Wednesday, January 30, 2013

Gay Boy Scouting



A Brief History of Boy Scouting
Boy Scout Bad Boys
The Gay Scout Master
Bad Boys in the Boonies
Earning Your Merit Badge
Elements of Scouting
Boy Scout Secrets
Scouting Out of the Closet
The Scouting Oath
The True Scout Master
Boy Scout as Houseboy
Merit Badge with Splashes of Cum on It

A Brief History of Boy Scouting

“The announcement on Monday 
by Scouts officials that the ban 
on gays was in line for elimination 
was a thunderclap”—KIRK JOHNSON
“In a Quick Shift, Scouts Rethink a 
Ban on Gays,” The New York Times 
January 28, 2013

Hence the bad boys—
making our landscape tres gay
young boy scouts bare-ass naked
except for their butchy boots…

Boy Scout Bad Boys

He seeks solitude in the woods—
his worn-out jeans and flimsy
little thongs, my cute eagle scout

While he lets me sample—
his Orange Julius eggwhite froth
those sloppy salami seconds

Smoking a joint—
while I gobble his nice gob
a lob of cumly jail bait

The Gay Scout Master

Let the needy, the glutinous—
bald-headed gay scout masters
sprinkled with pixie dust enter the

Formidable kingdom of boys—
pink as cotton candy where
the heart starts throbbing

This is where bad boys come—
feeling it down to their toes
the teenage choirs shrieking

The snug bar of soap fits—
so nicely up their tight assholes
zippity-do-dah shooting their wads

Bad Boys in the Boonies

“where we could be boys together”
—D. A. Powell, “Boonies,” Useless
Landscape: A Guide for Boys

This region of wanting it bad—
the campestral adolescent
campfire of hard-to-get

Finally I get to kiss his tits—
slide down the slippery slope
into his raffish darkest dingles

No longer banished from his—
slick abdomen, busting his nut
gloriously gobsmacked gluttony

Bon voyage to blushing boyage—
flexing his limbs, his ripe lips
finding his secret drupe at last

Earning Your Merit Badge

Your sullen slouch, rakish grin—
how is it you hold such an
awesome influence over me?

You’re the real scout master—
mastering me with a school boy’s
hard salacious striptease act

You draw me down to the prize—
earning my ultimate faggot’s
merit badge for taboo touché 

The porky-pig runny snot—
whose singular labor is mine
your snatch of plush peach-fuzz

Elements of Scouting

The horny boy scout favors nudity—
his tight loin-chop bare ass shedding
his yellow-stained pair of shorts

Gliding into my arms in the tent—
not scrimping with the exquisite
funky odor of his boyish groin

He jerks, lurches, comes—
I’m a rare spectator between his
succulent start and sweaty finish

We listen to the hoot owls at night—
but neither he nor I can sleep
so sleek sloppy seconds follow next

Boy Scout Secrets

Love never seems to dismay him—
the pop fly, brusque fast ball strike,
the Fenway Park Green Monster

He’s an easy out, an athletic slug—
letting me have his downy fuzzy
strenuous pubed runny homeruns

He takes his time making me beg—
so clever with each tight lob of cum
the queer joy of getting him off

Turning me into gay scout master—
scurrying around in a clownish tizzy
while he just sedately yawns

Scouting Out of the Closet

It’s so tacky being a faggy priest—
Worshipping the little abused lambs 
Huddled in the confession booths

I’d rather be a gay scoutmaster—
Out in the open in Mother Nature
Doing the confessing in the woods

The Vatican is so very maddening—
The Catholic Legion of Decency
Simply gets on my nelly nerves

Let me shear the cute yearlings—
Pale prepucial peachfuzz pubes
My lips smeared with cum & smegma

The Scouting Oath

Hiking up to the headwaters of—
Genius Falls in Mt. Rainier Park
you lie back naked closing your eyes

Wiry boy with an uncut prick—
pealing you back like a juicy apricot
savoring each dribble down your chest

Your long lanky legs around my neck—
your whole delinquent body full of 
Crème of Olay truant manly juices

The waterfall rocks slick, dark, steep—
The way you get cross-eyed losing it
Your family jewels squandered helplessly

The True Scout Master

The true scoutmaster always finds a way—
he knows his forebears since ancient
Greece and Rome queered those goodies

He knows how to rummage politely—
in some slick kid’s stinky stained drawers
tasting the stillborn infants yet to come

Yes, the true scoutmaster is a bastard—
needs to be bitch-slapped and chastised 
if only the parents knew his predilections

The true scoutmaster is nobody’s fool—
a lurid audacious greedy chicken queen
desecrating young pubes his work of art

Boy Scout as Houseboy

Each last drag off his cigarette—
a tacky piece of jewelry piercing
his tit, upper lip and foreskin

How i love to take out my false teeth—
and gum the kid to death, my little
lazyboy liebschen so louche & lewd

My pretty little peacock kept boy—
spawning his pouch of breeder joy
his lovely boy scout badboy booty

Society should be glad that i take—
the time to rid the boring bourgeoisie
of such a profligate useless youth

Merit Badge with Splashes of Cum on It

Once I got a lewd wad stuck down deep—
clogging my throat with the nastiest cum
tickling my tonsils like a good line of coke

I had him stripped and hanging down—
from the ceiling in chains & black leather
using a car aerial as a mean S/M switch

My mouth felt like a filthy lavatory—
doing a hand-job as he pleaded with me:
“Beat me, burn me, fuck me to death!!!”

Jailbat can be so tantalizing and alluring—
pouty young poultry the first time around
especially when you snap their Necks

Tuesday, January 29, 2013

Sunday, January 27, 2013

The Conformist


“Molina is the moviegoer as auteur.
Babenco was reaching for something
larger, something tragic and aggressively
moral”—Pauline Kael, The New Yorker

Perhaps this film, “The Conformist,” directed by Bernaldo Bertolucci is the reason why Manuel Puig preferred Jean-Louis Trintignant to play Molina in “Kiss of the Spider Woman”—rather than William Hurt.

European directors like Bertolucci, Visconti and Pasolini—as well as actors like Jean-Louis Trintignant—are relatively more sophisticated and acquainted with decadence and homosexuality on the screen. 

“The Conformist” was probably seen by Puig in Buenos Aires—known as the Berlin of South America. The way Trintignant plays Marcello, a repressed homosexual in pre-war Fascist Italy, is perhaps close to what Puig had in mind in terms of an actor who could authentically play a gay personality like Molina.

Molina and Marcello aren’t naïve when it comes to being gay in a repressive anti-gay fascist society—in many ways Italy and Argentina are scenes of the same perverted fascist belief systems.

Pauline Kael in her review of Spider Woman in The New Yorker quipped that “Hurt as Molina is like having a basset hound playing a chihuahua.”

The problem is did William Hurt have any experience or idea what goes through the head of a Latino drag queen—who like so many movie-loving gays had arranged a personal theater of romantic fantasy constantly playing inside her imagination.

Puig in his novel is saying that queens may be useless, silly window-dressing, like movie romances—but it can be lovely to enhance life, making it more rapturously giddy despite or because of how awful the world around them can be.

Trintignant plays Marcello in “The Conformist” with a homoerotic depth much more seriously and authentically—than a rather clueless Hurt who never quite manages to capture the pathos, irony and fag jouissance of Puig’s Molina. 

The Italian novelist Alberto Moravia who wrote the acerbic  “The Conformist” met Puig in a colloquium discussing movies in Rome. Moravia, a seasoned cineaste, was asked by Puig how a star’s presence affected the interpretation of a novel—wondering if it either strengthened or weakens a character.

One has to ask would Trintignant playing Molina had been as successful at Cannes and the Academy Awards—as William Hurt playing Molina was?

Obviously, one has to also ask to what extent did the Hollywood str8t bourgeoisie mentality—purposely “transumptively” recast Molina as a politically correct courageous heroic fag femme fatale in respect to Puig’s quite different version of Molina in his movie?

Puig wasn’t a sentimentalist. There is no authorial voice as such—and the motives behind what the men say are elusive. 

There’s an indication that both men are subversively using each other. Molina using Raul Julia to squeal to the warden—and to get her release. And Julia using Molina to pass the time and fuck every once in awhile. 

The movie supposedly about Molina’s transfiguration thru the power of love, happiness and self-respect (that is shedding his effeminate mannerisms)—all this bourgeois redemptive crap is as phony as the forties screen movies that Molina watches.

Puig shrugged—responding to interviewers with an author’s fatalism, alluding to the nasty old Hollywood story in which writers so often felt cheated fiscally as well as creatively.

The Other Molina

Jean-Louis Trintignat


“Ahora yo…soy tū”
(Now I…am you”)
—Manuel Puig
Kiss of the Spider Woman

“Puig had definite ideas—
about the kind of actor
who should play Molina.
His first choice was Jean-
Louis Trintignant” 
—Suzanne Jill Levine
Manuel Puig and the
Spider Woman: His
Life and Fictions

Just because La Hurt gets—
awarded the Cannes Palme d’Or
as well as the first Oscar for
Best Actor playing a faggy queen,
Manuel knew that such str8t
recognition was just a facade

It was the way that “La Metro”—
Hollywood posed & pretended
to be tres avant garde, rolling 
out the red carpet for itself to
be God’s gift to the queers.

"I found myself getting
used to watching Hurt
playing Hurt playing
Molina"—Manuel Puig

When really it was just simply—
Gloria Swanson doing her tacky
old Norma Desmond routine all
over again like “Sunset Boulevard”
with another great comeback as
she descends the spiral staircase
ready for her DeMille close-up again.

Glorious gauche Silver Screen—
tragic tacky Technicolor so very
crummy with Cinemascope and
syrupy Stereophonic kitsch with
lewd vapid VistaVision schmaltz,
butchy reverberations and dark
sinister faggoty misgivings

"Between Molina's
earthy levity and
Hurt's neurotic
intensity yawned
a huge abyss."
—Suzanne Levine
Manuel Puig and Kiss
of the Spider Woman

La Hurt playing maudlin Molina—
masculinized ersatz muy macho
dying for a heroic political cause,
missing the while point Puig was
making: that effeminate queens
aren’t necessarily cowardly when
it comes to being gay and proud

Saturday, January 26, 2013

After the Revolution


—for Richard Blanco

It was in the early Sixties—
and here they all were
spread out from Miami
all the way to New Orleans

Such a loud and nervous—
bunch of exiled young Cubans
speaking Spanish so very
quickly nobody could
keep up with them

Exiles of Castro’s revolution—
children of all the wealthy
Havana elite class: doctors,
lawyers, politicians, spawn
of gone Batista fat cat days

This was Latino diaspora—
Arenas, Servo Sarduy, 
Even Manuel Puig and
Kiss of the Spider Woman
exiled gay writers that
were more like me than
anybody thought back then

My exile was slower—
about as revolutionary
as a slug track of mucous
in some Garden of Str8t Eden
from which I’d been cast into
my own “gringo” diaspora

I was born in bondage—
raised in a pig sty of
bigots and exiled the
minute I started lisping,
swishing, flipping my
nelly fag weak wrists…

William Hurt as Luis Molina in "Kiss of the Spider Woman"

Thursday, January 24, 2013

Inaugural Poem


—for Richard Blanco

“Better to have a granddaughter
who’s a whore than a grandson 
who is un pato faggot like you”
—Richard Blanco, “Making a Man
Out of Me,” Who’s Yer Daddy?

Richard Blanco’s poem—
That he read that cold January
Day of the Inauguration
Caught America by surprise

Such a handsome Latino—
Born in Miami after Castro’s
Cuban Revolution and now
All these years later

But do things get better—
Does the abuse & bullying
Ever stop for our young gays
Exiling them to the Closet?

Did our Stonewall Riots—
And our Gay Revolution 
Ever trickle down to the
Young exiles of today?

So much homophobia—
Intergenerational warfare
Like Blanco’s prejudicial
Cuban grandmother 

Guilting the young poet—
For being effeminate and
Gay back when he was
Just seven years old

Philip Larkin knew it—
In his “This Be The Verse”
How they fuck you up, your 
Parents and your peer group

They mean to, they want to—
They fill you with the faults 
They had and add some extra
Especially just for you

Perhaps the only solution—
Letting the older generation
Finally kick the fucking bucket
Let Whitman back in town.

Wednesday, January 23, 2013

Devil in a Blue Dress


"A man once told me that you 
step out of your door in the 
morning, and you are already 
in trouble. The only question 
is are you on top of that trouble 
or not?”—Walter Mosley,
Devil in a Blue Dress

They told me I was gonna be good as new. What they didn’t tell me was—I’d end up in a blue dress. A Devil in a Blue Dress…

They flew me to Paris—it was the only place where the surgeons could do such a thing. That’s how I ended up in a blue dress—with a you-know-what down there. Instead of what I used to have.

“as different as a
funeral piano and
electric congo drums”
—Ahmos Zu-Bolton,
“Songs from An Afro/Phone
and Belly Song, Black World
September 1974

The surgeon was the best that money could buy, they said. Cosmetic surgery had come a long way since way back then—when all they did was to pull the wrinkles tight for an expensive Hollywood face-lift. That’s about all they could do.

Things had changed. Now they had stem-cell research—and different kinds of genetic reconstructive surgery. They could rebuild an aging broken body now—with new spare parts grown in test-tubes and huge reverse genetic engineering vats of swirling, stinky bio-chemicals.

That’s how my life as a Mickey Spillane detective in drag began all over again—shedding my previous existence as a rough-trade, no-nonsense, snarling Mike Hammer Private Eye Dick outta my hardcore pulp fiction tough guy days…

And now getting started all over again with a new life—posing as a Transvestite Private Dick in a Blue Dress. My last best-selling block-buster novel made into a movie—was “Kiss Me, Deadly” directed by Robert Aldrich and starring Ralph Meeker as the butchy private eye.

The only catch to this new deal I made with the devil was—I wouldn’t be a guy anymore. I’d end up a “Devil in a Blue Dress” instead. 

“’cause it had come to me
in less time than it takes
to think”— Walter Mosley,
Devil in a Blue Dress

My whole reputation as a macho mystery writer was gonna go down the drain—no more Ralph Meeker sociopathic shoot-then-ask-questions later muy macho Private Dick. 

In fact, I wouldn’t have a dick anymore at all—I’d be wearing a slinky chic sexy blue dress and no more private dick either, baby. I was gonna end up as a Transvestite Private Dick in a Blue Dress, honey. 

It was either that or “Goodbye, Sayonara, Adios, Auf Wiedersehen, Chou, baby” and that was that. I told them I’d never do it—getting reborn as a Private Dick without a dick and a pussy instead…

My publisher laughed, the Hollywood moguls just smirked—I was too valuable an All American Best Selling Mystery Writer to lose, more successful than even Hemingway, Henry James and Edgar Allan Poe.

“After all,” they said, “your first paperback pulp fiction Mickey Spillane blockbuster best seller, “I, the Jury”—got us millions and climaxed with a really surprise ending. 

“Yeah, sure—and WTF was that?” I said.

“You know,” the Hollywood mogul and Robert Aldrich said. “The Devil in the Blue Dress in “I, the Jury”—turns out to be a Transvestite Killer who gets it right in the fucking groin with a ’45 bullet, Ka-Bang!!!”

I nodded knowingly—something told me I was heading for a similar surprise ending too. A Ka-Bang right between my legs—and it wasn't gonna be pretty either with me as a reverse genetically-engineered Brain Transplant Transvestite Private Dick on the prowl that I’d end up becoming.

And sure enough—that’s how I ended up as a new improved version of tough-guy Mike Hammer doin' drag in a slinky smooth Devil’s Blue Dress.

Plus one other thing—I forgot to mention. My new persona was gonna be this chick named Daphne Monet—whose real name was Ruby. And Ruby was this swanky beautiful High Yellow Octoroon Lady—who was passing as white in high society. The same thing with me—I was gonna end up passing for white too. Except I was a white chick with a nice dark Creole cock...

Monday, January 21, 2013

Mulatto Kid Brother



I had this love-hate thing—
With my cute kid brother

Most kid brothers are just—
Stupid fucking pains in the butt

But young Tyrone was cute—
He was Black Chocolate Divinity!!!

He was tall, long and lanky—
And really good at basketball

He had this smooth sweet smile—
So Svelte the way he moved

Everything was a basketball court—
No matter what he was doing

He had these sexy slam shots—
That went straight thru my heart


Joseph Conrad’s Heart of Darkness—
Ran deep thru both Tyrone & me

Sometimes black genealogy—
Plays hide and seek with families

Hiding in the closet or like—

Hidden where it can’t be seen

Mother was a cute redhead—
A high yellow Chicago chick

I was fair-skinned too & my—
Pubes bright-orange like hers

But Tyrone was different—
His proud black genealogy showed

How could my young kid brother—
Sport a twelve inch piece of meat?

How could he be so sexy jet-black—
With a nice big uncut pink head?

Mother blamed her mother & father—
Especially her hung black chauffeur father

Or was it that Chicago black musician—
Young jazz saxophonist at the nightclub?


It was just your usual male incest—
Nothing more than some brotherly love

So what if it was male miscegenal—
Me in love with his big black meat?

I was full of penis envy for Tyrone—
I’m not ashamed to say so either

I felt short-changed with just six—
While Tyrone had a whole twelve inches

He knew I wanted it really bad—
So he played hard to get with me 

From junior high on Tyrone did—
This nasty “Sixty-Nine” on himself lots

He’d let me WATCH sometimes but—
I wasn’t supposed to like TOUCH!

He didn’t need a nice cute girlfriend—
He had his own really hot Expert Lips

Tyrone did himself twice a fucking day—
Then spit out the cum just-for me


I hated Tyrone because he’d—
Like drive me up the fucking wall

He’d tease me with his #1 thing—
I really wanted and needed it bad

His exquisite ebony manhood tool—
The thing made me just drop dead

Sometimes he’d give me a long kiss—
Letting me taste his drooling wad

Oozing slowly outta his tight lips—
Just for me my Romeo kid brother

But I couldn’t get my lips on it—
His engorged penis endowment why?

He’d just shrug and say too queer—
A real mind–fuck for me for sure

Tyrone said his dick was worth $1000—
You got that much dough, Big Brother?

He jived about his Nice Sex Life—
But his big black veiny Penis be Taboo!!!

His wad in itself worth plenty, though—
Just the taste of him made me cream

Then one day Yolanda showed up—
But she wouldn’t give Tyrone a fuck

So that’s how we started doing 3-ways—
Yolanda getting Tyrone’s upper half 

Me finally getting his tense lower half—
Her kissing upstairs with me down below

He didn’t come nice and smooth like—
More like riding a fucking bucking bronco 

I must’ve sprained my neck a dozen times—
But Tyrone sprained his dick even more

Finally Yolanda was like ready to FUCK—
Which left me outta the Big Bad Picture


I followed him home from school—
I didn’t trust him one little bit at all

I knew the first Thing he’d do—
Get naked in bed & suck himself off

He’d beat off in the shower too—
Simply just a terrible waste of cum

He’d masturbate all the fucking time—
I had to be eternally cum-vigilant

Just thinking of Tyrone getting himself off—
Such a greedy little fucking kid brother 

When he dropped outta school—
I thought good! Finally he’ll be all mine

But I was heart-broken & blue, oh man— 
When he signed up to join the NAVY!!!


I saved some of Tyrone for a rainy day—
A Crème of Olay Jar full of his nice Cum

It lasted for a short time, my dears—
A quickie reminder of my Lost Love

Talk about nostalgic dinge déjà vu—
A tart spasm of you know who!

How could I ever forget Tyrone—
Even though he done flew the coop

But Tyrone was glad to ditch me—
He actually hated me that much

He joined the Navy just to get—
Outta town & away from my lips

It was my queenly penis envy—
Wanting every fucking inch of him

I guess there’s nothing worse than—
Having an older faggoty brother?