(frank discussion of sex, of various kinds, some of it in street language — so not for kids or the sexually modest)
1 is about the Bloomsbury artists Duncan Grant and Vanessa Bell; 2 is about affectionate relationships between gay men and straight women; 3 is about me and my wife, Ann.
The gay sex news from 60 years ago. It started with an e-mail exchange with my first male lover (Larry Schourup) about the course of our relationship back then. I’m pleased at having dredged up so much, but it is of course largely imaginative reconstruction, fictobiography, not bald narrative — I post often about the fragility of memory and the undependability of it due to its constant alteration over time — but I think I got a lot of emotional tones right.
I then wondered whether he invited me or whether I had simply advanced on him (something that later in life I rarely did). And got a wonderful reply, which I quote from here with LS’s permission.
It’s happening again. The staff where I live now have mostly taken to addressing me as Mr. Arnold — because to lots of Americans (of whatever origins), Mr. Zwicky seems to be simply unpronounceable, a hurdle too high. This produces a twinge of sociolinguistic distress in me, because of the regrettable history of the American address form Mr. FN [that is, FirstName], as in Blues for Mr. Charlie.
The headline news yesterday (8/8) was about a Jetstar plane nearly colliding with a Qatar Airlines plane at the Sydney airport. But what I heard from my tv was about, omigod, a Death Star plane. Death stalks Sydney.
Well, jet and death are in fact quite similar phonologically and so are easily confused. Meanwhile, the Australian economy airline is fresh news for me, while I’ve been steeped in Star Wars stuff since 1977. So everything tips my perceptions towards death.
(all about sex between men, described largely in street language, and utterly inappropriate for kids and the sexually modest)
Two engaging images of faces, both conveying pleasure, during man-on-man sex. What is it that these guys are so satisfied about?
Stephan Pastis’s Pearls Before Swine comic strip for 8/5:
Dating tip: avoid crazed lunatics; and while we’re on the subject, ax murderers too — when on offer in the sexual marketplace, let caution be your watchword
A few days ago I suddenly developed an impressive case of laryngitis — utterly painless, but incredibly annoying — which I attributed to a change in my medications (a huge increase in the dosage of the steroid prednisone). And so it might have been.
Then after breakfast this morning (around 4:30 am) I was visited by the unmistakable intestinal symptoms of cryptosporidiosis, crypto for short — notably uncontrollable watery diarrhea, dammit. Some days earlier, when a widespread US outbreak of the infection was reported, I had put great mounds of possibly infected greens down the garbage disposal, but apparently I had already eaten enough of them that the parasite was just lying in wait, gathering in strength to wreck havoc on my guts. Fortunately, I have weapons of my own, and have been able to do a pretty good job of wrestling crypto to some kind of standstill. But let me tell you, it’s no fucking picnic.
It’s incredibly tiring — I’ve had two long naps today — and requires me to consume mass quantities of rehydrating liquid. Meanwhile, it seems likely that my laryngitis is a respiratory symptom of crypto; my breathing is now often uncomfortable (though not disabling).
One inspired by Aaron Broadwell, one by Steven Levine; I get a little help from my friends.
