Tuesday, June 14, 2016
7:50 PM |
Lustful Literary Men
Eventually you get to the pornography. It must have been both catharsis and shock for me the first time I saw porn -- and how much more the first time I saw the gay variety. All other arguments aside, there is nothing like porn to strip you to your most basic parameters of desire, especially your first encounter with it. Beholding an embodiment of what turns you on is a rush -- and when I was a very young teenager, I remember distinctly a French number in Betamax, labeled very discreetly, my older brother [also gay] had rented from some clandestine shop all the way in Tanjay town, hundreds of kilometres away from where we lived. This gave me then a measure of gay porn's contraband nature: this was not anything you could get from your friendly neighbourhood video store. The video, seen in haste after midnight when everyone else in the family was asleep, sent a shockwave through me. But I'm not here to talk about porn really. I'm here to talk about literary men who just happened to do gay pornography -- and did it in a very groundbreaking way.
The first one is Samuel Morris Steward
. I first came across him when The New York Times
["Sexual Outlaw on the Gay Frontier"
] reviewed a biography written by Justin Spring, which attempted to exhaust the fascinating -- if slightly iffy -- life led by Mr. Steward, who was -- in various evolutions -- a university professor, a poet and novelist, a tattoo artist, a pornographer, and a consummate cataloguer of his sexual conquests, which included many literary men, including Thornton Wilder, Lord Alfred Douglas (the lover of Oscar Wilde), Thomas Mann, and André Gide. Among his literary mentors included the great Gertrude Stein. He wrote many literary titles, but it is his books of erotica -- written under the name of Phil Andros -- that I actually came to know him best. And I actually read many of the books by Phil Andros -- The Motorcyclist
(1966), The Joy Spot
(1969), My Brother, the Hustler
(1970), The Boys in Blue
(1970), Roman Conquests
(1972), Below the Belt and Other Stories
(1975), Greek Ways
(1975), and Different Strokes
(1984) -- look before I realised Phil Andros was a pseudonym, and that he was in fact Samuel Steward. A copy of Mr. Spring's book soon came to my possession, and I embarked on devouring its pages -- but I never finished: after a while the sexual escapades -- graphic and relentless -- that peppered the pages of the biography just became a little too predictable and stale, unnerving me of how it made me reach my saturation point so fast that I was plainly bored by all the detailing of every imaginable sexual act possible. Not to say it wasn't fascinating; it was. But like any sort of porn, the first viewing of anything is enough; a repeat is just overstroking it. [It was nominated for the 2010 National Book Award
.] Mr. Steward died in 1993.
And then of course there is Scott O'Hara
, prince among gay porn stars in the 1980s -- known in the industry as "Spunk" or "The Man With The Biggest Dick in San Francisco" -- came to prominence as a sex performer of such enthusiasm in such flicks as Winner Takes All
(1982), California Blue
(1984), Slaves for Sale 2
(1984), The Joys of Self-Abuse
(1985), The Other Side Of Aspen 2
(1985), Sgt. Swann's Private Files
(1985), Advocate Men Live! 1
(1986), Below the Belt
(1986), The Guy Next Door
(1986), Hung and Horny
(1986), Oversized Load
(1986), Stick Shift
(1986), In Your Wildest Dreams
(1987), Switch Hitters 2
(1987), Advocate Men Live! 4
(1988), Double Standards
(1988), Head Over Heels 1
(1988), New Recruits
(1988), and The Sex Party
(1992). But he has always had a literary bent. In a 1999 essay titled "A Dick by Any Other Name", O'Hara once wrote: "I knew from an early age that I was a changeling. I spent the next eighteen years looking for my real name, and since I found it I have not pretended to be anyone else."
When O'Hara was diagnosed with HIV, he decided to move to Wisconsin where he devoted the rest of his life to writing, soon publishing books such as SeXplorers: The Guide to Doing It on the Road, Do It Yourself Piston Polishing (for Non-Mechanics), Autopornography: A Memoir of Life in the Lust Lane
, and Rarely Pure and Never Simple: Selected Essays of Scott O'Hara
. He also edited and published a quarterly men's sex journal named Steam
, as well as the magazine Wilde
. He died in 1998. [O'Hara has an interview with Owen Keenen about his autobiography Autopornography
I've Googled around and it is quite difficult to find any story by Samuel Steward (as Phil Andros) or Scott O'Hara online, and I find that quite sad and surprising. So I'm putting up one erotic story by O'Hara below -- and let me warn you that the content crosses the border quickly from literary to pornographic, right from the very first sentence. But I like this story, if only for the wit it has been composed in, and for giving us a distinct voice from a world we might see a lot in our midnight fidgetings but a world that we nonetheless barely know (or care to know)...
By Scott O’Hara
Fuck. Pull out. Beat it to get it hard again. Re-insert. Fuck. This time after a minute or two, it slips out on its own. Beat it. Re-insert. Fuck. This time the director calls a halt. “Let’s do some dialogue and reaction shots,” he says, wearily. “Then we can get back to this after you’ve had a rest.”
Believe me, the process of shooting a pornflick is nothing like the product.
Tommy and I were actually hitting it off rather well: he was an enthusiastic bottom, and I was in a relatively toppish mood, so my dick had twice managed to achieve that up-curved-banana look that is so riveting to viewers. Nice. Fact is, I think they’d already gotten plenty of useable footage, but directors always want extra to play with. My first director told me they liked to work with a three-to-one ratio—three minutes shot for every one used in the video. Mind you, I’ve seen some of his subsequent videos that looked like they were one-to-one but I understand about ideals not always being the same as results. And hey, I’m a performer. (“Talent,” they try to call us, a term that makes me shudder.) I know how difficult it can be to get useable footage.
So Tommy and I got to relax awhile; when we spontaneously started playing with each other’s tits, the director knew it was time to get back to shooting. And this time, for some reason, I was really into it, I guess, because it felt like we’d initiated the sex ourselves instead of being directed; and my dick got really super-hard, and I managed to plow him from every angle for about twenty minutes before the director finally asked his cameraman, “How much tape do we have left?” A good director always asks that before he tells the performers to give him a cumshot. And there was plenty of tape, so he nodded to us, and we both started working up to shoot our loads. Tommy, as I said, was enthusiastic: he was one of the few bottoms I know who really stayed rockhard during the whole fuck. Didn’t have to beat off or anything. Fact is, he should’ve been a top. So I rolled him over on his back, bent over and went down on him: directors always like that number, and it turns me on, too. And he went wild and stared bucking up and down, fucking himself on my dick and fucking my mouth, and within about thirty seconds he started moaning that he was gonna shoot, and at the appropriate moment I pulled off and let him spray all over his stomach, while I was ramming against his prostate. And then a few seconds later l pulled out and mixed my load with his. Perfect double-cumshot.
And then, while we were still in position, it was time for reaction shots—all those “oh, fuck, yeah” and “aw, shit, I’m gonna come’s!” and grunts and groans and moans and facial contortions, while I’m pretending that my dick is still hard and that I’m still fucking him. And then finally, five minutes later, we could move. I just slumped down on top of Tommy, and kissed him, real deep. He didn’t seem to mind in the least. Far too many of my co-stars, once the work is over, just want to get into the shower and get outta there. Tommy seemed to share my love of the work. I think he was really just doing it because it ensured a steady supply of big dicks up his ass. I can understand the feeling, even though I don’t share his obsession with size.
So we lay there smooching, and got comfortable on the dingy old ripped mattress (we were supposed to be in a back alley somewhere, and there were trash cans on both sides of us), while the techies took down the lights and reflectors and other equipment, moving it all into the next room for another see-up; and we talked. He asked me, curiously enough about my faintly.
“They’re Mormons. Nothing much more to say about them. Haven’t seen them in years. Lots of brothers and sisters, teeming hordes of nephews and nieces. When I told them I was doing porn, Mom told me I was going to hell. And yours?”
“Oh, about as opposite as you can get. My mom collects my videos. Dad died when I was a kid, Mom got a great life-insurance settlement and decided to spend the rest of her life having fun. I swear, every time I go home, she’s got a new young stud hanging around the house. Nowadays, some of them are younger than me. She writes, too. Romance novels.”
This rang a bell, somehow. “Where did you grow up?”
He looked at me funny.
“Southern Illinois. Why?”
“Like, in Cairo, by any chance?” And I pronounced it right: Kay-ro.
“I think you lived just a couple blocks from me. You were two years younger, we never saw each other at school, but I remember my mother spewing fire and brimstone about that terrible loose woman down the street, how she ought to have her child taken away from her, all that noise. I guess she never succeeded.”
The light was dawning in his face. “I remember you now! And I remember one summer at the city pool, when you and I were the last ones out of the shower, and you...”
I’d been hoping he’d forgotten that particular episode; I found it a little embarrassing, in retrospect. But he obviously didn’t; he described it in excruciating, and lascivious, detail. Hey, we were—what, maybe nine and eleven? I’d just shot my first load of cum a few months before, and I was eager to show my new-found talent to anyone who I was sure wouldn’t tell my parents. And Tommy (I don’t think I even knew his name, but I’d seen him around, knew where he lived), given his background, seemed like a good candidate. To my surprise, however, he proved way ahead of me. “I always wondered why you never wanted to play with me again, after that.” There was a slightly vulnerable, childlike look on his face, now; I guess I’d penetrated one of his earliest insecurities.
“And I, well, I guess I felt guilty about ‘seducing’ a kid as young as you. I thought about you a lot. But then, you know, we moved West the next summer.”
“Yeah, I know.” Tommy was looking at me with a semi-worshipful gaze, which then turned thoughtful. “Did you ever do anything with Buddy?”
Buddy was my younger brother, Tommy’s age in fact, and when I was growing up he was just a pest to me; I never much thought about him even having cock and balls until suddenly, on one of my visits home during my college years, I saw him come out of the shower—I shared his bedroom on these visits. And he was…well, stunning. I didn’t put the make on him or anything. I didn’t have that sort of self-confidence, and he was a butch bruiser who could easily have decked me by that time, but I did spend the rest of the visit watching him pretty closely. And that was the visit, right at the end, when I came out to my family. They weren’t thrilled. They didn’t quite kick me out of the house, but that night they suggested that Buddy go sleep over with one of his friends, and he seemed quite eager to leave. I left early the next morning, and haven’t been back since. I’d like to see what Buddy’s developed into—he’s the only one of my siblings still unmarried, so he probably hasn’t developed a potbelly yet—but I don’t feel tike braving the fires of hell just to find out. I assume he’s away at college somewhere—he was always an intellectual sort—but I don’t know where.
I told all this to Tommy. A smile hit his lips. “You know, I played with him. The same summer you and I met in the showers. We used to meet out behind those sheds, down by the river, and beat off together. And he’s the one who taught me how to suck cock.” Now he was grinning broadly, perhaps at the open look of shock on my face. “Of course, I don’t know if he turned out queer, but he sure liked playing with my dick.”
Suddenly I realized that I was humping my quickly stiffening dick against Tommy’s thigh. A wave of lust surged through me. I kissed him, hard, sucking his tongue into my mouth, and he responded with a moan deep in his throat. I pulled back. “So, get down there and suck his big brother’s dick, cocksucker,” I growled in his face, and pushed his head down.
Tommy was, without a doubt, the most eager cocksucker I’d ever met. He didn’t poke around, licking and kissing and teasing. He dove for the whole banana, taking it right down his throat. Even when, as was the case right now, the dick was too hard to bend down his throat, he still forced it right down there. I suspected he might have sprained it, but at the moment I didn’t care. I just started fucking his throat, holding onto the back of his head and slamming it home. Suddenly I wasn’t exhausted anymore. You’d never think that I’d shot a load just half an hour previously. Imagining him down on his knees, doing this to Buddy—when he and Buddy were just nine years old, yet!—had really awakened something in me that I’d effectively suppressed for years, and suddenly I wanted to plant a load where my brother’s had gone. (Had he been able to shoot yet, I wondered?)
Tommy forestalled me. After a couple of minutes of serious cock-diving, when he was wheezing and gasping and his eyes were running with tears, he pulled off and looked up at me with a half-wild, half-mean expression on his face. Guess I’d aroused something in him, too. “You know, I didn’t just suck Buddy off,” he said, in a knowing way, his voice suddenly huskier, deeper. (Was it so obvious what I was fantasizing? I guess it was.) “I fucked him, too. We had a blanket that we’d spread out on the riverbank, and he’d lie down on his stomach and stick his ass up in the air,” and Tommy was stroking my upstanding dick while he was relating this, and with his other hand he was rubbing my asshole, which suddenly, unexplainably, felt empty, “and I’d lick his asshole until he begged me to put my dick inside him. I bet I shot about fifty loads of cum up his ass that summer. Sometimes I’d shoot twice without stopping.”
I moaned. Yes, he’d hit a mental spot as sensitive as any prostate. Almost without thinking about it, almost without volition, my body heaved itself over, and I was on my stomach; and quick as a flash, Tommy was behind me, with his tongue slathering spit all over my butthole.
Now, being rimmed has never been one of my biggest turn-ons. It’s enjoyable, but it doesn’t send me into the stratosphere, the way it does with some people. But I wasn’t myself any longer: I was my little brother Buddy, that hunky teenager I’d watched for a week as he changed and took showers, until I almost couldn’t stand it any longer. I was that boy, and I’d never felt anything so incredible as this tongue squirming its way up my ass.
In what seemed like no time at all, my asshole was spasming and opening so that Tommy’s tongue was going in with virtually no resistance; that was when he scooted forward and slipped his dick in. And there wasn’t any pain, just the sensation of a space having been finally filled, the other half of the puzzle supplied, the whole joined. The smooth slide of one slippery, spit-covered mucous membrane against another. I swear. I could feel his dick against my heart. And he didn’t fuck, right away: he just lay there, moving in and out a little bit, holding me while I shook with sudden, wracking sobs.
After a few minutes of that, my ass started reacting of its own volition. It began humping up against Tommy, trying to take every millimeter of him, right down to the pubic bone. That’s when his sadistic streak started coming out. He pulled out to the point where just the head was inside my ass, and kept it there. No matter how frantically I pushed back, I couldn’t get any more of him inside. Then, about every ten seconds, when I was clawing the mattress and crying in frustration, he’d slam it balls-deep and grind it for a few moments, flattening me to the mattress, and then pull out again. God, he knew how to make me crazy. And then, while he had me pinned to the mattress, he leaned down next to my ear and whispered, throatily, “This is the way I used to make Buddy crazy,” and slammed it in with that extra-hard hip-twist that rocketed my prostate right into heaven and made my cum start spilling out all over the mattress, even though my dick wasn’t even all the way hard. “And this”—shove—“is the way”—shove—“I shot my cum up Buddy’s butt”—and I could feel his cum-tube pulsing, and he grabbed me in a ferocious bear hug, and for once in my life I was very glad there wasn’t a director leaning over us telling us where to shoot our loads, because from a cinematic viewpoint, we’d clearly fucked up big-time. No cumloads visible. But oh, I liked where we’d left them. I swear I could feel his load swirling around in my guts, practically percolating: all those spermatozoa beating frantically against the walls of my asshole, trying to find someplace fertile.
And we lay there contentedly for another ten minutes (we could still hear the sounds of the next scene being shot in the next room over), kissing and stroking each other and breathing hard; as our heart rates slowly returned to normal, Tommy eventually rolled off me, and I scooted down so I could suckle on his dick. There’s nothing like, for me, the act of sucking on a dick that’s just come out of my ass: sucking the remnants of a cumload out of it, cleaning my own shit off it (What does my shit actually taste like? Although I’ve sucked dozens of dicks after they’ve come out of my ass, I still couldn’t say), letting him know that I really worship his dick, that I appreciate the pleasure it’s just given me. And Tommy was looking down at me with a curious mixture of pride and wonder, and I guess I could have predicted what he said next. “You know, that’s exactly what Buddy used to do after I’d shot a load up his butt. Do you suppose these things run in families?”
“No, not really,” I mumbled around my mouthful of dick. “I just think I know my brother well enough that I knew, subconsciously, just what he’d like. That’s what relations are. People you know better than you want to.”
Labels: literature, pornography, queer, sex, writers
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