Sex
Good gimmick
A new sex advice book for gay guys is slight, sassy, silly and entertaining.
Dan Anderson can’t let a good gimmick go — and I guess there’s no particular reason why he should. Several years back he hit pay dirt with “Sex Tips for Straight Women From a Gay Man,” reasoning — quite reasonably, in my humble opinion — that straight gals could probably pick up a few penis-pleasing skills from their homo colleagues.
It was a brilliant device. After all, why shouldn’t someone let women in on the secret of how to give a great blow job? Why shouldn’t straight men get to enjoy all the delights that gay men have shown each other for centuries? (Of course, I hated Anderson for thinking of it first. Why the hell wasn’t I the one to rake in the bucks by sharing my vast experience in this field of endeavor?)
Now Anderson has returned with his second volume of whoopee advice: “Sex Tips for Gay Guys.” Like its predecessor, this is a slight but sassy volume, silly but often entertaining. Still, it does raise the question: Who needs it? Is it worth $22.95? (That’s $35.99 in Canadian change, according to the book jacket, but they’re more desperate up there.) And wouldn’t it make more sense just to wait for the inevitable paperback?
If you’re a gay guy who has been around the block, or even just down the street, “Sex Tips for Gay Guys” won’t teach you anything about lovemaking that you don’t already know. But wait, I take that back. I did appreciate one or two hints. I may have to try popping an ice cube in my mouth the next time I go down on someone. And I’d never heard the term “teabagging,” which involves — well, check out Page 94 if you need to learn more.
I also never realized that the strand of cum you leave on someone’s chest — or he leaves on yours — is called a “pearl necklace.” Or that M&M is gay shorthand for “mutual masturbation.” In my day we just called it jerking off together. But whatever.
Although it clocks in at more than 200 pages, this book takes all of about 12 minutes to read. Actually, it was more like an hour or so, but it breezed by so quickly it seemed like 12 minutes. And much of the copy feels like filler. You can almost hear the publisher saying, “OK, now, just a little more padding and we’ve got a whole book.”
So you’ve got chapters on good grooming, meeting guys in bars, manual stimulation strategies, oral and anal techniques and so on. A long chapter covers sex with every conceivable gay stereotype: the sugar daddy, the leatherman, the gym bunny, the twinkie, the campus queer, the visiting foreigner and on and on. And on. Anderson describes a few dating scenarios, throws in a pseudo-”Bridget Jones” homo diary and ends with a (hopefully mock) sex advice column that feels tacked on, as if the printer had ordered too much paper and needed to use it up.
So none of the “sex tips” amounts to much. If you’re seeking substance about romance and love, read “Anna Karenina” or “Remembrance of Things Past,” because substance really isn’t the point here. A good chuckle — even an occasional belly laugh — is. And on that score, the book often delivers.
For example, I loved this description of what a leatherman shoves under his coffee table: Vanity Fair, Bon Appetit and a “cheesy cut-crystal ashtray from his mother in Buffalo.” And since I’ve lived (and messed around) in Russia, I also enjoyed the suggestion that you can attain heightened sexual intensity by making love “during an attempted coup in the former Soviet Union — the world in crisis, always an aphrodisiac.”
The parts I found funniest were those that reminded me of my own wild days about 300 years ago. Like this: “If you fool around a lot when you’re young, it can also be your chance to see the interiors of lots of chichi apartment buildings that you’d otherwise have to wait years to be invited to.” Yes, how true: The penthouses and designer lofts were often more thrilling than the sex.
And then there’s this on stalking the guy you’re obsessed with: “In the old days, you could simply pick up the phone, call, and hang up, but the advent of caller ID has pretty much squashed that tactic, so now we’re forced into drive-bys, hangout hunts, and the occasional use of a friend’s phone.” (In California, though, we’re lucky enough to have the right to select a “caller-ID-blocking” feature, so the call-and-hang-up strategy is still operable — unless your target has opted for a phone feature that automatically rejects calls from caller-ID-blocked numbers. There are always public telephones, too.)
The book does have some annoying qualities. The one that bugged me the most was Anderson’s cutesy tendency to add an “m” before every word starting with “en” or “an” and “s” before every word starting with “ex”: “mentertainment,” “manthropological,” “manticipation,” “sexperience,” “sexcavation.” You get the point. It wears thin very quickly. So does dubbing the dick “Mr. Happy” or “Mr. Stiffy” and similar linguistic quirks.
But no matter. You’ll be done with the book practically before you start it, so you won’t stay irritated for long.
David Tuller is a contributing writer at Salon. He is the author of "Cracks in the Iron Closet: Travels in Gay and Lesbian Russia." More David Tuller.
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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