By Albert Samaha
By Steve Weinstein
By Devon Maloney
By Tessa Stuart
By Alison Flowers
By Albert Samaha
By Jesse Jarnow
By Eric Tsetsi
"Have you ever seen a man topped?" asked the gay male executive editor of an online magazine.
"Have YOU ever seen a nine-pound, 21-inch baby come out of a bleeding raw pussy?"
I bit my lip and didn't say it, as I was working on my competitiveness and would take it to therapy. So I thought to myself, "He's gay, but he is still a guy," taking a whiff of him over the phone. He needed to change his socks. MEN. I shook my head and acted bored for a moment until he said that he wanted me. HE wanted me. This gay executive editor wanted me to write about a straight woman's reaction to gay porn.
"Well, I've seen gay porn. Really, really I have." Once I was editing a video in a primo porn production company and behind me on many screens were hundreds of handsomes being sucked, pulled, inserted, and duplicated.
The editor, whom I'll call Edward, gave my deposition a second thought and added, "Well, I'm sure you have imagined."
I tried to remember my fantasies of men being topped, and I recalled fantasizing about Jesse Helms pulling his teeth out and gumming the chocolate off my twat as he is topped by Rush Limbaugh. "Yeah," I said to Edward. "I have thought about it."
"I'll call my video house and get you some tapes of bears, boys . . . will you watch s&m?" He said it with his voice lowering an octave. He sounded paternalistic, and I have always had a daddy thing. "I'll watch s&m, Edward," I whispered.
I fell in love with HIM right then and there, as he was selecting the gay porn FOR ME!!! Edward is such a guy! He does the ordering and picks up the check. I could hear him say, "Take off your clothes NOW, BITCH." And I would. I love it when my Edward gives orders. Edward selecting the tapes for me. That he couldn't think of any other straight woman but me to write the piece. It was all so very romantic.
Trying to get the tapes in my hands heightened my passion. In the following two weeks I would run over to HIS office, calling on my cell phone to HIS voice mail. It was all so exciting and he is such a guy, a dick, never available. Keeping me waiting.
Finally he e-mailed me: "I hope the quivering male flesh will be worth the wait." I wanted to blush but breathed in at the next line: "Beast, I mean Best."
And then on second thought he wrote, "PS: rather I should say beast."
My beast. I wanted to watch BEASTIE. Boy male beasts with tails and gills and claws. Beastie boy male manes satisfying their Beastie bodies thick hair extra limbs limp then hard their erections like volcano waves triple beast cocks balls by the dozens taking damsels in distress or dukes or ducks or dicks. WHO CARESit's my beast, my BEAST baby, beast.
A triangle had to happen.
And it did when Edward assigned his intern to deliver the tapes to me. BIG GUY EXECUTIVE EDITOR TOO BUSY TOO BUSY WORK MAN DICK DAD STUD WORK MONEY BUSINESS POWER DICK.
There was a knock at my dressing-room door. "Ms. Finley? Someone is here with a package that must be PERSONALLY delivered, HAND DELIVERED."
"Why, let him in, by all means." My voice became Blanche Duboisand she did fancy Stanley, that beast!
The intern was delivering my trousseau, the copies of gay porn. I instantly imagined the exchange as a metaphor for the gay male editor who had assigned the piece standing over me, holding his golden genitalia and saying, "I insist on hand delivery." And I respond with fire in my eyes, "Let him in, by all means," as I open myself and wrap my long legs over the beast shoulders and he mounts me and I become his animal.
I looked through the tapes for some titillating titles. I noticed that the labels had been worn off by the wear and tear of sweaty palms, overuse, cummy handsand I felt disgusted. But then I felt a thrill. Each label had its own libidinal quality, its own labia feel. The tape, the image going in and out in and out by male hands larger than mine holding their cocks, boylike or bruisers, and then I felt all the men either alone or watching with another as a way to connect or just get off, to get off, to cum.
I desired their sex with self, their moment of jerking either to get the day started or to end the day or to feel for a moment their hot cum through their fingers, washed off like a baby, a baby alone. Not too intimate, this is close enough. I see you selecting the tape, I see you putting it in, I feel you getting comfortable, holding yourself holding yourself, I wish I could hold you for you, carry your load. . . .
I wanted to hoard the labels from all the video porns and have their need their need carried in my purse like a tampon, like a phone number of a long lost lover.
Edward had asked me this: He wanted to know where a woman puts herself in gay porn.
A woman who is capable of endless orgasms attained in one sitting, orgasms that the man has to hunt for a month to have. It may look like the male is so sexual in his cruising and his endless search for more and more holeor to be a holebut the female, when put into cruise control, is much more sexually economic. With her need for one sperm for one egg she will sit back and go into orgasm over and over and over without having to take a rest.
The female, with her capacity to be a mother, is capable of crossing emotional and physical boundaries, of experiencing othersand othernessas her own. So, besides the obviousness of bodies, cocks, thrusting pure SEX, there is for me the ability to get off in my maternal feeling when seeing any creature get aroused. That makes me happy and satisfies me. When a mother is nursing and hears another child, any child, cry she immediately has a letdown. A letdown means that her breast starts to release milk. Even after nursing is over, when I hear a cry my breast still pangs for other children. This physical reaction happens with other sensations as well, such as sex and violence. All those physical stimuli enter into the sexual stimulusand I am just explaining why a woman does not have to identify in order to respond to gay porn, but can, from an empathetic place, experience a symbiotic sexualness.
The young female is thrown into a world where sex with men has its dangerous and life-changing components. Every time I have sex I look at my partner and know that this man could be the father of my child; that I could get pregnantand it has happened. Having multiple partners makes it all the more confusing if you do get pregnant. Having one man at a time is a protective device that nature put in place before DNA testing. Also, the fact that women are less physically strong than men makes us less willing to take a risk with an anonymous sexual partner, as a gay man might. That is why for me, when watching the gang-bang video that was choreographed from the opening act of A Chorus Line, my intuition gets in the waybecause the gang-bang rape is not a fantasy but a possibility, and there is an image I won't go back to: the time when the gun is at my head and his dick is in my hand. . . .
Being with gay men can be very relaxing for me, for I feel that I am not going to be hunted. I enjoy the sensual element of no potential danger, and the gay male-straight female relationship is erotic by its denial.
But let's go to the videotapes.
The first one, featuring a hockey team and an Eastern European look, turned me off in the credits. The title, Souvenir, made me think of some refrigerator magnet. The story line was simple: locker room, most of the players depart, then two guys wimpily go at it, then the boyfriend of one of them shows up. As I recall, there is the usual kiss body chest suck fuckexcept that the jealous boyfriend looks at a picture of them as a couple. I didn't get aroused but I will tell you how I would.
Instead of an inside rink have it outside. The men cold but sweating and the sensation of the cold breath the hot flesh pushed against the frigid air. The bodies moving graceful fast slow, so the figures become human cocks on skates. We see the teams, the players, the winning, the losing, the focus to get that damn puck fuck in the net with sticksthe puck me puck me puck him in the net, the iciness and the zipper cold against the skin that I just want to undo and slip your cock out. He is against the snow, fallen, and his opponent has a palm gripped on his muscled thigh, pushing down and grabbing his inner thigh. We see his face gripped in tension but in pleasure, knowing he is being touched and wanted. We see the cold breath and the lips meet and their hot membranes melt, tongues swirl; we see eyes on fire as the lips icicles fudg-esticles collide. We know there is that moment of who is going to satisfy, of who is making the move, and our friend in the snow still has his opponent's hand on his thigh, and then a new lover's lips are lowered onto his cock. It is so cold and quick and needed. There is no need for anything elsehe just wants to eat him in the snow eat him in the snow.
The transsexual tape bordered on an amateur-hour swingers party tape made by admirers of Star Trek. It starts out with commercials for 800 numbers with transsexuals being sucked, fucked, dildoed, clampedit looked like a psychic hot line and about as inauthentic. The dingy quality exasperated me, and I felt that the transsexuals should have been treated better. Given better clothes.
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 Bonebut 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.
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 wristand 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 momentand 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 protectorabandoned, 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 ofAroused, an anthology of writing about sex, which will be published this fall by Thunder's Mouth Press.