And Trouble for an Old Fan....

One of our fans has been Tony Comstock of Comstock Films. His gay male love story film, "Damon and Hunter," has been chosen to be screened at QueerDOC, an important Austrailian gay film festival. But the authorities have demanded cuts. In a common sense move (though I'm sure a painful capitulation), Tony had to make the cuts in the hopes of finding a larger audience for his work. Then the authorities blasted him as "defaming" them for saying in the new print that "cuts ordered by the authorities." Talk about Orwellian....

You can read all about it here.

Here's hoping all the best for this excellent director whose films show sex the way it should be depicted: honest, loving, real.

A new fan

Another site likes us! Here's the new review of Beyond You & Me over at Porninspector.com. You can also read the regular listing here.

A new Yale novel

Well, it's about Eli University, and Skull & Bones is now Rose & Grave, but it's some of the same turf I've mined. You can check out the author's blog at Diana Peterfreund

Chapter Five (parts 10 & 11)

(continuing the "all nighter" conversation between Cassie and her lovers P. and S.)

"Sorry, I didn't mean to be patronizing." His apology brought my mind back to the present. I immediately felt sorry I'd said anything, his eyes looked so wounded I wanted to laugh. He's so thin-skinned, I try all the time to temper the abrasive ways I learned on the streets of South Philly.

"It's all right, poor baby!" I stuck out my tongue.

"What did de Man do during the war?" S. blurted this out of nowhere. He was standing up, pouring a glass of Scotch. "When he was born?"

"I think it was 1919 or 1920, why?" P. looked annoyed at the question or the late/early hour.

"And he's Belgian, cor-rect? That would've made him about 21 when my countrymen took that detour through the Low Countries on their way to Paris."

"I've seen the photo of them goose-stepping along the Champs-Elysées beside the Arc de Triomphe"

"Yes, it was the hot weather and marching that gave them a thirst for some Stella, Belgium's middling rival to good German beer. A reasonable justification for violating the Belgian's neutrality, don't you agree?" His laugh was both mocking and angry in one.

"I've never asked him 'what did you do in the war, daddy,' and he's never offered. I can't imagine him doing anything bad, he's too kind."

"Odd. There's a rumor in Europe he has a past in need of hiding. My father poked around a little when I mentioned I was taking his course. The details are fairly sketchy, something about the Nazis."

"I would imagine dealing with Nazis in occupied Belgium was pretty common. It makes absolutely no difference to me," P. bristled. "De Man's one of the fairest and most-decent men I've met here. Besides, if you want anti-Semitism, my first week in grad school, a Sterling Fucking Professor Emeritus of Romance Languages complained in a class how they were admitting too many 'New York Jews'. No hidden meaning there."

"Hmmm. Interesting. We Germans understand better than most that overt anti-Semitism is the tool of the thug. Subtlety produces more lasting results."

Part 11
It was getting really late now and my mind started wandering uncontrollably. I looked at the two men sparring instead of focusing on what they said. P. long and muscular, S. only a few inches taller than me. My husband's still-powerful legs seemed like they started in the living room and ended out in the kitchen. The two of them have few physical similarities— S. is handsome, not in the rugged, overtly masculine way with P., nor pretty, either, like the fashion magazine models I've read are mostly gay— finely-formed would be a better description, with a dash of the unexpected in his features, as if one of his ancestors dallied with a Gypsy. There's a softness to his looks that's disturbing on a level I still can't pinpoint— he isn't androgynous, isn't effeminate, it's an almost baby-faced sweetness contrasting with that rakish demeanor. I believed it when he told me women want to cuddle or mother him, including his whores. You think of Germans as blue-eyed blond beasts; he's dark, with full, sensuous lips like a woman, lips that always look pursed as if they're ready to kiss or be kissed; above is a crisp, chiseled nose and above it, hooded brown eyes that smolder or glaze over in easy succession, depending on his mood and things around him, all the while hiding behind old-fashioned gold wire-rimmed glasses that make him look serious, smart, and lovably unstylish all at once. What a contrast with the affected casualness of most Yalies. His skin is pale, even translucent ("I hate daylight," he would counter if I praised the sun); I wondered at one point if his organs and beating heart would show beneath his skin.

Actually that was the first time I had ever imagined him without clothes. Really.

There's a photo in a book in P.'s study about a famous German poet from the First World War, and he's dressed up as an Uhlan, one of the elite palace guards. The more I thought about it, the easier I could imagine S. in the plumed helmet and gold-embossed get-up of a Prussian aristocrat clicking his heels "Jawohl, zu Befehl, gnädige Dame." And I did, later on, imagine him— fantasize about him— in that way— and others.

I drifted out of my reverie and noticed my watch read 4:36 in the morning. P. noticed the time, and said, "Ah, fuck it, we're always looking for 'meaning.' It's another shortcoming in our desires. Like believing that possessing the object of our desires— another person— will fill the void in us that's fundamental to our very being."

P. snapped me back to the present with the same discomfort as if he'd popped the elastic strap on my bra! We'd sailed far beyond the relatively tame channels of lit crit, and I felt lonely and lost.

"We are born alone, we will die alone…" S. mouthed the words so quietly I almost couldn't hear them.

"And no one we sleep with in between can fill that emptiness," I added. "And now for a pregnant pause," I laughed.

"Better a pregnant pause than pregnant," S. riposted.

The joking didn't prevent a shudder from running down my back. I cried out and the other two stared at me, S. sitting up and apologizing, thinking he'd hurt my legs or something.

"No, I shivered, that's all. The heat must've been turned down too far." Of course it wasn't the temperature making me tremble. "Anyone ready for some coffee?"

I wouldn't sleep now, I'd go into work feeling like shit and not being sorry one bit. The excitement of the night swirled around me in a mist of images, words, sentences and feelings. S. rambled on a bit longer, then crashed on the living room floor in mid-sentence, telling us how he wanted to adapt Deconstruction to post-World War I diplomacy. It's a good thing he shut up, or I might've fallen asleep on my feet. P. and I laughed at him, then made out on the couch like horny teenagers.

"You like him, don't you?" P. asked me in mid-kiss.

"He's fun," was all I answered, pressing my lips to his and keeping him too busy to ask anything further.

"I love you, Cassie," he mumbled between my hard kisses.

Nothing much happened after that; he was far too exhausted to really make love, and I didn't feel like taking the time for my vibrator. I curled up on his chest and dozed off.

THE END

Chapter Five (part 9)

(continuing the "all nighter" conversation between Cassie and her lovers P. and S.)

"That's such a depressing resolution." S. tried to kiss up to me in my moment of sadness, though he looked bored. I laughed in spite of myself, since my ass was getting numb from sitting on the cold, hard floor, and we'd both gotten more lit crit than we'd bargained for.

"Cassie, you look all done-in." P. picked up on our ennui, and was trying to be solicitous. It was sweet of him, yet it sent me into an internal fury.

"Don't fucking patronize me!" I hissed. He winced in surprise and hurt, while S. pretended not to notice.

It was like the time he tried to teach me to play tennis and let me win a few volleys. I smacked the expensive racket his step-mother loaned me on ground, shattering its handle, then stormed off the court, tears streaming down my cheeks. I locked myself in a bathroom stall in the women's locker room for two hours until I was sure he'd gone. It was only then I realized I had changed at home and was still wearing the ridiculously-short tennis dress his mom had loaned me. I'd have to ride the Frankford El to City Hall, then change to the Broad Street bus, where the evening shift at the Navy Base would be appraising my ass that began before the dress ended. Generally not a bad ass, I'm glad to say, but it's mine and not one I'd want a group of strange men eyeing.

Thing is, P. hadn't left by the time I came out of the women's locker room. I was thrilled to see him and immediately as angry as before. We quarreled again; he insisted on taking me home, then wouldn't let me get out of the car until I kissed him, holding my wrists so tight he left black and blue marks, pushing me down onto the passenger seat with his whole body until the tears flowed as liberally as they do when I'm beside myself with blind rage.

And yes, he kissed them all away. I told him how much I loved him, that I'd kill him if he ever left me and suddenly that short tennis dress with my ass hanging out turned out to be a good thing after all— he started by fingering my pussy, pushing aside the frilled shorts and pushing two fingers into the wetness. I was coming, squirming, moaning and biting his lips as he kissed me and kissed me. Unzipping his fly, he pulled out his cock, catching its head slightly on the shorts before plunging right in. I wanted to push him off, but he was too strong, so I gave in and let him slide back and forth until he was about to come.

"Pull out, I don't have any protection," and he did just in time to spurt onto my thighs. He stayed on top of me and we kissed some more. And then he did something I can't quite explain: he sat up, pulled my legs across his, and spanked my bottom— hard— several times, with his fingers brushing across my pussy as he raised what I later saw in the mirror were red hand-shaped patches. With each whack of his hand, my cunt spasmed and then spasmed again and I was climaxing as intensely as if his cock or fingers were inside me. He held my wrists with his left hand, and although I fought like a tiger to get away, I kept coming and coming with each spank until I collapsed, breathless and spent.
Fortunately it was getting dark by then, and if any of the neighbors saw our little pornographic show, none of them squealed to my folks.

(to be continued)

Chapter Five (part 8)

(continuing the "all nighter" conversation between Cassie and her lovers P. and S.)

"Fine, then let's look at Cassie's example." P. couldn't have been more confident— or more fucking magnificently arrogant and condescending, the same self-confidence which made me fall in love with him, the same self-assuredness which makes winning a point with him so damned difficult— and delicious. "What is the 'meaning' of Great Expectations?"

"Money isn't everything?"

"If you're rich, you'll get the girl?"

"Don't live in the past— especially if you have a big wedding cake in your house?"

"Pride cometh before a fall?"

S. and I looked at each other; we were conspirators again, on the defensive, inadequately-armed.

"It's about the failure of time and desire to coincide." P. paused, and I thought about his meaning. "Every character is looking to someone else for their fulfillment: Magwitch wants a proper gentleman for a son-in-law, so he adopts Pip. Pip despises Magwitch because he's common and coarse. He's in love with the beautiful and seemingly aristocratic Estella, who uses him to sharpen her claws. He doesn't know she's Magwitch's daughter, she's like an arrow on a runaway compass, unable to care about anyone, raised to be the perfect instrument for revenge on the male of the human species by Miss Havesham."

"As perfect an emotional assassin as was ever trained to kill without remorse, in this case killing the hearts of all the men who meet her," I finished P.'s thought.

"All of the characters find disappointment at every step along the way. The novel's an even bleaker assessment of human nature than Bleak House." He paused to let his heavy words sink in.

"And the happy ending?" My voice cracked slightly from dryness after so much talking, I sounded as if I was pleading for Estella's redemption through Pip's love for her. "Doesn't love mean something?" A question we'd all like answered.

"You know, Dickens added the so-called happy ending later."

"Did he? He did! Don't tell me that!" I felt manipulated, devastated.

"The novel originally ended with Pip running into a much-changed Estella on the street— not in Miss Havesham's old house as it does now. Dickens recognized his original ending failed— it doesn't tie together the world he created in the novel. So he brings Pip and Estella together in that dream-like final scene. Yet despite his powers as a writer, he can't make things turn out right. The ending leaves uncertainty and loss. When Pip says he could see no parting, he's not telling the reader they will remain together."

"No, don't say that! Don't say that!"

I felt deflated hearing his verdict. Never parting. The concept has such appeal. Never-ending love is so seductive, yet what if love changes? Or if the people who fell in love change? What then? Does a love have to last? And if it's really love, why would it end? How is it we can fall out of love the same as if we'd grown tired of a dress or the same apartment we've lived in for years?

(to be continued)

Chapter Five (part 7)

(continuing the "all nighter" conversation between Cassie and her lovers P. and S.)

"It all makes me dizzy," I admitted.

"It should. Deconstruction's motto is 'the center cannot hold.'"

"Do they pay Yeats royalties for stealing that line from him?" Leave to S. to be irreverent. P. laughed.

"Deferring," I laughed, too. "I'm deferring my life right now, it's on hold."

"On the whole, you've lost me, Old Man" S. admitted with a yawn. Out of nowhere, I started giggling despite myself— the hour was getting so late, and besides, I can't be serious about heavy subjects too long.

"Hold on," S. objected with real heat this time, "Deconstruction sounds like this year's model, another flashy, trendy tool, nothing more. We've gone through a whole laundry list of 'isms' in class. There's Structuralism, Freudianism, New Criticism, who cares?" I felt pride in S. He wasn't intimidated by our "professor" like I am.

"Right," I chimed in, hoping for strength in numbers, "isn't this another stupid search for another stupid Holy Grail to open up poems and novels to hidden meanings the writer never intended? I may be a naïve reader, but anyone with common sense can see The Picture of Dorian Gray is really about a gay man in the closet and the harm keeping that secret does to him. I want to know the answer to the questions books offer, like whether Pip gets the girl at the end of Great Expectations? That last line— " I grabbed the copy I'd been reading after work and opened it to the last page— "'I saw the shadow of no parting from Estella.' It's so tantalizing, it leaves me with goose bumps each time I read or think about it."

"Ever the Romantic," S. sneered playfully, throwing me off-balance, "wasn't it Ambrose Bierce who said if you scratch a Romantic, you'll find a cynic who hasn't been disappointed yet?"

"OK, I'm a Romantic," I blushed, backpedaling, "but a cynic in many things, too. But what about an author like Colette?"

"What about her?" P. countered with a knowing smile.

"Well, I may be a naïve reader, but I know her writing isn't compelling because it's beautiful, it's compelling because of the insights we gain from reading her."

"Why do you read Colette?" P. asked me with a wink. It's a private joke between us I wasn't ready to share with S. I wanted to throttle "the professor" at that moment.

"I read her because she writes about young women like me— who want to know more about themselves— or life." I sounded pompous and gassy, I could see I was getting in way too deep. "I want insight from her books, not philosophy." S. winked at me when I finished because P. was rubbing his eyes, though he wasn't fast enough and P. saw most of it anyway.

"Then you'll find Deconstruction helpful because it isn't a tool, it's a way of looking at the world. We define ourselves by our texts: the laws, newspapers, books, poems, letters— or in your case, Cassie, by a bisexual exile from the Parisian theater writing books young women identify with. Instead of worrying about who Colette was, or whether her books are autobiographical, Deconstruction cuts out all the intervening bullshit."

"Sounds like a literary seduction," S. snorted, "a sort of intellectual penetration, yes? I've read Foucault, you know, with his bizarre theories about sex and literature!" He was less interested in the ideas than in the intellectual cat-and-mouse game, slyly grinning at his erotic allusion.

(to be continued)