Filed under: SEX | Tags: american sexual habits, establishedmen, establishedmendotcom, prostitutes, selling sex, sex for money, sex in history, sex workers
Whores–or prostitutes, if that sounds less vulgar to you–have been around for countless centuries. So long, in fact, that prostitution has often been called “the world’s oldest profession”. Sexual economics operate in the same basic way as any commodity, regardless of whether it is legal (and therefore subject to taxation and regulation) or available only through the black market (and subject to exploitation by criminal enterprise). If there is a demand, there will be a supply.
Though prostitution is illegal and frowned upon in many nations, it hasn’t always been associated with immorality. Today, escort services, massage parlors and discreet ads in magazines and on the Internet offer on-call sexual services. Prostitution operates within a caste system that influences the price of these services. At the top of the hierarchy are the modern equivalent of courtesans. These women (or men) generally have one or a select few clients that pay for companionship and/or sexual services. Sometimes they act as social escorts (unlike the typical call girl from an “escort service”). The famous Japanese geisha is arguably the best example of this. Of course, a wealthy client often does expect sex in exchange for paying the living expenses and buying expensive gifts for the “kept woman”. Below the courtesan are the call girls that may or may not work for a service that takes a percentage of her earnings in exchange for setting up appointments (or “dates”), providing transportation and offering security. Other call girls run their own business, usually through a phone service or website. Below the call girl are the prostitutes who work for massage parlors or in “cribs”. In areas like Nevada or Amsterdam, where prostitution is legal (and regulated), these call girls are sometimes considered a higher class of hooker, primarily because regulation by the state makes exploitation less common and the money to be made (often thousands of dollars an hour) gives a prostitute much more control over her finances. By comparison, many massage parlors in areas where prostitution isn’t legal use sex workers imported (often against their will and illegally) from other countries. The last rung on the ladder are streetwalkers and the “lot lizards” that ply their trade at truck stops. These prostitutes are often supporting a drug habit and/or are being exploited sexually and financially by pimps.
Even the highest class and most expensive courtesan are likely to be considered whores–a derogatory term that demonstrates the moral convictions and prejudices of the general public and even the clients that pay for their services. But throughout history, prostitutes have often been considered as revered members of the community. In ancient Mesopotamia and Greece, temples handmaidens and priestesses often performed sexually, sometimes for payment and in other instances for free. Of course, sometimes these priestesses were chosen for their purity instead of their promiscuity. The Vestal Virgins, for example, were chosen from the best noble families in Rome. Reay Tannahill, in ”Sex In History” describes the importance of purity to the state:
“Her morals were a matter of national importance. When Rome suffered disaster at Cannae in 216 B.C., the blame was placed not on military incompetence but on erring Vestals. Two were denounced and condemned. A century later, all six were declared corrupt, and three were found guilty of having surrendered their virginity.” ["Sex In History", pp. 116-117, Stein and Day, New York 1980]
Vesta–like her Greek counterpart Hera–was the goddess of home, family and the sanctity of marriage. In many ancient and classical civilizations, sacred prostitutes offered their services to men as a religious rite, to honor their goddesses (of love and beauty, among others). It is no surprise that sexual religious rituals were often condemned by the priestesses of goddesses that represent home, marriage and family. In this way, prostitution is often considered to be responsible for divorce, the dissolution of the “happy home” and as a corruption of family values in general.
So how has modern society changed prostitution? Very little, it would appear. Technology has changed the way sexual services are marketed in the same way that it has changed the way other goods and services are bought, sold and advertised. But the Information Age has changed the sex industry as a whole. Pornography has come out of the closet in recent decades. In the first half of the 20th century, porn was generally something confined to the underworld. From the harlot starlets and cameramen to the production personnel and the organized crime rings that distributed “stag films”, porn was an underground commodity that most Americans would undoubtedly call “sleazy”. And of course, many pornographers (then and now) were sleazy, at least according to mainstream morality. Even so, the 1960’s and 70’s saw porn becoming more and more commonplace, if often kept confined to red light districts. But when VCR’s became common in the 1980’s, porn exploded into the mainstream consciousness and pop culture. It seemed like regular, average people knew all about “Deep Throat” and similar films. Suddenly, porn was a little more classy. But the popular acceptance of prostitution didn’t follow in porn’s wake. Though it could be argued that porn stars were selling their bodies for money in the same way, the differences were enough to keep sex industry workers divided into the same sort of caste system that divided a courtesan from a streetwalker.
But there are changes. Half-listening to a late night infomercial while blogging, it suddenly occurred to me that this particular infomercial was something radically different from the get rich quick schemes most of them seem to be selling.
EstablishedMen.com sounded like a dating service, at first. Internet matchmakers promise love and romance to lonely hearts in exchange for membership fees, and the largest of these services have begun advertising on television. But EstablishedMen.com wasn’t one of these matchmakers…not exactly. Their infomercial and website proclaim that they are “where the beautiful and successful meet”. Basically, it markets itself like the traditional matchmaker, but if you read between the lines it’s obvious some other game is afoot.
The host tells the television audience (me) that their services are simple: prospective ladies tell you, honestly and upfront, what they want out of the “relationship”. Two beautiful young ladies tell the host that they are interested in having a threesome with what is obviously supposed to be a sugar daddy. Somewhat paraphrased, they say:
“[He/the client would]have to be rich, take us to fancy restaurants, to parties where you introduce us to celebrities, and buy us nice things.” In other words, buy us jewelry and other expensive gifts, take us out to nice restaurants and clubs, and we’ll let you touch us in our naughty places. In other words: we’re whores.
You may think that the definition of “whore” precludes this type of arrangement, since it’s not strictly a cash for sex arrangement. You would be wrong. According to my own dictionary and Dictionary.com’s definition, whoring doesn’t have to be a cash-for-sex transaction, though it generally is. But a $100 bill (as a piece of paper with green ink) isn’t worth much. The worth is the value the Federals give it in terms of buying power. After all, throughout most of human history transactions have been made with precious metals like gold and silver as well as by barter. The two buxom bisexual fantasy girls on the EstablishedMen.com are basically bartering their bodies for items and services of value. This, then, makes them whores, does it not?
To make the infomercial more sleazy, a bubblegum pop song is playing over-and-over in the background. As hard to ignore as Muzak, I listen closer and hear the lyrics: “Come on, come on! Money’s what it’s all about! Come on, come on! Money’s what it’s all about.” I suppose this is in case you forget that you are buying sexual services for money. After all, if these girls were interested in a long-term relationship with a man they love, why cheapen their desire by making it a financial transaction?
Of course, I’m sure the money behind EstablishedMen.com would disagree. After all, introducing rich bachelors (or rich married men who play bachelors online) to hot young girls seems like a great way to make money.
If you’re a pimp.
Filed under: Music for Coitus
For the first ‘Music for Coitus’ article WE WANT YOU BAD! Please send your favorite lovemaking slow-jams, heavy headboard hitters, etc. WHAT IS YOUR FAVORITE SONG TO GET SEXED TO?
To get you started I will list a few records that I like to boink by:
1. Nine Inch Nails “Fixed” / “Pretty Hate Machine” 2. Big Black “Songs About Fucking” 3. Led Zeppelin III
Filed under: Opinions: You Show Me Yours | Tags: Double standards, hot for teacher, John Birch sex scandals, John Schmitz, mary kay letourneau, republican sex scandals, sexual double standards, statutory rape, van halen hot for teacher
Recently, Jane and I have both been talking to our friends about a series of emails we’ve received c/o XSEX. Originally, XSEX was supposed to be more of an e-zine (electronic magazine). We had planned to have a lot more photos and tons of regular features, as well as an interview per issue ( a la Playboy: artists, writers, musicians, etc.). Each “issue” would be posted on the first day of each month, with nothing further until the next month except for letters, which we agreed to answer personally and post immediately. Well, that didn’t work for any number of reasons, all of which are so boring that reading the actual list might help those who suffer from premature ejaculation by physically BORING them from coming. Now, this might seem rather ambitious. It was. Which is why XSEX is still a sex blog. But some of those hyper-ambitions have bled thru, and we’ve kept the idea of doing a Q&A thang. This is “Love Letters & Hate Mail” (where people email in comments for good or ill) and “I’ll show you mine (if you show me yours)” (for Q&A topics, some of which we want to answer in a his-n-hers style to compare and contrast how men and women look at things differently (or the same). To this end, we’ve had a few pretty interesting questions and comments come through. Recently, however, we’ve been talking a lot in private and online about May/December romance. This is a quaint, romanticized way of saying an old man (or woman) dating a (much) younger woman (or man). Strangely, not only have we had a few recent emails asking our opinions on the subject, but we’ve both had close friends become involved with much younger lovers recently, as well.
Greg: The thing is, I think there’s a lot of hypocritical double-standards at work here. And the double-standard seems to change depending on your age, sex, and how much money you have squirreled away for lawyers or to pay off angry parents. This kind of double-standard really pisses me off, to be blunt. Not that I’m a big fan of any double-standards, but when money is the pivot-man my blood pressure is pretty much guaranteed to spike. When I was younger (and unconcerned about blood pressure spikes) my friends called my angry diatribes ”raging”…as in, “Watch your mouth, Todd. Greg’s fixing to rage. Somebody said Jim Morrison was a faggot.” Not that all or even most of my rages were about petty things like the Lizard King’s sexuality…this is just an example. Anyway, double standards SHOULD piss EVERYBODY off, in my humble opinion.
But they don’t. For example: remember all the pretty 30-something teachers that were fired and slapped on the wrist by the courts for sleeping with their young teenaged male students? During the 90’s it seemed every other sexually frustrated teacher was trying it. Which shows you how smart they were…I mean, come on! If they’re THAT hard-up, why go to a 15-year old high school sophomore for servicing? I’ll admit it: at 15 I was about as sexually gifted as a learning-disabled nun. AND ANY GUY WHO CLAIMS TO HAVE BEEN MORE IS JUST A LIAR! Come on! At 15, you’re just happy to see some ”boobies”.
Jane: Ok, G, I get your point. Calm down, count to ten. Take a Xanax. I think the most infamous of those hot-for-teacher gals was Mary Kay Letourneau. And I pretty much totally agree with you on this score. This woman was married and had 4 kids, and she threw them (and her career) away for a 12-year old boy. Even worse, she had been his second grade teacher as well, so who knows when/how/where the “inappropriate touching” started. Check out the wikipedia entry for Mary Kay. There’s a LOT of weirdness in her family that has nothing to do with her sexual proclivities…and some stuff that may have A LOT to do with them (her father, a U.S. Congressman, John Bircher and uber-Republican, had his own teacher/student scandal–though the young lady in question wasn’t in the sixth grade). But her father’s behavior brings up that nasty double standard again. Let’s face it: if it was Mary Kay’s crotchety old daddy getting down and all around with a 12-year old GIRL it would be another thing entirely. And that’s actually pretty ignorant. In the end, Letourneau had to do 6 months in county jail…hmmm. I wonder what her dad’s sentence would have been for the same offense? Of course, she got booted right back to jail for parole violations when she was caught parking with her teen lover. Even so, the sentence was pretty much a joke. And she treated the criminal justice system like a joke, since she ended up having a baby while in prison and marrying the (now technically adult) teen as soon as she was released and could wiggle out from under the court order forbidding her from seeing her “man”. But despite the fact that I agree with you, G, I want you to ADMIT IT.
Greg: Uhm…what?
Jane: ADMIT that there’s a little teeny-weenie part of you that is cheering on this kid–and has been, the whole time.
Greg: Well, sure…that’s a double standard, too, I guess. I mean, I am much more concerned with the fact that our laws seem to be quite flexible depending on your sex, your social standing, and how much of a war chest you have for lawyering-up. But I guess the pig in me wants to put on Van Halen’s “Hot for Teacher”, buy the kid a beer, and ask him how it was, you know, slamming the teacher into the headboard of his bunk bed.
But I guess he’s probably not old enough to drink, is he?
Filed under: Love Letters, SEX | Tags: dating younger women, dirty old men, double standard, may december romance, older men and younger girls, older women and younger men, young girls, younger women
This week’s XSEX LOVE LETTER is a topic that everyone seems to have an opinion about:
Dear XSEX: I have a friend (a male friend) who turned 40 in August. He recently started dating the daughter of a girlfriend of mine (who is also an old friend of his, as we all went to high school together). My friend’s daughter just turned 19. This bothers me, though it doesn’t seem to bother my girlfriend, as her daughter has had a string of abusive relationships with men–boys–her own age. My male friend says I’m being a busybody and age doesn’t matter. He also says I’m a hypocrite as I’m dating a younger man (I’m 39 and he is 27). Is this double standard really that common? -May/December Mom (Dallas, TX)
This is a sex blog, Mom, not Jerry Springer or Dateline: To Catch A Predator. I’d love to provide you with some facts and figures, but it’s a double standard in that department, most definately. The wise MILFS at Good Housekeeping Online (God, I cannot BELIEVE I actually visited that site. I need a shower, I feel so dirty) say that 12% of marriages are between older women and younger men, according to the 2000 U.S. Census. I tried to double-check their figure and get the older men/younger women marriage figure, but the facts at the Census website were as dense and cold as an iceberg and about as interesting as watching a documentary on paint drying. I know better than to expect Good Housekeeping to provide figures on older men and younger women. Them are fightin’ words over at GH.
Their article (which seems to talk a lot about Hollywood May/December romances, big surprise there, right?) reports: “But even in the sexual playground of the movie biz, the reverse matchup — an older woman with a younger man — has always seemed somewhat shocking. ‘It challenges our basic, narrow perception of what a couple should be,’ notes Helen Fisher, Ph.D., a human-sexuality expert and author of The First Sex: The Talents of Women and How They Are Changing the World. My God, I cannot WAIT to read that book. I’m sure it’s fascinating.
Since GH and the U.S. Gov’t weren’t giving me any juicy info, I tried just typing ”old men and younger women” into Microsoft’s new Bing “Decision Engine”, because–apparently–it’s supposed to be more intuitive and search overload is killing America according to Bill Gates. Well, Bing gave me no bling. All I got out of it was page after pathetic page of porn and dating sites that promised to introduce me to younger women “in my area”. So I suppose it’s safe to say that there are WAY more older men/younger women relationships, May/December Mom.
But your friend is 40 and the girl is 19, huh? Well, as I man I cannot help but mentally wish him luck. After all, men are pigs. Oink Oink, bitch.
But, seriously, OF COURSE there is a double standard! But the MILFS at Good Housekeeping can’t have it both ways! If it’s good enough for the goose it’s good enough for the gander. (What the hell is a gander? I hope it’s a male goose, because otherwise that statement didn’t come out the way I wanted it to).
Now, that does NOT mean that this guy isn’t a dirty old man. Let me be VERY clear on this. In fact, if he is anything like my friends, he most certainly IS a dirty old man on some level. I will warn you: he is going to make the excuse that “she’s legal”…and technically he is correct. It might shock you to learn that in MANY states, “legal” can be younger than 18. You can get married at 16 in many states, and even YOUNGER if you are pregnant and/or have parental permission. I’m not going to tell you what states have these rather liberal laws, because I live in one and I’m sick of getting made fun of because all the stupid laws we still have on the books here. Let’s just say that many of the states in question are in the South. Yee-ha. The youngest girl I know of that got married (legally, and was not part of a Mormon wife-n-daughter club) was 14, and the proud husband was 25. I do not recall (since I was drunk at the nuptials) if a shotgun was involved. I am fairly certain that the flower girl was the bride’s 8 year old sister, and she became an aunt four short months after the ceremony.
So WHY do men seek out younger women? I’m not even going to answer that. If it isn’t obvious, you’re an idiot. Most of these men will probably try to tell you how mature their teenage girlfriend is. What do you EXPECT them to say? I’ve never ONCE heard any guy say: “My teenaged girlfriend acts so immature! I wish she’d grow up!”
Filed under: Love Letters, Music, Music for Coitus | Tags: 70s porn soundtracks, music from porno, porn funk, Sex Humor, sex soundtracks
This week’s XSEX LOVELETTER comes from KArron76 who writes “Why do all the soundtracks from 70’s/80’s porn sound so HORRIBLE? Surely ONE of those suave, hairy little long-dicked actors had a brother whose girlfriend knew a guy that could play guitar…?” (Email/Michigan)
DEAR KArron76:
70’s Porn soundtracks ARE pretty horrible. We found (at Last.Fm) a compilation soundtrack…
Inside Deep Note is THE 70s Porn Soundtrack Compilation
Though God alone knows why you’d want to play such music outside of your next key party, I suppose it’s good to know such music is available for those with bad taste.
Here is a great blog post on WFMU’s “Beware of the Blog” about this (shudder) musical topic.
“Face it: only douchebags still believe the typical music soundtracks of 1970’s porn films are “classic.” Although, since only a douchebag would watch enough actual pornography to allow himself (or herself) to eventually arrive at such a conclusion, perhaps that particular revelation is a moot one. Nevertheless, an example: I was recently watching yet another John Holmes “classic” mid-70’s porn film (not for any unseemly reason. Let’s just say I was…masturbating) and as soon as the screeching, thin, artless fake-funk soundtrack began to mask the fake shrieks and moans, I had to wince. It was like an un-orgasm for my ears. How did the myth that this abominable 70’s music represents some sort of cultural climax come to be? Why is it still perpetuated? Was 60’s porn music any good? Is 80’s porn music any better? 90’s porn music? 00’s porn music? Do porn movies of the 00’s even have music anymore?”
-Mark Allen.
I’ve quoted Mr. Allen here simply because I couldn’t have framed a better comment about that fake-funk “bow-chicka-wow-wow” crap. NOTE: Allen’s blog contains some great material from porn insider Sam Benjamin.
In addition…just from the comments I learned that: Rinse Dream’s (aka Stephen Sayadian) great movie Nightdreams was the only porn movie to officially feature a top 100 hit – that being Wall of Voodoo’s Johnny Cash cover Ring of Fire.
Now…see where your brave questions, comments and LOVELETTERS can take you? Keep writing!
Filed under: Love Letters | Tags: american writers sex, feminist writers romantics, gender politics romantic, nuro literature, reading gender writing, romanticism literature sex, Sex in literature
PART 1: The Sexuality of Ideas / Gender and Intellectual Emancipation in 19th Century Romanticism
By Gregory Purvis
As the 21st Century unfolds, human expression has reached a point wherein nearly everyone has a voice in social consciousness. The hustle and flow of thoughts and ideas as a communications currency has promoted ideas to a state of universal solvency. But in giving everyone their own place amidst world-wide webspace, there arises a certain freedom where ideas can be examined without regard to dollars. In free, democratic societies it is expected—if not encouraged—that every minority and belief system will be represented in art and literature. Women, who have so often been swallowed silently in the shallows of masculine domination over these past pale centuries, have added their voices to the cacophany of human consciousness as writers, artists, poets and politicians.
The concerns of the “fairer sex” are, in a very real way, the consternation of our Society-At-Large. After all, women are not exactly a fringe-element by-way of subcultural shadows. When the numbers shake out, they are 3 billion-some odd strong. In the world of the written word, the feminine voice can speak from an idealized setting of virtues and vices, a portrayal of the intimate congress of repression and realization. But just as strongly worded, the feminine voice can represent history from disenfranchisement to the dominatrix. That is, female writers can leave politics and sexuality (overtly or symbolically) out of their work, altogether.
Derided as “genre fiction” regardless of the chromosonal clothing, the pulp pap of science fiction, horror and fantasy has seen tremendous growth by female authors. Genre fiction can be as effective a mirror for the malaise of our society as the critically celebrated Great American Novel. But true freedom of the printing press hides in a celebration of writing for the pleasure of the Craft—as in the “pornography of idle entertainment” in which reading and writing has been made more than an intellectual pursuit of idealists and demigogues. Or less, depending on your points-of-view.
In our examination of women’s literature there has been a defining process dependent on styles, voices and the visions of particular epochs. Nineteenth-century Romanticism, on its surface, appears idyllic and undermatured. But hiding in flowery 19th century language, the style masks the development of feminine consciousness in a worldview almost totally envisaged by Imperialistic white male authority. The Great White Hunter that tamed the Dark and Savage Continent of Africa and brought the civilizing influences of tea and cricket to India read best-sellers by Byron, Melville and Hawthorne. Just as potent was Mary Shelley—though even modern criticism and university studies find it nearly impossible to mention Ms. Shelley without her popular mister, Percy Bysshe. And though Emily Dickinson’s poetry is much-touted now, in her lifetime Dickinson’s work went largely unread.
Romanticism promoted female equality by questioning the rules and preconceptions of a closeted society. Margaret Fuller’s Women In The Nineteenth Century uses classical mythforms to portray the creative power and the changes it wrought in Victorian lifestyles. Though women were often thought to be the inspiration of art rather than the source of it, Romanticism emphasized emotion—as such, a feminine force in both classical mythology and the then-modern literary movement which embraced it. As in the Renaissance, the new literary style ushered in a rediscovery of classical civilization; emotion-laden language became something to be celebrated instead of repressed.
The feminine mystique and the ardor it supposedly contained (or constrained, again depending on your point-of-view) was evident in the feminine Muse, a representative of the creative force blossoming from “mere inspiration”. Even as male-dominated Western Imperialism controlled the world politically and economically, the flowering of a more organized feminist movement started to take form.
As feminine principles began to have effect, women were generally disregarded as serious writers and artists. Virginia Woolf noted that a woman’s place in society limited the shape of her talents. Romanticism was often criticisized for many of the same reasons that it’s celebrated. The classical societies that encouraged the flavor of 19th century Romanticism were, after-all, male-dominated societies that had been charcterized by a mythological emphasis on primal sexual forces. Women were seen as naturally weak, enslaved by emotion, and in need of protection as much as veneration. The shackles of slavery may have been gold lined with soft velvet, but they were shackles all the same.
To overcome the male-dominated world, women were often forced to take on male pen-names and utilize aliases to disguise the “weakness characterized by their sex”. Writing by women often took on the problems and struggles of being female in a world where struggle was more-often a euphemism for war and class conflict. This game of hide-and-seek spurred a similar reaction and interrelationship amongst homosexual writers of the same era.
In fact, numerical minority or no, the early feminist writers spoke to a multigenerational audience of the disaffected. The subject matter of “The Yellow Wallpaper” by Charlotte Perkins Gilman, for example, has lent a strong voice to suffrage politics as well as finding common cause with other minority groups. In this way, it is often difficult to tell sexuality by style. Women’s writing is as diverse and exclamatory as male writing.
Fiction is often a better example of the differences and similarities between male and female authors, as political writing takes on the flavor of passionate oration despite (or because of) sexual overtones. In a modern sense, the politically correct language of gender politics is often lacking the more subtle clues to the writer’s sexual consciousness that fiction can provide.
As higher education was offered to more and more women in the 19th century, art and literature became saturated by symbolism, tone and characterization that spoke a new language of female consciousness. Phenomerology—the philosophical study which suggests that reality is perceived solely through human senses—began to take on subtle sexual enlightenment.
In Kate Chopin’s “The Awakening” we are introduced to the contrast in character sensations through her fictional characters. The voice of a female writer is proven to be as deep and as complex and fully-realized as a male voice. In “The Awakening” the reader is “awakened” to the contrasts between Mademoiselle Reisz—who embraces a nonconformist’s principles even though, in so doing, it creates suffering—and Madame Ratignole, her foil. The depth of emotion often mirrors the writer’s life experiences and represents the power of illusion and “make-believe”.
Just as slavery and emancipation influenced black writers of the period, charging their work with an intimate vitality and expression, female writers share a desire to imbue their characters with social consciousness that reflect a rapidly—and radically—changing time.
Art is often a reflection of our world and the people in it. Women continue to provide their own voices to the communication of characterization, drawing from the feminine voice within. A writer—as any artist—is compelled to represent a certain emotional truth even when the medium may be fictional in nature. Women reflect the phenomena of self as well as society with their artistic voice; sex is but a small if obviously self-defining part of the human condition.
Filed under: I'll Show You Mine
Once upon a time I was a Classic Girl. You know, like the Jane’s Addiction song. Never heard it? Okay, well, me and mine were brought up classic feminine stereotypes. Growing up in the Deep Down South, this means a lot of things that Classics from (say) Michigan or New Jersey may not be too familiar with. For example: I never heard the word “pussy” until I was in Middle School. But then again, I don’t remember hearing “vagina” or the decrepit-and-extra dry sounding “twat” either. Growing up Church of God means that human beings are made through Divine Will or maybe brought in by a phalanx of storks. My sex education (outside the 10th grade health classes) consisted of my Aunt handing me one of those fold-out inserts that tampon manufacturers put in each and every box of Kotex for just such an occasion—oh, and to ward off lawsuits concerning Toxic Shock Syndrome. The insert shows an almost-completely de-sexualized drawing of a woman inserting a (BRANDtm) tampon into a hairless receptacle representing (I think) her va-jay-jay. You know, her V-A-G-I-N-A. Sex Ed Part 2: I think my mother may have muttered something about not letting the boys touch my hoo-hoo at breakfast one morning. But that might have been a conversation about what I wanted packed in my lunch (as opposed to my va-jay-jay?).
Any hoo, the Church of God’s aren’t all bad people. They’re just really, really boring. We were required to wear skirts, and we weren’t supposed to cut our hair or wear make-up, though our particular preacher’s wife must have been a feminist among COG’ers. She set the tone by wearing Mary Kay make-up, thereby giving all us hoo-hoo ho’s the DIVINE RIGHT to wear (Mary Kay) make-up, too. So long as we bought it from her. She drove the Good Preacher and their sexually-repressed, closeted gay son and not-the-least-little-bit-repressed WHORE daughter (and my nemesis) to church in her pink Mary Kay Kommando Cadillac every Sunday.
In my high school, you could tell the COG’er girls (like me) because we always wore denim skirts–never (and i mean NEVER) jeans or shorts. And by skirts I do not in any way whatsoever mean skirts of the mini-persuasion. I mean long, shapeless thick denim skirts. Womanwear.
Classic Girls are supposed to ride next to their boyfriends in their trucks. If you’re taking us to the movie’s, we don’t care what we go see. “Whatever you want,” is practically the first words we learn to speak after “Ma-Ma”, “Pa-Pa”, “Doodie” and “By Your Command.” If we have an original idea, it is our duty to convince our boyfriend it was actually HIS great idea. Folks, it’s not rocket science. Perry spelled it all out in the song. Look it up if you don’t believe me.
What happened to most of us classic COG’ers? Well, a sizable chunk of us became lesbians. AFTER we ho’ed out for a while, post-high school. We discovered our pussies (not our vaginas) and then we discovered those idiots next to us in the truck were as clueless about what to do with their “ding-dongs” as we were. Thank God!
I’m still not sure HOW (exactly) my parents managed to conceive children…with all the ding-dongs and hoo-hoo’s being consumed and all. But I’m really quite thankful they accidentally did manage to make whoopie, or whatever dumb-ass name they call…you know, scroggin’. Ye Olde Bone Dance. Etc.
Because I for one am rather fond of my hoo-hoo and plan to keep using it at every opportunity.
3Jane / author of KINKY KHEMISTRY
Filed under: Opinions: You Show Me Yours, Uncategorized | Tags: Fall From Grace, Fred Phelps, hate AIDS victims, porn, Religion and Hate, Westboro Baptist Church sex
I saw a great documentary last night–great because it managed to combine the three major faces of the Internet into one media document, called Fall From Grace.
The Internet is very good for at least three things: pornography, crackpots and the media. But telling the three apart can be a full-time job. Just take long-time nut job Fred Phelps and his incestuous-seeming Westboro Baptist Church in Topeka, Kansas. In Fall From Grace, we see the true side of this supposed preacher.
Due to his religious beliefs, his “family” takes their brand of “family values” on the road, protesting at the funerals of children who died of AIDS, soldiers killed in the line-of-duty in Iraq, and pretty much anywhere and everywhere he might get a few lines of press from people like…well, me I guess. The sad thing is, Phelps has about as much family values as the Manson Family. In fact, I think the Manson’s might even be better suited to raising children than Phelps and Company. Throughout the documentary, his children and grandchildren and great-grandchildren are shown hoisting signs reading GOD HATES FAGS, though it is painfully obvious these brainwashed children don’t have a clue about the politics or even the basic meanings of the things they are being told to say. Phelps seems to be using them as pint-sized weapons in his war of words.
Still, I suppose he is having the desired effect. He managed to piss me off in under ten minutes, and I spent the remainder of the docu’s running time screaming at the TV.
So what did I do to “come down” from all this bitterness and hatred? Watched some porn online.
Fuck you, Phelps.
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Okay, okay! This ain’t exactly the type of stuff XSEX was created for…is it? Uhm, well…yes. After listening to a few horror stories a gay friend shared with me, I decided to write him his very own sexual revenge piece. And what better genre to do this in than splatterpunk? David Schow, eat your heart out.
Death By Crowbar
By Gregory Purvis
© 2009
“..And in the master’s chambers,
They gathered for the feast
They stab it with their steely knives,
But they just can’t kill the beast..”
The Eagles (“Hotel California”)
QUEER
(Etymology)
From Scottish, perhaps from Low German queer “oblique, off-center”
related to German quer = “oblique, perverse, odd”, from Old High German twerh = “oblique,”
Adjective (somewhat old-fashioned) weird, odd or different.
(somewhat old-fashioned) slightly unwell (mainly in to feel queer).
(slang) homosexual.
(slang) having to do with homosexuality, bisexuality, transgenderism etc.
Synonyms: See also those of strange.
Is that his b-bray–?”
“His fuckin faggot brains? Yeah. What’d you think was inside his skull? Pink butterflies and Barbie dust? Jeesh—yer as bad as the fag!”
Somebody laughed, high-pitched, a little too loud.
There were four of them: Jayson, Pauley, Maggot and Wrex. Wrex had gotten his name from his daddy—Big Rex—who was buried under a cactus somewhere south of Vegas. Uncle Jerry said it was because he hadn’t bothered to pay back money he borrowed to square his losses as a piece-of-shit gambling junky. Jerry and Big Rex had run wreckers for the highway patrol before Rex wound up under his cactus. Uncle Jerry looked after his brother’s son, and he’d started calling his nephew ‘Rex the Wreck’ after he totaled his fourth car before he turned 17. The tally was two blown engines (one with a tits-up tranny to boot), and two more (both of them Z-28’s) that he had smashed into unmovable junk while shitfaced. So Uncle Jerry, wise old bastard that he was, had hired his nephew to drive one of his wreckers—a big ’56 International mated with the ass-end of a blown-out tow truck.
The fag’s name was Randy James Prestwood. Maggot pulled his wallet out of his jeans, pocketed the two twenties and four one’s he found inside, and read the name off the Missouri driver’s license.
“Prestwood?” Pauley asked, giggling like a sixth-grader over a fart joke. “He likes to press a lotta wood, I bet!”
“Sucks a lot of long wooden cocks, too!” Maggot added.
“Not no more, he don’t,” Wrex reminded them. “Now get the shovels and let’s scrape this dick-smoker off the road.”
The tow truck was stopped in the middle of a two-lane black-top, with the brights illuminating the empty, flat stretch of highway ahead. A pair of halogen work lights mounted on a crossbar welded to the back of the cab were on as well: blinding bright light bathing the carnage in front of a Lexus sedan. Its brakes had stopped the car barely a foot from the back of the tow-truck. The fag hadn’t even thought about what had just happened and why—he’d been pissed and scared, and he couldn’t see with the halogens filling up his windshield. He had jumped out of the Lexus, left the keys in the ignition, and was halfway to the tow truck when the four of them had come piling out, drunk and grinning.
“What the fuh—? I almost hit you guys!”
“Hit? You hittin on me?” Pauley asked him, pretending to be shocked. “Look, sweet cheeks, I just ain’t that into you. But he is…” he jerked a thumb at the tow truck driver. Wrex smiled, decaying teeth stained with Copenhagen. He was wearing a motorcycle jacket, and one of the arms seemed stiff, like he had something hidden up the sleeve.
Whatever it was, it slid out of the jacket like a magic trick, dropping suddenly into his hand. A crowbar.
–
Maybe Randy James Prestwood had recognized them—one of them, at least. He had hit on the short, blonde kid…Jayson? Well, sort of. He had been in the bathroom at Ruby’s the night before, slumped against a urinal. When Randy had come in, the kid had stirred, pulled himself upright. He had set his Budweiser down on top of the urinal, and tried to grab it, missed; the bottle dropped, bounced off the front of the urinal, splashing piss onto his Levi’s, then hit the tiled floor and shattered.
Randy shrugged. No problem. “I think maybe you’re a little bit tipsy,” he said, smiling. “But you’re kinda cute, so I guess its okay. What’s your name?”
The kid seemed confused, like he wasn’t sure what to say. He looked around, nervously.
“Uhm..Jayson.”
He’s straight, and wondering who might’ve heard me call him cute, Randy realized. And he’s not here because he’s wondering how straight he is, either. Ruby’s was a gay bar—but not exclusively. The kid looked down at his broken beer bottle, hemorrhaging foam. He mumbled something, then pushed past Randy and out of the bathroom.
Ruby’s dance floor was huge; it was surrounded by mirrors and speakers, and it always seemed dark, even when bathed on all sides by lasers and disco lights. Randy didn’t see the kid the rest of the night. He seldom drank, so he never noticed the four guys sitting at the bar staring at him. They all had beers, and dark, bright eyes. Bird eyes.
Crow-eyes.
– –
Randy was on the ground before he knew he’d been hit.
There were four men standing over him. The big guy in the leather jacket was saying something, but the only sound Randy heard was a slow hiss like gas leaking from a ruptured hose. He tried to move his arm, and pain shot up into his shoulder. He screamed, but the noise echoed around in his head soundlessly for a moment before he could hear more-or-less clearly, again.
“Hi there, faggot!” one of the men said cheerfully. He was a skinny guy about 35, holding a beer. He wore a t-shirt showing a clown in a Shriner’s fez with both middle fingers stuck out. “You call triple-A? Car problems, huh? Maybe we’ll just tow you, instead of your pretty car. How’d that be, fruit loop?”
“Let’s drag him like that nigger in Miss’sipee,” suggested another. “Use the tow chain…”
“No, we ain’t doin that shit,” said the big guy. “Uncle Jerry would kick my ass, and he’d prolly just kill all you assholes.”
Randy could see the kid from Ruby’s hanging back, close to the tow truck. He wouldn’t meet Randy’s eyes. No help there.
The skinny guy with the clown shirt saw him looking.
“Damn, you fags’re persistent, ain’tcha? Jayson don’t want you to suck his dick. Well…at least, I don’t think he does. Do ya, J?”
“Shut up, Maggot,” the kid muttered.
Maggot grinned. “Now, Pauley here, he ain’t got much of a pecker to speak of. But, hell, don’t let me get in the way of a queer and his lunch. Suck away.”
The man he called Pauley was short and squat, with a pushed-in face and a nose that looked like it had been broken repeatedly so it would lay flat against his cheeks. His hair was long and stringy, gathered into a ponytail with a rubber band.
“I bet you’d like to eat this,” he giggled, grabbing his crotch.
Randy tried to smile. “Eat what, sweetie? I don’t see anything.”
Pauley’s face darkened, the red splotches made his nose seem swollen, infected. He unzipped his Wranglers, faded almost yellow, pulled his cock out and shook it wildly. It was flaccid, a pathetic little thing as bruised-red as his nose. Maggot laughed, pointed.
Randy’s half-smile widened, pulling his lips tight against teeth that seemed overly-large and too-perfectly square. Pauley took a step backwards, but shook his penis again. He smiled, a little uncertainly, then spit into his hand and tried to jerk himself hard.
Maggot laughed harder, choking on his beer, coughing.
“Paah—aaul…,“ he gasped. “P-pauley’s Puny Pansy Poker!”
Randy held up a thumb. “I’m just not that into you, sweetie,” he said. “I like ‘em at least as long as my thumb.”
He could feel someone behind him. He shrugged, gave them another strange, wide grin, his over-large teeth glistening.
The crowbar came down like a collapsing building. This time it landed on his head.
– — –
They scraped up a shovelful of brain tissue and splinters of bone and tossed it into the tall switch grass beside the road. Maggot looked through the rest of the fag’s pockets while Jayson and Pauley went through the Lexus. When they were done, they had a fifty-dollar bill that had been in an envelope over the driver’s side visor, three dollars in quarters, an MP3 player, cell phone, box of Lucky Strikes and a few CD’s. Wrex picked up the car with the tow winch and drug it off the road, over a culvert and into the underbrush. Then the four of them dragged the queer a hundred yards further into some pine trees. Jayson turned away and vomited into the grass. Wrex shook his head in disgust.
“Get the push-broom,” he told Maggot. “And don’t leave no pieces, neither. I don’t wanna be the star episode of fuckin Forensics Files.”
Wrex pointed to Pauley, then Jayson. “When you two fucks get done leaving yer DNA all over the place, go help Maggot. I’m gonna siphon some gas outta that Lexus and we’re gonna have us a little barbecue.”
Jayson spit out the sour taste of vomit. He wished—and not for the first time—that he hadn’t said anything about the come-on in the restroom the night before. He turned back toward the body, and saw what Pauley was doing.
He was knelt down over the corpse, his pants unzipped. He had the crowbar Wrex had beat the gay guy with leaned against him; his other hand was busy between his legs.
“What the f-fuck are you doing, Pauley?” he spat. He could see the clots of blood and brain on the steel bar. Pauley was stroking it, his hands dark and wet in the moonlight. When he heard his name he turned, distracted. Pauley mumbled something, turned back.
“What are you doing, you sick fucker,” Jayson demanded, louder this time.
Without turning his head, Pauley answered: “Yeah, you fag…you gonna see how much I got now.” His voice was low-pitched, tight. “I’ll fuck your brains out, you little fairy. Look at me! Look at…at all this…the blood.”
Jayson felt like puking again, but there was nothing left to come up.
In the distance he heard someone call out…Wrex coming with the gas.
Pauley jerked at his crotch one more time, and whimpered. He dropped the crowbar next to the body. A slight breeze blew through the tall scrub and skeletal pine trees, and the moon fell more fully on the dead guy’s face. Jayson could see his sharp features, and the wound that—in the pale light—made it seem though he were wearing some kind of cloth skullcap. But as the tree limbs shifted again, he could see it was no cap or trick of the light. Just bone-colored bone and brain-colored brain. And blood. Lots of that.
Then the dead man’s eyes opened.
It happened so quickly, so naturally, that Jayson wasn’t sure they hadn’t been open the whole time. He noticed a smear of thick, milky fluid on the dead guy’s lips. A bruise-colored finger of flesh reached out from the closed mouth: his tongue. It licked the white smear off the pale, cadaverous lips, then retreated into the mouth like a snake slithering under a rocky crevice.
The rest of it seemed to speed up and slow down with an almost tidal rhythm.
Before Jayson could open his mouth to form any coherent sound or scream, the fag had the crowbar in his long, white hands. He pushed it into Pauley’s open mouth, where it did its second magic trick of the evening. To Jayson, it seemed to go in, and in, and in…and just when he thought it had disappeared forever into the black cavern of Pauley’s head, there was a sharp crack of bone, a spray of fluids…and the crowbar came out the other side of Pauley’s skull like a long, skinny locomotive.
Jayson felt his bladder let go, but it was a distant feeling, and not unpleasant. He thought he heard Wrex yelling at Maggot…
The fag wasn’t a fag. He saw that now…or thought he saw it. It looked like a tall, impossibly skinny, black…bird? He could still see the ruin of the guy’s head, the wounds the crowbar had made. But it was hard to look at…fuzzy around the edges, like black feathers, almost.
The thing smiled. Its smile was the same weird, wide smile as before. But those too-square teeth opened, folded up or out to reveal a hundred smaller one’s behind them. Sharp and small and not square at all.
Then Maggot was beside him. He had a .38 in his hand, his eyes wide and unfocused.
They heard a horrible scream, and ripping sounds. The trees shifted again: dark. Shadows, impossibly tall and angular. And more than one of them, now…or was that just Wrex, trying to beat the faggot back down into death with his crowbar?
No…the crowbar is in Pauley’s head…
They could hear the sounds of fluttering wings, more shadows.
Jayson turned, his heart pounding, trying to find the wrecker…
How did it get so dark? Wrex!
The dead guy smiled: his mouth was only inches from Jayson’s.
“The seed of man brings bitter life,” it said, conversationally. “It’s enough, I suppose. But the main course…well, that’s always so much sweeter. Don’t you agree?”
But he wasn’t talking to Jayson. There were more of the…things… in the darkness.
“You…you…”
“My, you are cute!”
“You…QUEER!”
The thing sighed; something dark and heavy, like a blanket, settled around it.
Wings..?
“Hardly, dear. I’ll eat a woman just as fast.”
And it snapped his head off with its beak.
