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I do. When I was about 12 or 14, a change happened in which the physical and psychic pipes in my body went from running warm water to pressurized steam. Erotic reality had long been important to me, consciously so even back to the age of 7 or 8, but suddenly it was distinctly physical. And mental. And emotional. And visual. I was not turned on by boys -- though I had gotten the attention of my best friend, who was gay, and who eventually convinced me to let him suck my cock, in a tent full of Boy Scouts late one night on a camping trip at Floyd Bennett Field in Brooklyn. Oh, if only I could have appreciated that moment with more clarity. But for the record, my first sexual experience was same-sex, and in a group setting. The one idea of maleness that had my attention was the fantasy of being seen masturbating by my father. It was not so much a turn-on as a dire necessity. When I was staying at his apartment, I slept on a couch in the living room and would go at it pretty openly, and there was always the possibility that he would walk out and see me on the way to the bathroom. This never happened. I think he was psychic and stayed asleep while I was doing it. Around dad, sex was this mysterious thing that just existed; it was never spoken of. (This is how you will find Scorpio working most of the time.) There was Channel N on Manhattan cable television, there was HBO, there was the stack of Playboys, and there were no restrictions on these things. My brother and I grooved on it all. At my mother's place, there were books: The Hite Report on Female Sexuality, The Joy of Sex, the medical references, and others. There were the discussions of birth control. At Dad's house there was the real stuff. There were the condoms in the drawer. There were the girlfriends. There was Jane Fonda getting her cunt licked by John Voight in Coming Home, which clued me into the existence of cunnilingus, which became one of my religions and goes straight back to that scene. When it came time to have actual sex for the first time, to meet the vulva face-to-face (as it were) it was in dad's bed, when I had the apartment for the weekend and brought home my friend Melissa who, upon discovering that I was a "spring chicken," gladly donated her 19-year-old cunt to the cause. But sex was never talked about. There was no such thing as masturbation, in words, anyway. I could never imagine him doing it. But I boiled with the desire for him to know that I did. My father, in his truly fascinating mix of politics, recognized Queer as perfectly normal, real and entitled to exist. Right on. He was not hung up about image. In the 70s somewhere, he had this great leather bag that he jokingly called his pocketbook, and you must remember that these were not the days of gender bending (I hope he still has it -- I want it). My mom, on the other hand, threatened to throw me out of the house if I got my ear pierced. It took me a while to figure out that she had a touch of the subtle gay-bashing tendency. My third girlfriend, Ru, most decidedly did not share this tendency. She casually informed me that I was bisexual, turned me onto David Bowie and got me started, at least in concept. It was a few years before I tried anything, like, four years, though I always was attracted to bisexual women, from my first lover. Most of my experiences with men have been with much older guys, between 10 and 30 years older. Most were bi. Most of them were friends, that is, unlike predominant Queer experimental ethics, or the predominant Queer sex scene ethics, there were no relationships that were just about sex. The thought never occurred to me, and it never occurred to me to seek erotic contact with men outside my circle of friends. My first experiences were receiving blow jobs from men who seemed happy to go down on me. The touch and feel of a man's hands and mouth, usually rougher, more direct and more assertive than a woman's, pushed me into new reaches of surrender. But it was the emotional experience of orgasm with a man, being received by a man, that did something for me that felt beautiful and necessary. I had a friend named Nathan, who had been bisexual much of his life. He was older, unmarried, independent, a Scorpio, and he was into sex. Nathan had done intensive erotic trainings with Joseph Kramer, so in addition to having his natural gifts, he was sexually enlightened. Whatever I was into, he was into. What I found the most fascinating about being with men, and especially Nathan, was experiencing my own emotions in their presence. With Nathan, my experiences were a delightful game of testing how far I could let go into pleasure in his presence. This usually happened two ways: the first was meeting The Butt Plug, a device made for anal sex play. I learned how to be fucked, or rather, to be fucked, which changed me. As women usually know and men usually don't, receiving penetration is a profound experience, especially when it's done with care and feeling and sensitivity. I discovered that embodying the hot little bitch I so intensely desired in her female form brought me a lot closer to the core of this desire, and to appreciating her presence as the elusive Other. I discovered, and have rediscovered, that much of my desire for women was the projected desire to know and experience my own feminine side. This projection is a lot more fun to play with if I am aware of it. With Nathan, there was one other favorite activity, which was masturbating with him. I had breakthrough after breakthrough of experiencing orgasms of astonishing emotional depth, on the way to which I burst through veil after veil of shame, guilt and fear. In one experience, I gave him a hand job, he came into my hand, and I masturbated with his semen, looking at his face. On this journey, I felt myself move into and through the experience of having my pleasure and sexual reality fully acknowledged by the Father archetype, the older man initiating the younger into sexual feeling and, in truth, into feeling. Male! |
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Male