 de Haro Street. "Potrero" means paddock in English, and the place probably was a paddock before the city took over. The neighborhood is still Spanish (mostly).

1229, de Haro Street --- we're on the second floor, left (Chang in the left corner) 

Opposite side of the street

Health warning (Glenn)

Mar 21, 2014

Saturday matinée: Telegraph Road

Telegraph Avenue or Telegraph Road ... see previous post for an explanation.

San Francisco (4) Telegraph Avenue

We're in San Francisco now, which means that the first thing in the morning would be a trip to Telegraph Road, Oakland, CA, where Morning Glory is located, the KP-Asian Supermarket, where they sell Korean food.

The Korean supermarket on Telegraph Avenue
Oakland---you will possibly agree with us---has---or at least had---a notoriously bad reputation---because bad reputations are always notorious---especially next to San Francisco, the reputation---and now we know why.

What we didn't know at that point---or, more precisely, didn't remember---Michael Chabon's latest novel is set on Telegraph Road there---or Avenue---something about a record store and race etc.

Michael Chabon

And then we had a little connubial bliss with Chang---in the afternoon---who abruptly changed directions during a walk through the Mission District after a very brief verbal exchange (the bliss), and departed in the other direction, yelling a departing "f@@k you,  f@@k you," at us, so we went to the Castro district to find a new lover, and went into a bookstore to buy a new York Times, and the Staff's Choice of Book was Michael Chabon's new novel, and since Chabon is one of the new American authors we in fact did read---quite extensively by our standards---we picked up his new book and re-discovered---we had read a review---that it was set on Telegraph Avenue, whence the title of the book---spoiler alert---Telegraph Avenue. We feel---spoiler alert---part of new literary history now. Not yet Chang though, because I didn't tell him yet; we have, however---spoiler alert---reconciled.

Previous SF-post here.

Mar 20, 2014

San Francisco (3) Flight 370

Lets start with a picture:

 Malaysia Airline advertisement (as found on Facebook; perhaps you can explain to us why a normal Boing 777 has only two engines, instead of four)

Flight 370, that would be Malaysian Air, the missing plane. Not Flight 545 to San Francisco though, because that would be Lufthansa, our flight from Frankfurt.

You guessed right, our conspiracy theories would revolve around sex and crime, and our departure would be supposedly a real story (I mean, we would start with a real story), told by a stewardess (female flight attendant) who enters the cockpit---spoiler alert---never thought about this, no word is safe in English---and finds the autopilot on, and---spoiler alert---pilot and copilot in the nude, and in a significant embrace. They got fired, supposedly, the---no spoiler alert---fucking pilots. Perhaps they went on to work for Malaysian Air, and---spoiler alert (in the sense that the remainder of this sentence is real silly)---and had it in their contract that they would have to fly Flight 69 only. No, that's not what I wanted to say. I wanted to say that one fine day, namely on March 7---spoiler alert---that they forgot to switch the autopilot on.

Along those lines. In the meantime, let's marvel at the brilliance of our colleagues from the Huffpost blog, who use the following picture---spoiler alert

"I wonder where they are."

---to illustrate a post about the search for the missing plane.

Next SF post here. Previous SF post here.

Mar 18, 2014

San Francisco (2) ("Sex im Zeitalter seiner technischer Reproduzierbarkeit")

Right. "Das Kunstwerk im Zeitalter..." Even readers of The New Yorker will know, this was Walter Benjamin. What they don't know, what even I didn't know at the time, I went to school with Walter Benjamin, sort of, in the sense that the house of his (Walter's) parents was located right opposite to my primary school in Grunewald, Berlin, Germany. He was born there. I didn't know since I didn't know about Benjamin at the age of 6 through 11, and because the plaque that informs post-nazi Germany about his birthplace had not been in place so soon after the war.

Walter Benjamin

Reader's of the Frankfurter Allgemeine Zeitung will certainly know (about Benjamin), Germany's newspaper of record, although a bit less than the New York Times (the record), because they (the Frankfurters) had been leaning a bit too far to the right (then). They sound more balanced now (the FAZ), (are you still there?) (nice, isn't it, running your own blog, no anal copy editor to deal with), the layout has changed (the FAZ's), and square miles of tree-based newspaper space now dedicated to large, pictogrammatical pieces of artwork so that Germany's post-intellectual elite doesn't have to read so much. The German sounds different, too, a bit more modern. What sounds surprisingly old-fashioned is an article in the last weekend edition of the FAZ about sex and the internet. I didn't keep the copy of the paper, so this is from memory (stupid). (See below for more about Ampersant's hyper-parenthesization).

San Francisco (1)

"We're on our way" (no, actually, "I'm on my way") was the sad swansong of an aging Phil Collins eight years ago. Well, we are on our way now, even arrived in San Francisco already, but stopped over in Frankfurt, Germany, at the Hilton Garden Inn of Frankfurt Airport, the Ikea among the Hilton brands. Right next to the entrance for the Hilton Garden Inn there's the entrance of the Hilton Frankfurt Airport, The Hilton among the Hilton brands, and both outfits share a common atrium, 11 floors high. We're sent up in Hollywood glass elevators to the 11th floor, to room 1126, and an atrium bridge sends us to the other side, the Hilton-hilton side of the atrium.

Not painted by Piero della Francesca

Everything is new here, including the smallness of a room that radiates the coziness of a mansarde of three-pane insulation windows 6 inches thick, and a fashionable bathroom design (if bathroom designs can be radiated (lol, (loller)))---a fashionable bathroom design of misleading tiles that look like hardwood but are made of materials from Mars (this sounds unintentionally old-fashioned but there's no way to salvage this sentence anyway).

We take a shower. Shower and bathtub are integrated, as usual in hotels, and our eye falls on the sink.

Now what?

Have you ever seen a sink like this? Yes. Have you ever seen a sink in this location, right at the center of the tub? Come on, it's not so difficult. It's all about sex, or at least foreplay. You understand if you ever tried in a traditional bath tub.

In the next post we'll hazard a mini-essay about sex and modernity, which, if it were written in German, would be titled "Sex im Zeitalter seiner technischen Reproduzierbarkeit."

Go here for the next SF post.

Mar 9, 2014

"We just don't live in a world that celebrates the penetrated male" (Mr. E.) (reblogged)

From the celebrated blog Fifty shady gays (reblogged with the permission of the author):

While recently having a prostate examination, I had decided to make a stupid camp joke. Even though my doctor is a super lovely man, it led to one of those awkward silences that suggested that I had tumbled across an invisible line. I was lying on the examination table on my side and he informed me that he would be inserting a couple of fingers (what we in the UK call a "Kit Kat") and I remember feeling relaxed; so, for some unknown reason I had said:

"You know me, I'm always up for a cheeky finger."

For some reason I had thought that this would be okay, but as the words tumbled out of my mouth, I was reminded of the desolation wrought by a piss poor stand up comedian. It was a terrible moment of silence during which I had a chance to consider what a pain in the arse it is being a bottom in a gay man's world. I used to mainly top, but having since discovered the delights of oriental orgies and decadent fuck pits, I have been exploring the realms of my own brown Narnia. Also, it has become more apparent to me just how arrogant strict "top" men can be and how much they confuse the act of penetration with social interaction.

It's so much hassle being a bottom - we just don't live in a world that celebrates the penetrated male.

Feb 26, 2014

You'll figure this out yourself (2)

George Washington boozehound (reblogged)

Andrew Sullivan found this for us here

Indeed, we still have available the bar tab from a 1787 farewell party in Philadelphia for George Washington just days before the framers signed off on the Constitution. According to the bill preserved from the evening, the 55 attendees drank 54 bottles of Madeira, 60 bottles of claret, eight of whiskey, 22 of porter, eight of hard cider, 12 of beer, and seven bowls of alcoholic punch.

That's more than two bottles of fruit of the vine, plus a number of shots and a lot of punch and beer, for every delegate. That seems humanly impossible to modern Americans. But, you see, across the country during the Colonial era, the average American consumed many times as much beverage alcohol as contemporary Americans do. Getting drunk—but not losing control—was simply socially accepted.

Feb 25, 2014

You'll figure this out yourself

Yesterday ---- Part II: Sex on the Eames lounge chair (really)

Finally, folks, the second part of our true-true short story about the visit of our friends from Australia. A third (and last part) will follow. (For the first part go here)

Josh and Jason slept well. They brought good winter weather, a light mistral with dry clear air and steely blue sky. We’ll go visit Saint Tropez. It would be me, today, who would have to make the move, but it’s easier to talk about the corniche or the Forêt Domanial de l’Esterel, the natural park of marais and pine trees that surrounds Le Trayas and protects us from over-development, we’ve recently met a fox up there. I point to a villa on the cliff which supposedly belonged to Greta Garbo (everything is a rumor here, and they are always false). We’ve reached St. Maxime when I finally muster the chutzpah to say: “Chang tells me you’ve sucked his dick last night.”
“Yes,” they say.
“It’s unfair,” I say. They laugh.

We arrive in St. Tropez and walk along the quay where Brigitte Bardot lived in Dieu créa la femme (the next house accomodated La cage aux folles, Birdcage was the remake). We take turns taking pictures of us and the sea. I ask Jason to zoom in on the northern horizon with his Canon EOS 70D and point to the tip of Miramar, a stone throw away from our house in Le Trayas. “It’s unfair,” I say, “they can see us, but we can’t see them.” We laugh.

Jason takes this picture, Josh (or I) hold him in place