Archive for lesbians
It’s official. Same sex marriage (a/k/a marriage equality) is surefire winner. Rush says so. No, really, that Rush. El Limbo. Inevitable, he says. Gonna happen. Doesn’t matter what the Supremes do. A done deal. He gives up.
All us soft hearted (soft headed?) elitist, condescending liberals are, of course, smugly, “feeling on the right side of history” dee-lighted. Now that our cause is nearly won and our foes at the edge of defeat we may turn to the really fun part: playing a gotcha game of Who were the Good guys & the Bad guys. On our side! Oh, all those hideous right-wingers, Baptists, Republican politicians, and assorted hangers-on were vile, venomous villains. That goes without saying (alhough I just said it). But there were quislings on our team as well; some of those who have alleged allegiance to to all things blue were, in truth, too purple in the past.
Andrew Sullivan, who for a time was an heroic voice in the wilderness, recently excoriated Bill and Hillary Clinton for their abandonment of gay issues and embrace of DOMA during his term as President. I understand his reasoning. I think his attack largely unfair. He wrote:
I find the opportunism of the Clintons – who did more substantive harm to gay people in eight years than any other administration – more disgusting than the fundamentalist hostility. At least the Christianists were sincere. The Clintons have always been phonies and opportunists and for Bill Clinton to proclaim the sanctity of marriage and sign DOMA while cigar-fucking his intern tells you a lot about him. On no issue were they as shameless as on this one – portraying themselves as civil rights advocates while kicking those of us fighting for equality squarely in the groin.
This is clearly over the top. Were the Clintons heroes, standing against the then wave of homophobia? No. But it does not seem to count for Sullivan that Bill tried to end the ban on gays in the military. He botched it badly and ran into a hail of right wing fire that resulted in the infamous DADT policy reversed just last year by the Obama administration. Clinton’s appointment of gays likewise doesn’t seem to count.
Worse than the Christianists? Those who would gladly have put gays back in the closet, criminalized gay sex, banned gay teachers, etc. were better than the Clintons because they were sincere? Really??
Bill Clinton was a politician. Politics is the art of the possible. The early nineties were a much darker time for gay rights than the bright sunshine existing now – twenty years later. What Sullivan was advocating then was simply not possible any more than abolition was possible in the 1840’s (remember, even Lincoln did not advocate abolition until well into the Civil War).
Was Clinton “insincere”. Of course. Good politicians frequently are. Was Obama sincere when he fully “evolved” to his embrace of same sex marriage last year? I haven’t a clue. It doesn’t matter to me. Sincerity doesn’t count. Results count. No amount of sincere support for gay marriage rights by any president was going to change results in 1993.
Does any one honestly think Obama would have endorsed marriage equality five years ago? I supported Barrack in both 2008 and last years. There are lots of things I’d like him to do (prosecute those approving torture in the Bush years), Some of what I want simply isn’t possible right now. I’d love to see significant gun control. It won’t happen. There is nothing Obama can do to change that. Five or ten years from now things might be different.
The art of the possible… Of course reasonable minds may differ on whether the possibilityo f whatever exists in the present. I was aghast when the prop 8 and DOMA opponents sought Supreme Court rulings. My fear was what was essentially a political move would backfire and set gay rights back a decade or more. After oral argument I’m not quite so fearful (particularly on DOMA).
Same sex marriage is clearly possible today. A la Senator Portman’s endorsement of equality, those politicians jumping on the big pink bus risk little to belatedly join the rainbow parade. But we need to remember the future course of history was darkly unsure twenty plus years ago. The homophobic winds behind opponents of gay rights backs was nearly gale force. I wouldn’t have believed in 1993 that a mere twenty years later marriage would be within spitting distance of the finish line.
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What would the internet be without porn? Porn is ubiquitous. Online here, there & everywhere. Softcore, hardcore, weirdcore – video, audio, pictoral and text. Probably there is musical porn, painted porn, mosaic porn, telegraph porn, semaphore porn. Porn for boys, girls, men, women, TG men, TG women, heterosexuals, homosexuals, bisexuals, tricycles. Porn for necrophiliacs, emetophiliacs, agalmatophiliacs, somnophiliacs, and archnephiliacs (and a myriad other “acs”).
In short, lots and lots and lots of porn on the internet.
Or so I’v been told. Personally, I don’t care for any kind and haven’t since I was thirteen or so. I looked at an early Playboy and it seemed so – well – crass. The closest I’ve come to watching or reading porn sicen was viewing the early Lucille Ball films.
My good friend Micky, however, adores porn. All kinds. But, being of the old fashioned school, he particularly likes written porn. Tale of Two Titties, Catch 69, that sort of thing. I consulted extensively with Micky in preparation for writing this post. He very graciously shared his extensive expertise with Visions. I must confess I blushed during much of Micky’s lecture; and I fainted once during his rather lurid description of the Internet’s better bestiality sites.
Micky said when it comes to the world of written porn plot, originality, character development, motivation, vivid and nimble prose and ultimate meaning count for very, very little (OK, for nothing…) Proper spelling and punctuation, while preferred, are not essential. Decent grammar is a plus. Micky says there is only one thing that matters to good porn writing – depiction of at least four sex acts per page. Kinky sex acts are even better. Multiple people kinky sex is best. The average porn reader, Micky point out, wants to spend no more time than necessary (five minutes tops) reaching the story’s climax.
Written porn on the ‘net is mostly in the form first popularized by Penthouse magazine in the eighties in its readers’ forum sections: three to four page, first person tales of outlandish debaucheryl like, “boy meets girl, girl blows boy, boy fucks girl in the ass, boy learns girl is a tranny, boy blows girl, boy gets fucked in the ass, boy goes home to discover his wife sucking her dachsund’s delicious dong while her daddy is watching). No redeeming social value unless you count efficient masturbation as a social good.
But, to Micky’s surprise, there is some well written hardcore erotic fiction on the net. This high class stuff arouses your brain as well as your genitals. I haven’t read any of it – because I am such a pure person – but I mostly trust Micky’s judgment; he minored in English in college back in the late sixties (he majored in Abrasive Studies).
So Wrong – the Collected Pornographica of Elsie – contains a variety of well written, thoughtful stories blending hardcore sex and surreal plots or characters. The Summer I Learned to Fly, a story of bisexual incest between characters with surprising super powers, is powerful. Most one handed porn is imminently forgettable, Micky tells me he’s still chewing on Elsie’s imaginative stories. Summer’s protagonist is a teen girl with cerebral palsy who is obsessed with sex. Micky made me read this this small excerpt from the story:
It was a tough time for me. I’m sure it was hard for my older brother and sister too, but at the time I was too self-centered and wrapped up in my own problems to think about them. I was an awkward kid, introverted and perpetually self-conscious. I have Cerebral Palsy, which means my legs are twisted like pretzels and I need two canes and leg braces to walk; ugly metal braces that clunk with each step. To compound that, I was a late bloomer, compared to all the other girls in my class. I finally hit puberty, and it was like an F-16 switching on the afterburner. Paradoxically, that just made me feel like even more of an outsider. I got my period, fitfully and unpredictably, and I started growing breasts; small but sensitive speed bumps that made me feel like everyone was always staring at my chest. My sexuality suddenly made the quantum leap from occasionally having my G.I. Joes and Barbies play out unnatural acts together to furtive pornography-looking and actual masturbation. Lots and lots of actual masturbation.
I was impressed. Reminded me a bit of early Flannery O’Conner. I asked Micky if there were any G rated stories by Elsie. He just laughed. As he stood there I suddenly noticed his hairy palms and that his new pair of glasses had much thicker lenses than his old ones.
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Once upon a time, before the Internet, hotel porn, blue movies on CD’s or DVD’s, if you wanted to see hardcore porn on film the only option was a visit to your friendly neighborhood, singleplex porn theater.The neighborhood wasn’t yours, of course, and it certainly wasn’t friendly.After you paid an outrageous sum to a man in a stained shirt, with a weak chin, three day stubble, dirty finger nails and dull eyes straight out of Deliverance, you could spend a couple of hours in the sour smelling, darkened interior nervously watching halfway attractive women doing wicked things with tattooed unattractive men.
I never masturbated in the fetid darkness – I never brought my raincoat. Nor did I want to do anything to draw the attention of the dozen or so other men: rumpled silhouettes against the under lit screen.Those might be queers or homos. I didn’t exactly know what queers and homos did to each other but I knew it was a disgusting abomination and would damn you to endless hellfire if you did it. I’d just sit in my broken down seat in the back row, furtive and still, and gaze intently at the semi-silver screen, half aroused, half repelled by what I saw.
At least in Knoxville’s porn palace the variety of porn was pretty tame (at least compared to today’s cornucopia of digital BDSM, T-girls, Bukkaki, MILF banging, scat, golden showers, anal fisting, bestiality, and other similarly wholesome activities). In those days the action consisted of fucking and sucking interspersed with laughingly bad dialog and acting. Some films had no sound, or horrible lighting; others only flirted with crisp focus.
Of course, once porn went legit with the advent of the VCR, sex films started being made with big budgets, passable acting, and an actual plot. The industry even developed its own convention and award show (and the winner for the best actress in a lesbian threesome fisting scene is…)
When porn moved out of the shadows is became much easier for its patrons, especially women. Instead of taking chances in a big dark spooky room full of potential perverts, you could slip through the curtain and into the clean, well lit adult section of your friendly neighborhood video rental store (which was really friendly and maybe even in your neighborhood). The choice was much wider; you could find almost legitimate movies with professional lighting and cinematography, and real plots about pretty, promiscuous women giving themselves – with articulated, proper motivation – joyfully to handsome men, or other women, in pretty places and sporting a title evoking a popular book or film (Thunder Balls, Big, Whore and Piece, Catch 69, or Beverly Hills Cock). If on the other hand, you just wanted pure, unadulterated sex with no pretensions of plot, dialog or locale, there were tapes for you like Best Brazilian Blowjobs of 1985 , Stuffing Slick Snatches #41, or John Holmes Cumshot Compilation (four hours!)
Now the Internet has killed the porn business as it existed from the late seventies through the early oughts. Porn now wants to be free – and mostly is. My porn budget was always modest: a Penthouse Forum or hardcore magazine every other month or so, and maybe three or four DVD’s (at fifty to sixty bucks each) a year (tip: never go to the porn store drunk).
I haven’t paid for porn in years. When the net was new the early porn sites made tons of money, particularly those catering to men enthralled by one or more of the more popular kinks.Popular web sites insisted you sign up for a year or more, and pay upfront, demanding your credit card information. I was too cheap – and too parenoid – to indulge my own particular kinks. I stuck to brick and mortar erotica. Now sex sites beg for a dollar a month and put out free porn hoping to entice you to part with some money. The more porn sites go online, and the more freebies they offer, the less anyone has a reason to pay.There are, for instance, about a million lesbian porn flics on Porn Hub.Their quality might not be high def – even medium def – but every one is free, gloriously free! Just Google your dong’s desire and in less than a second your screen will fill with a list of hundred of links.
Today, if I feel the need, I can enjoy all the free Internet porn I want – text, photos or video – of any kind, of any length, featuring any fetish or outrageous sexual activity (straight, gay or bi). Thanks to the rather puritanical Steve Jobs, I can now watch, or read, porn on my iPad 2 in the privacy of my bedroom while snacking on a roll of Ritz crackers and a pint of skim milk (and with a small box of Kleenex on the bedside table for my after show sanitary needs). How, I ask, could life be better?
Best of all? Most days I don’t even mind anymore that I’m alone…
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Who doesn’t like hats – especially when they adorn the heads of lovely ladies. Sadly, it seems that for women younger than my grandmother hats have gone out of style (well, I’m not counting caps). In any event, for those of us old enough to remember when…
A remix by me
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I didn’t decide to go to law school until I was a senior in college. Up till then my career plans were as vague as a foggy mountain winter dawn. I realized I had to do something, you know, to make an actual living. I didn’t know much of practical use at 21, but I had a pretty strong hunch a liberal arts degree wasn’t going to get me a good job, especially in the weak economy of 1970.
By the end of the summer of that year I did have a wife – a wife who worked and, even better yet, a wife who was willing to continue working if I decided to forgo regular, full-time employment to continue going to school. This good fortune, however, was counter balanced by the shocking unwillingness of my parents to continue supporting me in the modest circumstances to which I had become accustomed. Something about good money after bad, they claimed.
I had a part time job, too. I worked a three hour late night shift at United Parcel Service. Virtually the entire nightshift crew was college students. The work wasn’t horribly hard and, for that time, it paid a decent wage. It also helped that in those bygone days tuition at the University of Tennessee was quite modest for instate students and I would not be forced into debt as students are today.
So, with a working wife, a part time job, no real debts, and not needing much ready cash to continue my education, I decided to try law school in the spring. I wasn’t worried about getting in; 1971 was well before everyone, all his siblings, most of his first cousins, (and many of his second) was besieging every law school in America and clamoring for admission. I aced the LSAT, then wasted a month or so before school started.
The first quarter I took the curriculum seriously. I studied hard, spending hours and hours in the law library (we had something called books back then). Despite working part time late at night and having early morning classes, at the end of those first three months I had one of the highest GPA’s in the class. I felt so proud of myself! Wow, I thought, I must be really good at this stuff!
Of course, once I realized law courses weren’t all that hard (no math, after all), my dedication to study soon atrophied, as did my GPA. I didn’t care. I knew I was still good at this stuff. I mean, when was the last time you asked your lawyer, doctor, accountant, or plumber what her GPA was in school?
Looking back, my legal career now seems as if it was inevitable – like Custer’s Last Stand, the sinking of the Titanic or the explosion of the Hindenburg (only without all the press attention). Now, after thirty-eight years fiddling third violin in the back row of the frequently dischordant legal orchestra, I am now resigned to never becoming the soloist out front.
But, by God, I’m still good at it…
I’ve only recently realized I was, at birth, fated to practice law – it was inevitable! The signs were all there. And those signs continued to appear over the next twenty-one year! If I had only paid attention to them I’d be a high income plumber today!
First, I was late to my own birth. I hung around in that cozy uterus for as long as I could. Now I don’t know a lawyer who isn’t late, at least to court. When I was in my early days of practice, there was a Knoxville lawyer I admired, Joe Levitt, who was known, particularly by judges he practiced before, as the late Mr. Levitt. He had a habit of arriving to the courtroom an hour or two after his case was called, wearing a brown rumpled suit and carrying his battered brief case in one hand and a half eaten sandwich in the other. Sadly, now that appellation is literally true. Of course, if I had been really late for my grand entry to this world, say weeks instead of days, I’d be a judge by now.
After I was born I whined and complained to both my parents. Not understanding the justice of my demands, they seemed callous judges. I thereafter learned to talk and by two I could say habeas corpus, caveat emptor, ipso facto, and coitus interruptus. It was only years into my law practice, however, I learned, and truly understood, the phrase vigilantibus non dormientibus aequitas subvenit.
In another obvious sign, when I was about ten or so I developed an absolute aversion to any kind of physical labor. That year my Pater familias wanted me to cut the grass! In the summmer heat! This was long before we had either a self-propelled or ride on mower. We had a stubborn push mower and a large, moderately hilly yard. It took almost an hour to do the entire job; when I was done I felt like Lawrence of Arabia deep in Wadi Rum, but not as well dressed.
I honed my verbal skills to convince Dad to excuse me from my agrostological chore. It was easy. He was an engineer and knew only three things: water flows downhill, you can’t push a rope, and you get paid twice a month. Of course, I was aided in my brief by the the mere existence of my youngest brother Pat, now old enough to assume my duties. I assured him cutting the grass would be a promotion for him, several steps up from emptying the trash. But he balked. Luckily for me, his only skill at argument to counter my suggestion to Dad he replace me was his ability to stomp his foot, shake his head and moan, “Jeez, Dad, its not fair”, a modus operandi our parents had long before learned to ignore.
Perhaps the surest sign of my future vocation came in 1962, when I was fourteen. The summer before beginning high school, I engaged in my first serious debate. The venue was our neighbors’ front yard one late summer afternoon; my adversary was Donna, their pretty fourteen year old red headed daughter. Our audience was a handful of other neighborhood children. The subject of our debate, chosen by me, was female genital anatomy. Although I had no sisters, after having avidly studied my parents’ 1945 plain black jacketed marriage manual and its copious, if sadly schematic, black and white anatomical drawings, I felt fully prepared and confidently argued to this girl she was clearly wrong about what lay between her own two legs. My arguments were cogent, logical, and, if I do say so myself, elegant in both composition and presentation – yet shockingly proved futile. Declaring me guilty of argumentum ad ignoratiam, she remained unyielding in the face of my attempts to seduce her with my tongue to the truth. Still, anyone who watched our great debate would have surely concluded by the last light of the day I was destined to excel at the law.
My only regret other than my inability to convince Donna of the theoretical soundness of my position was my failure to demand she allow me to fully discover her demonstrable proof she claimed supported her position before starting the debate (it was nearly another fours years before similar discovery came to hand for close and frequent study and my juvenile erratum were at last revealed to me).
Of course, if I had actually convinced Donna what she saw in her hand mirror when she examined her nether regions was wrong, I would not only be a lawyer today, but a very, very, very rich one as well…
Dear reader, should you think ill of my tales, or doubt their veracity, I urge you to recall this Latin phrase:
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