He Delivers!

A Straight Woman Looks at Gay Male Porn

The tape starts out with an overstuffed white chair-bed. The fabric looks like it must have smelled: grassy. We see the transsexual and a man sit on the chair together. They are asked questions by an interviewer: Had the man ever been with a transsexual before? Then they take their clothes off clumsily, revealing that the transsexual has fake breasts and a real dick. So? So who cares. I have been with overweight men who have titties. I like sucking on a man's nipple, but this didn't excite me. I felt like this was a tape for some straight guy in Idaho saying, "Oh, this is SO extreme!"

I would get the transsexual off the couch and strutting her hybrid self into Bloomingdale's. We see our trannie in the underwear department trying on lacy bustiers and then unloading her big gland out of its turquoise thong and having the lady salesclerk on her knees in the dressing room going down on the cock. Other customers wait in line. Women are waiting to be fucked by her majesty in her throne room-dressing room.

I loved the title Bear to the Bone but again was disappointed by the plot and players. Here we see some forgetful stud modeling on a table and being photographed. Within two minutes the photographed and photographer are kissing and grabbing genitals like they are making a pizza. Voyeurism is sensual, and they didn't do anything about it. I would have freeze-framed on still images of the tip of the penis with the pinky slightly in the asshole and another finger encircling it. I presume the bear had an unusual amount of hair. The male body is so OTHER that all men seem like bears to me. All men in their types are just so different from me.

A moment from Souvenir: “I didn’t get aroused but I will tell you how I would.”
Photograph by Julia Xanthos
A moment from Souvenir: “I didn’t get aroused but I will tell you how I would.”

What was missing from the porn for me was the female touch: a subtlety of the space behind the ear, the neck, the pulse of the wrist—and to stroke the inside of the arm, the pit of the arm so sensitive. For me what is missing is the thinking dick, and the fact that a man can lose an erection at any moment—and he can't fake his arousal.

The dick has a brain. The dick has a heart. The dick has a soul. The dick is turned on by conflict, humor, anxiety. Nurturing is the real turn-on for me. But ultimately all fetishes, all preferences, are just unresolved childhood traumas connected to consciousness. Our personal kinky gives us a code toward individuation. To find the mother, be the mother, avoid the mother or the father; the provider, the punisher, the protector—abandoned, humiliated, and transferred in romantic intrigue to the liar, the cheat, the ex-lover. What's so lovely about porn is that it gets us off by turning off our obscene collection of personality disorders.

But enough of this history/herstory. When it comes down to it, I don't need a reason to cum. And I don't need a reason to desire a gay man.

It is summer and my clothes stick to me as I walk into 31 flavors and see this beautiful man working in an apron at the counter. He asks me what flavor and I say French Vanilla, and he turns around and reveals his naked buttocks. He brings out his mighty organ in his hands. I notice that everyone has dropped to their knees, so I do my bidding and suck the cold iced cock until I get a vanilla creme down my throat. It immediately cools me down.

Karen Finley is the editor of Aroused, an anthology of writing about sex, which will be published this fall by Thunder's Mouth Press.

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