In a previous
article for Bent I confessed that the onset of Multiple Sclerosis
and all that accompanied my diagnosis had for the first time released
me to admit my true sexual nature. Not only to admit it but to
enjoy it. With support from my children and those I care about
I didn't want to hide any more. I'm embarrassed to say that I
even used the phrase "born again homo."
It really is the
way I feel, though in retrospect it sounds a bit glib, a bit flashy,
not what we Brits are supposed to be like. In reality we are the
most vulgar nation in the world. Just look at Anne Robinson, voted
TV's rudest woman for her role on "The Weakest Link." Even Mike
Tyson calls her "One Mean Momma!" I was brought up within streets
of her in the same city
Speaking of vulgarity,
I refuse to entertain any thoughts of good taste in the paragraphs
that follow. I want to write about sex, and if I need to be tasteless
in order to make my point, so much the better. More precisely, I
want to write about gay male anal sex, a topic that should come
as no surprise, since BENT bills itself as "A Journal of Cripgay
Voices," but the writing I find here seems more crip than gay. Some
contributors are funny, some so profound that weeks later I find
myself mulling over their views, but, Julio Moreno and Max Verga
excepted, I find that BENT writers don't write much about sex, a
subject the popular press insists that all of us queers are obsessed
Sex is something
that my condition has set me to thinking about incessantly. Since
my advancing MS has meant a degree of nerve damage that even Viagra
cannot remedy, I had begun to believe that my time was running out,
erotically speaking. Straps, rings, and other means of trapping
blood in my penis do help, but as my hands fail I fear that after
applying a strap for a little solitary pleasure I may have to call
the paramedics to release me. I don't fancy ending up as one more
chapter in the medical profession's Funny Stories Library, like
those men whose idea of fun with the fundament involves leaving
light bulbs and large vegetables behind. "Hey, did you hear about
the guy who poured concrete up his ass and then let it set?" Yes,
that particular case was treated with maternity forceps. I warned
you I was intent on being tasteless.
My choices, along
with my sexual horizons, seemed to be diminishing relentlessly.
"Oh well," I thought with resignation, "too soon for the hemlock.
If I can't be active I shall try being passive." So I started some
research on the Net, where I discovered plenty of advice: sites
with instructions on how to do it, how to prepare for it, and how
to practice with graduating sizes of blunt objects so that the body
becomes acclimatized instead of traumatized.
My research led
to some linguistic confusion when I visited sites selling sex aids
and toys. Most are American and so employ American words, but "Jelly
Dong"? Being an amateur student of American English, jelly, I had
been led to believe, is a substance we Brits call jam, or fruit
conserve, much used at teatime to spread on buttered crumpets and
toast, while our "jelly" is something you call Jell-O. Which brings
us to "Dong." Isn't that a unit of Vietnamese currency?
sorted out, I busied myself with warm water, KY, and a pink plastic
(vibrations optional) body insert. I'll confess that after a bad
experience in my youth, I have thought of anal sex as one of those
practices you might engage in because the "other person" wants it.
You are in a relationship, and you do for the other what he desires,
in hope of reciprocity. All quite mechanical.
I debuted my new
paraphernalia in a solo performance. The result was OK but it didn't
rate an entry in my diary. Still, in for a penny in for a pound,
so when I met a guy on the Internet we gave it a try. The first
encounter was not bad. A bit messy but acceptable, so we met again.
He is kind and considerate and though not as young as he first claimed,
his purportedly twenty-six-year-old body could pass for seventeen.
His bubble butt, his slim, almost hairless physique, his lovely
eyes . . . Am I in love? I don't want to be, but I think I am.
Our second meeting
was like a lottery win. Totally unexpected, pleasure beyond measure,
an ecstatic experience. I was able to relax and trust Andrew with
my body. He entered me slowly, carefullyalmost reverently.
When he judged the moment was right, and with reassurances from
me, he became gratifyingly vigorous! An image of steam hammers sprang
to mind as the focus of my being shifted to my abdomen and the internal
workout it was receiving.
On and on he went,
pistoning into me, the rhythm of his flesh slapping against mine.
For seconds, maybe minutes (I can't be sure), he kept me on the
edge of orgasm, until I was convinced that unless I parted with
semen I might take leave of my senses. I swear I only touched my
penis once before I unleashed a torrent. It was as if, throughout
my life, a little semen had been left after each previous ejaculation
and this was the time to clear out all of it, not only the cum but
the repressed sexual feelings as well, in one giant orgasm. I have
never been so wet, so contentso puzzled that I had not tried
it before. In short, I was dumbfounded. This new experience was
as intense as that never-to-be-forgotten, very first orgasm at the
age of thirteen. But now I am in my fifties and thought I knew all
there was to know.
me that the center of sexual pleasure in a man need not be his penis
but can instead be deep inside, in some place that feels like the
middle of the soul. I learned for the first time what a truly visceral
experience an orgasm can be. I had had my prostate massaged before,
but a finger is nothing like the sublime stroking Andrew gave me
with his penis. My Multiple Sclerosis, which meant a limp dick and
an ever-encroaching sexual desert, now seemed like the portal to
a pleasure garden, a place where, like other men, I can find gratification.
So this is the
experience condemned by ministers of Church and State! Are they
jealous we are adventurous beyond their imagination? Or do they
fear we may abandon our daily routines to give each other such pleasure?
"Oh, no sir! This elevator can't move just yet, the operator is
getting rodgered around the corner. He'll be here soon!" For those
who believe scripture prohibits anal sex I have only this to ask:
would a loving creator construct an individual to his own design,
then fill him full of guilt by prohibiting him from following his
pre-determined drives? If so, that's a strange interpretation of
a loving God.
It's a surprise
to me that men don't riot in the streets, demanding more anal orgasms,
the older men burning their "Y" fronts, the younger their boxers
and thongs! Make the cost of Velcro on trouser flies tax deductible
(faster access to the parts of interest). Let us make an end to
this matriarchal bias: being entered sexually is not the exclusive
domain of women. Let us assert, with our feminist allies, "This
is my body. I am the final arbiter of what happens to it."
Wouldn't it be
truly revolutionary if that assertion encompassed the possibility
of anal pleasure for all men, gay and straight? Picture fathers
and uncles, mentors of masculine pleasure, presiding at school graduations
to give their sons and nephews instruction on prostatic orgasm.
Now there is a revolutionary thought. Is it in very bad taste? I
hope so. Revolutions usually are.
My MS has reminded
me that this life is no rehearsal. The here-and-now is as good as
it gets, and if it's not good enough, it's up to you to make it
better. That goes double for all of us crippled faggots. Don't make
excuses for not getting the sexual satisfaction you want. America
(says this snotty Limey!) is the great CAN DO country, after all.
So do it. My own erotic conversion demonstrates my "can do" thesis
in a small way. I am aware that some of us, because of the nature
of our impairments, might need more help than others, so I was heartened
to see in the contacts section of BENT a guy advertising his services
as a sexual facilitator. What a great idea, but "only in America,"
I fear. I suspect that to many of our caregivers and personal assistants,
our sexual needs, or even the thought that we may have (or want)
a sex life, is anathema. But that's for another article.
Finally, let me
end with the ultimate tasteless associated topic, that function
of the anus that we don't like to discuss. True, it is intended
for excretion, but is that all? Our anatomy and our natural predilections
make it clear that the anus is not meant solely for storage and
evacuation any more than the penis is just a urine faucet. Both
are designed for pleasure as well.
But what about
the mess? What about hygiene? A washout with tepid water is simple
to achieve. And the mess? Well, mess is what life is all about,
something we prefer to deny in our sanitized age. All of our important
bodily activities produce mess. Death. Birth (have you seen what
happens at a delivery? Yes, there's often some shit). And when it
comes to that other insertive sexual activity, heterosexual intercourse,
that can be messy, too (It's a very inexperienced straight guy who
has never been "blooded" in bed).
Lately, I have
had my share of accidents, incontinence included. What they taught
me was how matter-of-fact shit is. You simply get on with cleaning
it up. These days I expect the possibility of an accident and I'm
prepared for the rare occasions when it might happen. It could be
me, it could be my partner, whether he's abled or another crip.
I refuse to allow attitudes to be a barrier to my own erotic fulfillment,
simple as that. And anyway, a little bit of shit is not too high
a price to pay for the sublime feelings that backing into bliss
©2002 Frank Hughes
Let us know what you think
of this BENT feature.
Hughes maintains that "Bios are always difficult. This
is what I read about myself (or my star sign, at least) recently
in Queerpalm.com., and I cannot argue with any of it! 'Aries: You
are the pioneer type and think most people are dickheads. You are
quick, original and just plain disgusting to be around. You do nothing
and still piss off everyone you come in contact with. You are a
prick. You are honest and direct, and the first to find a motel
room when your boss or your friend's lover is horny. You read the
text in sex manuals and try to follow it by the numbers. Aries is
the type of guy that promises 10 inches and turns out to only be
BENT: A Journal of CripGay