Porn Theatre

Porn Theatre is a French film written and directed by Jacques Nolot.

Making the rounds.


Jockeying for seats.



Malfunction and the lights come up and the faces hide.


Attracting a crowd.


At the end of the night.

Moby and the Minoans

Does anyone remember Moby? I saw him in concert once in London at Scala; he wasn't very good or interesting. Moby was popular for a time and I owned some of his cd's but he's not timeless; it's only been a few years but already upon hearing him again randomly the sound conjures up the same feelings I have when I hear Ace of Base.

Still though, I owned his CD, that popular one. Called "Play" I think.

I can't remember where I was this weekend when I heard that CD in the background. I think I was at this sleazy gay bar near my apartment and someone had put it on the juke box.

In any case, it brought back a memory.

D and I traveled to Crete and spent a week on the island. We stayed in a small little village on the north coast between Hania and Rethimno.

I was 21 and he was 39.

As in most of our travels, it was a mixture of eight parts effortless magic and two parts of fruitless binding, as he tried to knit me into him or fuck me into him or grind us both into sand or something; he was going gray and I wasn't going to be sticking around and I think we both knew that.

That's why we drove around Crete with the windows wide open--the rush of the wind drowned all that out.

I remember it was dusk and we were traveling north from the interior toward the coastal highway that would bring us back to Kalives.

Down out of the mountains and the scrubby heather to gentler hills of cultivated olive groves.

On the map we discovered that a Minoan cemetery was only a short jaunt off the beaten path.

The sun was setting quickly, everything was golden and hot, Moby was playing on the radio and it was quite fitting.

We got to the Minoan cemetery too late, however...it had shut for the night. We sat in the car in the dusty, empty parking lot before a big chain link fence listening to the hot car click itself cool.

Just some goats walking around.

Then D did that crazy thing I loved him most for, executing his spontaneity like he was trying to prove something to me, like he could be young just like me, or younger even...

Before I knew it, he had jumped the fence by climbing up on top of a garbage can. He cajoled me into joining him, and we spent a lurking dusk in an ancient cemetery.

The Minoans were a strange and sophisticated civilization that inhabited Crete around 1700 B.C. Highly evolved in art and culture, neither European nor African nor Asian, there is no evidence that they were militarized but rather devoted their energies to commerce and art.

And they buried their dead in long, deep wombs.

The cemeteries were scattered among olive trees, deep slashes in the ground lined with stone; it was unmistakable to me that they were vaginas, a symbolic circle from life to death. They were wide at the opening, and then sloped gradually down and down, narrowing until you were about ten feet below the surface of the earth and at an small and narrow entrance which led into the burial chamber, a small stone room.

We spent hours wandering around these empty Minoan tombs. The people had been scraped from them long ago, had barely mattered then and mattered even less now.

People are just little temporary fingers, tendrils of the earth, emerging to push the dirt around a little bit before subsuming back into the ground. Perhaps four thousand years ago we did the earth's bidding more or less to its liking.

Clearing the docket

This has never happened to me: there are three boys after me for sex.

Which is not to say I haven't had my share of play before; I have. Even in my chubby frosh days when, straight off the farm, I had neither the gumption nor wherewithall to update my wardrobe, get a real haircut, and make my mark in the club, I still had boys after my affections.

But I have three right now, three boys messaging me online, calling me, emailing me. Do me. No, do me first. Do ME!

It's quite exciting and a nice boost to my ego.

I guess I've filled a particular niche. I have some things going for me. Devastating scruff. Nice eyes. One of the few men out there over 24 with a normal BMI, a nice patch of curly chest hair, some definition.

I have to say I am quite enjoying myself...and to be honest, my schedule this weekend has been demanding and almost exhausting.

I had Friday off from work, and so I slept in a bit, thinking I'd wake up, do some writing, clean a bit, catch up on some netflix discs.

Instead I get an email from Rey saying that he, too, has the day off.

I met Rey, a 23 year old, at a sex party a few weeks ago.

(I must diverge here slightly to exposit a minute on a topic near and dear to my heart--sex parties. It warms my heart that they happen in this city, even if I am not there to partake. I live in a place where gay sex is compartamentalized from gay social circles...it's sublimated, hidden, lied about even, and the result are men who are two-faced, hypocritical. Men here are sluts--and in a good way--but they aren't honest about it. They don't celebrate it. They squirrel it away and rely on gay.com hookups. The sex parties I've been to have been fun, laid back, open affairs, with men actually socializing more than they are sucking dick. This particular one had some nice touches--a security man at the door checking invites, another man taking clothes and putting them in white plastic bags with names written on them, a giant plywood gloryhole scaffolding, and best of all, Dr. Pepper and german chocolate cupcakes in the kitchen.)

Rey and I had had a good time at the sex party and then lingered together, showering, sharing a smoke in the kitchen, promising to get back together sometime one on one. So we made plans to meet up at his place, about twenty minutes out there, deep into suburbia, over the river and through the woods of interstates and developments.

He lived with two roommates in a large condo set anonymously among streets of identical buildings off the interestate a few stoplights. He came to the door in sandals and A&F shorts, no underwear, I quickly clocked. He was a little different then I remembered him--not chubby at all but wider, perhaps...still cute, brown skin, dark black hair that is making an early exodus from the top of his head. It was one pm.

Inside he was having some sips of wine.

The house he lived in confounded me. Three young people lived here--and from what I gathered they all had typical jobs (Rey is a waiter) yet it was a giant condo filled with nice stuff (albeit deocrated atrociously). A flat screen t.v. mounted on the wall of the living room and another GIANT t.v. in the basement den, sectional sofas, a glass-topped dining table, a computer room. I saw not a book in the house but the roommates had about five televisions between them. Candles burned everywhere. And white tigers were a constant motif, which always creeps me out. As well, there were giant, and I mean HUGE fishtanks all over the place. We're talking five feet long fishtanks. Three of them at least. Who pays for all this stuff??

We said that we had both missed each other and were glad that we could do this again, without loads of other naked dudes around. We kissed, and I remembered what a good kisser he was. Full lips, taking his time, nibbling around the edges and not diving in quickly, like dipping your feet in the pond first.

We went up to his room. Sarah MacLaughlin was playing on the stereo(???). We kissed a lot and undressed and rolled around, cocks rubbing. I slipped off his shorts, which I find so incredibly erotic--slipping off someone's clothes I mean. He sat his butt down on my dick and rubbed it a lot, which feels great.

We had sex, good sex, a nice alchemy between us. You know, when you are hard as a rock but yet in no hurry to cum. That's a rare combination for me...either I'm rock hard and quick to shoot off the gun or it's a bit of an effort to keep the corpus cavernosa filled to the brim.

In any case, we did it a lot, in many different positions, and he made the most beautiful noises.

After we were done we took a shower and then just laid around in his room kinda napping. He had hung sheets over his window so even though it was a brilliantly sunny out and nice we were in the dark, which I liked. He took out some cocoa butter and we rubbed it all over ourselves; he said it was a nice lotion and I said it made me want to eat his butt again. We had more languished sex, just sucking each other and kissing, and then took another shower.

We headed out into the suburban strip malls to look for some place to have a meal, and ended up at a chain sports bar...it was either that or Red Lobster. Alas, we forgot it was St. Patrick's day, and at five pm the place was full of plastic green hats. We sat in the bar, smoking and talking, his scent still on my fingers.

He's a sweet boy and we connect sexually but there wasn't much in common between us. He's originally from Texas, would like to work eventually in community health, working with the Latino population, but right now he works in the restaurant in a department store. He doesn't have a car so is stuck in the suburbs a lot.

He owns a lot of ani di franco cds.

His friends think he's a slut and that makes him sad.

He's been crying a lot for no reason, sometimes on the bus on his way to work.

We had a few drinks and I dropped him back off at home and went back to the inner city and took a long nap. When I woke up he had sent me an email saying he has a highchool crush on me but he's going to leave it at that.

Yesterday I am happy to say that I've been able to eliminate one of the three boys from my life, which will certainly mean more free time for me. This guy has been after me for awhile but I've always hedged a bit...I'm not sure why. He's twenty-four and lives in my neighborhood. He's messaged me all over the place online and I've seen his webcam and blah blah blah. Finally I decided I had to just do it with him and get it over with.

I didn't really enjoy it. He's got a strange looking face, I have to say. I'm not sure what it is...it's not his teeth, which I admit could use some filing, or his scruff, which gave my lips rug burn...it's his eyes. I'm pretty sure he was sober but yet his eyes seem wide-eyed, puppy-dog, dialted fully...that kind of a gaze makes me uncomfortable, like I'm being x-rayed.

We didn't do much. While he was going down on me I laid back in bed and thought about how much I wanted some eggs benedict. That is always a bad sign.

After we were done I think he wanted to hang around a bit, cuddle or talk, get to know each other. But I kicked him out and drove to this diner I love and sat at the counter and had some delicious eggs benedict. It was the highlight of my day.

Then there is the suburban boy. I like the suburban boy. He calls me a lot from a gay coffeeshop that's nearby, only a few blocks. He'll be bored, surfing on manhunt using the cafe's wifi, working on his myspace page, and horny. I've been learning things about him.

At first, he appeared to be a wonderfully fascinating dichotomy...plain old suburban highschool boy, obsessed with hair and a&f clothes, thinking about college, with a good group of friends, while at the same time a sexually precocious boy who knew what he wanted--men to fuck him.

It's more complicated than that now, as I've found out that he has dated a string of men MUCH older than him since the age of 15...and these men have not treated him all that well.

He appears to attract men in their mid to late thirties who are alcoholics, violent meth users, fucked up in some way...funny enough, those would tend to be the same kind of men who are attracted to sixteen year old boys.

He's eighteen now and has some stories to tell. I'm worried that his worldview has already been formed: that most gay men of a certain age are fucked up alcoholics struggling with sobriety and normal human relations.

Suburban boy told me how the last guy he was 'into' got them a room together at a sleazy gay hotel that rents by the hour only to binge on meth.

Suburban boy tells me how he regularly gives himself enemas.

Suburban boy recently had gonnorrhea.

It's all very intriguing. We're playing it safe and I'm being honest about what his expectations should be with me. He's just been accepted to go to school in San Diego, so, whew! The gay community there is so respectable...I'm sure he'll be fine. Yikes. I'll see him in a Cobra video within the year I'm sure.

That's a slice of my life.

Phone sex

Photos sent to me last week from guys who wanted to do phone sex that I met in the gay.com channel, Phone:











Which are real and which are fake?

I may as well be on meth

The last few nights have been late ones, spent in front of the computer on gay.com in the Phone and College rooms, chatting and setting up phone sex chats, hitting poppers and watching porn. I feel so fucking pathetic as the febrile, pathetic tensing of muscles finally subsides at two, three in the morning, I shower off the sheen and fall into bed on stinky sheets only to wake up a few hours early, still black out, and head to work, headachy, exhausted.

The tender cellular structure of the outer rim of the nose and divet between nostril and upper lip has begun to break down, the flesh red from its acid wash, the friable tissue of the brain is awash in amyl, the heart palpitates, the fume is inhaled, reminding me of sexy childhoods at the public pools and Spanish backrooms where I would fuck backpackers and die in the blackout spaces.

Is it edging or coping? I suppose it could be both. Suspension in the colloidal made by mixing lube and Blue Boy and watching some bareback porn. I feel like Rufus Wainwright during his meth days, no different than an addict pushing the boundaries of his own erotic world to the very event horizon, that petit mort that will allow me to sleep.

Sad thing is, I'm never more alive these days than when I'm slicked up and having nasty phone sex. Reading books puts me to sleep, friends make me yawn, writing is impossible in my brain-dead state, I slack off at work. Maybe I should just become a meth head.

Had to share.

Every morning I see your picture from the train

I am back from some days away for work, in various cities, certain heights of fancy hotel rooms afronting gay districts and elevated trains, thunderstorms and the dry air of hotel rooms, the starchy fabrics I made sure were changed daily to remove last night's white stains from lonely jerkoffs to reality shows about young cage fighters.

I generally find work trips pretty sexy...it's the transitory, anonymous nature to the habitats of the businessman away from his wife and kids or husband and charging to the company's card...the airport terminal and toilet, the subways, the hotel bar where we're all desperate and unfiltered, then the hotel rooms themselves, which we do not have to clean and which are empty of signifiers. I have the uncanny ability to sniff out the perfect places for trouble in new cities (parks, streets, bathouses). My sex skills on the road should be consumate.

But it never happens for me...I have horrible luck hooking up while traveling for work. Part of it is that I'm chickenshit. Part of it is that I'm just so fucking exhausted from the emotional labor (Hochschild, 1983) of my day job. Eight o'clock rolls around and I just want to smoke a cigarette and drink a beer at a boring bar and then buy some chocolate, shower, and lay on clean sheets on a giant king sized bed and watch bad cable television. That's mostly what I've been doing...no reading, no poetry, no writing, no phone calls home. It's all very depersonalized.

I did make a couple stabs at amorous daliances. At my first travel stop, the exhibits organizer was this semi-cute young man with a chiseled face who had taken an interest in me and my work the past few days. As I was packing up, he came over to sign off on some paperwork. "I'm really glad this event is over...I can get into trouble now," I said, looking him square in the eye and smiling. He merely glanced at me before saying, "good luck with that" or something and walking away.

In the next city I ventured out in to the driving rain that was bone-chilling and headed to a local bathhouse. I'm a fan of certain sleazy bathhouses in Northern European working-class cities but this one, which I had been to before, was gigantic and clean as a whistle and lacking a certain kind of grimy character. It has many, many rooms and people spend whole weekends there. I've often had the idea to do something like that...you know, bring my laptop, buy some bags of chips, and lay around all weekend in my tiny room, porn on the tv, writing and leaving to work out and fuck and then going back inside my little cabin to sleep on the plastic sheets...I wonder if this bathhouse has wifi?

In any case, the halls were mostly empty but I did manage to find a cute Chinese man who was really turned on by me...We found a quiet little space and shut the door on ourselves. But mostly I just wandered around in the halls over and over again, constantly retying my towel, in order to escape myself.

I doubt anyone missed me or even reads this blog but I just wanted to say that I am glad to be back.