SMUT
THE POLITICS OF BEING NASTY
I was recently questioned about my manner of handling sex in my writing. "How is it you get right up to it, then pull back?" He seemed to be asking me why I don't take readers into the play-by-play of my sexual encounters. Why do I dance around the periphery?
Well ... for me, the play-by-play ain't so interesting. As I've gone through life, something in me has preferred to observe and ask questions about how we got to where we are. There's something more going on than the event or the sensation. There are politics, opportunities that line up, needs, third-party interests ... all of this shit can impinge on something as seemingly benign as a high school football game to such a degree that the final score isn't the real story. Thus, the locus of my dick, and what I see, and who's fucking whom ... that's not as interesting (even as a participant) as some of the other issues of race, control, gender, opportunity costs, etc.
What I have in mind is the moment at The Vault where I noticed one of the regulars: a slim Black man with the magazine-perfect six-pack, broad shoulders and a perfectly straight, 10" erection. He was dancing inside of a cage when a White couple walked up. The guy was clean-shaven, tall & stocky ... looked 5 years away from the days he played linebacker for a small college. The woman was blonde, maybe 4'11" and mesmerized by the slick gyrations of whomever was attached to the caged cock.
The boyfriend whispered his permission, "Go ahead. Touch it." He repeated this 3 times before his doll extended a trembling & miniscule hand-in response to the cloaked plea/demand.
My own blood was turning to a sweet vapor as her White hand crept toward ... toward ... toward ... until it made contact with the shaft of his erection from the underneath, and I saw just her fingertips along the side-nowhere close to being able to encircle the coal-Black girth with her thumb & forefinger.
She politely squeezed and patted ... like a little girl wanting to, but not wanting to feed sugar cubes to a pony. "Go ahead, honey. He's very friendly. See. He's a nice little pony."
The hand, the dick, the anonymous man in the cage, the boyfriend they have no value in and of themselves. The magnificent sexual currency cums from the violent impact of so many norms & transgressions & masquerading desires & questionable opportunities that perhaps need to go unanswered.
Does the boyfriend put on his starched white shirt on Monday and coolly tell his co-workers, "I let Keri touch a nigger's dick the other day," while his buddies greedily bathe in his progressive Republican aura? Does the Black guy brush this off as one more drooling White bitch on one more Friday night at The Vault? And maybe Keri tells her sister, "Yeah, we went. Just kinda looked around and left."
And what about me? If I choose to behave myself I wouldn't say a word about that episode. I wouldn't admit to having ever been at such a club. I'd also skip the part about me jerking off while I watched Keri caress that Kneegro's dick with the same hand she collects her paycheck with, and also uses to brush her bangs away from her forehead.
When you remove yourself by a few levels of abstraction ... that's where you get velocitized! The dazzling can be simultaneously egregious; and right is simultaneously left. Mt. McKinley peaks at the bottom of a well ... Where 'truth' is an asymptote, and any adjective can be inverted, segmented, attenuated or undermined. Thus, with the multiplicity of values, any event erupts in an unintelligible violence of everything and therefore, nothing: both black and white ... and they don't ever meet to harmonize as a stable grey.
And there you have it. The sensations of sex, and the descriptions of experiences ... they don't really matter when excised from the violent network of rules, politics, expectations, and changes.
Gay Pride NYC 1995 -- DuSoleil on the right