Number 174 Summer 2018 $11.95
AMUSE US
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Issue 175 / Fall 2018
QUEER PRESS AND YOU Submission Deadline: July 21, 2018 www.rfdmag.org/upload
Back when RFD started there was a burgeoning gay press, everything from feminist journals to gay male porn with poetry by Andre Gide. The big national gay press - The Advocate, the Washington Blade and Gay Community News filled many of our mailboxes or were things we picked up at cool newsstands or the ubiquitous headships that filled the 70’s with the remnants of the New Left and the hippy culture. There were also literary ventures like Sinister Wisdom and Fag Rag. The community was coming out in all sorts of ways and a wide ranging queer press was there delving into the spiritual (White Crane, Green Man), feminism (Heresies, Off Our Backs) and other various topics like art and politics. The 80s brought even more regional and local gay newspapers and bar rags and the birth of the more radical queer zines began to appear along more traditional fare like Christopher Street. The 80s also brought the AIDS crisis and by the end of the decade more political gay magazines hit the streets like Outweek. For a short period there was a strong GLBT press of color like BLK but by the late 90s consolidation, the internet and probably to some extent assimilation the gay press shrank. Given the rise of political activism today like “Gays Against Guns,” “RISE + RESIST,” what can we glean from this earlier period of queer ethos and perspective, and what might we learn from previous attempts seen in past media of creating change that can nurture our current moment. We’re hoping you will share your stories about the gay media and how it shaped your experience. We welcome submissions on any era of the gay press and are open to hearing about how new media (blogs, web portals, and other online media) has shaped how you understand our queer world. Please share your stories especially if you wrote for, were interviewed or otherwise took part in gay media. 2
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Rhymes, Fiction and Dish Vol 44 No 4 #174 Summer 2018
Between the Lines
We’ve been grinning up a storm again. Maybe it’s the calm New England air this time of year or it could be that we’re so thrilled with another fun issue with a diverse, engaged set of readers sending in their wonderful stories, poems and artwork. This issue is about what amuses us or what a Muse for us is. We asked readers to consider both ideas at once. As what brings us laughter, passion, hope, challenge or merely connects us with being alive, in our precious bodies in the now brings us this amazing issue, we hope it amuses you, help you seek out your own muse in yourself, in others, in Nature, in the Spirit. But do welcome it in. Surprise yourself. We are so thrilled and surprised by the variety of the submissions from many parts of the rainbow of our community—thank you everyone for sending in your stories and documenting all of our experiences. Everyone at RFD is beaming at the diversity and perspectives. As you all know, RFD is a small time miracle of love that stretches back to 1974. We feel we are honoring those ancestors who wanted to help in reaching out to others. We as ever need your support in helping RFD reach others. We have dedicated readers and subscribers but we want to engage you more to include others in knowing about RFD and sharing it. Without reaching beyond our immediate comfort zone, RFD might not exist so share us with others, help us to amuse others! Our website—www.rfdmag.org—lists upcoming gatherings, calls for submissions for future issues and asks you to subscribe or read online. We humbly ask if you choose to not subscribe to paper copy please consider donating to help pay our humble fixed costs. You can send donations to us at RFD Press, PO Box 302, Hadley MA 01035-0302. Happy summer from the balmy boys in White River Junction! —RFD Collective
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Submission Deadlines Fall–July 21, 2018 Winter–October 21, 2018 See inside covers for themes and specifics.
For advertising, subscriptions, back issues and other information visit www.rfdmag.org RFD is a reader-written journal for gay people which focuses on country living and encourages alternative lifestyles. We foster community building and networking, explore the diverse expressions of our sexuality, care for the environment, Radical Faerie consciousness, and nature-centered spirituality, and share experiences of our lives. RFD is produced by volunteers. We welcome your participation. The business and general production are coordinated by a collective. Features and entire issues are prepared by different groups in various places. RFD (ISSN# 0149-709X) is published quarterly for $25 a year by RFD Press, P.O. Box 302, Hadley MA 01035-0302. Postmaster: Send address changes to RFD, P.O. Box 302, Hadley MA
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01035-0302. Non-profit tax exempt #62-1723644, a function of RFD Press with office of registration at 231 Ten Penny Rd., Woodbury, TN 37190. RFD Cover Price: $9.95. A regular subscription is the least expensive way to receive it four times a year. First class mailed issues will be forwarded. Others will not. Send address changes to submissions@rfdmag.org or to our Hadley, MA address. Copyright © RFD Press. The records required by Title 18 U.S.D. Section 2257 and associated with respect to this magazine (and all graphic material associated therewith on which this label appears) are kept by the custodian of records at the following location: RFD Press, 85 N Main St, Ste 200, White River Junction, VT 05001.
On the Covers
Front & Back: “Beast of the BackyardWilds 1”, photograph by Jason Jenn, Flourish Projects Group
Production
Managing Editor: Bambi Gauthier Art Director: Matt Bucy
Visual Contributors Jerry Aronson. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 7 Blackbird . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 10 Dmitry Bitjukov . . . . . . . . . . . . 18, 19, 25, 34, 37, 42, 44 Jason Jenn, Flourish Projects Group . . . . . . . . Cover, 27 Darren Jones and Kirby Congdon . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 61 Menchaca . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 2, 32-33, 52-58 Joseph Minutello. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 9,31, 47, 50, 51 Chris Moody . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 22, 40 John O’Leary . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Back Inside Cover Vojislav Radovanovic. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 5, 14, 16, 29, 48 Patric “Pipa” Stillman . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 13
Photograph by Menchaca
CONTENTS Announcements. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 4 Two Poems. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Ian Ayres. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 6 A Somewhat, Almost Letter to Rufus . . . . . . . e.c. patrick. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 8 Meeting the Dakini. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Blackbird. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 11 Invasion. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Jim Farfaglia . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 12 Ebb and Flow . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Allen Hoston. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 15 They/Them . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Allen Hoston. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 17 Musings of and Invisible Girl. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Imaginary . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 20 Two Options for the Afterlife . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Charlie Bondhus . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 21 Married Now . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Tom Ciuba. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 23 What Is A Muse?. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Roman Smithee. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 24 You Will Not Be Buried . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Jason Jenn /Jay Sunlight Moonshadow. . . 26 Unshaven Quest. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Aaron M. Mason, CDQ . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 28 Volumes. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Denise Conca. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 30 I-Thou and All That Jazz . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Atticus Winterfae. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 35 Furtwengler. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Phillip-John Puzzo. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 43 The Body of Marshall Beach. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Sean T. Stevens. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 49 Transformism. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Menchaca . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 52 How I Laughed. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Raymond Luczak. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 60
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ANNOUNCEMENTS Springtime in Autumn Farm 18-22 October 2018
Autumn Farm 37 Central Takaka Rd, Takaka 7183, New Zealand RadFANZ.org.nz
Fête Bambi’s 50th
www.youcaring.com/bambi50
Convened by Green Mountain Crossroads, the Summit is a gathering place to collectively discuss and explore our rural and small town experiences as LGBTQ people. This fourth annual event is a two-day gathering for those of us LGBTQ people who are living, creating, working, and organizing in rural communities and small towns. Out in the Open is a space to vent, strategize, connect, build, reflect, think, experience, and make. Folks from any rural community or small town are welcome to join us although we anticipate the majority of attendees to be from the Northeast US. We encourage participants to bring in to all of these sessions thoughts, questions, and strategies connected to struggles for justice against racism, classism, misogyny, incarceration, police brutality, ableism, fascism, transphobia, and other oppressions. www.greenmountaincrossroads.org. 4
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Having made it to fifty is pretty exciting and I’d like to celebrate. I’ve seldom asked for friends support but I feel called for two reasons to ask for your help as I enjoy a wonderful fifty years. I’ve wanted for a long time to go India to visit and participate in the Chota Charm Dham, the four little abodes, in Uttarakhand as well as visiting the ghat in Varanasi where my mom’s ashes were scattered by dear friends the year after her death. I’ve always had a keen affinity for India with my mom’s interest in Karnatic music, my joy at attending pooja at Ganesh Temple in Queens and my learned devotions from the Guru Gita. So this trip has been on my mind forever. I’d also like—as is my nature—to be practical in my requests and I’ve wanted for some time to work to do some finish work on the cabin at Destiny that has been a boon to my ability to participate in gatherings there with the challenges I face with mobility and not being able to rough it on the land like I used to. It’s been such a joy to me to see the cabin used by folks who need a bit more comfort, and I’ve always tried to keep my space there welcoming and available, but it could use some help with insulation, better flooring and access to solar power.
“Study for Self Portrait 01 & 02”, photographs by Vojislav Radovanovic (aka Mr. Voice Love)
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Allen Ginsberg Gave Great Head I long for his bearded vagina mouth his thick lips saving my cock from teeth his baldness bobbing for my balls I long to grab him by the ears to pump his drool full of throbbing meat to bruise his tonsils swimming in semen I long for his bony finger up my ass playing dirty doctor digging deep poking my prostate till my balls cling I long, hard and long, for his genius head raised eyes wide on my cock in his jerking grip pleasure spasms shooting white with moans I long to know the moment after when he’d bow his head “You okay, Allen?” I’d ask wondering if he was crying or out of breath at my knees at the foot of the bed “Don’t move,” he’d say and five minutes of dripping silence would pass before he’d use my knees to get off of his I long for the warm moist washcloth he’d bring repeating, “don’t move” gently cleaning me like a baby in a crib. —Ian Ayres
Dear Allen Ginsberg Did you receive my sperm? Bottled an ounce in your honor. Wrote a note: Consider it an overseas orgasm... Edmund White teased, “He might drink it.” “Hope not,” I gasped, “There’re no preservatives!” Preservative in French means condom.
Remember in Paris, at the hotel near Napoleon’s Tomb, when we sat like naked Buddhas on the floor, playing blind; my hands exploring your face, your hands finding my cock... in the dark?
—Ian Ayres
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“Allen Ginsberg Strangles Ian Ayres”, photograph by Jerry Aronson
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A Somewhat, Almost Letter to Rufus by e.c. patrick
E
very time I hear “The Art Teacher” by Rufus Wainwright, it feels like he is inside my head somehow, mining my memories for poetic musical fodder. He seems to have caught a sentiment in the song that defines so much of what drives me. Not that I am a middle-aged woman pining over the memory of a beloved art teacher from my youth. I got my teacher, yes, but he was from the English department, and I didn’t meet him until I was actually middle-aged, or nearly so, anyway. And, yes, I was able to “tell him” and so am many times blessed in my home life because of it, thank you very much. I am getting off the point here, though, away from where the heart of the song is for me, in the art. As Wainwright so elaborately croons about the “Rubens and Rembrandts” and then turns to Turner, I am always instantly flooded with memories of myself in one specific lecture hall at the age of nineteen. We were required to take a certain number of humanities courses in college. I had always been interested in art, always really wanted to be an artist in some sense even if I couldn’t articulate why or in what form that would take, so I chose to be daring and take Art History. I was fortunate enough to have a professor who was more concerned with the theory behind and essence of the work versus the rote visual memorization of an infinite number of slides, dates, and names. I’m sure I would never have survived had it been that way. Instead, I was shown how to look at a piece for deeper meaning, to see beyond the surface. We had made it about half-way through the course at the time of this specific memory. The first half had been mostly early work that I found interesting, but not overly inspiring. Hooray for the Greeks and Romans, but I wasn’t yet awed. The way the class was set up most days, we few students spread out among a large lecture hall so that, in the dark, we were essentially alone with nothing more than gigantic images in front of us on the projector screen along with the drone of lecture description from below and the occasional click of a now old-fashioned slide reel. I cannot say that I remember what came before or after the one piece of work that I will never forget, but it hardly makes any difference. After a series of sculptures or portraits or whatever it was came suddenly an image of a violent sea and a ship that literally seemed to move on the screen in front of me. The sea 8
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had life and color and movement. I sat there in the dark as the words of the lecture seemed to fade away while the deep oranges and bright whites danced with the greens and blues and blacks. My breath was momentarily taken as life and death intermingled on the screen, a world of story right in front of me. It was J.M.W. Turner, of course, his painting, The Slave Ship. It changed me. Cliché as that may be, as skeptical as even I am that such epiphanies ever actually occur, this one was real, if only to me. Frankly, that’s the only person it has to be real for, and I am perfectly ok with that. Alone in that dark lecture hall, I learned something about by insides, about what really makes me tick. There are few memories I have that are as vivid as this one, few that seem to pinpoint a paradigm shift in the way I see the world. I can still hear the click of the projector to this day. Art at that moment became my muse, in all its forms. I suddenly had and still have reason to pursue it, to forever be in search of that feeling again. I have actually had occasion to visit the Metropolitan Museum, the location in the song that has become one of my all-time favorites. I spent an afternoon in pursuit of the Turners, the John Singer Sargents, the Rubens and the Rembrandts. In fact, I always look for the John Singer Sargents no matter what museum I am in as I hear Wainwright’s voice in the back of my head, singing to me, reminding me of what drives my creative juices. Consider this a letter of thanks and appreciation, perhaps half to Turner and half to Wainwright for articulating my thoughts so well. As Turner is long past, I’ll address it to Rufus. I’ll rewrite it and start with Dear Rufus, or Dear Mr. Wainwright if I’m feeling formal, or Dear Genius. Something like that. I’ll never be rich enough to “own one,” of course, but I’ll always be grateful for the insights Turner has given me. Add to that Wainwright’s reminder that I should be ever mindful of my good fortune in landing my own teacher, my sometimes muse, “not that much older,” and there’s not much else one could put in a single song to make it more personal to me. Surely there is some psychic wavelength there. Although, I must say, I swear I will never wear a “uniformish, pant-suit sort of thing.” Unless it is part of a hilarious Halloween costume, maybe. Actually, that has me thinking.
“Happy New Year”, drawing by Joseph Minutello
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“Sitting in the Mandala�, photograph by author
Meeting the Dakini by Blackbird
T
his is the story of meeting the Dakini.
The dakini (Sanskrit: “sky dancer”) is a female being of generally volatile temperament, which acts as a muse for spiritual practice. Often will appear to a meditation practitioner who is transitioning from logical or analytical meditation into wisdom experience. Meeting the Dakini: I am in the Kopan Monastery bookstore, Kathmandu 44600, Nepal. I see an image of naked woman. She has fangs. She is dancing. She has five skulls on her head as ornaments. She is holding a bell and a drum. Above her reads “Chod: Cutting through the ego.” I felt magnetized. I felt fearful. I felt alive. I approached the bookstore desk and was greeted by two monks. One was drawing a female figure on his right hand facing towards him: a reflection of my own desire. I asked them “who is she?” “Where can I find her?” almost accusatory like maybe they were keeping her in the guesthouse. I was discerning. I knew I needed to find her. First one says, “That is Machig Labdron, an 11th century Yogini.” looking at the second monk with the figure drawing in hand. He smiled. He didn’t say anything. We laughed together. I left. Keeping the image with me I made prayers to her. Asking her to teach me how to offer my body. Overcome fear. Cut through all illusion.
Years latter it’s two days ago. April 19, 2018. I am in the presence of Lama Tsultrim: A human emanation of Machig Labdron. She is guiding us through the Dakini Mandala. A practice that transforms mental poisons into wisdom nectar. Five colors associated with the directions: White, Blue, Yellow, Red, And Green. For example transforming depression into spaciousness, anger into clarity, pride into equanimity, lust into discernment, speediness into all-accomplishment. I work with the White Dakini. Transforming disassociation, lethargy, and depression into spaciousness. In the guided mediation I am following her down a path. Path is moving slightly upward towards a luminous place. I walk closer. Now, no longer restricted by gravity I feel as though I am one with her. The White Dakini: unconditional space. Extremely bright and vivid: I ask her “Where have you taken me?” she replies, “You are in the space of simultaneous birth and death.” “Why am I here?” She says, “This is where I need you to abide. This is why we practice.” We are asked to feel her embodied wisdom: rainbow light moving through our bodies. our own wisdom. We rest. … Sounding the seed syllable BAM I retreat consciousness back into this body: the temple. Staying in the feeling. There are tears running down my face. I feel completely relaxed. Muse and A Mused integrate into space itself. We dedicate the merit of the meditation for the benefit of all beings.
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Invasion From the shoreline of my teens I watched another dream sink; you British guys crossing over, sailing into the hearts of American girls, easily winning what I could not fathom, my ship so oddly off course. They loved your way of talking, your cockney attitude, even the boys here followed your lead – but I stood my ground, holding onto the hope that one of you guys from a foreign land might be as different as me. —Jim Farfaglia
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“Court of Miracles”, painting by Patric “Pipa” Stillman. Tribute to my creative muses: Hibiscus (The Cockettes), Lennie Dale (Dzi Croquettes) and Dali-protege Steven Arnold.
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“Ecstasy 03”, drawing by Vojislav Radovanovic (AKA Mr. Voice Love)
Ebb and Flow by Allen Hoston
I
told him to smell the Puget Sound from the top of the trail. Salt and seaweed. Let it find us through the pines on a gentle breeze. I insisted he close his eyes. Let it guides us down through roots and branches and brush. Mixing and melting. It’ll carry us through the forest, into the clearing, and under the train’s tunnel to rocky shores. My bedroom smells too much like ass and cherries when he’s around. I’ve fleeted for two hours— let the saline pull from my insides. Absorbing my yesterday and my morning. Evidence that I’m human. I wonder if he smells it too. I wonder if he remembers the first time we touched the Sound. Morning baptisms don’t fare well for sensitive skin. My feet aren’t used to broken seashells and frigid waters anymore. I want to go gently, but the tide is coming quickly and the waves don’t recognize us. I want him to go gently. But we’re both spinning from spirits. His finger is inside of me. His fingers are inside of me. He is inside of me. The Sound was tearing. Ripping away bad flesh. Bad spirits. A rite of passage. Baptism by sea.
Maybe I was too clean. Washed away all the things that makes this pleasurable. Washed away the good oils. The ones the protect my ass from him. It’s too much. I have to step out. It’s too much. I ask him to pull out. It hurts. That thing that only exists when I’m with you. I beg for the hurt on hot, sticky summer nights. Everything that’s touching it is screaming for release. Each wave telling me to go back. His hips telling me to come back. Ebbing. Grabbing. Growing. Teasing. “Wait,” I say. “Hold on,” I say. “Enter again,” I say.
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“Ecstasy 02”, drawing by Vojislav Radovanovic (AKA Mr. Voice Love)
They/Them I cried as you changed From human to butterfly Drying your wings on my bed A wet spot slept on Dried hard on my sheets Can I pray to you, Oh God/dess? Can I hold your name on my tongue? Can I chant you Into being? Last night you blessed a dream to me A temporary union I pulled my long hair In a loose ponytail And awoke fevered and hard.
–Allen Hoston
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“Ater Gym” watercolor, watercolor pencil, ink, by Dmitry Bitjukov
“Lovers”, watercolor and ink, by Dmitry Bitjukov
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“Musings of an Invisible Girl”, by Imaginary
Two Options for the Afterlife by Charlie Bondhus
In one I’m a wolf, but actually no. A dog hybrid—Malawolf? Wolfsky? German shepolf? I’m wild but trainable. * I wake up in a woodland park. I know it’s a park and not a wild wood because there’s a carefully tended garden consisting mostly of hyacinth and gerber daisies. * My owners say there’s hope for me yet. The forest says there’s hope for me yet. * The earth feels good beneath my bare feet The wind feels good against my beard The sun feels good on my shoulders I realize I have no genitals and, oddly, that feels good too.
* I sit on the back porch and howl until they bring me kibble, but no, I don’t want it. I knock the bowl over with my nose. It’s rutting season, and the wind tempts me with deer heat. * Is this heaven? I don’t believe in heaven. I believe in you. * I’m not the violent type (when my master’s son puts his sticky fingers in my ears, I just whimper), but I want to tear the throat out of something brown and bleeding, and I would too, but for the fence.
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Photograph by Chris Moody
Married Now By Tom Ciuba
That sunny day in June Justice was on our side Nice change And everyone cheered, “Well, at least you can get married now!” At least I could get married now And on a sunny day in October I did And everyone cried, “You’re married now!” Indeed, I am married now But our VP wants me converted Not gay And I live every day in fear But at least I am married now In South Dakota, too, I can marry now But here’s hoping the adoption agency is gay-friendly Not guaranteed And some children go without a good home But at least I am married now In Georgia I can marry now But housing applications I submit with bated breath Not peachy-keen And for the next property I search But at least I am married now In the Sunshine State I can marry now But tomorrow my job can be snatched away No paradise And the bill collectors would still call But at least I am married now To the trumpets of a Bourbon Street parade I can marry now But one state away religious freedom prevails “No gays allowed” And onto the next diner I go But at least I am married now Atop the Empire State Building I can marry now But on the sidewalks below 63,000 sleep day and night No shelter And on my precious phone I walk by, unfazed But at least I am married now
On the streets of San Francisco I can marry now But nearly 10,000 people in the city are living with AIDS No cure And society swears the crisis is over But at least I am married now In all of California, in fact, I can marry now But HIV medicine in prison is a needle in a haystack Not groovy, man And Victoria Arellano won’t be the only But at least I am married now In every state I can marry now But a woman’s choice seems fleeting every day “No babykillers” And the patriarchy reigns But at least I am married now From sea to shining sea I can marry now But my black brothers die for broken tail lights Not fair And those crimes against humanity go unpunished But at least I am married now From Maine to Maui I can marry now But six trans women lost their lives this year so far No futures And we hold another vigil But at least I am married now Throughout all of this land I can marry now But my brothers in the Middle East die because they’re gay No refuge And they’re in our thoughts and prayers But at least I am married now And it goes on… And the ring on my finger is a reminder of Both eternal love and eternal oppression But I should just be happy I’m married now. Right?
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What Is A Muse? by Roman Smithee
A
muse for me is the handsome guy sitting across from me, his dark hair and sharp cheek bones, the stubble lining his jaw. I’m inspired by the way his eyelashes frame his cheekbones, the way they contrast against his skin. He holds himself as though royalty—straight and tall, regal. His thin arms add a sense of grace to his movements; he has piano player hands. He has a melancholy air about him. He could be the prince of a romance novel. He doesn’t believe me when I say he’s handsome. A muse is the YouTuber I resisted watching for a few years. Dark hair, dark eyes, a stubbly beard, and muscles. A heart of gold and a laugh made of pure sunshine. His smiles lights up the world. I refused to watch him because I knew he would steal my soul. I was right. A muse is light and airy drapes, fluttering in a purple walled room. A cat curled in a patch of sunlight. A handsome guy on the beach with his dog. Another one sitting in sunlight in a meadow, the light framing him perfectly, casting him in an ethereal light. A muse is a coffee shop, the people sitting and studying, the coffee grinder going, the music playing, the playful banter of the baristas. The smell of freshly brewed coffee as it wafts through the air, mixing with the scent of pastries and traveling on the voices of college students. A muse is the classroom where I feel that maybe my teachers would accept my gender, accept my pronouns—the place where I feel that my identity won’t be belittled or called fake. A muse is where I feel safe and secure, able to be myself without ridicule. It’s where I can write what I want—what makes me happy. That is a muse.
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“The Boy”, acrylic on canvas, by Dmitry Bitjukov
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You Will Not Be Buried you will not be buried when you are freed from the shackles of your flesh your ashes will be rebirthed from the flaming womb not common or gray but all glittery and iridescent pink to match the sparkle in your eye that everyone knows so well your remains will reach for the sky as your thoughts often did it’ll be as if some hot hairy daddy were tossing up his infant child from his big ol’ beefy arms your squeals of delight will echo through the ages skipping joyously along the clouds putting the shiny silver lining on them like lipstick when i squint into the sun just right i’ll see your smile beaming a rainbow reflection you were always a fierce and radiant survivor you did not pass all these milestone years traversing the ravages of time and various personal calamities to wither away in a dark box sealed away from view darling you shine for all time you are the light and the breath of rarified air that gives life to future generations you will not be buried
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—Jason Jenn (aka Jay Sunlight Moonshadow)
“Beast of the Backyard Wilds 2”, photograph by Jason Jenn, Flourish Projects Group
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Unshaven Quest What is it about mountain men? Burly ski bums glowing with altitude Flannel-chested pot-smoking post-hippies Gentle wilderness warriors In Ancient Sumer lived a hairy man Who spoke to animals and knew no culture His name was Enkidu and Goddess conspired To capture him for King Gilgamesh Two great men: demigod ruler who lost his way And woodsman tamed by priestess talk Wresting in the earth Surrounded by cedars Today I remember the tree Rooting the flag of Lebanon The scent of pine needles Bearded mangods joined, jointed, jutting skyward There I bury my aching memory Searching for dusty future lovers Unwritten letters in lost tongues Inhaling infinite specificity and sweat
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—Aaron M. Mason, CDQ
“Ecstasy 01”, drawing by Vojislav Radovanovic (AKA Mr. Voice Love)
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Volumes by Denise Conca
T
he next day I was reading and writing. I was actually getting back to reading and writing. Though this whole expansion period of the late summer and fall, I hadn’t been taking time for myself, what with dating and the relationship with Canela and working. I mean, I was barely taking time to masturbate. I pulled Coming to Power off the shelf and read a bit. I started jacking off, rubbing my clit and thinking about the clothespins on Bonarh’s neck; the way Bonarh held herself so still once they were on her and then, on her nipples. In my thought was the opening and closing, the tight spring being stretched. This is where I begin in earnest, pushing and rubbing harder, pulling on my own nipples, getting wet and then as I open to myself, the deep sadness. I don’t want to allow it or follow it. The sadness seems so indulgent, too indulgent. But the situation with Bonarh is where I want my attention, my energy, my focus. Other situations, brought on as a distraction have provided much but now I want the singlemindedness of what is going on with Bonarh. The desire and the desire to completely fall into what’s happening. I am more and more convinced that though desired, this situation needs to end at the end of the year when she leaves for her big trip. A lot of the grief and sadness is about that; her leaving and the fear I can’t stand it, won’t be able to stand it. I want to say something to her tonight but fear there’s not enough a time. The idea that we could continue seems improbable, not to mention impossible. I mean, that I would say to Bonarh “find a way to contact me and ask permission to come for my pleasure while you are in Indonesia”, that she would even agree to this seems unlikely. Let alone how could this arrangement be maintained over that kind of time/space separation. No, what makes more sense is for me to pull in through the winter and strengthen what has occurred as a result of the expansion period. I look over at my bookshelf, hand still on my clit, rubbing in a circle. I look at the books, stacked up in tall piles or standing on end: Genet, Lesbian Nation, Macho Sluts, Isherwood, Kristeva, Genet again, Delany, Naked Lunch, Semiotexte, Oakgrove, Lispector and I push with slightly more pressure. I’m on my back, rubbing my clit steadily now, 30 RFD 174 Summer 2018
without variation in pressure or speed. I’m touching myself the way one touches oneself, which is the way one knows and likes, the way one pleasures oneself, by oneself. I’m not trying anything to seduce myself, or to mix it up or to provide any unknown excitement. This isn’t my left hand; this isn’t a left-handed unorthodox action, sinistromanual as if to touch oneself as a stranger, to feel the strangeness of the other as oneself. I want to feel this as one feels their breath, as one feels one’s heartbeat: as if I’m simply alive. The day before Bonarh calls and leaves a voice message: “Pony, I want to come for your pleasure”. I’m excited to even see the notification of a message from Bonarh and even more excited to hear her voice. But this isn’t even an actual ask. I text Bonarh in the morning: I got your message this morning. It’s always good to hear you in that state: waking up so turned on, finger touching clit. The wanting to come for my pleasure and the stating of that state but not asking to come is particularly pleasing, Bonarh. I’m not in a rush; just pounding away with regularity that I have been accustomed to knowing it will get me to the climax. I don’t have to try and catch or ride or strain or stretch for a chance at maybe perhaps, oh can I get there. This is the pleasure one has in touching oneself. I allow myself to let images, forward and back, come through my consciousness. In this sure and absoluteness, I’m arriving the other day with Bonarh at the studio, her pulling the door closed and locking it from the inside. After we settle, saying to her “we had a good time together last time we were here”. She smiles and agrees. “What did you like from last time, Bonarh?” the first thing she mentions is me on my knees, sucking her off as she wears my dick in a harness on her hips. I’m gagging, choking and then spitting all over her, covering her breasts, belly and face with the thick viscous cock-sucking spit that comes from deep in the throat. “Yes”, I say, “I’m glad because this part was for me maybe the most surprising part as well.” I’m holding this image in my body as a feeling, trying to not have to go through my brain as an idea but to keep the felt sense of the dick in my mouth, the release of coughing and pulling back from her hips and the letting go as my tongue pushes through lips the phlegmish saliva. I’m
rubbing and holding myself in the place I like; the building without effort, the lifting and certainty of coming orgasm, the relaxation of non-exertion and non-desire, the certainty is that sure. There isn’t wanting when one touches oneself, only satisfaction that comes from the confidence of knowing
“Acrobats”, drawing by Joseph Minutello
what one possesses. I’m feeling really good now or it is just feeling now, the beingness of now that can be without thought or idea, just the rubbing pulling non-thinking perfection that one is able to provide for oneself and when I am there, there is only that: perfection, sublime perfection.
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RFD Photograph 174 Summerby2018 33 Menchaca
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“Dmitry”, acrylic on canvas, by Dmitry Bitjukov
I-Thou and All That Jazz by Atticus Winterfae
I
n 1979, 220 gay men found the following words written on a piece of paper: • Many gay brothers are feeling the need to come together... • To share insights about ourselves • To dance in the moonlight • To renew our oaths against patriarchy/corporations/racism • To hold, protect, nurture and caress one another • To talk about the politics of the gay espiritment/ the espiritment of gay politics • To find the healing place inside our hearts • To become Inspirer/listener as we share new breakthroughs in how we perceive gay consciousness • To soar like an eagle; to re-discover/reinvent our myths • To talk about gay living/loving alternatives • To experience the groundlessness of the calmus root • To share our gay visions; to sing, sing, sing • To evoke the great fairy circle (Saloman)
Even then, we acknowledged that we were ‘cruel’ to each other at times (The Trouble With Harry Hay, Timmons, 266). However, the faerie space became referred to as ‘transformative’; consisting of conversations which, “…went on for hours…unfolding hurts, fears, histories of struggle and violence, enfolding hopes, desires, visions, and possibilities (Saloman, 2). The legacy continues; we share from the heart in gatherings, we explore difference, and we celebrate with abandon our developing sense of self. But do we truly do this in relationship with others, or do we continue to function in isolation from others in gatherings? The notion of subjectsubject relations are considered in some corners of the faerie world, and this is very positive, but does this notion support us sufficiently?
T
his essay will explore my subjective reality of my first gathering, and argue for a greater focus on the quality and manner in which we relate to others. In particular, I argue that full
and transformative healing can only occur when we relate to others in what Martin Buber refers to as I-Thou. It will begin with a very personal narrative about my first experience within a gathering.
A nobody in an unsafe world Last year I was at an all time low. I was in the last throes of a loveless relationship, barely able to look at him, let alone smile and interact. We were both weighted down by the toxicity of contemporary life, and this had affected our relationship. But to be fair, he was always an asshole, and I don’t suffer fools gladly. It was never a match made in heaven. Throughout the time we were together, my friendships slowly dwindled; I lost comrades, others faded away into the shadows, and I fell out with the few left. I was strapped with a number of digital friendships, which were all very lovely, but they were all digital; not real. I was, even worse, an older gay man; ostracised from the scene, imperfect, on the rubbish pile. I was no longer able to command the dance floor as my knees hurt, and my belly meant tight jeans were in the past. So both my loveless relationship and age joined forces to lead me to a deep need for friendship; companionship; anything other than the misery my life had become. When at university, I had come across Radical Faeries; I had read about them, been interested in connecting with others, but for eight million reasons, I didn’t pursue it further at the time. But I remembered Harry and the fae, and for whatever reason, fate aligned me with a trip in 2017 (I won’t disclose which one); finally, I was to connect with Radical Faeries: I looked to engage in political and radical debate; I longed to meet a love interest; I expected to at least chat with fellow fae and be embraced by the love and care that the fae could allegedly provide to their own. I was disappointed.
A
fter arriving at the venue, I was anxious. I had driven around several times to avoid entering, as I was deathly concerned about presenting myself to others. Having experienced much rejection in my life, going in to new environments and worlds RFD 174 Summer 2018 35
is hard, especially into established groups, and clamour of chatting and connection; I was silent especially if you have a disability like me. This is also and disconnected. I managed to engage in a the cost, I believe, of becoming an older gay man, brief conversation with a couple of fae, but they where the gay world honours and reveres youth, but quickly stepped back and watched when other, dismisses seniority and experience. But my despera- more interesting people took their attention tion to connect got me in there. I had met myself at away. I then went for more walking around the the contact boundary; if I was ever to get myself out building, sitting occasionally in the blue room; of my chronic depression and isolation, going in to on my own, at this point really unable to find my the gathering was the only way forwards for me. So own voice, even if I had any skills, I was growing I pulled up. I couldn’t find an entrance, and I think numb. this is where things possibly began to go downhill. I went to bed early, after a heart circle. I had The pangs of being wrong and different began to really hoped I would shift what was happening set in. I felt a flood of panic wash over me. But my for me in the circle, but it left me feeling worse. desperation propelled me forwards. Old wounds of vulnerability and isolation had There was no-one around when I got in. I opened up, and there was only so much responbegan to feel out of my sibility I could take for depth. I then began this. I was beginning wondering if I’d got it to feel more and more wrong. Was I in the disgusting to look at right place? The Brit(old stuff ), and the I was definitely ish neurosis of getting shame began to take panicking by this point; social customs wrong hold; paranoia set in. I feeling alone, amidst (we are the originators slept restlessly, having a clamour of chatting of the queue, remember) nightmares, being woken consumed me. I then intermittently by noises, and connection; I was saw someone, and they feeling cold. silent and disconnected. walked past me. I then I managed to engage in a saw someone else and woke up feeling disbrief conversation with asked what I should do. I orientated. I did yoga. was briefly introduced to Alone. Then went back a couple of fae, but they a number of people who upstairs. I was so disapquickly stepped back and gave half hearted smiles pointed I had not fully watched when other, more before returning to their engaged with anyone, interesting people took more interesting converand thought I would ofsations. fer some workshops as a their attention away. I got my bags and way of connecting. I oftook them to find a fered a couple, but there room. I unpacked. Nowas no interest, and it one came. I lied on my began to seem as though bed. No-one came. I walked around the building. everyone else’s workshops were filling up. I No-one approached me. I do walk fast, especially wondered if I’d just got them all wrong; missed a when I’m nervous and in unfamiliar surrounddirection somewhere. My sense of being inadeings, so put it down to me. I then went for anquate and ‘outside’ grew, and I regretted making other walk around outside. People were arriving; myself vulnerable by offering a workshop. I had people seemed to know each other. The realisaa sense I was the only one still walking around, tion I knew no-one began to hit, and a sense of alone, but I heard others—newbies too—say they shame and isolation came over me. felt ‘outside’. Back in my room, someone else was setMy sense of inadequacy was fuelled, and I tling in. We spoke briefly. She had friends and began to feel like I was dissociating. There was associations here. I had none. But she was nowhere to hide. Since there was also so much interesting, and I was grateful for the contact. I talk of taking drugs, and people clearly being then went for the evening meal. I was definitely on drugs as some could barely string a sentence panicking by this point; feeling alone, amidst a together, let alone listen to other people, I began
I
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“Expression”, acrylic on canvas, by Dmitry Bitjukov
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to wonder if I had come to the wrong place. I tried five times to speak in the large group opening ceremony, I was talked over and ignored. Harry’s vision was not perpetuated here. I did not feel safe; I wasn’t heard. The notion of going home began to occupy my thinking. The easy way out. I had to return home. I packed my stuff up when everyone else was eating. No-one noticed I wasn’t eating. No-one noticed me going to my car and driving off. And although I was so ashamed of my inadequacy, I was also relieved that I didn’t have to wander around a place being reminded that I had failed to make any connection, and couldn’t function in the company of Radical Faeries.
Moving Forwards But what does this mean for me and Radical Faeries? I don’t believe that my experience was much different from some others; this is group dynamics at work. Some of us hold the group’s anxiety and are put on the periphery; others are scapegoated and attacked; the majority toe the party line, and a few leaders manipulate and control. We may have the fantasy that we are anarchic, but the misuse of power is everywhere within our community; organisers bagging the best rooms, leaving newbies to find the less salubrious; drug users promoting and selling - quite freely - illegal drugs, capitalising on others’ vulnerabilities. I have subsequently heard of many others feeling ostracised by not using drugs, being shamed for taking care of themselves, and also not being able to connect with, in particular, the better established fae; it seems as though the more connected you are, the more superficial the connection with newer folk. I think that the Radical Faeries organisations that I have been to are in need of a serious overhaul. The reality of Harry Hay’s vision is no longer apparent. To myself at least.
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ow, I understand and accept that this is probably due, in part, to us being ‘clan creatures’. We function in groups, we always have; humans need to belong in order to exist. But I maintain that the Faeries, if anyone on this earth, should be aware of and sensitive to the way in which we relate to others. Are we so caught up with the tinsel and glitter around us that we ignore those on the periphery; the dispossessed? Is that need for contact with others so valuable that we lose sight of those who 38 RFD 174 Summer 2018
are maybe older, more infirm, ‘differenter’? More importantly, what are we going to do about it?
Buber, I-It, and I-Thou; Relating to Being Differenter Martin Buber’s philosophy has had a far reaching impact on society today, as some of you probably know. The thinking is deeply ingrained within psychotherapy practice, social work, and other therapeutic approaches. The philosophy considers that, in order to fully connect with and transform others, we need to do so from a position where we relate to others in an I-Thou basis, as opposed to I-It. I think that it is high time that we begin, as a community, to assimilate some of this thinking; to begin to relate to others in an I-Thou mutuality. I think that, once we envision ourselves on this continuum, we can then truly begin to use gathering space as a restorative mechanism; where the dispossessed are meaningfully embraced, loved, and respected. That we truly honour difference, not just tolerate it. I’ll talk a little bit about what the two ends of the continuum refer to. I-It is when we relate to the other as an object. We avoid the ugly fae at the gathering, we brush past the fae who is walking up the stairs slower than we would like. It is when we see someone we think is beneath us; uglier, shorter, smaller, taller, older, younger, ‘differenter’. When we interrupt someone from finishing their sentence. When we belligerently hold on to a view just because we can. Not sitting next to someone at dinner because we don’t like the way they chew. Taking the piece of drag that we know someone else planned on wearing. I-it is when we prioritise our own sense of self above the other, as opposed to connecting with the other. I-it also happens when we refuse to accept someone else’s point of view; dialogue and IThou embraces this point of view as an exciting part of humanity, looks to confirm our understanding in an open and alive way, and can still involve us maintaining a position of difference. Just not in a way that wipes the other out. IThou is being clear and different if required, but in a deeply respectful, confirming, embracing sense. I-Thou also looks for hurt within existence, and seeks to heal. If we are in I-Thou, we look for the lonely face and connect, we do not ignore. When we hear a distressing story from someone we dislike in a heart circle, we be-
come curious about what our intolerance might soap box, when in fact, I-Thou connections and be about, not ignore them afterwards. In fact, relationships are based on interpersonal and perwhen we are ‘in’ I-Thou, we may even seek out sonal growth, choice, and care. How better if we the person from the heart circle, and attempt to could sit on a sofa together, stroking each other’s connect, to support, to love, to dialogue about face, looking into each other’s eyes, being held, what may be getting in the way of the connecconnecting, loving. You can also, if you wish, tion. I have a fantasy that Hay also thought about begin to operate and connect to others with the I-Thou, but I have not found evidence of this. light on, or you don’t. That is your choice. And I-Thou is also deeply challenging. It is about I’ll maintain you should. being open to contact with others, consciously. Moving forwards When I withdrew at the gathering I attended, So I will not, as maybe some of you wish, be I began to relate to the gathering as an I-It burying my head and never attend another gathphenomenon, ‘it’ was a gathering, albeit in a way ering again. You are my community; I am yours. that enabled me to survive (my own growing If I’m not there, I will remain isolated. The bigedge lol). I could never gest cause of premature have been in I-Thou when death in humans is isolaI absented myself. I lost tion; I can no longer be sight of the people that isolated. I have too much I-Thou also looks for hurt were doing and being to give. The level of conthemselves. And I-Thou tact between myself and within existence, and does accept that others this community begins at seeks to heal. If we are sometimes need to use the point that I choose to in I-Thou, we look for the substances in order to enter the contact boundlonely face and connect, survive, I have partaken ary; that space between myself; they deeply honus, where we connect and we do not ignore. When our and understand this join; merge even. I aim to we hear a distressing process. But I-Thou also pack a new suitcase, full story from someone we challenges this as unconof baubles, bangles and dislike in a heart circle, scious relating, or even as beads. And I aim to open a form of self harm; as we it this time, even though we become curious about do not seek to hurt ourit is terrifying, and I may what our intolerance selves or others, we also be rejected again. might be about, not question, support, and And as I endeavour to ignore them afterwards. intervene where someone remain in I-Thou, I conis hurting themselves. It is tinue to reflect on where only through the healing I went wrong, how I manpower of love that growth age the internal demons, and healing can occur - I-Thou is all about love, as I hope you reflect on yours. It is also about me and I-Thou is not passive. trying to relate to myself in an I-Thou mutuality, I-Thou refers to a clarity about ourselves and beginning to love myself, challenging the energy others, and if we are not clear, we are seeking inside more creatively. to become clear. I-Thou probably accepts the Not relating to myself as I-It. As I hope you limitations here; we can never have full insight do too. But also gently challenging myself to get or enlightenment; but we are trying, accepting out of my room when I’m at the next gathering; when we mess up, and forever working towards to smile at others; to demonstrate I am ready, improvement. I-Thou requires intense insight willing, and interested in connection. Which I and self- awareness; if we are operating in the am. dark, and we are ok with that, it means the And I hope readers will respond. other’s experience is less valuable that when we And maybe it’s time to offer a workshop on connect. So I-Thou is also about curiosity. this, and this time to not rub it off the plan!
I
could wax lyrical, but that would then become me relating to you in I-it; dictating from a RFD 174 Summer 2018 39
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Photographs by Chris Moody
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“Return to Shadowland�, watercolor, watercolor pencil, ink, by Dmitry Bitjukov
Furtwengler By Phillip-John Puzzo
F
rom the closet’s confines I drudged my weary toe” in my twin bed. body at the ripe age of seventeen, but I was just Not only were our families oblivious to our an innocent sixth grader when I like-liked my first sexcapades, but also our tight-knit friend group boy. The doltish, harebrained object of my Pompeiiremained naïve to our fuck-lationship as well. hyperbozlied affection? My muse? His name was Through high school, Michael and I met in certain Michael Bernard Furtwengler VI. bathrooms to blow each other during lunch or Michael sat four seats behind me, two rows over halfway through Statistics and neither our peers in Mrs. Babiarz’s 20**-20** cohort at St. Francis nor the hall monitors ever had a clue. For the secof Assissi’s parochial school in Avalon, IL. From ond half of sophomore year—before my father gave Kindergarten until high school’s final year, Avalon me his old Chevy for my sixteenth birthday—Miconsidered us thunderwaffles, out-and-out besties, chael picked me up in the mornings before school. the most allegiant of spritely pals; consumately We fucked in the corner of the back parking lot beattached at the hip, Michael and I were devoted, fore 8a.m. every day. It was the best way to relieve dyed-in-the-wool amigos morning wood. through childhood and I am unashamed to adadolescence, evolutionmit I possess some flamI disobeyed the izing into adults side-byboyant, ‘stereotypical’ most important rule side: stormy, temputuous, qualities. After coming governing our outlandish teeth-bared but always, out, I learned that many always having the other’s of my peers thought I relationship: I brought back, me depending was pippy for a long time, up romantic feelings and, on Furt fully for psyeven mentioning that I in turn, our concealed chological reassurance exemplified pippy traits identities. We rarely and versa-vice. And we in elementary school. The rubbed our skinny bodies fact that everyone knew I spoke during sex to together like puppies on was pippy before I knew I maintain clear-eyed focus thick carpeting whenever was pippy surprised and on the task at hand; but, the opportunity presentangered me; I desired for during a particularly ed itself. my friends and family to Every adult has that be shocked by my idenraunchy slumber party on story. tity, which is a common Christmas Eve-Eve, I told I can’t recall the first desire held by freshly-out Michael that I was ready to specific memory of when pipsters. Now, five years come out. we ramrodded our meatlater, I don’t give a flying sicles, but I’m confident fuck who thinks or knows in my ability to make an I’m pippy, and often times educated guess: Michael and I were most likely I feel ashamed of my younger self for caring so wrestling, rough-housing, incidentally thrustmuch about others’ opinions. ing our pelvises together, and after a few, fumbly Anyways, I do embody certain stereotypes of rounds, we came to understand the euphoric trithe pippy male; conversely, Michael was quite fecta of physical pressure, friction and our shlongs. brazen-acting and traditionally masculine. He Michael and I organized numerous sleepovers and played basketball and was known throughout initiated countless games of hide-and-seek in order Chicago’s burbs as a talented, accomplished post to research. The ecstasy of our sleepovers derived with a bright future in athletics. I emphasize this from our parents’ cluelessness; they suspected last detail to highlight the fact that Michael was nothing, allowing us to shut the door, disappear pretty fucking dumb: he rarely completed homeinto the treehouse for hours, and sleep “head-towork, disrupted lectures and often cheated on
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“Sweet Sailor�, watercolor, watercolor pencil, ink, by Dmitry Bitjukov
tests and quizzes. I’m sure the idea of Michael and Logan dancing the horizontal hoolah never crossed anyone’s minds. Then, senior year of high school, over the holiday—as the world’s possibilities began to bloom and pop in bright colors, into tangible possibilities within reach—I disobeyed the most important rule governing our outlandish relationship: I brought up romantic feelings and, in turn, our concealed identities. We rarely spoke during sex to maintain clear-eyed focus on the task at hand; but, during a particularly raunchy slumber party on Christmas Eve-Eve, I told Michael that I was ready to come out. “Dude, I’m kinda sick of this. Right? I wanna tell my parents I’m pippy and start my life, you know? I’m not pressuring you at all to come out with me, but I think you should come out with me. Maybe, doing it together, the whole thing will go way, way, wayyy better. For both of us. Dontchya think? Right?? C’mon. Talk to me, Michael. Michael. Mike! Whattya think?!” Upon reflection, my proposition must’ve seemed borderline insane to Michael’s half-developed brain; but, encased in my suburban bubble, blissfully unaware of life’s strenuous paths, a steadfast teenage idealist, Low and Furt hand-in-hand confessions appeared like the most sensible way forward. Through my narrow purview, I imagined Michael and I would be trendsetters, local celebrities in the pippy community, gathering enough buzz to appear on Ellen after uploading dozens of “Boyfriend Tags” to our shared YouTube channel with vlog upon vlog recounting humorous, romantic and drawn-out stories about our first “real” date and pet names and coordinating prom outfits and sheer happiness. I was head-over-heels-over-head in love with Michael Furtwenger. “I’m not pippy, bro. Nuh-uh.” This is Michael’s response and I start to laugh. “What…? Look at the Trojan wrapper on the floor. The darkness on the sheets. Uhhh, see?? Are you looking? You’re motherfucking pippy, bro.” Michael kept denying his pip, becoming increasingly upset and vulgar. After a few minutes of intense arguing Michael threw a punch at me so I tackled him to the floor. My sister Tierny rushed into my bedroom and tried separating us, yelling for my parents to come upstairs; but, before anyone came in, Michael stood up, ran downstairs and drove home. “What the FUCK?!” Tierny screamed. I remember I couldn’t say anything.
A few weeks later, in the upstairs bathroom I tried to kill myself by swallowing most of the capsules in a Tylenol PM bottle. Michael had stopped talking to me, I️ didn’t know where I️ wanted to go to college or what I should do with my life, and it had been a particularly bitter, miserable winter. After ingesting the pills, I freaked out and tried to vomit. I sobbed for ten minutes, feeling mighty terrible for myself, and after failing to puke, I passed out. The next day, I woke up in a hospital bed with two IV’s and a pumped stomach. I felt relieved that I didn’t die. Emotionally, I still felt like shit, but my actions appeared brash and idiotic in the daylight. Presuming that my best friend Michael Bernard Furtwengler IV and I were functioning on identical timelines was imbecilic, selfish and daft. After being formally discharged from the hospital for my physical injuries, I was readmitted for in-patient therapy at the psych ward. Also, I started taking a heavy dosage of anti-depressant medication, which made me feel clouded and worse, frankly. I quit taking my meds only weeks after leaving the ward, selling individual pills to sleazy bastards at my high school for easy cash. My therapy experience was quite strange and I only remember bits and pieces. I know I wasn’t half as fucked up as the other kids living there. These teenagers had cut their skin, watched their father stuff their mom in the dryer, shanked a kid between classes, hallucinated while not on LSD and slept under slides at the local park to escape the rain. I was the only kid whose parents were still together. I grew up in a firm and supportive household. I attended a decent public high school only a few blocks away. My parents are the definition of middle class, blue collar Americans just trying to pay down their credit card debt and put food in the fridge. Often, when I was struggling to fall asleep in my hospital bed or participating in a “family session” with my therapist and parents, I felt ashamed for causing my loved ones confusion and grief about my mental well-being, especially Logan Sr. and Glenda. I was an outsider at the ward because there was obvious stability in my life. Employees sensed that I had some sort of future, because I was surrounded by kids who would be jailbirds and crystal meth users in the near future. I spent one month in in-patient therapy. Everyone at school thought I had Mad Cow disease. I was quite pleased with this rumor and promote its authenticity to this day. As the culmination of my treatment loomed, I RFD 174 Summer 2018 45
gathered my psychoanalyst, therapist, psychiatrist, We intensely discuss all of our feelings for over two social workers from my high school, a favoran hour. Abruptly, my psychoanalyst announced I ite teacher and my parents in one place. I wrote a would be going home with my parents. I rejoiced; I disgustingly emotional letter—the kind of letter didn’t know this was an option and couldn’t fucking that should be outlawed and prosecutable because wait to leave this miserable place. We drove home the words are so driven by untamed adolescence— and grabbed Pizza Hut on the way, basking in my and I read the letter aloud to my audience as I wept newfangled identity over our personal pans. without restrain. Finally, I uttered the words, “I am My parents are supportive, but not in the anpippy,” and it was like the gas inside fifty helium noying, PFLAG kind of way. They just don’t give a balloons simultaneously released throughout the fuck who I date, as long as he treats me nicely and room. None of the listeners (except Glenda, bless doesn’t get me hooked on heroin. Glenda and Loher heart) were the least bit surprised. gan Sr. just want me to feel comfortable and happy, Right away, my father and to pay my own bills. started yelling– This support system has “Lowgan! Are you made me into the man I kidding me?! This whole am today. I wouldn’t trade my shindig is going to cost Last year, New Year’s minority status for anything, us over ten grand. Why Eve, I brought my first couldn’t you sit down boyfriend home. His and yes, the pain of coming at the kitchen table and name is Paul Greiner, a out was overwhelming and just tell us this informasweet, handsome twink miserable, but I’m proud tion?! I’m happy you studying to be a nurse at of myself for harnessing finally felt ready to let our university. Hoards of us know, but c’mon friends joined Paul and enough willpower at such a Low—you put on a choI for the NYE celebrayoung age to push through reographed dance show tion. I convinced my pipster growing pains so I every Thanksgiving! You mom to purchase us could go into severe debt for insisted on wearing that a Stoli handle and we tophat from my Abrafinished the bottle before a liberal arts degree later on ham Lincoln Halloween 10:30p.m., ripping shots as my true self. costume! You loved that in the pool. At midnight, tophat! That’s all we wheelbarrow drunk, I needed!” swapped spit with Paul As my therapist in front of my entire berated Logan Sr. for his “deficient empathetic family. The kiss was intense and I may have lightly response,” I began laughing like a wild banshee, twisted Paul’s exposed nipple. My parents were not triggering further bewilderment. My father cracks happy. me up. I remember I started feeling whole again at Overall, being pippy is so much fucking fun. this moment. Breeders and their problems are foreign to me, Once Logan Sr. calmed down, my mother asked, unless it’s the problems of Troy, Raheem or one of “Maybe you haven’t met the right girl?” Jeremy and I’s many pippy hags. I wouldn’t trade And four years later, Glenda still regrets asking my minority status for anything, and yes, the pain this question during such a transcendatory tipof coming out was overwhelming and miserable, ping point of my life. Perhaps I hadn’t met the right but I’m proud of myself for harnessing enough willgirl; perhaps things would change later and pip power at such a young age to push through pipster does function on a fluctuating spectrum, but this growing pains so I could go into severe debt for a is not what I needed her to say right now. Comfort liberal arts degree later on as my true self. Like any your child or make a joke. Don’t question his or self-respecting pipster. her affinity for his or her own genitalia, an affinThe most depressing part about my pippy ity tuned-in parents sense early, an instinct I know history? Michael Furtwengler still claims to be my mother sensed when I was a toddler prancing straight. Just married some bitch not three months around in her heels on Palm Sunday fifteen years ago. Hahahahaha!!!! Isn’t that funny?!? I know right? ago. 46 RFD 174 Summer 2018
“Good Buds”, drawing by Joseph Minutello
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“Surrender”, drawing by Vojislav Radovanovic (AKA Mr. Voice Love)
The Body of Marshall Beach by Sean T. Stevens
I
have feet that slip through sand; clotted, scabbed over the soft, malleable sand, between cheeks, between toes. Warmer beach, they slip through, until I pull them out; sweat dripping down the side of my leg, down my side, sweating and itching, until I pull them out again. Like yours, like you, but with less hair; even after you trimmed yours, you still have more, and it wraps around; long, string, black, the sand. You say “Here?” I say, “Works for me,” more to the cliff face, to the cameras, the dropping stones, and together we throw down two: orange, blue, towels. Two lines in the sand, the ocean pounding away, squealing birds crying for what? For the cliff face that shields our pants, shirts, sun screen, makeup for the black on your chest, food; healthy as you begged, socks, and underwear, and the shoes that were not no our feet, that are free of sand, clotted, and scabbed, bloodied and shattered by our feet. Two lines, blue, orange, where we stand back and stretch, stretch our feet in the sand, naked. Penises dangling, yours erect when he, no he, walks by and winks. You don’t look at me. Our feet in the sand, your hand moving now, mine pulsing to the thrum of the ocean, no my heart. “You like?” he says, “Can I join?” He says. I grab my cock, I grabbed your throat, your head, malleable, slapping, hitting my abdomen, you tapped out, I slapped, and you go limp, unable to breathe. A ring on my finger, loose and hugging the usual pale (let’s say peach, yes let’s) skin. But what it was, is no more, because it is now blue; blue and mauve (I don’t know what mauve is), but mauve, and matching the white band on your chest that screams ring, golden; that screams blue; that screams, mauve. And the ring doesn’t move, but for when I roll it and say “You fell.” And you say “I did.” I have an eight-inch penis, no cock, that he, yes, the blond one, the black one, moves in sync with your eyes, your hazel eyes, while their heads bob, their fingers search and tug at my flesh, the still peach flesh. Your eyes that search the sky, the sand, the sky again, you watch me, you grab my hair, you want my throat. To push my head beneath the water, the cold water. Just beyond the rocks, “yes
daddy,” they erupt, you stare, to the sky, the tourists above ogling, ogling at the Golden Gate. The great red behemoth above, they move in me, and I in you. You on your back, legs in open prayer, they clutching my back, the bridge above to the mountains, the sea ripping away stone, away you, I move, the bridge sways, above, stretching, my eight-inch penis. I have black hair. I have black hair that is curly. I have black hair that, because of the curls, I cut short. Short enough for his fingers to slip through, back to front, where he tugs, moans, “fuck.” My neck exposed, the sun beating on it, the crinkled smile of lighter peach between the tanned bands wrapping the width, the length. Extending down onto my chest that is exposed to the sky where your finger marks rake the front, all eight inside of you. A tear down your face, sand in our toes, on our legs, a corpse to me, “Here?” I say, yet still you don’t look, the bruise throbs, your fingers rake leaving white streaks to match. “Works for me,” you say, you don’t look at me, and you rake my chest, white streaks to match the white smile. The white, peach band, that holds tight to your chest, above your heart, my ring in your flesh, exposed to the sky, to the cameras of the tourists; to the men, the hairy, men, the twinks, hairless, “yes daddy,” “oh god,” “fuck me,” men. I have a nose that sweats. A nose that sweats in the cold, in the heat. A “Dog nose,” you said over a cup of coffee that gave you foggy eyes, no glasses. And I wiped the sweat off of my nose which dripped with tears, both salty, onto you while he, not him, gripped my black curly, but cut hair, and screamed, “Oh fuck” to you, but you were not listening as the sky welcomed my song, my words, and the ocean. The men, the cum, as he bred, no filled, yes filled, me, “Oh God.” And you stared mindless at the sky. And I watched the bruise, and wanted to push your head down, down into the rock, to match mauve and blue, with peach and red, and cried for what could have one day belonged in the world. And he, not him, cried to the lord, to his mother Mary, while I wanted him to stop playing God and giving life where it cannot be.
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“Sho-Ling Foo and The Big Chocolate Dog”, drawing by Joseph Minutello
“A Church Hat”, drawing by Joseph Minutello
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Transformism by Menchaca
D
ocumentary work, in its rawest essence, intends to shine a light, or better yet to comply with utmost honesty. My project is at the intersection between anthropology and photography. While making photos and documenting, one cannot help but understand there is uniqueness to what happens every second of every day. The project documents the performative, stylistic and visual narratives that coincide in the unbeknownst drag scene in Puerto Rico. Drag (queens and kings), in their folkloric sense, are more associated with their popular “influencers� like Ru Paul’s (and countless celebrities in domino-like effect), this has eclipsed the base drag as whole functions. In the manner in which drag has become a mechanism for new generations to express alternative and queer forms of beauty, and how these are represented, it also mutates previous generations achievements. There
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exist a lot of parallelisms between what drags is and does, and how a muse functions. In a lot of ways, a drag is a muse, a poorly understood one in any case, but a muse nonetheless. People who partake in drag, are inspirations for a community deprived of such figures, and one that relies on popularized and commercialized ones to homogenize the idea of drag. My work then, intends to reshape the conception of drag as whole, while attending the anthropological need of documentation in the process of creating historicity and narrative. Although my project concentrates on the realities of the drag scene in Puerto Rico, which speaks of its own and completely different colonial and Americanized problems, the important role that these people play out in the formation of beauty standards and conceptions is pivotal in understanding the development of the subculture.
Photographs by Menchaca
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Photograph by Menchaca
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Photographs by Menchaca
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Photographs by Menchaca
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How I Laughed after Bettie Page (1923-2008)
I was the one with perfect black bangs. I was the doll who knew how to act coy with a whip. I got a truckload of letters from men who swore their undying love if only I could flog their tender buttocks. How I laughed! I posed this way and that, daring to go further just for kicks. I was only a model who knew how to sew tightly for my body. I knew how to look good and naughty. The photography business was a joke! How I whipped! I went through lonely men and three husbands. I was too famous a prize to let alone. My husbands turned jealous when I stripped and stretched this way for my boobies to yawn while I wondered why. How I slept! I disappeared. How? It started as a joke, but I left behind no forwarding address. I’d intended to keep my absence a mystery. Today naked women pose and expose themselves with not a touch of humor. Now I weep. —Raymond Luczak
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“It’s Only The Dead That Die”, photograph by Darren Jones and Kirby Congdon
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Issue 176 / Winter 2018
IMAGES OF OURSELVES Submission Deadline: October 21, 2018 www.rfdmag.org/upload
This issue we’re hoping you will dust off your old photo album or flip through your Instagram and find us images which reflect who you are and what brings meaning to your life. You can also share a story about a fixed memory, a written image that you’d like to share. A poem as image— think of the early Imagist poets like H.D.—where your poem reflect a visual moment.
We’re hoping to use this image to reflect our diversity and how varied our community is— so please reach out to everyone you know to show the world a queer community with reflects the rainbow. We especially welcome sharing images and reflections of images which reflect us at various parts of lives—young and old but also windows into unique communities or moments and how our community has also reflected
Harry Hay photo-mosaic built out of radical faeries and queer activists by John O’Leary
movements, actions and deeds which deepen our pride, resilience and fierceness. In some ways we’d like to think the issue will be a visual chronology of how the community has grown, expanded and reshaped itself while also honoring and valuing our past with pride. So close your eyes and think of the images that most encourage you and share them with all of us! Please share this widely! RFD 174 Summer 2018 65
RFD Vol 44 No 4 #174 $11.95
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a reader created gay quarterly celebrating queer diversity