lion and tigers and bears ....

**warnning: this post contains gratutitous male nudity and potato salad**

Being that I am an academic, when it came time for me to honestly address my sexuality the first thing I did was plop myself down with some literature on the subject. I spent a good four or five months learning the lingo and cultural norms of The Gays. During this educational phase of my coming out, I was familiarized with such queer standards as: top, bottom, vers.,trans. , and the ever-popular twink. Soon to follow were more advanced terms like: kink, beard, gloryhole, bathhouse, houseboy, and man-gina.

During that learning phase I attached a moral to each of these terms: top=manly, houseboy=whore, man-gina=ew. I can now justify these moral judgements based on the fact that I was still somewhat of an outsider; I had nothing more in commmon with the members of the groups than the attraction to members of my own sex. Further justification of these snap judgements is that I was not detered; I dove face first into finding a nieche in the same way the first twink set himself loose on the world (read: www.gay.com).

As I spent more time inside the fishbowl which I had previosly only observed, the stigmas and moral judgements began to fall away. I befriended houseboys; fell in love with many "bearded" men; bought [for research purposes] a porn titled "Gloryholez 10"; experimented with bottomming; sampled my fair share of man-gina [and twink]; I even subscribed to Showtime in hopes of furthering my education through the sexual prowess of my idol Brian Kinney+.

Resultantly, I have very few hang-ups. Sexual liberation has been my gateway to so many liberating thoughts - it's been my key to the mind-trap set by our heteronormative society.

But it's not my purpose here to proclaim that I have reached the zenith of my "accept everyone" journey. I'm still learning everyday that I have walls to break down. Like: I may be a bear.

Even writing that makes me throw up a little bit in my mouth. Not only do I think it's degrading to us clump hairy men into a category which gets it's name from a grizzly creature that can often be found in the dumps of rural communities, I have always feared that I may be forced to join such a group on account of my hairy chest and ability to grow a full beard in two days' time. More to the point was the fact that I had assigned the catergory to include [excusively] dirty, old, hairy men (before you judge me, google "gay bears"). We fear most that with which we most identify ... or something mushy like that.

As we age, our tastes change. We change. I have matriculated from a man that appreciates a smooth chest to a man that has an equal appreciation for a man that has a five o'clock shadow with a tuft of chest hair. As well, as I get older I get hairier, so I'm giving into stereotype!

In a few day's time, I will, with ten of my closest [straightest] friends, embark on an annual trip to the woods of a southern New York State park to enjoy drinking games, optional showers, snowball fights, and Halter's amazing potato salad. The time and place just seem right for me to put on my boots and stop shaving [my back and my face]. I am knocking down my bear wall and I'm doing it in a cabin in the woods.

Who knows if I'll leave my grizzly right there in that cabin, but that's the thing about boxes: It's safer to have lived one day inside a box than it is to walk around for the rest of your days afraid of what that box looks like from within.


+: Kinney is the basis for a very thoughtful exploration of "The Peter Pan Syndrome" over at afterelton.com. It's worth a read.

dear john (no.2)

19,

I almost never think of you anymore.

But when I do, I find that I am still able to say eloquenlty simple and hauntingly hurtful words to you (like: I almost never think about you).

The truth here is that I don't recall there ever being a period of time that I did think of you [often]. You've made me a bigger part of your life than I was ever willing to make you in mine. To say the scales are tipped would be an unfair statement. Actually, you're pretty inconsequential in my life.

If you must know, I never let you get close because I'm looking for an equal. Someone that is a little bit of a challenge. Someone that can fall in love with me for the qualities that I actually posess, not for the qualities that result from a falicy.

You've made claim that I just want to be the lonely, bitter fag. I think you've overestimated how well you know me. In reality (which I know you may have only a passing acquaintance with), you don't know a thing about me except for the slander that our mutual "friend" has told you. Some advice - his handle on reality is far less solid than yours, so please be cautious sharing information within that "frienship".

Now, it'd be nice if I could say here that I think you're a great guy, but I don't know you. And I stand by that choice. I'd be at an unfair advantage being that you think you know me while I'm just trying to learn about you.

I don't care to know you.

I care that nothing bad happens to you. But past that, I have no feelings.

All the best in life.

_brian

P.S. Stop calling me.

thinning the flock.

Dear Mr. Cheney;

In the past I have had evil thoughts. Being honest, no less than 40% of them concerned you and various ways you would check out of your current miserable life. My purpose here is to appologize for all of the negative energy that may have actually found it's way from my warped independant mind to your billion dollar ranch in Texas. And, although I may not me culpable, I am sorry that you have problems with your ticker.

I was relieved to find that you have joined forces with the good guys and have begun participating in "Operation: Shoot a [big fat greasey] Rupublican in the Face".

Cheers, Mr. Cheney. Keep up the good work.

Sincerely,
-Brian Planty

that ol' CD smell.

My music collection, in it's present form, began on Christmas Day 1989. My first CD: Forever Your Girl.

I can remember the wonderment of being able to skip to any track on the album with the press of a button (think of how this helped when listing to Rhythm Nation:1814); I can remember being able play "Cold-Hearted" on loop for hours on end; And I can remember the smell of freshly pressed plastic when I opened Paula's masterpiece for the very firt time. It's been a love affair ever since.

Not just a love affair with Ms. Estevez, but the beginning of a lifelong tryste with music in the form of compact disc.

The day following Chistmas, I made the first anual Black Friday trip to the local record store. It was here that I made the first CD purchase of my life: "Like a Prayer". Let me tell you, the scent from the Abdul disc had nothing on Madonna!

I felt as if the music gods had collected all of the finest scents available in the world, added a touch of honey, and stirred lightly with some of the cheapest plastice in all of Indonesia before sprinkling in a bit of the material girl to create the scent with which I was rewarded upon opening "Prayer". It was well worth the $19.99 in hard earned Christmas cash.

As if the aroma wasn't enough, the accompanying booklet was an apt partner for both the package and the music contain therin. In that 133mm x 124.5mm x 5.2mm jewel case was an entire experience.

I was instantly an addict. To this day, when I open a new CD I am hoping for that high. And the search has been relentless; as my CD collection closes in on 1000, I can count on one hand the number of times that I have been brought back to my "Prayer" experience. But I will never stop trying.

For me, CDs are nostalgia. They create a physical, redolent, aural, and visual connection to a specific [emotional] place. How can you argue that that isn't a lot of bang for your buck?

So this is my plea to all music downloaders:

Please, don't rob yourself of the global experience of buying an album on CD [or vinyl]. By downloading music, you are cheapening your ideals and becoming a bed buddy of the huge conglomerates hell bent on consumerizing every last human emotion.

Please. Buy cds.

One day your kids will find them in your attic and figure out how cool you once were.

what i learned today on google image search.

Word(s) searched: "cold shower"

Result:


Conclusion: Frodo has grown up [nicely].

(And if you must know: I have been emailing with this dude for about two months. Very casual. Very off the cuff. And the dude always manages to slip in a racey comment where one would not be a likely fit. Example:

i'm renovating my new apartment, working on it in the evenings which leaves very little time for porn, i mean socializing.

So ... i was searching for an image to reply with; hence the "cold shower." In the end, i optioned for a witty coy response unrelated to Frodo and/or cold showers.)