Powerman

Tom of Finland was the greatest Gay guy who’s ever lived. He died in 1991, leaving a priceless legacy of thousands of erotic drawings and sketches which have excited all kinds of people for decades.

His story is well-known so I won’t belabor it; if you want to find out more, click here. Meanwhile here’s a sequence I just received today (from Roids & Rants) that knocks me out. It seems a cop has come across a guy breaking the law. Clearly it’s a case where ignorance is no excuse.

The cop hangs back a little, waiting until the guy commits the offense. You can almost hear the birdies singing in the trees.

The scofflaw tries to talk his way out of it. Good luck with that.

The cop, warm and dry, booted and uniformed, eyes mostly concealed from his prey, towers above the naked, dripping guy.

The cop decides to introduce the guy’s face to the warning sign.

Now given that this is one of Tom’s stories, and we’re only three panels into it, no doubt a surprise is coming soon. How many swimmers did the cop ignore until he could bust this one? Was this guy planning all along to swim that day, or did he just figure it was a good way to meet the cop? Is there a whole swimming team hiding in the bushes wanting to make it up to the policeman? Or does the cop have a Field Training Officer supervising this arrest from behind a tree?

What I most like about drawing #3 is the calm, authoritative way the cop controls the situation, bending the guy over ass-to-crotch and rubbing his nose in the rule. Let’s face it, boys are apt to break the rules from time to time. And when they do, you have to confront them with it. Most people talk; this cop acts.

The guy’s not likely to show up at this swimming hole again without knowing the consequences.

There’s so much else to like in these pictures; the miscreant is as muscled, hung and handsome as the cop is. And there we find Tom’s unspoken statement about tops and bottoms: they’re equals.

In fact, Tom’s men tend to be wildly versatile. Yet their encounters almost always revolve around power relationships. He drew archetypes: cops, military, truck drivers, athletes, leathermen and more. They’re like Grimm’s Fairy Tales, or the ancient theater of the Greeks. These gods are apt to do just about anything, but they all have their roles to play.

Tom loved and identified with bottom boys:

He didn’t mind reversing roles sometimes, where an officer services an enlisted man:

Usually, though, the man in uniform has total control. He likes it that way, and so does his captive:

This isn’t just any captive; he’s a booted, hung muscleman. Tom knew how exciting powersex is. (I’ve never liked jodhpurs, but I do like the campaign hat. And notice where that hand is around the guy’s neck, head bent back, throat exposed.)

Tom went through his romantic phases; of course I like those.

He went through orgy phases and SM fantasies. (I like the dripping tongue, the dog dish and collar.)

But even the bottoms were booted, built and butch. I find that terribly important in Tom’s Alternate Universe. He restored the masculinity of all Gay men, when the world tries to steal it.

Think about it: he never glorified heterosexual guys. That’s one reason his stories of sexual versatility are so healthy and hot. When a guy switches, you know he’s into men any way he can get them. There’s none of this “poor substitute” or “just doing it for the money” in Tom’s world.

There’s no homophobia at all in his world. Wow!

That’s why I say Tom of Finland was the greatest Gay guy ever. Sure, his planet was idealized, just like his bodies, but he drew a vision, a state of mind, that no one else has ever captured, even today.

Why live in a crummy little world if you can live in a great one?

That’s the world Boy and I are trying to create for ourselves. Sure, we have to work in the world and interact with it. But once we’re together, at home, on the town or in the country, we make a little piece of paradise for each other.

Below is my favorite Tom drawing, one I hope to be able to license someday as cover art for a book. I want Boy so close he can feel my heartbeat.

I want that for you, too. ∞

People who aspire to success in business and public life often study dominant positioning as a tool for control.

He who controls the conversation makes the sale.

You see it on television news/talk shows, when people who disagree start talking over each other. It makes for boring TV soon enough, but it comes from competing to dominate.

You hear it in your ear every time you call “customer service.” They’re not serving customers, they’re serving the company. That’s why the phone reps have a script they strictly follow; you may have already entered your account information, the last four digits of your Social Security number and said your mother’s maiden name before you ever talk to a human being (in Mumbai), but then they’ll ask you all this again before you can proceed. They now have you in the habit of following along.

I don’t know how it is now, but a few years ago if you wanted to cancel AOL, their phone reps would say and do anything EXCEPT cancel your account. This isn’t customer service; it’s corporate dominance. Most of us have had the experience of having to say “I want to cancel my account” or “Please let me talk to your supervisor” over and over, regardless of the phone worker’s comeback, to gain a little power and get what we called for.

When a head of state walks into a room and everyone stands, it’s not for the stated reasons of courtesy and respect “for the office.” It’s the government making you stand up; from there they’ve already got you trained.

Churches are built so that the place where the minister stands is several steps higher than everyone else. In megachurches the guy stands on a rock-star stage and his image, flashed on TV screens, is larger than life. In Catholic churches the altar is higher and the pews all face the front. Yes, this helps everyone get a good look, but it also makes you look up to him.

You go to the bank and talk to an officer sitting behind a big expensive desk. You may be proposing to give them $20 million, but you still have to sit amidst their trappings of power.

It doesn’t have to be done that way; suppose the banker or insurance agent or lawyer were to sit with you in equal armchairs to find out what your business is and how he or she can help; then you both might move to a big desk to get the paperwork done. It never happens this way; you’re put into the role of supplicant from the very beginning.

You attend a private sit-down dinner; there’s a long table where the guests are arrayed in rows (the commoners) while the “host and hostess” don’t have to rub elbows with anyone, they get some space. The end spot is the power position.

At a charity ball, you may sit at one of 200 round tables, but there’s a dais up front for the VIPs.

The doctor’s office: first you sign in and report your arrival time, then stand there waiting for the receptionist to acknowledge your existence through a barricade; then you pay for a service you haven’t received yet, then you sit and wait on the doctor, sometimes for hours.

The drive-thru: same set-up, which is even more galling because you’re hungry, burning gas, wasting time and being controlled by a pimple-faced teenager.

Retail clerks are now trained NOT to say thank you; gratitude would indicate you have power, so they mouth a meaningless pleasantry instead. The only purpose of this is to signal you to move away now, while in a New York deli they just shout out, “Next!”

Two CEOs meet on the street, stop and greet each other; one is 5′8″, the other’s 6′3″. Taller men are often seen as more powerful and successful, if only because the shorter one is looking up to the taller one. But if the shorter one is smarter and sharper, she can turn the tables by making the taller one feel big and goofy.

A judge in a courtroom sits on a raised platform to look down on everyone. Cops wear prestigious uniforms, and jailbirds wear shameful ones. Sometimes they get shackled too, to convince them they have no power.

You can’t even go to the grocery store and head where you want; you have to walk where they make you. It’s a science. People get paid good money to study this stuff.

What do you suppose are the distinctive dominating techniques of these powerful people?

What about Gov. Arnold Schwarznegger, now at the nadir of his power?

California’s broke, he just lost a bunch of special election votes to raise revenue, he’s retired from the movies, but still he’s Arnold, the psych-out bodybuilder, the Terminator; don’t piss him off or he just might terminate you.

Where does this woman’s power come from?

What are your dominating techniques? We all use them, but we’re not always conscious of them. Are you rich, handsome, famous? Are you smart, open and agreeable? Do you start yelling like O’Reilly when you don’t get your way? Are you quick with a comeback like this guy?

How do you get dominated? It happens to everyone from Obama on down. Are there certain situations that tend to intimidate you? Can you talk to the boss as an equal? Do you know which fork is which at a dinner party? When you hear an anti-Gay slur are you silent or do you speak up?

Physical positioning often accompanies domination; other methods are intellectual, glamourous, financial, verbal or even violent. Some guy shoots up a shopping mall; he’s got power for a little while, till he’s met with overwhelming force. Most shooters kill themselves before the cops get there.

We ought not to use dominating techniques in our private lives with friends, family or lovers. Don’t say you care about someone and then manipulate them into getting what you want. Mothers may be loved but they’re not respected if they use manipulative techniques.

Gay relationships, outside the norm and seldom protected by law, are more often based in equality, studies show. Gay guys talk things out. They understand each other’s bodies, sexual desires and emotions, and work with each other.

My Boy and I have a dominant-submissive relationship, kept within a sexual context. Outside that, we’re equal. Most of our decision-making is 50-50; some is 51-49, and mostly we negotiate; a few things are 100-0, where one of us has complete veto power (”the bedsheets must be folded this way,” he insists, so I submit); and sexually I’m in charge, but even there he’s got lots of power.

(I love this picture from The New York Times, real guys named Ben and Josh, having fun with stereotypes, complete with ascot, smoking pipes and designer dog. Is this boy not the cutest maid since Beaver Cleaver’s mom?)

You can never give up all your power, even in a deliberate, mature sex scene; “this hurts or feels dangerous” changes everything. So does “I’m scared.” Lack of consent instantly puts the law on the victim’s side, even if he agreed until a minute ago, when you did that.

Power isn’t the only issue in life, but it’s a constant thread. Most citizens in any country feel powerless—because they are. Senators, celebrities and athletes often abuse their power, thinking they can get away with anything (because they always have before). Think of all those millionaire traders on Wall Street; they’re in an uproar now because they’ve lost power and they don’t know what to do except whine. Why, their wives can’t even flaunt their wealth at Bergdorf’s!

Obama rose to power on the basis of ideas mostly, plus he looks and acts the part. At a time when no one has any clue what to do, he’s now riding a wave of popularity because it seems like he’s got some ideas. Republicans are out of power because they can’t even buy an idea. The reactionaries don’t think they need new ideas.

Henry Kissinger once famously said, “Power is the greatest aphrodisiac.” He’s ugly as sin but women were drawn to him—and he loved that. Power gets a guy’s dick hard.

Let’s make this personal now. Power gets every guy’s dick hard, top or bottom. Tops like being in charge and bottoms like worshiping an aggressive cock.

They’re not worshiping something they don’t have, trying to “overcome their inferiority complex by incorporating what they lack,” suffering from penis envy or any of the rest of that shrink mumbo-jumbo. Boy likes it when I suck him—and I do too, because it reinforces his masculinity. If I wanted a woman I’d get one. I want a submissive guy, one who’s powerful at work and a cock-worshiper at home.

There’s no loss of face for him for feeling that way. Here’s why: We still live in sexually repressive societies the world over. Openly Gay people can’t serve in the U.S. military. (Have you heard about those 60 queer cadets at West Point coming out to challenge the generals?) There are no Gay TV commercials without snickering. I don’t care if you live in the Castro, WestHo, the Village or Boyztown, the media assumptions are always heterosexual. The only Gay sitcom ever shown, “Will and Grace,” largely consisted of Karen calling the boys 10,000 variations on “fag” without ever saying that word. “Will and Grace” was “Amos ‘n’ Andy” for Gay people, and we ate it up because we’d never seen ourselves on TV before.

So in this repressive social context, which we all internalize to some extent, Gay guys need ways to express their total devotion to cock. My Boy gets to do that down on his knees, where he wants to be, where he needs to be; that’s what cures him of 30 years of homophobia.

Maybe “top” and “bottom” are just roles, constructs—but they work very powerfully on the mind and body. By giving my Boy “orders,” I give him permission to do exactly what he wants, to serve cock. By making him get down on all fours and drool, get sloppy wet over his sucktoy, I’m enabling him to be himself more than anyone else ever has.

Afterwards he’s so grateful, kisses and hugs and tears sometimes, “Daddy daddy daddy, thank you for giving me your cock.” I hold him and feel like the gift is his to me.

There are only nine years’ difference between us, but God willing I will take care of this Boy, complete with optimal growing conditions, for the rest of our lives. In that way I really am his Daddy. He has to work out; he’s not allowed to drink too much. I’m always ready to talk and listen.

We don’t argue, but if we did, we’re not allowed to go away mad or isolate ourselves—another fuckin’ rule. If we can’t solve it by the end of the night, get over here and suck my dick. That’ll work it out, by reminding us why we’re together, to be sexual and tender/aggressive with each other, to make each other feel good. Cock is the great peacemaker, when there’s underlying love. He can’t argue with a mouthful of dick. Pretty soon he starts to agree with me! (And I give him whatever he wants.)

Cock really is power, but it takes years to learn to use it wisely. I’m not the smartest guy out there, but I work at understanding his emotions, and I identify with him, because I was once a needy boy too. I don’t mind tellin’ ya, I love the boy I once was; and that makes it easy to love the Boy I’m with.

Then the grown-up me comes out and mounts him, and he just screams with delight. A few good whacks on his ass and he’ll say yes to anything. ∞

Today’s my birthday. Boy made me a really good dinner after work, grilled salmon ponzu, baked potato with sour cream and homegrown chives, bread from the oven, a green salad with his first radishes and green onions of the season (I made the vinegrette), and my favorite birthday cake from childhood, angel food with vanilla icing and strawberries, which we fed to each other. Aww…

Right now he’s doing something for work, and I’m taking a little time to reflect on what this last year has meant to me. It starts and ends with him, frankly. We celebrate our first anniversary next month.

We’ve decided where we’re going on vacation, to my favorite place in all the world, the Smoky Mountains of Tennessee and North Carolina. He’s never been there. We’re renting a little cabin to do some fishing and hiking and sightseeing. He wants to go to Biltmore House; I’m not that keen but it’ll be fun. I want to go to Cherokee, which is less and less the tourist trap it used to be and more and more the public face of the Eastern Band of The People. (I visited the Western Band in Oklahoma last year. They’re doing great.)

Mostly I want to get him out in the sun with his shirt off. He spends too much time in that damn office. Now that the weather’s so much warmer, we’re out and about a lot more, riding horses, getting in some golf, waiting for the softball league to start.

Good news: our LGBT charity golf tournament has sold out. It’s a good mix of men and women, as well as various skill levels, and the small, private country club is glad to have us. Proceeds are split between Marriage Equality USA and the National Center for Lesbian Rights. Boy’s done most of the publicity, I’ve handled most of the negotiations and logistics, and we’ve shared the rest. I’m very proud of him; you should hear the enthusiasm in his voice when he talks about the tournament to people. He’s so damn cute, no one can turn him down. Some of the more competitive teams have asked if they can run little side bets, and we’ve said yes, but the proceeds are the proceeds; whoever wins the hole gets the tax deduction, but the money goes to NCLR and MEUSA. (Ooh, the Lesbians are just itching to beat the men!)

It’s quite an accomplishment, given that a few months ago we weren’t sure it would fill up. And we all have to drive an hour to get to the country club, so you know we’ve got a good group of committed folks. Next year we hope to get more locals, but the ones who live nearby play it close to the vest.

I’m happy to report that Boy still can’t putt worth a damn, so I intend to pry some money out of him too. We’ve signed up for a couple of lessons from the local teaching pro, ’cause I need the help with my long game. I stuck up a Tiger Woods poster in the workout room, so Boy’s got new motivation to hit the weights. This works too:

Otherwise we’ve put in a fair amount of time getting the yard and garden together. The porch looks better than ever, but the deck’s still not done. The marigolds are happy, the herb garden is gorgeous and I have a friend coming for a weeklong visit soon.

Boy looks real good in his chokechain; he never takes it off, and likes wearing it under his dress shirt at work. The water dish has worked out pretty well; matter of fact it makes him hard to drink out of it when I’m not here. He’s not allowed to jack off by himself, that’s a rule; but those hardons don’t get wasted, they just get postponed till I’m back. He’s getting more honest and self-disclosive about his puppy training; he really loves it, and when he talks about it, he’s pretty serious. He knows that being down on all fours opens up his body and his mind, but he “still can’t figure out how you knew I needed that.”

Damn, I love this boy.

We’ve done some online shopping for his dress collar, so I know what features attract him or don’t. He likes spikes, but not too big; he likes the medium-width leather, an inch and a half. It will be lockable in back, with a D-ring in front. The lock will be a Master brand; he’s good with that. And no, he won’t wear it all the time, he’s got to make a living.

But when it’s on, he’s my Boy.

Actually we both take this seriously; I’m aware of taking responsibility for him.

Maybe the hardest thing for him has been the mental integration; my approach is pretty unique. He very much wants to serve and submit, but “there aren’t any role models the way you do it.” He’s right; there’s vanilla love or kinky/abusive sex, but no kinky love except with me. I’m inventing it here between us, and writing notes on this blog.

What is it like to get what you always wanted?

I don’t always know either, but this last year it started to happen to both of us, the best year of our lives. ∞

I want not to oppress anyone with this post, so I’ll try to write carefully, soberly and kindly. Gay guys are tough, but words can hurt, and there’s no need to undermine anyone’s self-respect. My thesis is, it matters how you walk.

Some of this can be learned—boots help, so buy some; they change how you walk—but your walk is so psychologically revealing you probably can’t fake it that much. But you can be aware of the image you project and ask yourself if that’s how you want to come across.

The way you approach the world is the way you see the world. Is it a place you stride into, or one where you step gingerly?

Your walk reveals a lot.

That’s why there are people who will hate you if you don’t walk right. They sense something about you; your Gayness maybe, but 58 other things can make you tentative. Your weight, your looks, who knows, who cares. Your mother was from Latvia, your dad drove a Corvair. Some people will hate you anyway, and it’s not your freakin’ problem.

But y’know, John Wayne had a walk (practiced daily in front of a mirror, with scriptwriters, lighting techs and propmen), and impressionists had a field day exaggerating it. People without his talent, but who were pretty good with The Walk, made tens of thousands of dollars. They didn’t need to sound like the Duke or talk like him or look like him; the crucial piece was The Walk.

Should you mimic some Hollywood actor? N-N-No. Let Wayne be Wayne and you be you. Walk in, however you walk in. Just be aware of it.

An actor knows that every move of his body is part of his performance. She controls her body to achieve the look and sound a character requires—which is how a 42-year-old actor looks 26 or 94.

Do I think Gay life is all a performance, a contrived manipulation? Not at all. What I like is guys being themselves, Straight or Gay, butch or femme, I don’t care. “Go girl!” “Suck, boy.”

“Suck.”

I hope I can help masculine men who are born Gay think a little more about how they use their bodies; and maybe practice like the Duke did, or maybe not. Authenticity is the biggest turnon there is.

But there’s a lot to be said for boots and a swagger, and your walking in should be an announcement.

It doesn’t have to be grandiose, but it probably ought to be powerful. MAN ALERT!

It’s the Man Alert that sets boys to drooling; Pavlov’s dogs. The ding goes off and the spit comes out, pant-pant-pant, lick-lick-lick, drip all over the fucking carpet. I love boys who drool. I make ‘em fucking drool.

But I also know what it is they’re drooling over; and that more than anything is how a man carries himself.

Proud or ashamed? Bold or fearful? Aggressive or timid? You are in control of this, and if you’re not always giving the impression you want to give, there are things you can do. Here’s a simple one, and it comes from my freshman cross-country coach:

“Lengthen your stride.”

“What?” I said as I ran past him. He repeated it, and I got it the second time. Wow, the smallest little direction made the biggest damn difference. I started winning races.

That was coaching, and it’s all I’m trying to do now. Lengthen your stride, stretch your legs out. Reach a little farther.

I’ve often seen Gay men walk in public with a shorter stride than you’d really think possible; little baby steps, sometimes from a guy who’s 6 feet tall. It betrays a lack of confidence. Their walk is tentative, and it’s a dead giveaway about their inner attitude. They look like they’re afraid of the world.

Let’s say your normal, unconscious walk is fairly short; I don’t judge. But if you find yourself having to pass a bunch of possible thugs and your fear starts to rise, lengthening your stride is a survival skill. If they’re looking at you, glance back at them to show you’re not afraid. It’s the same skill we were taught in third grade about meeting an unfamiliar loose dog; if he senses you’re afraid of him, he’ll think about attacking you. If he senses the opposite, that you’re a member of the dominant species, he’ll back off. It’s the same with bullies.

Let’s say you’re about to make a sales call or a presentation for co-workers; you’re up front and their eyes are on you. Put a smile on your face, look them in the eye, walk and talk with confidence in your product and ideas; they won’t be conscious of what you’re doing, but they’ll think, “He looks like he knows what he’s talking about.”

I used to do a fair amount of Gay advocacy in public meetings and on TV; when I was new at this I sometimes got fairly nervous before going on. But I believed in what I was saying and I knew that projecting confidence would help sell my ideas, so I somehow readied myself to perform. When the time came I did perform, people were persuaded and supportive; from there, one success built on another. I no longer had a need to get nervous the next time, because I was damn good the last time, and there was no reason I couldn’t do it again. I may not have had a speech memorized, but I learned to trust my ability to command the moment and come up with words and actions that would carry the day.

Actions matter too. Once a city council candidate I supported asked me to fill in for him at a school board meeting, where a proposal he opposed would be debated; it had to do with grade school boundaries, where affluent white kids would get their pick of schools to attend, while poor black kids got stuck in lousy, segregated neighborhood schools. The proposal was controversial, there would be a lot of people attending to speak against the proposal, TV would cover it, so how could I stand out? I couldn’t think of anything, till finally I walked half a block to the grocery store and bought a can of generic potatoes. During the last recession, food suppliers started selling these plain-looking, black and white cans; no frills. When my turn came to speak, I held up my can of spuds and told the school board, “No generic schools.” Boom, I was on every TV station that night and the proposal got shelved.

Would you drink a can of this shit?

Something else you can do: widen your stance. This picture exaggerates it to illustrate it: let your body be open, not closed. A closed stance says, “Don’t approach me.” An open one says Hello. You don’t have to have boots, you can do this at work!

There’s one other aspect to this, and I credit Tony Robbins for the insight. Since the way we carry ourselves always reflects what we’re feeling at any given time, but our emotions may not be the ones we want to be feeling or what’s most appropriate to the situation: the easiest way to change our emotions is to adopt physical behaviors that are in line with what we want to be feeling and projecting. Instead of hanging our head and breathing shallowly, we can change our emotions by lifting our head up, breathing deep and loosening up. Dance a little, snap your fingers, bounce around, you’ll feel better! You can’t possibly be depressed when you’re dancing.

And so it is when you walk into a Gay bar or a party; if you feel lonely and depressed, everyone will know it in a glance because you’ll act that way. But if you act like you’re ready for a party by moving like you’re already there, the party will come to you.

And further, if you’re wanting to meet someone and have sex, then walk in with the sex already started. No, you don’t have to show a hardon, but you ought to signal an interest. Want your dick sucked? Walk in dick first. Show ‘em what you got, what’s on your mind, what you’re into.

Want some dick to suck? Then openly look at his crotch, then up at his eyes, then down at his crotch. Lick your lips, don’t be coy, you’re not hard to get, you’re easy. Make it obvious or you’ll go home alone like the rest of the wallflowers. Cruise to win; if you snooze you lose. Keep moving, circle around, don’t be a potted plant.

Be conscious. Behave in a way that helps you get what you want.

Mind you, there are few things sillier than walking into an empty EconoMart pretending you’re John Wayne if you’re really Priscilla. There’s no need; context matters. If you need to be tough, you can do that; if the context is gentle, glide in like Sweet Baby James and ask for a smoothie.

But for men robbed of their masculinity by hateful homophobia (wow, that’s a new phrase), feel free to calibrate as circumstances warrant. If you want to butch it up, do it. If you want to camp it up, I’m just a blogger. Walk in however you want.

So two last points: Nothing is so desired as masculinity. That’s why my name’s Powerman.

And nothing makes a guy love you more than knowing you won’t abuse him.

The world is full of masochists and sadists, but there aren’t enough lovers who are freely, happily male. If that’s who you are and what you want, then be it to get it. Face it, you’re both attracted to masculinity. Bring it out in each other.

Once you’ve got that, you want a guy who sticks with you, even when there’s an extra inch down the street.

Try these ideas, put ‘em into practice, see if they work for you. If you’ve never worn boots, you’ll be amazed at the transformation; soon, you’ll start feeling macho, proud and self-confident, sexy and desirable every time you put them on. You don’t have to have the biggest dick to get the greatest lover, as long as you make him slobber every time you strut. That’s what he wants, a man who drives him crazy, because every time you’re together you make him feel what he wants to feel: awe and worship over the power of masculinity, even when he knows he’s got it too. ∞

As great as sex and love are, a lot of things can go wrong with human sexuality. Much of our art, literature and entertainment are based on these human foibles. For Gay guys, in addition to all the normal human sexual problems everyone else has (disease, loneliness, bad relationships), I’ve noticed one other peculiarity, the sexualizing of shame.

We’re not the only ones who do this by any means (see Wikipedia on masochism), but I wonder if we’re more prone to it. The shaming process of homophobia devastates a lot of little boys. If they like playing dress-up or being exuberant or just plain being a kid, not a junior-grade macho man, it’s often a huge shock to find out that a lot of people disapprove of them.

They don’t understand this, they don’t know what they did wrong—because they didn’t do anything wrong. They didn’t do anything at all, they were just being. They can’t correct a mistake they didn’t make.

It’s their being that’s the “problem;” their personality, their likes and dislikes. Their biology.

But they can’t do anything about it. So they live with a silent, massive, secret shame.

It’s not just sissyboys either; this group includes a lot of good, smart, capable, masculine and athletic boys.

But their ways aren’t sufficiently “desirable,” so they learn to desire what they’re not.

Big mistake.

They grow up, sex knocks them over like a tornado, and they start liking a certain type of guy: handsome, not plain; thin, not fat; muscular, not soft; the guys who get all the approval and never have any discomfort: Straight guys, athletes, cops, movie stars.

I’m not saying we shouldn’t like hot ‘n’ handsome, but I want to tell those little boys, approve of yourselves. Find what’s good about you; what’s strong and sexy and male in you.

There’s a lot more male in us than anyone realizes, so the best outcome is that Gay boys grow up into Gay manhood.

Billy Bean and Esera Tuaolo, Major League Baseball, NFL Football: handsome fellas.

I want to whisper in my Gayboys’ ears, “Don’t buy into society’s dichotomies: desirable/worthless, successful/failure, somebody/nobody. That’s a big fat lie.”

Make friends with boys who feel like you do. They have a lot of great qualities, including hard maleness, and they make fantastic lovers. But you’ve got to get your act together and see beyond what other people see.

Put your glasses on, boy; start looking around.

(Emile Hersch as Cleve Jones in “Milk.”)

Consider that Scottish woman who became a YouTube sensation with a song: what shocked the whole world about her was that she’s a nobody; she’s never been anybody, and you could tell by how she looks and acts. She couldn’t even answer a question about where she lives. Then she opened up her mouth and in seconds, 60 million eyes popped out—and she’ll never be a nobody again.

She’s a star, baby, and don’t think she wasn’t ready. Watch her walk onstage before it all starts; she comes striding on in her matronly shoes, not the least bit intimidated by that stage, those cameras or the judges, even the nasty one. She’s a performer, always has been; she’s always known that, and now was her moment to show ‘em what she can do.

And one minute later she brought down the house. That’s a star!

I think somehow she’s a paradigm for many of us; we may not look right or act right or dress right, but give us one little chance to show our talent and the world might be amazed. (This also suggests that if your chance ever comes, be fucking ready; she was.)

So, sons of mine: it isn’t what you look like, it’s how you act, how you develop your talent in whatever you’re good at. It’s how you care for yourself; it’s how you make friends with others who help you and whom you freely help.

—But there’s nobody around those six-year-old, 12-year-old boys to tell them that; so they grow up feeling inferior.

It’s less now than in the old days, but that virus still infects millions, far more deadly than swine flu.

I suppose it’s a natural progression, to want what you don’t feel you are; but it’s an error in thinking. Your dick’s every bit as desirable as Mr. Macho’s.

Religious leaders, politicians and right-wing media bray constantly about how inferior my boys are. Movies and comedians constantly make fun of them; Mom and Dad ain’t too thrilled either. Hurting, loving boys grow up in a hurtful, hating world.

So what happens when they walk into a Gay bar?

They find some pride; they make some friends. But the bars are all stratified by clientele—which is a ruthless business decision.

In some bars you have to be the right age, with the right look, the right income and the right race, or you’re nobody. In some bars the queens will scream at you if you don’t camp it up hard enough (to make the queens feel better about themselves). In others you’re pursued for simply having a pulse.

In the leather bars, the most desirable guys are the most macho ones, just like out in the World. What’s our kid to do?

He needs a mentor, someone to show him the ropes without taking advantage of him. We should provide that service to young Gay men, but we don’t.

Without a teacher, he may not know the difference between hot sex and abuse. He may define abuse as only physical and not psychological. It’s both.

I define homophobia as “organized, deliberate child abuse”—and it’s a killer.

Without a mentor, no one will say, “You may find that some of your fantasies are actually harmful to yourself. If and when that happens, you have to cut off those thoughts; just stop what you’re thinking and doing, change the entire subject, your posture, your activity.”

We are in charge of our thoughts; this means we’re in charge of our turnons. Most are great, but a few can kill ya, so don’t go there.

Do not give dangerous thoughts any sexual energy. Don’t pursue them. Don’t sexualize your shame.

Otherwise you may end up with a baseball bat up your ass. Or worse. I mean, this shit’s crazed—and brought to you by your friendly neighborhood Gay porn whore.

We all draw the line a little differently in our heads—but we have to draw lines, that’s what I’m saying.

Politically I’m a screaming liberal, but I’m real conservative about one line in the sand: I don’t do piercings. I’ve never had an earring on or in my head, much less anywhere else. I find the whole piercing thing a total turnoff. When I see pierced-up pornguys, I figure they’re going to be jaded and unhappy in ten years’ time. They won’t be able to get it up. They won’t even want to. They’ll overdose on sex.

The constant pursuit of ever-increasing sensation, the ever more perfect fantasy, is a trap. And it’s one we can avoid, if Gay kids get Gay mentors. They may all get pierced anyway, I don’t care; I’m not the PA police.

But notice how tattooing and piercing have gradually become a very big business, with grubby little storefront shops in every city and town in America. It’s as widespread as fast food. It isn’t “art,” it’s blatant hucksterism, because somebody sold you a bill of goods: Get tortured, scarred and maimed, it’s fun!

And it mirrors how you were tortured, scarred and maimed as a kid. So let’s buy more of it, let’s pay to show the world our inner torment.

No thankee.

As a community we seem not to have figured out that 80% of our sexual relating is now determined by predatory commercial interests—businessmen looking to take money out of your wallet and put it in theirs.

In fact, homophobia itself has been commercialized by some of our own; and we’re the ones paying for it.

We see it in bars; we see it in porn; we see it in Gay media. We see it on Gay Pride Day with all the worthless trinkets and crummy T-shirts for sale.

There is never a fat guy pushing a product on Gay.com. And by 30 you’re dead.

What a load of crap! I know big older Gay guys, nothing much to look at, who can walk into a Gay bar and out again with a cute young trick in ten minutes flat, simply by exerting some power.

Meanwhile all the ads look the same; why is that? Facebook knows I’m Gay, so I get shirtless twink images on my homepage. If the phone company ever finds out, they’ll start doing it too.

O sons of mine, don’t let business interests commercialize your sex life—including your turnons and fetishes.

If you need a little spanking, just come to daddy—not daddy.com.

“Then how do I find a daddy?” our confused boy wails.

(You could try calling your boyfriend daddy and see what happens. How the hell is he supposed to figure out the spaghetti in your head if you never tell him? Come out, dude!

(”Sure is a nice shirt you’ve got on, Daddy.” Even at 19 he’ll be tanning your hide in two minutes flat.)

Wanna lick some boots? Get some, that’s how you attract bootmen. Whatever your turnon, show it. Come out already.

(The great Kevin Williams, bless his greedy little heart.)

But no baseball bats, no scat, no cannibals, no diseases, no drinking and drugging till you can’t even remember what you did last night. No “forced feminization,” where some pseudo-dominant guy cuts off your nuts to prove he’s in total control of his slaveboy (who ain’t exactly a boy anymore if he doesn’t have nuts). No “pony play” where you’re pulling a buggy around a racetrack with a buttplug up your ass. No guns, no knives, no weapons—and no images of Gay guys pulling a gun on you to show he’s really hot. That shit’s homophobic and insulting, even if homos produced it. No insults of any kind.

A little verbal abuse between friends is okay; after all, you’re a cocksucker, and it’s exciting to be called out as your outcast self. But please, draw lines there too. Words matter, and name-calling can hurt little boys.

If ever a guy says, “Suck my cock, you faggot,” get up off your knees, make a fist and slam him right in the mouth.

Real daddies don’t let their boys be abused. (Might spank their butts, but that doesn’t count.)

No more “Straight guys are superior” bullshit. They’re not. They don’t even know what masculinity is, they’ve never thought about it.

We have. Masculinity is the courage to be yourself no matter what the in-crowd says; the courage to thrust when the in-crowd tells you you’re just a pussyhole.

They should be so lucky, to find out what their ass can feel.

Peroration: the only life well-lived is the self-examined one. Poor slobs don’t have to think, so they don’t. O Gay son of mine, you’ve got it better than you can possibly imagine, if you have the courage to admit the truth, submit to cock or command a boy and fall head over heels in love. ∞

I had two future posts on it too. I’m bummed.

But here’s a puppy picture anyway, to tide you over while I distinguish my ass from a hole in the ground. Boy knows how to fetch, which is always a helpful skill when you want a cup of coffee. ∞