Sex
Feel his guns?
Have straight guys finally transcended their queer fear, or is their flirtation just another version of homophobia?
My boss told me to feel his guns.
This was out of nowhere, apropos of nothing. I swear, I did not know where to put my hands.
I know where I wanted to put them. This is a handsome, well-built man (not a Calvin Klein’s Eternity model type, but a down-to-earth, attractive, masculine individual for whom I would enjoy suffering rug burns). But we were in the middle of our workplace and we were not alone. Another male co-worker received the same invitation. The co-worker is straight, my boss is straight, and I — not to put too fine a point on it — fall somewhere between a horny little queer and a dirty old man. Also, my boss is married: happily, faithfully. I don’t think he would play around with a sexy, vibrant, delightfully female co-worker even if the opportunity arose. I also don’t think he has even one toe in the closet. Nevertheless:
“Feel my guns,” he insisted.
My short hairs tingled, my knees turned heavy as lead and it was all I could do not to drop on the spot. I wanted my hands on his thighs and on the high round temples of his ass and on those swing-low-sweet testicles of his.
I’ll feel your guns, all right.
Back in reality, he wanted us to feel how solid his arms were (“Oh, OK, mmm, yeah, wow, geez!”), and I’m sure it had something to do with what we’d been talking about, but my synapses got so overheated I couldn’t remember.
It was a powerhouse moment, but it did not happen in a vacuum. A few days later, he came over to me and, in front of several people, flicked my left nipple for about 15 seconds. I believe my face went through all seven colors of the rainbow.
“I’m not trying to be frisky,” he said. “I’m just letting you know that your name tag is missing.”
I may never wear it again.
Then there was the time he invited me into his office while he was changing shirts. There are also the inevitable dirty jokes, the references to his balls being hung out to dry or getting fucked by his boss without lube or pissing matches between him and another department manager.
He would never behave this way with a female employee. In fact, none of the straight men joke around with the women, or touch without absolute consent and obviously pure intentions.
But they play around with us fags.
Every year we add new young men to the mix: boys, really, 20-year-olds from the Philippines, from Colombia, from Alabama and from Nebraska. (For some reason, women tend to gravitate toward other shifts in this department.) A lot of these guys started with some serious homophobia around me. I’ve had more than one lecture about how I’m going to hell, about how disgusting gay men are in general. (“Nothin’ against you, man, y’unnerstand, but the fags in this city are fucking sick, ya know?”) Six months later, they’re play-humping each other in front of God and everybody, and egging me on to feel their asses (“Go ahead, it’s still virgin, prime meat, Dude, you know you want it, g’wan, stick it in, I’m juicy!”).
Trying to keep up can be so exhausting.
I would love to believe that this is part of an educational process, a few steps down some garden path toward wisdom and compassion, but I’m not so sure.
It all reminds me of a pissing/cruising scene I saw in the Washington Square tearoom in New York City.
This toilet was so filthy and so full of activity, it took my breath away on both counts. These guys did not have a shy bone in their, um, bodies. Tougher than shit, too. The muscular arms and thick necks I saw looked more like the product of prison than Gold’s Gym. It’s possible that these guys got their outfits from the Gangsta department at Macy’s, but to me they looked very real and very dangerous and very attractive. I was apparently too white-bread, middle-class and middle-aged to attract any interest (much to my disappointment), but I had to stay and take in the vibe, at least.
Then five or six guys surged in, all loud and sweaty and in uniforms, obviously members of some soccer team. Far from being surprised at what they saw, these guys seemed to take pride in being the coolest of customers. They stood far from the urinals, as if to prove that they had no reason to hide and nothing to fear. They didn’t pretend to be blind either; indeed, they checked out the whole situation and everyone in it quite clearly.
Wow, score another one for the revolution! I thought.
Hardcore jocks unfazed by in-your-face queer behavior? We can all kiss and go home, be friends.
And men won’t have to pick up guns anymore to prove how heterosexual they are. They won’t have to kill people, and then take their own lives, to kill some softness inside.
If this nation wants to have a serious dialogue about male violence, it must address internalized homophobia. I’m not saying every murderer is a closet case, but ignoring fear of the queer would make any discussion dishonest and useless.
Was that toilet the scene of male enlightened attitudes? Once again, after more thought, I’m not convinced. Those soccer guys may have strolled out of that park and made fag jokes for the next two hours. And that guy at work who wants me to feel his ass every other night, well, I wonder what he does with his buddies at 3 in the morning.
But even if they mean no harm, does a cool attitude and some playful flirting change anything?
I’m afraid that the male dynamic at work here might be the studly stance of being sexually ready for anything. Of not having an emotional response to any situation.
Eric, my ex-lover, told me about this straight guy, Johnny, who was an adorable, outrageous flirt. After a year and a half of hot lube jokes and nipple pinching, Eric decided to take it to the next level: He invited Johnny over for a few beers.
Johnny got drunk. They started fooling around. Now Eric’s apartment was not quite a dungeon, but he made his own four-poster bed and there were chains and handcuffs in all the appropriate places. Johnny got more drunk, and laughingly agreed to be put into the restraints.
Eric never touched him that night.
He waited till the next morning. He greeted Johnny with a strong hot cup of coffee and a straw, because Johnny was still in the restraints. And here was the moment Eric got to deliver his well-practiced speech.
“OK, punk, I’m gonna fuck the shit outta you and I’m gonna do it while you’re sober so you can’t pretend that nothing happened. You been leading me on for more than a year, lying to yourself that it was all just in fun. Just teasing. You didn’t mean it. Bullshit. You meant it. And now you’re gonna get it. The lies stop here. Any questions?”
Whatever happened to Johnny? The story ended there, and perhaps for the best. Eric would never tell me what happened.
This may sound over the top, but I worry: What are we doing to ourselves, men? And what is it going to take to heal?
Greg Nott is a writer living in San Francisco. More Greg Nott.
Massage therapists rubbed wrong by sex talk
A Jennifer Love Hewitt show and the Travolta allegations have masseuses tired of being confused for sex workers
(Credit: iStockphoto/sybanto) Joe, a licensed massage therapist, knows what it’s like having a famous client who expects something extra. He had an Academy Award-winning actor begin gyrating on his massage table before raising his hips in the air to show off his erection. “He was hoping that I would play with him in some shape or form,” he says.
Needless to say, Joe isn’t surprised by allegations by two masseurs that John Travolta got handsy during massages. (Travolta’s attorney has denied all the allegations, and called them “ridiculous.”) “It happens all the time,” he says, and not just with celebrity clients. He frequently encounters men who try to fondle him, usually while he’s working on their glutes or lower back and their hand happens to be level with his crotch. “They think they’re so original, but they’re all so much the same,” Joe says, his voice rising. “They all use the same tactics, the same body movements, the same gyrations and grinding my table, the [heavy] breathing.”
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Tracy Clark-Flory is a staff writer at Salon. Follow @tracyclarkflory on Twitter. More Tracy Clark-Flory.
A night at the vibrator museum
Early vibrators were hand-cranked, two-person jobs -- and prescribed by doctors. How far we've come since then
(Credit: Antique Vibrator Museum) I can now say that I’ve used a turn-of-the-century vibrator — on my hand, but still.
The silver, hand-cranked contraption is usually kept behind glass at Good Vibrations’ Antique Vibrator Museum in San Francisco — but staff sexologist Carol Queen made a rare exception. “This is very special,” she whispered, unlocking the case and carefully pulling out Dr. Johansen’s Auto Vibrator, a relic from 1904. The “auto” part is not so much: It was a two-person job, with her having to crank the device’s handle to get it thrumming. Pressing my finger tips to its inch-wide circular platform of pleasure, I was pleasantly surprised by its power.
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Tracy Clark-Flory is a staff writer at Salon. Follow @tracyclarkflory on Twitter. More Tracy Clark-Flory.
Maggie Gyllenhaal on sexual liberation
The beloved indie star tells Salon about her "vibrator movie" and why she loves playing transgressive women
Maggie Gyllenhaal (Credit: Reuters/Mark Blinch) When I met Maggie Gyllenhaal about six weeks ago, she was enormously and gloriously pregnant, stretching out on a sofa with her shoes off and feet up in a Manhattan office building. (Since that time, Gyllenhaal and husband Peter Sarsgaard have welcomed their second daughter, Gloria Ray, to the world.) We were there to talk about “Hysteria,” the charming, lightweight feminist farce from director Tanya Wexler that explores a key event in the history of female sexuality: the invention of the vibrator by Mortimer Granville, a Victorian doctor who was seeking to cure the mysterious “female malady” that lends the movie its title.
Continue Reading CloseMother-daughter sexperts
Susie Bright and her daughter, Aretha, make parental talks about sex look easy -- and fun
Most parents loathe talking to their kids about the birds and the bees, let alone pubic hair grooming, faked orgasms and “water sports” — but most parents are not legendary “sexpert” Susie Bright.
Better than talking about these things, she penned an advice column in 2009 with her daughter, Aretha, then 19, for the ladyblog Jezebel. Their answers to questions about everything from porn to Paxil were unflinching but playful, and at times controversial. Now the pair have collected those columns into a new e-book, “Mother/Daughter Sex Advice.” Together, they read as an irreverent version of “Our Bodies, Ourselves” for the Internet age. The mother-daughter team also reflect on what the experience of writing the column was like, and it turns out it wasn’t as weird as many would think: For the most part, it was just a continuation of conversations they had been having throughout Aretha’s life.
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Tracy Clark-Flory is a staff writer at Salon. Follow @tracyclarkflory on Twitter. More Tracy Clark-Flory.
On the rack: A cultural history of breasts
Did breasts evolve for lactation or to enhance sex appeal? A new book explores why they matter
(Credit: iStockphoto/NadyaPhoto) It’s hard to be boobs. Sure, breasts are cherished as givers of milk and the pinnacle of sex appeal, but the modern world hasn’t been good to mammaries.
As Florence Williams writes in “Breasts: A Natural and Unnatural History,” they’re the most tumor-prone organ in the human body. They “soak up pollution like a pair of soft sponges,” and transmit environmental toxins to babies through breast milk. “Breasts are bellwethers for the changing health of people,” she says. While we’ve “genetically modified our crops to be able to protect them from the ill effects of pesticides,” Williams writes, “we haven’t yet figured out how to modify our breasts.” Aside from using saline and silicone, of course.
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Tracy Clark-Flory is a staff writer at Salon. Follow @tracyclarkflory on Twitter. More Tracy Clark-Flory.
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