The vagina! Gasp! The vagina and gay men! Double gasp! I've never been sure why gay men should have a relation to the vagina besides the obvious. For me, being born was the last time I was near or wanted to be near a vagina. I'm not afraid of the vagina. I'm not disgusted by the vagina. I'm just not interested. The Vagina and the television show Lost have something in common: my complete indifference. I get offended by the notion that I hate women or am disgusted by the vagina because I'm gay. I am not gay because I rejected women or the vagina. I am gay because I am turned on by men and penises. I know that I'm probably the only gay men in the world who never kissed a girl, made out with a girl, had sex with a girl, was engaged to a girl, married a girl, or any combination. I must have been absent the day that the How to be a Proper Gay handbook was reprinted with a new rule that "Gay men must have sex with women, must reject women because of their vaginas, and only after having sex with women are they allowed to have sex with men."
What I resent is that I can't enjoy my gay films, television shows, or even gay porn without having gay relationships or gay sex diluted with heterosexuality. Every coming out story must have the man kissing or usually, having sex with a woman before he comes out. If he's already out, he must have sex with the woman at some point in the show or film. I throw out these examples of television shows where the boy/man must make out with or have sex with a woman/women as a part of being gay: Forbidden Love, As the World Turns, One Life to Live, Shameless, Young and the Restless, United States of Tara, Queer As Folk, Ugly Betty, Sinchronicity, etc. The list for films: Reinas, Make the Yuletide Gay, Chef's Special, the Eating out Trilogy, Next Best Thing, Bedrooms and Hallways, etc. Those are just examples off the top of my head without my looking through my movie diary or consulting IMDB.
And if you are not turned on by straight sex, gay porn will be a nightmare since gay porn is apparently now a straight business since I can't read a gay porn blog without encountering yet another story of a g4per doing straight porn, insulting gay sex, or now doing transsexual porn. Breasts and vaginas are now a must for gay porn sites. If you resent the straight intrusion into gay porn, you're considered judgmental, hateful, and yes, heterophobic. I know there are gay men who enjoy watching straight porn, but on a gay porn blog, I should not have to see photos of straight sex and gay porn stars in straight porn scenes. Of course, the reverse would never happen. Straight porn sites would never run photos of gay sex. I highly doubt that stories about Ryan Driller are accompanied by his gay porn scenes as Jeremy Bilding. The readers would never put up with it, but gay men must be good little boys and accept being insulted at every opportunity.
I know that some gay men dislike women and are sickened by the sight of vaginas. The slurs and the "ewww" comments are ridiculous and offensive, but isn't that to be expected? Do straight men sit around and compliment each other penises? Do they watch gay porn? Do they go to straight porn sites hoping to see images of erect penises? Do they watch television shows hoping that gay characters will kiss? When they watch straight porn, are they expected to put up with straight for pay actors and straight for pay actors who make a point of saying how disgusting straight sex is? Somehow, gay man are expected to do the equivalent, and if they are not interested, they're labeled heterophobic and misogynistic.
I have found straight sex sexy. Betty Blue, 9 Songs, Amantes, 9 1/2 Weeks, and Antares come to mind. I also adore the works of Catherine Breillat which are always about women's sexuality, and in particular, Romance is one of my favorite films. That film has a seven minute gynecological exam shown in explicit detail. I was not offended by the vagina. I was not harmed by the sight of the vagina. Being gay is not about rejecting the vagina. It's about wanting the penis.
Tuesday, 30 March 2010
Thursday, 25 March 2010
Betrayals
I had a class with a woman who was coming back to get her degree in social work. She had a very calming presence and we would talk before class. She would tell me how much social work meant to her, and that she wanted to use her degree to help disadvantaged children. I thought it was so admirable of her to return to university after a disastrous marriage. 13 weeks into the semester I no longer found her admirable. One day before she class, she told me that she was rethinking her career choice because she didn't think she could be in an office alone with a black man. She told me that she feared that black men would harm her in some way. She looked normal. She was intelligent, thoughtful, and caring. So who was this woman before me spouting racist bullshit? I had wasted three months getting to know this woman, liking this woman (non-sexually), and it was all for nothing. I had befriended a racist. I felt completely betrayed. Had I been completely blind to who she was? Had I missed the signs? I replayed the conversations I could remember, but I saw no hint. Her racism came out of nowhere. The betrayal still stings. I tend not to get over those types of betrayals. I've never been cheated on. I've never cheated, but it's these types of betrayals that sting--when people say or do something that is in complete opposition to your idea of them. Two other betrayals:
--the professor I liked who later said, "Adrienne Rich was a good poet until she decided to become a lesbian." He was serious.
--the friend who told me she was going to vote for a politician even though he spouted anti-gay rhetoric. I thought to myself, "You're going to vote for someone who hates me and would take away all my rights??" I never spoke to her again.
One betrayal where my reaction bothers me: an out, gay friend who told me that he had always been out and he had never been ashamed. I later found out from his mother that he had been closeted and even dated a girl for a year. I thought less of him at the moment. Not only had he lied, but he had dated a girl (girls are wonderful, but I see this as a dilution of homosexuality). Our friendship was never the same after that. I always found an excuse to miss his calls or forget to invite him to go to the movies. I regret my reaction.
I've always disliked it when a gay man has dated or had sex with women. It pisses me off. I like gay men to be gay. Even to this day, I still cringe and grit my teeth when a gay man tells me he dated and/or had sex with a girl or girls. It's one of those things I can not get past. Frankly, I'm not sure I want to get past it. I admit it. I'm very judgmental. I have an idea in my head of how I want someone to be, and when he/she deviates from that idea, I am offended. Instead of comforting my friend and offering support for his painful time as a closeted gay man, I chose to shun him because he had not lived up to my vision of him. He had chosen to be infallible, and I couldn't deal with that. It's not a comfortable feeling knowing that I committed a betrayal by discarding my friend because he had not adhered to the perfect image of a gay man I had created. I sometimes consider calling him and apologizing for my reaction, but I never do. My judgment wins over rekindling an important friendship. Another betrayal.
--the professor I liked who later said, "Adrienne Rich was a good poet until she decided to become a lesbian." He was serious.
--the friend who told me she was going to vote for a politician even though he spouted anti-gay rhetoric. I thought to myself, "You're going to vote for someone who hates me and would take away all my rights??" I never spoke to her again.
One betrayal where my reaction bothers me: an out, gay friend who told me that he had always been out and he had never been ashamed. I later found out from his mother that he had been closeted and even dated a girl for a year. I thought less of him at the moment. Not only had he lied, but he had dated a girl (girls are wonderful, but I see this as a dilution of homosexuality). Our friendship was never the same after that. I always found an excuse to miss his calls or forget to invite him to go to the movies. I regret my reaction.
I've always disliked it when a gay man has dated or had sex with women. It pisses me off. I like gay men to be gay. Even to this day, I still cringe and grit my teeth when a gay man tells me he dated and/or had sex with a girl or girls. It's one of those things I can not get past. Frankly, I'm not sure I want to get past it. I admit it. I'm very judgmental. I have an idea in my head of how I want someone to be, and when he/she deviates from that idea, I am offended. Instead of comforting my friend and offering support for his painful time as a closeted gay man, I chose to shun him because he had not lived up to my vision of him. He had chosen to be infallible, and I couldn't deal with that. It's not a comfortable feeling knowing that I committed a betrayal by discarding my friend because he had not adhered to the perfect image of a gay man I had created. I sometimes consider calling him and apologizing for my reaction, but I never do. My judgment wins over rekindling an important friendship. Another betrayal.
Tuesday, 9 March 2010
I sometimes feel like I’ve spent the last few years of my life writing about nonsense that doesn’t matter in the end. Research paper after research paper. Who besides my professor is going to give a damn about my paper on a villainess in an 18th century British novel? Does the following make you quiver in excitement:
Frances Burney creates many villainous and repellant characters in Evelina: Sir John Belmont, Captain Mirvan, Mr. Lovel, Sir Clement Willoughby, and Lady Louisa Larpent, but it is Madame Duval who emerges as the most hated character. The narrative continually abuses and humiliates her while the other characters save for Mr. Lovel emerge unscathed. Sir Clement Willoughby kidnaps Evelina, Captain Mirvan is a bully who delights in humiliating Madame Duval, terrorising his wife and daughter, and causing general mayhem, and Sir John Belmont abandons the mothers of both his children, but Madame Duval commits an unforgivable crime by being a lower class woman pretending to be a French aristocrat. The men can cheat, abuse, rob, kidnap, abandon children and mothers, but Madame Duval does not know her true place in society so she must be punished and contained within the narrative.
I thought not. Yet most of my energy is spent writing these sorts of papers. I enjoy some of them, but what is it going to get me? What will I get out of graduate school? Is it going to make me a better writer? Hardly. It’s made me a worse writer. I spend my time figuring out ways to do very little for that A. I usually wait until the last minute to write my 20 page research papers, and sometimes, I just use a paper I’ve already written, and I spruce it up for the current class. Graduate school has made me dread writing. I don’t have the passion for it that I once did. I envy those bloggers who can write 10 to 15 pages at a time. Writing has been a chore for the last few years that there is little joy anymore. I enjoy posting film reviews, and I sometimes enjoy ranting on topics of sexuality, but I wish I could recapture my love of writing.
I miss being passionate about writing poetry or the soap opera I started writing in seventh grade. Only my sister read it, but it felt so good to create characters and plots. Not the same anymore. I must write a one page response paper every Monday; a 20 page seminar paper; 2 8 page papers, an annotated bibliography, a case study of a scholarly article. I do my damndest to put as little effort in as possible. I go to class and I dread every second of my Monday Melville class. I have no interest in Melville. Not even a chapter about sperm and circle jerking could interest me much. I have to write my response paper on a book I haven’t even opened up, and it’s due by Monday afternoon. And the thing is: I don’t care. As for this blog entry,
Frances Burney creates many villainous and repellant characters in Evelina: Sir John Belmont, Captain Mirvan, Mr. Lovel, Sir Clement Willoughby, and Lady Louisa Larpent, but it is Madame Duval who emerges as the most hated character. The narrative continually abuses and humiliates her while the other characters save for Mr. Lovel emerge unscathed. Sir Clement Willoughby kidnaps Evelina, Captain Mirvan is a bully who delights in humiliating Madame Duval, terrorising his wife and daughter, and causing general mayhem, and Sir John Belmont abandons the mothers of both his children, but Madame Duval commits an unforgivable crime by being a lower class woman pretending to be a French aristocrat. The men can cheat, abuse, rob, kidnap, abandon children and mothers, but Madame Duval does not know her true place in society so she must be punished and contained within the narrative.
I thought not. Yet most of my energy is spent writing these sorts of papers. I enjoy some of them, but what is it going to get me? What will I get out of graduate school? Is it going to make me a better writer? Hardly. It’s made me a worse writer. I spend my time figuring out ways to do very little for that A. I usually wait until the last minute to write my 20 page research papers, and sometimes, I just use a paper I’ve already written, and I spruce it up for the current class. Graduate school has made me dread writing. I don’t have the passion for it that I once did. I envy those bloggers who can write 10 to 15 pages at a time. Writing has been a chore for the last few years that there is little joy anymore. I enjoy posting film reviews, and I sometimes enjoy ranting on topics of sexuality, but I wish I could recapture my love of writing.
I miss being passionate about writing poetry or the soap opera I started writing in seventh grade. Only my sister read it, but it felt so good to create characters and plots. Not the same anymore. I must write a one page response paper every Monday; a 20 page seminar paper; 2 8 page papers, an annotated bibliography, a case study of a scholarly article. I do my damndest to put as little effort in as possible. I go to class and I dread every second of my Monday Melville class. I have no interest in Melville. Not even a chapter about sperm and circle jerking could interest me much. I have to write my response paper on a book I haven’t even opened up, and it’s due by Monday afternoon. And the thing is: I don’t care. As for this blog entry,
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