(men’s bodies and tons of man-on-man sex, in crude street talk, so thoroughly unsuitable for kids and the sexually modest)
About a single collage of mine, call it DNMe (‘Dick And Me’). One of my XXX-rated comic homoerotic collages, eventually featured in the first of my artwork exhibitions, “They All Laughed When the Hot-Hot Man-Man Sex Started” of 2003. It is, by accident, associated with another current theme of my postings, dying and lamentation, since the exhibition came very soon after my man Jacques’s death. So I came to see the exhibition as a slap of vibrant life in the face of death: we display our dicks, we fuck, we laugh, death shrivels.
DNMe puts in a wisp of an appearance in a posting about the furnishings of my apartment, which now include a number of mounted collages from the 2003 exhibition. A few of these are no-d (no visible dicks), most are lo-d (somewhere in there there’s a dick, but even the phallotropic Arnold Zwicky probably doesn’t notice it), but right by the head of my bed there’s a startlingly XXX-rated collage (that you cannot make out in the photo) with me from 2003 in it, and it’s hi-d, with a truly fine naked male body on the left (meanwhile, the body on the right belongs to a fully clothed denim-dense me in 2003, as studly as I ever got).
An early appearance of DNMe in my writing comes in an AZBlogX posting of 7/7/10 “Linguistics, anyone?”, where it has the title Dickman and the Professor:
I’m standing on Potrero Hill in San Francisco, during a break in a Sacred Harp convention. Naked Dickman was not taking part in the event. (for Facebook modesty’s sake, I’ve had to fuzz out ND’s attractive dick, which is lying negligently on his hip, inviting the viewer to rouse it to a stiff hard-on)
It appears in several places with the title Have you thought of trying linguistics? — which will evoke some steamy sex stories I am about to tell you.
Finally, it appeared in the 2003 exhibition under the title The Linguist as Aging Urban Gay Male (I was 62 then; from the vantage point of my imminent 86th birthday, that sounds like youth to me now).
Sex story 1. From my 2010 BlogX posting, with interventions from today:
My boyfriend and I are lounging in bed post-sex [AZ in 2026: in post-coital euphoria, the afterglow], in that delicious time when the two of you, being friends as well as lovers, and not pressed for time, kiss, snuggle affectionately, enjoy the feel and sight and smell of each other’s bodies, and chat in a relaxed, aimless way. [AZ in 2026: I sometimes think this intimate affiliation is the real point of engaging in sex]
Two of my boyfriends were in fact linguists (one of them was my very first male lover, the other was Jacques), and four [others] came with an intelligent and inquisitive layman’s interest in language (in one case, some background in linguistics as well), so our talk often touched on issues of language. Certainly I talked a lot about what I was doing at the time.
This particular boyfriend — who got the pseudonym Roger (’cause he rogered me) when I talked about him on soc.motss — was a physicist, but he brought me lots of language-related things he’d puzzled over and wondered about. (Five of these six boyfriends were professionals, the exception being John, who was an artist, specifically a collagist — one contribution to the way I later turned out — but was also interested in poetry and was just all-over intellectually curious.)
Roger was lying negligently on his back and I was lying on my side, curled around him, as he showered me with a series of why and how and what-does-it-mean questions about language. After a while I sat up on my elbow, looked him seriously in the eye, and asked That Question:
Have you thought about trying… linguistics?
At which point we both broke up, dissolved into silliness and playfully manhandling each other. [AZ in 2026: one of the great pleasures of sex between men is that it gives the two of you the chance to mix some normatively guy-guy stuff, celebrating masculinity, in with the flagrantly faggot sexual acts]
When I wrote about this on [the Usenet newsgroup] soc.motss, That Question became a kind of catchphrase among our friends, usable whenever issues of language become prominent in conversations.
Eventually I turned it into Art, or at least what passes for Art in my house. … The … collages (most of them XXX-rated) that resulted started with smaller and simpler ones, in fact with a very simple (but silly — absurd juxtapositions are a major theme in my work) collage that has me as the central figure [DNME, above].
Sex Story 2. (Recalled from memory after a great deal of time, rather than reported when it happened, so no doubt full of invention; Roger probably has a very different memory.)
First, Roger was great at rogering; we were a good team. Once he got his hard dick up my ass, I turned (as was my custom) into a noisy bitch in heat, and that suited both of us. Together we adjusted our bodies to get the entry angles that worked for both of us (it’s a skill; you can learn to do it, but each couple has to find what works for them, because bodies and bodyparts vary a hell of a lot).
A later conjugation, completed. He lay on top of me, both of us still sweating and panting. I caught my breath and stammered out a request. More or less:
Could you do me a favor and not pull out? It just feels so sweet to have your body inside mine. Can we stretch that out for a while? (In fact, it felt indescribably delicious.)
Roger admitted that his dick was probably going to retract and fall out on its own, but he’d relax and maybe the pleasure of being lodged inside me would keep his dick alert.
That’s when we discovered that if your dick is nestled inside another man’s ass, then when he talks, his dick vibrates inside you; and when you talk, then the sleeve of your ass vibrates around his dick. You’re giving each other little buzzes. All pretty subtle, but a curious little pleasure. Cool.
Other post-coital events. In my (eventually quite substantial) experience of sex with men (the boyfriends yes, but also frequent excursions to the gay baths), the afterglow easily ranges into summaries of life histories (which I often collect), in which childhoods and men’s relationships with their fathers are likely to loom large. Many varieties of monstrous fathers turn up.
Roger held his own father in such contempt that he referred to him as the sperm donor, and was clearly bent on learning from the man as a Bad Example, to be avoided — instead, composing a life for himself based on affection and regard. Admirably.
Yes, we fell in love, in one of the ways of understanding that condition, but hedged by the understanding that we were trading on my maturity and experience versus his youth and engaged optimism and that I would in fact do what I could to help him find a partner in life, not just a lover. After which he and I would be lifelong friends, with some sexy stories to tell. And so it was.
Here I choose not to dwell on the inevitable sadness in the trajectory of life: we are now all old men, except that most of us — among them, Roger’s husband — have died.
August 26, 2026 at 1:19 pm |
Just to note that the collages are mostly homoerotic — many of them feature callipygian men and men kissing men — but only some are XXX-rated: at least hi-d, then ranging up through depicting handjobs, rimjobs, blowjobs, and fucking.