Porn, Chicken, and Boy Toys

When I heard that some Yale students formed a group called Porn 'N Chicken to watch porn and eat chicken, I was immediately nostalgic for my radical alma mater, Wesleyan University. Why didn't I think of that a decade ago? I don't do meat, but my desire for fuck films is carnivorous enough, and we could have called ourselves Porn 'N Tofu and been just as wild. So what if our voyeurism included a lesbian feminist potluck dinner? We would still be subverting the patriarchal system somehow; you know, watching the meat instead of eating it.

There is one skin flick in particular for which I might even swallow a bucket of KFC: The StaXXX, a homemade porno rumored to be in the works by some Porn 'N Chicken members and other Yalies. As soon as word got out about this project (or perhaps I should say was deliberately leaked like a female ejaculator coming like a banshee), the media went cannibalistic. The New York Times broke the story back in January, and soon everyone from MTV and Fox to Hustler and Brill's Content was hightailing it to New Haven to get the scoop. Alas, the Porn 'N Chickeners refused to speak to any other media, preferring to keep their project shrouded in mystery.

Now, there is speculation that Porn 'N Chicken and The StaXXX are a cleverly designed hoax to trip up us media folks, a pretty easy task since we start salivating at the thought of almost-underage Ivy Leaguers fucking each other on film and forget to check our sources. Some of those sources now say it is surely a big joke. Reports from The Yale Daily News claim that only one scene was shot, then destroyed when the students who starred in it had their confidentiality breached. (One filmmaker got drunk at a party and blabbed things he promised would be secret—it may be Yale, but college guys are still idiots.) An interesting detail of this story is that, although all the filmmakers are men, the scene was supposedly between two women, included strap-ons and fisting, and sounded like a big dyke fest to me. Leave it to the queers to be the first ones to put their pussies where their politics are. Other sources insist that all the media attention drove the project underground, that the filming continues, and that the video will only be distributed to the people who worked on it. (Yeah, right, can you say, "eBay?" Can you say, "We will eclipse the sales of the bestselling porn tape of 2000—Tommy and Pamela Anderson Lee Caught in the Act?") Will footage surface? Will the video be made? Will, like reports speculate, some of the students sell their stories to Hollywood?

Speaking of pussies and politics, on the other side of the country, some real action was brewing right under my nose. At a much less high-profile university, sans East Coast breeding and snobbery, I witnessed some pretty revolutionary shit. It hasn't attracted NBC or CNN film crews, but it certainly got this writer's attention. When I arrived on the campus of the University of California at Santa Barbara, it seemed like any other non-urban college: volleyball games on the lawn, big keg parties hosted by fraternities, and talk of the student housing shortage. I was there for the 12th Annual University of California Lesbian, Gay, Bisexual, and Transgender Association Conference, and I wasn't expecting much more than a few academic gays delivering convoluted papers on performative gender theories. But who knew there were so many queers—articulate, gorgeous, political, radical, organized, savvy queers—in Santa Barbara? A town that drips excessive wealth and real estate prices, where socialites, celebrities, and the Reagans have homes? (OK, so students came from all the UCs for the conference, with heavy attendance from Santa Cruz and Davis, but the majority were homegrown.)

Twelve of the raddest dykes and trannies have formed their own drag king troupe called the Disposable Boy Toys. Since I live in New York, home of a rockin' drag king scene, I was sure nothing happening in Santa Barbara would compare to the likes of Murray Hill, Dred, and the BackDoor Boys. I was treated to three separate visits with the Boy Toys, who I found quite indisposable. First, they gave a workshop on the politics of drag, where they wrestled with questions like: How important is it to us to pass as men onstage? What is it like to be objectified and sexualized by gay men when we're in drag? And why do the drag queens who perform with us insist on calling us girls? Later that night, the boys performed, and I was impressed, especially with the unexpected rendition of "The Devil Went Down to Georgia" and the campy, over-the-top "In the Navy," where sailors attempted to recruit a Boy Scout to their homo ways.

The next day they hosted a Drag King Science Fair, where they shared trade secrets, from the best packing materials (squeeze hair gel into two condoms and voilà—lifelike testicles!) and underwear (jock straps versus very tight briefs) to the delicate process of breast binding. (Whether you bind with an Ace bandage or a super-tight sports bra, put a layer of duct tape over it for extra protection.) I learned how to create realistic-looking facial hair, and even tested my scissors-and-spirit-gum skills on a cute Asian butch with angular features and a dark purple buzz cut. By the end of the workshop, women were sporting all sorts of facial hair on their way to the next session. I literally couldn't tell the boys from the girls anymore, and to a kinky fuck like me, that was heaven.

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