Sunday 12 December 2010

GREAT WRITING ON A TABOO AREA FROM KEVIN HIBSHAM

Circa '72

Kenny was a wise child.
I never knew where he could have gotten his information from.
I, too, was just a young child when he introduced me to his garden of
earthly delights.
Sensations sparked and bloomed there like exotic wildflowers.
Tongue-tip to nipple,
soft hands tugging new flesh.

We did boy things like riding bicycles or tossing a football.
We also did more grown-up things in neighbors' dank garages shaded by
the innocence
 of exploration.
I saw heaven the first time he took me into his mouth.

Kenny would often talk about doing these things with girls but I was
uninterested, rapt as I
 was in the sheer physical pleasure of his knowing caresses.
Kenny erected for me an idyllic paradise of sensual wonder and at the
tender age of seven,
was the most imaginative lover I have ever known.

Kevin M. Hibshman Copyright 2010 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED



Image by CM for eye2eye designs international
Copyright 2010 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

FLAKEBOOK WANTING THEIR CAKE AND WANTING TO EAT IT TOO


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Copyright 2010 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED


Flakebook may or may not be homophobic BUT it should take great care when deleting homosexual profiles without explanation.

Flakebook may or may not be xenophobic BUT it should take great care when deleting European profiles without explanation.

It will not have slipped many peoples notice that the new Facebook profile format has a larger area devoted to advertising than there was previously. Advertising is by nature INTRUSIVE and there is no hiding that fact and it enjoys NUMBERS. Facebook will be enjoying the revenue that this involuntary assault on the social network will supply. Never before in my life's experience has there been a clearer case of a capitalist driven organisation brazenly exhibiting that they want their cake and they want to eat it too. It is the response of a very spoiled child with behavioural problems- which pretty much describes the networks founder.

There is no limit for 'likes' or 'fans' to Facebook Pages- search the most popular and you will see that some have 25 million contacts attached to them. Imagine the revenue generated by the advertising on such pages.

There is however a limit for the number of 'friends' or contacts you can have on a personal profile page- currently that is set at 5000. Those with sharp eyes will know that, although it is is strictly against the rules, it is possible to have multiple profiles. I personally know of a few contacts who have at least 3 profiles with two of them maxed out. How have they managed this? Have they done a special deal with Facebook?

Facebook specifically say you are supposed to 'know' all of your contacts and that the profiles are fundamentally for the use of JUST family and friends. This is plainly ridiculous and not the case- if it were then the limit on contacts would be set far lower. Who do you know who actually knows 5000 people except by six degrees of separation. Facebook are trying to indicate that they are interested in promoting a family/friends social network- well, how very curious this is, when self evidently they are actually interested in RAW numbers which is what advertising revenue is all about.

Recently Facebook deleted my profile and with it 4700 contacts overnight without explanation- this I have learned is quite common practice. The idiots really have got themselves caught between a rock and a hard place. It is quite impossible to police Facebook arbitrarily with robots or minimum wage earners who enjoy following the neo-fascist rulebook to the letter- that is not policing it is dictatorship: there is no right of redress. So much for the USA having a constitution and a bill of rights. Facebook is in fact FACEWORLD and it operates on its own terms and very often those terms are in violation of basic human rights.

Make no mistake- Facebook want every personal profile to carry a max of 5000 contacts: that is how it will really make big bucks BUT at the same time it wants you to add those 5000 contacts according to THEIR rules. And these rules placate the middle american lobbyists who want to make the internet safe.

These rules will not permit you to:-

Add request strangers repeatedly (try more than ten and see what happens)
Send identical messages in bulk except from fanpages
Message strangers (try more than ten and see what happens)

There are rules about nudity, racial abuse, personal abuse, causing offence and spamming: typically for a monolithic organisation it is a very broad charge sheet. My Fanpages are set so that nobody under the age of eighteen can view them BUT even with that ethical defence in place I am still open to complaint from a user over eighteen. They may not be able to have my Fanpage taken down but it is remarkably easy for just ONE individual to repeatedly ask Facebook to remove my personal profile. It is my firm belief that the utter twits at Facebook too often get suckered into such actions by whackos such as those Baptists who run the website www.godhatesfaggots.com If you are a genuine creative artist there will be nutters out there who will take a dislike to you for some reason and these vindictive creatures have found that it is very easy to use the Facebook rulebook against the targets of their hate. Wake-up Facebook- without giving us a means of redress how would you know whether or not you are being patsied.

PLUS- and I kid you not, there are some luddites out there who mistakenly believe that, despite not making use of the privacy settings available to them, they are insulted when a 'stranger' dares to request to connect to them. These people can chose to report this action immediately as ABUSIVE- and they do. They have this quaint idea that the www is in fact their own front-room whilst not have the IT skills to keep themselves as private as they clearly want. BUT the point is that FACEBOOK cannot grasp this problem- they just go with the complaint.

NOW- my new profile is doing very well and I am extremely grateful to you all. However, did you know that when you suggest a connection to me ie a friend is saying that their friend would make a good friend, when I go to act on that I am immediately asked by Facebook 'do I know them'. ITS AS PLAIN AS DAY I DON'T BLOODY KNOW THEM- I AM BEING INTRODUCED TO THEM VIA A FACEBOOK DEVICE. Well, it seems this is a bad thing, and I have now been locked out of this facility for two days. Ridiculous- I want the numbers, my friends want me to be friends with their friends, Facebook wants profiles with vast numbers because they want they revenue. SO STOP BEING SO TWO FACED MARK ZUKKERBURG- you've made you're ill-gotten billions [it is a truism that no-one ever does that honestly] now face facts, you cannot have your cake and eat it too.

Copyright Chris Madoch 2010 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.



WE ARE PICKING UP THE BITS- bit by painful bit

Referring to my prior post. The 'engagement' is off. The lad's Facebook status is set to single. Oh jingle bells. We have advised him to visit a GUM Clinic asap. Am I psychic or what!!



Monday 15 November 2010

PICKING UP THE PIECES

I do not wish to be in the least youthist but the spectre of it has recently entered my life like a thorn in a lion’s paw- my partner and I have tried extending paws of help and friendship to the youngest out gay in our family [there are enough of us to make a statistician have nightmares- babies are quite literally hit with the gaystick or not by my man’s mother who has never been wrong- two more are cooking as I write.] The latest recruit to the fold is now sixteen and sexually active, though he was out as a fifteen year old and presumably at it then [whoops illegally- not so had he been a lesbian engaging in consensual sex with another fifteen year old lesbian FUCK YOU QUEEN VICTORIA and indeed Victorian family values.] I shall call him Blewitt. It makes sense- he has blown his chance of a fruitful and supportive relationship with his gay uncles.
Blewitt is not the brightest bunny in the warren though as with a lot of youngsters he is as sharp as a button when it comes to getting what he wants. What staggers me is that he is completely unaware of his advantages which are many- he lives within a totally gay friendly family that tolerates his every whim. He is beautiful and does not need to wear make-up but he does. His body language is feminine and he dreams of being a dancer. He has a boyfriend and his Facebook relationship status is set at engaged. His behaviour can be extremely trying but he is surrounded by a loving family who support him. That is a great boon because the town where he lives is riddled with bigotry.
It was never that easy in our day. NO- we are not jealous, we are unhappy that Blewitt has NO IDEA what had to change in society for him to be able to enjoy the life that he does today. He shows no interest in gay culture and has never ventured onto the scene. He is trapped in his own self-centric bubble where there is no need to struggle to find a method of self-expression. He is locked into a relationship that provides him with adulation, sex and material things. Experienced queers that we are we know it is doom laden. But the lad does not want to learn from us, his conversational skills are virtually nil, so what are we to do. I know exactly what we are supposed to do- sit and do fuck all until the inevitable crisis hits and then we will be supposed to pick up the pieces.
Picking up the pieces- the lot of the elders in any family.
This episode cuts deep. Blewitt’s dad died recently and we promised to look out for him. It’s proving to be hard. The lad is happy in his cocoon of ignorance and blithely unaware of life’s dangers. It got me wondering how many other gay teenagers are in the same position- there could be hundreds of thousands, all of them belligerent, unwilling to be told, they all know best until it comes to the first big test that fells them. Who will they turn to? Who will be there to pick up the pieces for them? CM


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Copyright 2010 All Rights Reserved

Monday 8 November 2010

FRAGMENTS OF WHAT’S HARD TO TAKE- new fiction for adults


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Copyright 2010 All Rights Reserved


EXTRACTED FROM ‘THE BRIGHTON HORN’

‘Far from shrinking from parties we do go, enjoy ourselves, getting ambiently high- sans alcohol or drugs. We don’t wear martyr’s clothes nor are we activists against the consumption of drink or fun-times but we do believe that- had alcohol not been invented and made profligate as such a tax earner and thus rendered socially viable, and had appeared out of the blue yesterday, today it would be immediately made a Class A drug. Users of it would become vilified overnight as crack addicts are. Alcoholics would become some of the most reviled members of society alongside paedophiles. However, for the sake of the treasury, that will never be the case. People will continue to imbibe, in open and scandalous hypocrisy, their legal ‘Class A’ drug of choice, whilst expressing their inebriated opinions about any target in society they choose. And when they go too far which is almost always, their fallback position is to, without fail, blame it on the booze. The excuse goes that they are not bigots, racists or whatever; it was just the booze talking. Seriously- how fucking lame is that on every level. If only there were a disinfectant for it.’

IS THIS FICTION?

I had just finished sorting the interfering drink driving Tory bitch who insisted on delivering The Parish Magazine against our wishes. Time for a walk. No more talk of church or politics in West Sussex, UK.
It seemed utterly incredible to me that I had been the first to see Dieter wobble like a mad cow, not like the drunk he usually is- is everyone so self-interested, I asked myself, lovers; relatives; a son in-situ; that they missed his symptomatic instability, left it to be spotted by a not entirely committed friend living so far south it might as well have been a foreign country. I broke his fall, helped him back to comfort as if he were a man twice his age- his dead father taken by a stroke in a hen-house, the trick gone into rictus, she needing to be surgically separated from the corpse. A famous night that was in Bourneville’s ER. Once more in an armchair his face arranged itself like that of a baby’s. Dieter was frightened or manipulative or both.
I insisted the medical investigations began the next day, immediately upon their return home. You do. You do that- you never skimp on urgency. It was either a vigorous brain tumour or undiagnosed HIV morphing into full blown AIDS. Ugly survivalism kicked in- it made us clinically evaluate every contact, the ones we could remember that is. Responsible gays we have germ killing wet-wipes and other guns in our armoury.
*
Ramon’s last ejaculation was six days previous into the bearded mouth of his EFL tutor. Since then he’d rigorously saved himself for this night- no sense in catching a one way ticket to the ‘true community’ without an adequate expression of thanks. Plus he was eighteen at last- finally democratised, deemed by society to be able to make an adult choice. Yes. He understood that the choices you make can help define you. Did he choose these six complicit men and their dicks- not exactly.
He answers his vibrating mobile- the six were now five; a heavy cold; he wouldn’t want to catch a heavy cold. That was close- he loathes colds, everybody who was old had colds. He owns multiple hand-size germ killing sprays- sani-misters.
Ramon smells of pink pepper, sunshine, fresh washed denim and white cotton. It is mid-afternoon when he rings the bell. A breeze from the nearby sea shifts his black gloss locks, carries an abandoned page from The Parish Magazine down the car-lined street.
*
One quarter of a Valium- 1.25 mgs, it always eases the pain of getting the little blighter out of the car and into the lift; she has carried him all four flights before; six and prematurely sprouting puppy fat screaming no; the thought of his price for an afternoon blotting out all vestige of mothering; that kind of cash buys a week’s worth of crack.
Gregory made the exchange at the flat door. Sweet. She had to wait while he finished constructing a roach- a freebie for her; she watched him tear a strip from The Parish Magazine, make a tube then slip it in.
On the landing Gillian stops to take in the view and listen out for Tom’s screaming. She wet-wipes her face and hands- the scent medicinal and reassuring. In a sudden burst she hears loud Reggae from the nearest flat to her- an altercation between adults then silence. The scenery is illuminated concrete ground-hugging blocks overlapping then intercut by towers- blink and it might seem to be the inside street map of a star-ship. Wicked.
The supplier was conveniently on the first floor. Again the exchange was made over the threshold. Part of her sufferance was the routine quips about how useful her boy was to her; how she needed to forward think to counteract his ageing: she needed getting up the duff and he had just the tool for the job. Knobhead.
*
Agnes Groom was relatively new to abject loneliness- never been without a cat before. November the 5th- twelve months to the day; the same arguments about British Legion Poppies clogging the airwaves. Since growing old and alone one of the best presents she had ever received was a rubber brick to lob at the offending radio or television; Mary, the plump Warden of the small close of sheltered bungalows gave her that. April Fools- it was well before midday.
There’s no mistaking a missing white moggy being thrown onto a bonfire. Agnes had clawed at her nets screaming. It turned her into someone who’d complain at shadows- Millie, her home-help, a stickler for deodorisers and bleach, had to be an illegal immigrant and that boyfriend of hers an obvious drugs dealer; the smell from the drains was Eastern European. She developed aggravated agoraphobia and signs of dementia- crying at the sight of The Parish Magazine on the doormat.
*
Determined to go through with it Alice rose at 5am, showered with infection prohibiting deep cleansing agents, chose exercise clothes and an anorak and jogged to the station, rousing the dogs in every other household on her leaf strewn route. She sat on a blue bench in fog quiet, reading The Parish Magazine, waiting for the 5.43. There would be four other commuters- five tops, all of them men dressed in suits and secrets. She lived with this obsessive thought- the numbers of men that get away with bad things are massively greater than those who are ever caught. Part of page seven was missing- must have been an advert someone had cut out, it amused her wondering what; life skills or a life class maybe, something to do with life, how it might be enhanced with attention to the scriptures, hot massage stones and scented oils that told the mind to find the pain more bearable. Distrust and then disgust overwhelmed her- they were familiars.
*
No identification. Gypsy jewellery. Thirteen- a stab at age. Nurses scissoring damp clothing off the dying girl, fresh in from a TA in the half-cock rain, blood loss extreme. High end bug defence swabs. In her mustard yellow knickers they find five Parish Magazines soaked with menstrual blood or a miscarriage. Makeshift. She was caught short or poverty stricken. The flatness of the green line final on the third time.
*
Heartbeats in single figures close to death, sleeping Robert Wrench was unaware his social worker had entered the property, that corduroy TV chair of his and him as one- an art installation of creatures and body fluids, making Moira catch her breath as she struggled not to retch. A bony right hand wrapped around a flaccid penis ripe with smegma. On the floor a lost remote amongst a scattering of DVDs. Eighty three and his ennui with sex had travelled him to skat and even more unmentionable themes.
A cross between a sigh and a cough and he is gone- both bladder and lower bowel howling his predicament in unison. Moira used to nurse though never could get used to it. She curses loudly. A small rat leaves the chair and finds the open door.
In the lavatory there is no loo roll- just Parish Magazines hung on string. In the pan, evidence of the previous evacuation- a smeared line drawing of a church spire. Moira flushes it away and waits for the cistern to silence itself before phoning the authorities. In her mind a bucket, mop and Dettol.
*
The essential thing about the 5.43 is that it does not stop. The 5.55 does. The Tag watch that Alice stole from a TA says 5.40- beautifully crafted it is as exact as it gets. She flights the paper airplane that she’s folded from the Parish Magazine. It works a treat, gliding then neatly dipping into a waste-bin. Cool. Everything is in its place, as it should be.
As planned, Alice throws herself in front of the 5.43 through train; no more lifeless exams. Bits of her red mist stick to the skin and flannel of four grey suits- their occupants screaming like annoyed gulls.
*
Dieter’s diagnosis harboured no surprises- the emergence of Kaposi’s Sarcoma had dented that. He lived because the drugs they have now mugged it. His mug of a husband proved to be a proper match- what is mine is yours in sickness and in health. They continued to lie to each other incessantly- nothing will separate them from it. What I know, sworn to secrecy, told by one that the other does not know, and vice versa, could be itself a sack of self-spun fantasies. I am no longer in that web.
This week a friend of a friend of a friend, as is often the way in an oppressed minority, managed to let me know that the two of them had been pronounced dead at the scene of a road traffic accident. They had swerved to avoid two girls and run over one. She died in hospital. The police are seeking the other girl as a crucial witness.
*
Agnes’ sorrow was so great it would not let her sob. There was no cure for the sadness of having a granddaughter robbed from you by the likes of furiously trafficked tar macadam- a step-granddaughter even, not blood kin. The genuine grieving rendered her careless almost reckless. She forgot to lock the doors and hit the gin.
Millie’s boyfriend entered her premises at 1am. Agnes was asleep. It took one blow to make that state of affairs permanent. The killer ransacked, ate and drank then wanked on the old woman’s face. He crumpled the Parish Magazine into a doughnut size ball then stuffed her mouth with it. With his phone camera he took a short vid of her dry vagina- parting the labia with the pencil she used to do word-searches with. He was seventy eight quid richer plus a small haul of Romany earrings.
*
Moira saw Millie’s boyfriend leaving Agnes’ premises in the small hours. Millie’s boyfriend saw that he had been seen but he was making good his escape and did his best to ignore the fact. That was not going to happen. That Moira was a god-botherer- she cared for his adopted mum’s dad, manned the all night soup kitchen. Her daughter Alice was a right swat- had the gall to tell him that his dick was puny. He figured rape had been too good for her.
*
Ramon was proper fucked and rectally bleeding. Smiles all round. Twice throughout he had experienced regret. Once at the very start being invited in by middle-age in a string vest and Primark jogging bottoms; secondly on the fourth unique entry when sensation left him and he became a rag doll in the hands of puppet masters. His landlady should not have raged on about his gayness. Moira could be a bitch like that- kidding him on she had his best interest at heart. Now, positive he was positive, he was convinced her attitude would soften. There was that dreadful rift between her and her eldest daughter Gillian- maybe he could mend that. Funny what crosses your mind with your wounded behind stuffed with the diseased ejaculate of four men munching tuna sandwiches and downing pear cider. Like all foreigners to the English language our words thrilled him; he was quizzing himself as to whether or not there was any real difference between a deliberate act and an accident. The English tabloid millions generally pour hostile scorn on such philosophical concerns. They love a good fat fact.
*
Sick of the sight of the police station and wary of being alone, Moira instructed the driver to drop her at the vicarage; the lesbian incumbent was an old friend who would counsel and cosset then ferry her home. That happened but not without Moira agreeing to deliver the new edition of the Parish Magazine- the garrulous Tory whose usual job it was, was incapacitated, due to being hospitalised for a liver transplant. Moira said- better that than the usual drink driving, so many TAs have alcohol at the heart of them. Years in ERs made her view inarguable.
*
It often only takes the one bullet.
Ramon- miserable with a head cold, and Gillian between fixes, found Moira dead on a little used pavement a limp, half-empty bag of Parish Magazines trying desperately to escape her neck. The work of God proving to be no defence whatsoever.
In an unexpected turn of events Gillian cried over her estranged mother’s body as Ramon iphoned the police.
*
They collected at the base of the concrete high-rise. One small group had instructions to deal with the criminal occupant of a flat on the first floor. Gillian went three floors higher with the rest of the policemen who were senior and weaponed up.
When Gregory opened the door and saw her, his first thought was that he had missed a date in his meticulous diary, his second thought was the proximity of massed policemen- every paedophile ring’s worst nightmare. Swift and experienced hands prevented him reaching his goodbye capsule. There were ten hard drives in the flat; a room lined with polythene; multiples of thousands of print images
The rest is every bit as nightmarish as you dare to imagine it. Though that precisely is the point- to what degree is it that any of us are prepared to care.
*
CONVERSATION IN A CAFE

‘I threw away all sorts of the perverse product that claims to kill all known germs. What authority are they using to say what germs are known and, more importantly, what of unknown germs? Are we not one ourselves? How well do you know the one person closest to you? How well do you know yourself?’
‘My thoughts exactly.’
‘I wrote to the lesbian vicar and protested the routine letter-box dropping of religious propaganda describing it as a virulent infection. She did not reply.’
‘If anyone knows the game is up she does. Her lover Mary- the warden of that old people’s close of bungalows; the Agnes Groom horror; she’s in bits, fast losing her wits. Can you wonder at it.’
‘Our very handsome gay foreigner is over his cold- a minor irritation in the scheme of things. No more sore and unsightly nostrils. Unbelievably, Ramon believes finally he belongs and is very positive about his future amongst the HIV Positive Club- Brighton, West Sussex, UK- so I am told by a friend of a friend.’
‘Very London-by-the sea. Not! Brighton calls itself so worldly wise and cosmopolitan and is in fact as clubby as fuck. The gay scene makes strangers feel like cockroaches carrying the bubonic plague- unless of course they conform at first sight to the model of prime steak and vulnerability.’
‘Quite so. Addicted and conflicted Gillian believes she is embracing rehabilitation as if it offers salvation. In our guts we feel the truth of that dissembling, don’t we. We had all those buts about religious salvation and they’ve not ever been countered.’
‘Never. God is such a lying cunt.’
‘Much buggered young Tom is now in local authority care of course, learning to shit without crying. Let us trust warily in the brittle hope that he is totally safe there. Unfortunately there exists a catalogue of well documented recent events that have shredded all such guarantees. Advertisers beware. Do not expect human life to be safe or deliver in any way like it promises on the label.’
‘Tell me about it- this lemon frappacino seems never to have kissed a lemon least of all properly sucked the living daylights out of it. It doesn’t help that this floor has been recently mopped with dilute Jeyes Fluid.’

CHRIS MADOCH © 2010 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED


Image by DPF for eye2eye designs international
Copyright 2010 All Rights Reserved

Thursday 4 November 2010

DOG HELP ME 3

JUST REWARDS INDEED!



I know for an absolute fact that my blood family is psychotically dysfunctional- perversely I take some pride in that, my life has never been attacked for being bland. Great. Exhausting but great. I am not the ubiquitous biscuit man. Forget everything you've seen in the award winning series 'SHAMELESS'- when I use the word dysfunctional I mean seriously dysfunctional not just after the watershed small-screen dysfunctional but clinically dysfunctional. It is PHD thesis material.


Here is a mini taster- my ex wife married me knowing I was gay- she wanted my children. We pre-nuptially agreed to be with each for ten years. Thirteen years and three daughters later we divorced. She became a vitriolic homophobe and a Mormon. Now she is married to a transgender pre-op male to female ex soldier and on Breakfast TV she had to admit to Eammon Holmes that she is a lesbian. They later married- perfectly legally because he/she is a he on his birth certificate. They wore matching meringue dresses and all my girls attended the ceremony. White stretch limo with fairy lights. I was not invited. This is but the tip of the giant iced cake-berg. Stay tuned for forthcoming crumbs.

Earlier I had the misfortune to tune in to BBC Radio 5 and find myself listening to Simon Mayo talking to Barbara Taylor Bradford an ageing handmaiden of Margaret Thatcher who to date has sold 82million books- the biggest selling being her first 'A Woman Of Substance'. This money machine harpy repeatedly referred to her 'work' and its importance to the emerging power plays of women within society. It was deeply sickening- I know many feminists and not one of them would put Ms Bradford's oevre in the top 100 of life changing reads for femmes. This bitch is inordinately rich and quite carried away by her own sense of importance. When asked who her other female role model was besides The Milk Snatcher she said Indira Ghandi. At this point I started flicking through Yellow Pages feeling in dire need of the services of an aesthetic exorcist. I rang Dave Kelso-Mitchell- in the circumstances he did remarkably well. Long live Paraphillia. Cotton-topped Barbara Bradford apparantly still has mountains to climb- dog help us all. She rises at 5am and writes for 12 hours every day. Well whoopee fucking doo. The liar. It's not work. It's not writing. It's an abuse of trees. Give it up lady and blatantly enjoy your ill-gotten gains like the rip-roaring self-obsessed capitalist twat you clearly are. As for helping second millennium women- fuck off. If you changed their lives at all by empowering them through chuck-up purple prose all you did was to turn them into disgruntled pains in the neck within their fawn marriages. Your own glittering success and the miraculous transformations of your unrealistic heroines are tall-tales in no way mirrored in the reality of your reader's ordinary lives.

GET THE FUCK OFF MY DIGITAL RADIO.


I lit patchouli joss-sticks. But then I'm 61. A wild[ISH]-child of the sixties.




Tuesday 2 November 2010

STRICTLY SAPPHIC



I asked my closest lesbian friends for input to this blogspot and they were somewhat nonplussed- men, it appears, are catered for with inordinate mountains of Gay product whilst women seem under-served with molehills. How very queer. Could it have anything to do with the relative legal positions of the two genders? Male activity- outlawed by act of parliament signed by Queen Victoria, was henceforth forced underground and a significant clandestine aspect of gay men's behaviour remains today, decades after the repeal of those laws.  I have said it before- there is immense profit to be made out of the forbidden. Queen Victoria, who was no stranger to exercising her lusts with gusto, could not believe that women of any class would succumb to a bout of mutual tonguing. On her disgust alone the delights of femmes supping the furry cup were erased from the legislation. Scot free- the only charge lesbians have ever been liable to is that of  'causing public offence'. Now- seeing two handsome gals strolling hand in hand has always fired heterosexual desire and the sight of women kissing all the more so. The occasion of any of them ever being charged with causing offence was just not going to happen. Lesbians have always been part of the mainstream- albeit slightly left of centre where socialists and anarchy have historically lurked. The trouble with mainstream as an associative label is that it embraces normal and with it only normal profit. The big bucks always tie into any outcast and derided sector of society with vast numbers and spare cash. Childless single men ticked all the boxes and a mammoth industry has been built off their wage packets.
The idea that there are more gay men than there are gay women is plainly ridiculous. Market-wise there has been a traditional bias towards targeting product for men- my guestimate is the ratio is two to one. Personally I find this notion objectionable and highly sexist.
I do not want to appear to have forgotten our lesbian friends. Heavens- the ones I referred to at the beginning of this piece are invaluable human beings, utterly delightful, a couple with activist passions who marched in London against the recent visit of the homophobic [in the closet] Pope. I applaud them. So for them and women like them I have created a page here STRICTLY SAPPHIC and I am currently engaging in talks with other activist lesbians to see where we can go forward from this point. Your contributions would be most welcome. CM. 


Image by CM for eye2eye designs international
Copyright 2010 All Rights Reserved

Monday 1 November 2010

HOMOPHOBIC ATTACKS



Every witless or intelligence driven homophobic attack however slight remains as fresh as the first one I ever received- I have not in forty five years developed a thick skin defence mechanism against them. I do not think it would be good for me if I did. I don’t wish to become so inured to homophobic bigotry that I always fail to recognise it in all its many varied subtle shades and deceitful disguises. I want to know my enemy and I have found, to my cost, that they can be lurking among my real friends and my virtual reality social networking friends. They can indeed be close to my chest- the phrase says that is where they might be best kept. In my utopian dreams I don’t want these enemies to exist. The reality is that they do; they do so in vast numbers, far greater numbers than any survey of social attitudes would suggest.

It would not be an exaggeration to fly this kite- as liberal and modern as we imagine we are I contend we are only ever a mere three degrees of separation away from conversion to social fascism. There are powers that be twitching to ghettoise many factions of our generally loathed multi-cultural society and, the GLBT community- for all its campaigning efforts for acceptance and integration, is way up at the top of the list alongside the derided ‘illegal’ immigrants. This is THE BRITISH ISLES- we have real spare islands waiting to be set aside for us and pseudo islands such as The Isle Of Dogs. Such thinking lurks on the desks of every tabloid and it has infested every look of disgust we receive, every slight however slight, every spitefully propelled gobbit of phlegm.

When I see such things or read their sad equivalent- a plump, blonde, middle-aged, educated American woman writer, referring to postings on the Facebook fanpage of THE QUEER MESSIAH as ‘yet more gay crap’ I smell the ill will on the wind. It is no small thing. It is a hate crime.

Every time it hurts as did the first when being cast aside and separateness hit like stonings do- all the bleeding happened inside. It could have been different. It is on the exact same sliding scale to Gay Mugging and ultimately murder. Zero tolerance is the only way.

Speak out always. Never allow the perpetrators to get away with it. The merest insult builds until it is tomorrow’s killing. I am just not willing to live my life with that inevitability lurking in it whilst I passively do nothing out of fear or ignorance or apathy or pure selfishness. THE SAD THING IS- THERE ARE FAR TOO MANY OF OUR COMMUNITY WHO DO. And that is why the future looks fucking grim and why the bridges that connect the mainland to The Isle Of Dogs are biding their time waiting for the tippy tap of a gazillion pairs of ruby slippers. CM  

Fascist concentration camp label

Sunday 31 October 2010

COCK MATTERS

Image by CM for eye2eye designs international
Copyright 2010 All Rights Reserved

Yesterday in a pedestrian quarter of Chichester- an ancient city on the south coast of the UK, I chanced upon the delights of a not unattractive street entertainer; as part of his act he blew up a purple balloon, long and thin and upward curving, crowd pleasingly phallic. He proceeded to slowly swallow said massive penis substitute to increasing applause from one and all- including my husband and I, parked cosily in our eyrie, a window seat in Starbucks. It got me thinking. Cockcentricity is so widespread- all ages, classes, genders and nationalities. The demographic of the laughing crowd in public on a Saturday afternoon said as much. Fellatio rules. Though no-one would admit to it.

QUEER MESSIAH: Now this is me having fun interacting with Wikipedia on this same issue very close to our gonads- the bishop we so love to spank for pleasure, and all the others we worship and obsess about at approximately five-minute intervals throughout the waking hours which, in truth, may as well be re-named the wanking hours. Today’s blog concerns....
Human penis size
Wikipedia: ‘Human penis size is the measured length and width of the human penis. The most accurate measurement of the human penis comes from several measurements at different times, as there is natural variability in size due to arousal level, time of day, room temperature, frequency of sexual activity, and unreliability of the measurement methods. When compared to other primates, including large primates such as the gorilla, the genitalia of male humans are large, both in absolute terms and in relative size to the rest of the body.’
QUEER MESSIAH: In your deepest darkest moments of penis envy- usually following a masturbational session with gay porn which is deliciously infested with the extreme penis, you can console yourself with the thought that your dick is still going to be bigger than a Silverback Gorilla. Although I did watch the remake of King Kong recently- proportionately he must have also been King Dong. He’d have never fitted his woody into her would he? A little spoken of dark aspect of the movie.

Image by CM for eye2eye designs international
Copyright 2010 All Rights Reserved

W: ‘Penis size results vary, with studies that rely on self-measurement reporting a significantly higher average than those with staff measuring, but a mean human penis is approximately 12.9–15.0 cm (5.1–5.9 in) in length.’
QUEER MESSIAH: Blimey, imagine that- 1] your self-measurement being unreliable NEVER! 2] your penis being a ‘mean’ penis 3] having your stiffie measured by the staff. It sounds so very privileged, frightfully upstairs and downstairs. Fluff me some more m’lord.
W: ‘Flaccid penis length is a poor estimate of erect length. Most of human penis growth happens between infancy and the age of five, and in five years after the onset of puberty. Age is not believed to negatively correlate with penis size, and studies have not found a relation between penis size and race. There is evidence both for and against a link between penis size and the size of other body parts.’
QUEER MESSIAH: Well! I have favourite a video from YouTube where a black man marvellously bemoans the fact that their sexual partners have exaggerated expectations and that there are in fact many black men with average size penises and smaller. I am Welsh with freckles have large ears and size eleven feet. Say no more.

Web images of cut and uncut cocks
in flaccid and erect states

W: ‘Some environmental factors in addition to genetic, such as the presence of endocrine disrupters, can affect penis growth. An adult penis with an erect length of less than 7 cm or just over 2 inches but otherwise formed normally is referred to in a medical context as having the micropenis condition.’


Web image of an ERECT micropenis

QUEER MESSIAH: Now this illustration was illuminating- and if you can be bothered to search me out as sgryptogenus on YouTube you will find that I have a channel called, unsurprisingly THE QUEER MESSIAH, and you will additionally find that I have a favourite video from Finland there about a club for men with small penises. SURPRISE- here it is. It is beautiful and poignant.





Perceptions of penis size

W: ‘Perceptions of penis size are culture-specific. In Ancient Greece and in Renaissance art, an uncircumcised and small penis was culturally seen as desirable in a man, whereas a bigger or circumcised penis was viewed as comical or grotesque. Ancient Rome may have had a contrary view, and a larger penis size was preferred in medieval Arabic Literature.’
QUEER MESSIAH: I remember fondly, gazing up at the statue of Michelangelo’s breathtakingly beautiful David and thinking, like most of the girls in my class, what’s all the fuss about- it’s not going to hurt half as much as it’s rumoured. Yes I got a semi. I was eleven.

David's pants

W: ‘Males may quite easily underestimate the size of their own penis relative to that of others, and many men who believe that their penis is of inadequate size have average-sized penises. The perception of having a large penis is linked to higher self esteem in general, but also among gay men specifically.’
QUEER MESSIAH: We only have our greedy selves to blame- oh, and the megalithic Millivres and the rest of the Gay Sex Industry. I once owned a latex reproduction of a porn star’s cock we bought in Prowler. It was implausible; an ice breaker at dinner parties; not in the least practical, our eyes did not deceive us and neither of us made the attempt. It would only have been of sexual use to those practiced in the grim art of fisting. We eventually gave it away to friends in the East End of London.

A phallic tree in Africa

W: ‘For women, width rather than length is a more important factor of sexual stimulation. Marketers of penis enlargement products exploit fears of inadequacy, but there is no consensus in the scientific community of any non-surgical technique that permanently increases either the thickness or length of the erect penis that already falls into the normal range.’
QUEER MESSIAH: Which should bring an end to the sales of those ridiculous vacuum pumps- a fool is easily parted from their pink pounds. ER facilities need no longer be plagued by damaged dicks subjected to prolonged stretching by the deployment of string and a house brick. Wise up.

Historical perceptions

W:’According to Kenneth Dover's landmark study "Greek Homosexuality", Greek art had extreme interest in the genitals, but was not obsessed with size. The weekly Q&A column "The Straight Dope" deduces, based on pornographic Greek art work and Dover's aforementioned study, that in Ancient Greece an uncircumcised and small penis was culturally seen as desirable in a man, whereas a bigger or circumcised penis was viewed as comical or grotesque (at least in the high-brow view), usually being found on "fertility gods, half-animal critters such as satyrs, ugly old men, and barbarians."
QUEER MESSIAH: Mind does it for me every time. BUT now this I love.
W: ‘Penis size is also alluded to in the Bible: “In the same way, I became disgusted with Oholibah and rejected her, just as I had rejected her sister, because she flaunted herself before them and gave herself to satisfy their lusts. Yet she turned to even greater prostitution, remembering her youth when she was a prostitute in Egypt. She lusted after lovers with genitals as large as a donkey’s and emissions like those of a horse. Ezekiel 23:18–20, NEW LIVING TRANSLATION’
QUEER MESSIAH: This comes from The Old Testament- a history of the ancient Jews and not at all a Christian Religious Text, a collection of mythic and idiosyncratic writings that have allowed deluded bigots to attack whomsoever they like since time immemorial. Visit the notorious www.godhatesfaggots.com for proof of that. If gays are sinners then so are so are people who wear clothes composed of two threads. And who’d have thought that the revered Ezekiel would have ‘allegedly’ written  ‘She lusted after lovers with genitals as large as a donkey’s and emissions like those of a horse.’ Off with his head! What utter garbage it all is.

Web image of the notorious American Baptist Church
whose mission is to eliminate Gays

Male self-perception
W: ‘Males may quite easily underestimate the size of their own penis relative to that of others, because of the foreshortening obtained from looking down, or because of the accumulation of fat at the base of the penis. A survey by sexologists showed that many men who believed that their penis was of inadequate size had average-sized penises. Another study found sex education of standard penile measurements to be helpful and relieving for patients concerned about small penis size, most of whom had incorrect beliefs of what is considered medically normal. The perception of having a large penis is linked to higher self esteem.’
QUEER MESSIAH: So get a grip and remember that it’s what you do with it that matters. Practice practice practice. A bad lover never blames his tool.


Among gay men

W: ‘A study undertaken at Utrecht University found that the majority of homosexual men in the study regarded a large penis as ideal, and having one was linked to self esteem. One study analysing the self-reported Kinsey data set found that homosexual men had statistically larger penises than their heterosexual counterparts. One potential explanation given is a difference in the exposure to androgen hormones in the developing embryo. Evidence points towards men of each of these two orientations being equally likely to exaggerate the size of their penis.’
QUEER MESSIAH: Gay men exaggerate everything. Get real, embrace honesty and be so much happier. CM


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SERIOUSLY- SOME OF US ARE STILL KILLED FOR LOVE

HAVING A LAUGH

‎'Put your hands up any heteros in the house. Ah bless. Now put your fists up any gays in the house! Wow! That's more like it- marvellous. I've got this day job, a nice little earner- sales rep for KY Jelly. Look- I know it's a stretch madam but this is supposed to be a laugh. Don't tell me your self-lubricating you're in the OAP seats.' CM


'The fossil stand-up with a walking frame, John Rivers- who thinks jewellery should yell CHEAP louder than fucking canaries on acid said of Yoko Ono- if she found her floating in her pool then she'd punish her dog. I knew that heartless bitch could be cruel to dogs.' CM

THE QUEER MESSIAH BANNED

THE QUEER MESSIAH BANNED
Soon to be in an HMV store near you- we wish. NO CHANCE this version with Lee Plonker was disbanded. It has risen like a phoenix from the fires of disappointment though. YAY!

DUREX TINGLE LUBE

DUREX TINGLE LUBE
It works. Course I have. Fab.

THE RUMOUR-MONGERS TONGUE LASHING NEWS DESK

MORTAL INSTRUMENTS Such are the demands of Hollywood that Lily Collins has to continue to pretend that her former relationship with JCB is in fact alive. A little bird tells me it as a dead as a DODO which was a very big bird indeed. Ha. Just like the writer of Mortal Instruments. Believe me the best thing about this movie franchise will be LILY COLLINS who has just delivered the performance of her life in the soon to be released LOVE ROSIE. An Oscar nomination beckons I reckon. And yes, I am in a position to know. THE NEXT LAME DEVELOPMENT IN SELF-PUBLISHING Saddo outfits such as the much fanned ONEIROS BOOKS actually self-publish authors who are too cowardly, lazy, lousy or inept to self-publish themselves. HILARIOUS. Of course you have to get through the onerous filtering processes. Licking arse helps. Judging by this house's nauseatingly variable standard of output the filters in place are utterly worthless. The poetry editor has no understanding of POETRY per se and is a piss-poor poet by any standard. They openly applaud themselves for being revolutionary. Pathetic. They are but a further evolution of the self-affirmation model and the modernly sociopathic ego. Steer clear. Do not indulge their risible waste of tree.

ALWAYS PRACTICE

ALWAYS PRACTICE
until you're absolutely perfect at it.

HAVE FUN

HAVE FUN
with the total freedom to be and love who you are without complaint or restraint.

GOGGLE GIGGLE BOX CAMP FAVES

TOP 25 TUNES PREVIEWS

THE QUEER MESSIAH BANNED


QUEER MESSIAH BANNED PLAYER

This is where the first tracks for the new band will shortly appear but meanwhile I will be showcasing songs from prior collaborations- this first one CALIFORNIAN QUEEN is from the album CERULEAN BLUE that I wrote with the genius Dominic Shaw. I do the spoken word and he does the lead vocals and instruments. He is not a gay man and is now heavily into ambient music. The album was loved by Phil Collins, Hit and Run Music and EMI- but eight years ago no-one had any idea how to market it.