Twin Sex


All the fucking way, man

Here on Ocean Drive—
It’s just you & your cum

I gotta taste you—
The real fucking you

C’mon, man, do it—
Let me taste you

Your nasty bro jizz—
You’re the only one

Gimme your wad—
I need to know you!!!!



Nick: Who did the painting?

George: Some Italian big shot Martha attacked one night in Rome.

Nick: It's got a...

George: A rather large sizequeen intensity?

Nick: Well, yes, a...

George: Yes, you mean a certain humongous almost Michelangelo-esque Sistine Chapel teenage virginal chicken cluck-cluck erectness to it maybe?

Nick: Yes, what I meant was...

George: How about a quietly cozy relaxed young masculine David tres Vatican nude semi-hard intensity? Veined ever so thickly and convolutedly like the exquisite Bernini columns of Rome? 

Nick: Hmmm, yes I think…

George: Ah, my dear boy. You know what they say. All the ladies in there Rome are coming and going—swishing and whispering sweet nothings about those ever so lewd & lascivious paintings and sculptures by the infamous you-know-who Miss Michelangelo…???

Nick: You’re so truly very astute, George…

George: Well, my dear Nick, look at it this way. We take all this incredible trouble to construct a civilization, to build a society based on the principles of... what? Hmmmm?

Nick: Yes? Beauty? Knowlege? Science? Medicine?

George: Hardly, my dear. More like like based on the Premier Principles of Prim and Proper Passionless Power and Pitiless Propriety. 

Nick: Hmmm.

George: Disguising it all like a wedding cake with frosting, candles, angels and hope for the future. All that fake, ersatz drag portraiture there in the Sistine Chapel — all the queer pomp and breeder power of the State like the Vatican, my dear. Masquerading it with talented artists like homo Miss Michelangelo. That’s how you make government and art one — realizing that they are, must be, both the same to the breeder masses. Our Heavenly Father tres homogenized  both homonormative and heteronormative as well. One big happy family...

Nick: Huh?

George: Yes, my dear boy, the Word, Society, Heaven and Hell — it all only happens when Martha says so. That's when we bring things to the saddest of all points — to that last inevitable point where there is nothing more to lose. 

Nick: Huh?

George: That's when, all at once, down through all this shitty divine Architecture, down through all the insane sounds of men constantly building Skyscrapers and Temples and then tearing down once again, attempting to erect grand edifices truly like the looming Tower of Babel—it's then, my dear Nick, that suddenly out of the blue comes down the fateful Endgame chorus of Divine Heavenly Artist, the bored and disgusted Artiste himself, ascending with his host of Tragedy Queen minions and Angels, accompanied by the usual kitschy Apocalyptic blaring trumpets and nervous slithery Zither music right out of "The Third Man" Vienna gutters and sewers, yes, my dear, not from above but from the dark moody depths of Miss Orson Welles' demise down there, that's where the final Dies Irae lovely melancholy chorus music emerges, up through the manholes and sewers and gutters of our so-called Austrian-Hungarian Empires or Roman Empires or whatever you want to call it, my dears...

Nick: My dear, George... I'm simply flummoxed!!!

George: And what is it? What does the Trumpet sound like in our shocked bourgeois ears?

“Up yours!!!”



[Martha is sipping another martini. Dead Danny has been removed from the livingroom and stuffed in the laundry-room. Martha has begun another one of her bitch rants, denigrating her poor husband, George]

Martha: A drowning man takes down those nearest.

George: A drowning woman just screams and sinks.

Martha: Sometimes she takes her son and husband with her. One big happy family, as they say.

George: It worked with the Titanic. It won’t with me.

[Martha has changed again. This time into a lovey puce kimono with simply fabulous pink flamingos mincing about ever so delicately and demurely on a rather kitschy Trailer Park’s trashy lawn]

George: Forget it, Martha. You can sit around with the gin running out of your mouth; you can humiliate me all you want; you can read my beads all night, that's perfectly okay, that's all right with me.

Martha: You can stand it!

George: As long as you’ve got money in the bank.

Martha: You can stand it, you married me for it!

Nick: May I use the... uh... bar?

George: Oh, yes... yes... by all means. Drink away... you'll need it as the years go on.



[Next scene has Danny and Martha getting in on— there on the Persian carpet right there on the floor in front of the shocked agawk cocktail guests, Nick and Honey. It’s a quickie that doesn’t last that long. Not long enough to satisfy Martha’s simply jaded pussy however...]

George: Well, I'm rather impressed, Martha.

Martha: You're damn right.

George: I said I was impressed. Not beside myself with jealousy, Martha. What do you want me to do, throw up?

[Danny’s acting dead again, passed out, drained dry, deader than a doornail this time hopefully for sure. It took all he could do—just to escape from the nut house and ring the doorbell. One last fuck with Mommy Dearest was surely the end of the line for the poor kid. But then one never knows...]

George: See? Now that's how it’s done, Nick! As a young assistant professor, all you have to do is take over a few classes from the older men like me—and work your way up the good old tenure ladder. But it means you've gotta start plowing the petty pouty pertinent faculty wives first—that’s when you really start working your way upward toward any supreme advancement in tres esteemed Academe.

Nick: Thanks, George. After all, you should know, being the chairman of our highly esteemed Ivy League Department of Transylvanian Literature…

George: Yes, the broad, inviting Avenue to a man's tenure and promotion is through his wife, my dear boy, and don't you forget it. Your wife… and all the other greedy needy horny faculty whore wives. 

Nick: Thanks George! I'll bet your wife Martha has the broadest, most inviting Avenue in this whole Ivy League exquisitely louche campus.

[long pause]

George: For example, Nick. Martha’s dear father was the former Chairman of the Trans Lit Department, before I got here, twenty years ago.

Nick: Really, George? Is that how you became Chairman... by marrying lovely Martha?

George: Well, Martha's got money because Martha's father's second wife — not Martha's mother, but after Martha's mother died — was a very rich old bitch with lots of dough and venereal warts to prove it.

Nick: She was a Bitch?

George: She was amazingly like Martha. She was a rich bitch, and she married Martha’s whimpy mousy father who must have nibbled her sex-starved needy pussy or something like that, because soon after she went up in a puff of smoke almost immediately.

Nick: Really?

George: Really. And all that was left, aside from some foul memories and some rather warty lips was a nice big fat will plus an obscenely rich bank account. That's why Martha is so fucking spoiled.

Nick: Your wife never mentioned all that.

George: Maybe it isn't true.



The story that Richard Burton tells George Segal out in the back yard—George leaning up against the tree as Nick is sitting on the rope swing.

Yes, my dears, it’s a true tear-jerker about—this kid who accidentally shoots his mother, then kills his father in an awful car accident…

The story’s really about me though and what I would have truly wanted to do with both George and Martha—my shitty pair of loathsome parents who I wanted to simply get rid of once & for all.

But they beat me to it—knowing what I was seriously planning to do. Yes, they beat me to it—and had me fucking committed to an insane asylum before I could do the much-needed dastardly deed.

Martha: [derogatorily, to George] Hey, creepy! Hey creepy!

George: Yes, Martha? Can I get you something?

Martha: Ah, well, sure. You can, um, you can kiss my royal ass, honey, if you're of a mind to.

George: No. There are limits, Martha. I mean, a man can put up with only so much before he descends a rung or two down the old evolutionary ladder, just simply to like Kiss your Big Fat Royal Ass, my dear.

Martha: But George, you used to kiss it all the time?

George: Now, Martha, I’ll hold your hand when it's dark and you're afraid of our son the boogeyman coming back to blow our brains out. And I will hide your gin bottles under the bed so no one can see them—but I will not kiss your truly big fat royal ass any more. And that, as they say, is that.

Martha: Well, you're going bald. And you can’t get it up anymore. And even if you wanted to…

George: Only a blind man with a white cane would want to fuck you Martha, being blind and easily deceived, only such a man could be tricked into even possibly fucking you now, my dearest.

[The doorbell rings]

George: Jesus. It’s him again. Don’t answer it.

Nick: [to Honey] We'd better be going, Honey.

George: Oh no. No, you can’t. Our birthday guest has arrived. We get to see him once a year. He hasn’t changed in at all, you know—not since he was sixteen years old and we committed him.

Martha: Don’t listen to George. Our son is still alive and well—and enjoying being a pampered guest at a simply fabulously ritzy jet-set spa. A very expensive one too—way up there in the Swiss Alps, you know.

George: Foolish fickle fop. Don’t listen to Martha. We committed him to an insane asylum a year ago, since he hated us so much he wanted to rub us out.

Martha: That’s a bald-faced, naked Lie!

George: See? He takes after his mother. Oh Jeez! Just look... Now, Martha has even changed into her sexy, slinky, black silk negligee—and Martha never does that for me anymore. It’s just for you, Nick and Honey. And demented Danny. Martha hasn't changed for me in simply years. If Martha is changing, that means we're going to play our little game.

Honey: Game? I simply love to play games.

George: Yes, Honey, our game’s called "Our Dead Young Son the Boogeyman” game. You're being accorded quite an auspicious honor, my dears, and you mustn't forget that Martha has always been incestuously in love with her smutty young juvenile delinquent sixteen-year-old handsome son.

[Nick and Honey act mock-shocked]

George: Martha loves her cute son simply desperately, you know, but I’ll leave that sort of naughty dirty talk to Martha herself.

[Martha throws her glass of gin at George]

Martha: You make me sick.

George: Well, you make me sick.

Martha: That's different.

[The doorbell rings again]

Martha: Hey! It's him again...

George: Hark! Jungle sounds.

Martha: Well, George, aren't you gonna answer it?

George: Primitive animal noises.

George: He’s a monster—our son really is, you know.

Martha: You’re loud and vulgar, but I wear the pants in this house because—somebody's got to. And my son is not a monster. He’s just, well, simply very well-hung and needy, that’s all…

George: You’re the needy one. You've spoiled him, Martha—made him self-indulgent, willful, dirty-minded, liquor-ridden and simply hopelessly sex-obsessed... it's all your fucking fault...

Martha: CRAP! It’s always just CRAP! I'm not gonna even try to deal with all this Georgie-Pie CRAP any more. There was a time back then, yeah, back when we first got married, when I could get through to him, when maybe we could have cut through all this, this CRAP. But it's over, and I'm not gonna even try.

[The doorbell rings again]



[The doorbell rings]

Danny: Hi there, folks. Nobody answered the doorbell. But I could hear everybody having a good time in inside, so I decided just to say VIOLA!

Martha: Danny, dearest! Just look at you now! Why, my dear, you haven’t changed one little teensy weensy bit, my little honey child.

George: Well, well… look what the cat dragged in. Here we go again. Fasten your seatbelts, my dears. It’s gonna be a bumpy night.

Martha: And to think, dearest Danny, you’ve only been gone for a year? It seems like just yesterday! When we stuffed you in the Nut House?

Danny: Hello, Mommy Dearest. And you too, Big Daddy. Like I’ve come back for a little unfinished business after a year in the Loony Tune House.

George: Try and Martha will beat you to the punch. She’s got a .45 in her purse, Danny boy.

Martha: Is that a threat George, huh?

George: No, you're a threat, Martha.

Martha: Oh, forget him, baby. George is such a crummy stupid bourgeois puke.

George: Be careful Martha. He's surely going to do us all in that's for sure. Just look at him. He’s got awfully mean-looking over the past year, after being in an insane asylum all this time, honey-bunch.

Danny: I’m man enough. Gimme the Vaseline.

George: In front of our guests?.
Martha: I can’t wait.

George: I’m used to sloppy seconds.
Martha: You’re used to anything, George.

Danny: Did you really think I was going to kill you?George and Martha? My own mother and father?

Martha: You, kill me? That's a laugh.
George: Well now, he might some day.
Martha: Fat chance. You kill me every day, George.

George: So, how are things in the Nut House?
Danny: Good. Better. Best. Bested.



I’m George and Martha's unseen—
Gay sixteen year old son, whose 
Bad Boy Birthday is tomorrow

You’re cordially invited to—
George and Martha's somewhat
Rather dumpy old dive, my dears

For an evening of fun & games—
My Violet-Eyed Venus Mommy Dearest
The Boring, Boozing, Tired, Old Witch

While George my bumbling Father—
Mumbles and grumbles about not
Wanting to talk about me

Well, you might ask, my dears—
What George my esteemed professor
Daddy doesn’t wanna talk about?

We’ll get to that later but I’ll tell—
You this, my incarceration in the
Nuthouse and exile wasn’t pretty

So c’mon, my dears, drop in for—
Drinks and Brace yourself for our usual
Birthday Bash so gayly celebrated

If I’d been either Mommy or Daddy—
Married to Martha or George, I surely
Would’ve divorced them long ago

Unfortunately, though, I happened—
To have the misfortune of being their
Maladjusted, malformed faggot son

They couldn’t divorce me, my dears—
Even if they wanted to, so instead they
Blamed me on the faults of each other

I was a bitch because Martha certainly—
Was a Bitch and I was a Failure because
That’s what George was at the College

I swear, I'd have divorced them both—
But how can you possibly divorce your
Own parents no matter how tacky?

So, sweetheart, I drank them both—
Under the goddamn table every night
So they didn’t worry about me anymore!!!

I’d change into an embarrassingly tight—
And revealing drag outfit, why I looked so
Tres innocent in my Sunday chapel dress!

They’d say I was the apple of their lovely—
Three eyes, Martha being a Cyclops, and me
Being a Bad Boy just like Big Daddy

Martha would say I reminded her of my—
Father, followed by “You make me puke”
Not a very nice thing to say, my dears

Then George would say: “Martha you're—
Buried in cement right up to the neck, no
Up to the nose, it's much quieter that way”

Then Martha would say: “Everybody's a flop. 
My husband's a flop, I'm a flop, my son is
A faggoty effete effeminate nelly flop!!!”

Naturally I got tired of it all, the drinking—
Bitching, Martha vomiting in the sink plus
All the screaming going on around the joint

I’d get nasty and testy, too, naturally—
Anybody who came around our dumpy dive
There next to campus ended up that way

Martha never gave up and George never—
Was happy, they disgusted each other and
I hopelessly reminded them of each other

Martha & George, my mother & father—
Both of whom I reviled kept teaching me new
Games to play for mind-fucking myself

They made me unhappy like they were—
That’s the only way both of them were happy
And they wanted me to be happy too!!!

George and Martha so sad, sad, sad—
Whom I'll never forgive for looking at me 
& saying: “Yes, you’ll just have to do”

Twins in Love


The sex lives of Twins—
So often a taboo mystery

But I’m here to tell you—
Twins are the only way to go

Brotherly love is okay—
Older brother younger brother

I’ve been there, done that—
Infatuated with the Taste

The virile tangy Taste—
Of a young kid brother

There’s nothing like the—
Taste of your Family Tree

Siamese twins they say—
They’re even Telepathic

That’s when the shit—
Really hits the fan, girl

Like in that Siamese flick—

One falls in love with a—
Chick, the other gets left out

Like what’s a guy to do—
Feeling his brother cum?

Like being left out of—
The usual hetero action?

What A Dump!!!


“What a dump!”—Bette Davis 

“What a dump!”—Elizabeth Taylor

What a dump—
just looking around

All my so-called—
Literary heroes

Kerouac & Miss Ginsberg—
Ze Beatniks l'enfant terrible

Neal Cassidy the Stud—
Angelic hipster Hustler

The Fifties & Sixties—
I worshipped them

Every novel, poem—
City Lights Enlightment

But that was then—
and this is now

Now I’m just another—
Jaded Baby Boomer Queen

So much for ON THE ROAD—
and Jack Kerouac’s Fifties

Handsome heroic hoodlums—
car thieves braggadocio 

Cowboy cocky cocksmen—
Gene Audrey look-alikes 

Only queer closeted writers—
like Miss Kerouac could fall

For cheesy con-artists like—
Neal Cassady hip-hustler prick

Who ditched his male lovers—
along the side of the road

Neal Cassidy's endless road trips
strung out on speed and illusions

Found dead in Mexico—
along some railroad tracks

So much for HOWL and—
Miss Ginsberg’s doomed dharma

So much for Naropa and—
the SF Gay Literary Renaissance

So much for Judy Garland—
and the Stonewall Riots

So much for all the gone—
Gay bookstores & discotheques

So much for that whole gone—
Dead AIDS gay Generation

So much for the beatniks—
Hippies and Slackers today

Welcome to Gay Guignol, honey—
BABY JANE be back again!!!

“What a fuckin dump!”—
Bitchy Bette Davis smirks

“Your turn, Blanche,” she says—
pushing Joan Crawford’s Wheelchair

Down the fuckin creepy stairs—

No more ratty din-din—
for nagging bitchy Blanche!!!

No time for dreary deary—
Queer Theory Queen Bees

Too late for Marlene Dietrich’s—
Weimar cabaret Swan Song

Tragic GLBT alphabet soup—
too late for that too, honey

Time to strap on your Dildo—
and Sip your last Martini, baby

After all, my dears—
Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf?

Gay Soaps as Theater of the Absurd


“What of this theater? Is it, as it
has been accused of being, obscure
sordid, destructive, antitheater, 
perverse, and absurd (in the sense
of foolish?”—Edward Albee, “Which
Theater Is The Absurd One?” 

Are Gay Soaps like the Theater of the Absurd?

Is the popular soap opera “Real Housewives” like Samuel Beckett’s “Krapp’s Last Tape,” Jean Genet’s “The Balcony” and Eugene Ionesco’s “Rhinocerous”?

Are the works of Beckett, Ionesco and Genet any more absurd than the various episodes of the modern soap opera “Real Housewives”?

In her “The Theater of the Absurd” summing up the absurdist movement, Miss Esslin writes:

“Ultimately, the Theater of the Absurd does not reflect despair or a return to dark irrational forces”

“It expresses modern man’s endeavor to come to terms with the world in which he lives”

“It attempts to make him face up to the human condition as it really is, free from illusions”

“To face reality in all its senselessness”

“To accept it freely, without fear, with out illusions”

“To laugh at it”

Quite a tres uppity list for any Theater, my dears. But can we possibly say in all seriousness that Soap Operas like “Real Housewives” are absurdist theater?

Enter William Cliff and his drag version of “Baby Jane?” (2009)—based on the original Grande Dame Guignol campy thriller “What Ever Happened to Baby Jane?” (1962).

The Drag version tends to portray Bette Davis even more campy and absurd than she is already in the original film. Mathew Martin, a tres talented drag star, plays the shrewish aging Jane Hudson. With J. Conrad Frank, another exquisite drag artiste, playing cripple wheelchair bound poor Blanche Hudson.

The same could be done with the Richard Burton-Elizabeth Taylor bitchy campy classic “Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf?” (1966). Drag star Mathew Martin playing the bitchy queen bee Martha and equally campy J. Conrad Frank playing poor insipid disillusioned mawkish George the poor husband.

You know, something along the lines of absurdist theater—like a trashy obscene version entitled “What Ever Happened to Vagina Woolf?” 

What Ever Happened to Vagina Woolf?

Matthew Martin & J. Conrad Frank in “Baby Jane” (2010)


“Have you ever been tempted to 
write about a same sex relationship?”
—Stephen Bottoms

“I don’t see that much of a difference 
between heterosexual and homosexual 
relationships, if they are two people 
really involved with each other, trying 
to make life together. I don’t see that 
much difference, except that the 
homosexual couple have to fight a lot 
of prejudices, and illegalities.”

—Edward Albee, “Borrowed Time: 
An Interview with Stephen Bottoms,” 
Stretching My Mind: The Collected Essays

Well, my dears—
Perhaps it’s time for a campy
Queer parody of Miss Woolf?

You know, like William Clift—
Did with “What Ever Happened
To Baby Jane?” (1962)

A parody/homage/horror/comedy—
Starring Matthew Martin the best 
Bette Davis impersonator of all time... 

Who else could do a drag version—
Of tres bitchy Elizabeth Taylor as
“Martha” the Virginia Woolf Shrew?

Plus J. Conrad Frank who played—
Blanche as poor wimpy Sandy Dennis
George Segal’s ditzy two-bit wife?

Mike Finn who played the smarmy—
Edwin, let her be cute Miss Segal
But who to play Richard Burton?

The handsome Vincent De Paul 
(Hairspray) as Detective Bill or
Jeff Dylan Graham as Detective Joe?

Probably nobody can possibly—
Outdo for tres campy male hysteria
The Queen Bee herself Miss Burton…

Choosing “Baby Jane” to do a—
Drag version of “Vagina Woolf”
Seems to be the best way to go

We choose “Baby Jane” to portray—
Miss Woolf so the audience won’t 
Lose the Drag Queen Perspective

Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolf?


“…all art is artifice; it is this artifice, 
this metaphorical distancing which 
gives art its reality, its power.”
—Edward Albee, Stretching My Mind: 
The Collected Essays

I was sitting there in the Roxy Theater with a jam-packed audience of moviegoers who’d flocked to the theater to see the controversial new film “Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolf” (1966).

There’s this scene in the film when Richard Burton and George Segal are in the back yard at night, taking a breather from the ongoing bitchy Martha Nightmare back inside—and Burton is telling this story to Segal. 

At some point in this charming little somewhat boozy tête-à-tête, Miss Burton reaches out and touches the knee of Miss Segal who’s sitting drunk in the swing. It seemed to me a rather innocent gesture—so what?

But there was this uptight lady in the row behind me who suddenly gasped loudly so that everybody could distinctly hear her shocked reaction. She said: “Oh no!!! Not THAT!!!”

A hush grew over the Moviegoing audience—as everybody tensed in expectancy, expecting the very worse homosexual thing to happen. A blowjob?

A persuasive Proposition by Miss Burton, a perhaps terribly closeted professor of that esteemed high-ranking Ivy League College he was employed at? Surely nobody could blame him—not with such a vicious bitchy wife as Elizabeth Taylor the Witch!!!

I scooted down in my seat, expecting anything to happen at this point in this shocking str8t movie. This flamingly bizarre dark domestic heterosexual melodrama. I simply LOVED it…

Nothing happened, though. 

It was all very so-so low-key man-to-man butchy male talk, but after the previous ongoing tres trashy bitch-fight between Miss Burton and Liz, well, the poor movie audience was ready for anything to fucking happen. 

I noticed the lady in back of me didn’t grab her husband and storm out of the theater. They stayed and ogled at the simply marvelously revealing Edward Albee masterpiece—just like I did, honey.