I Love Hedwig So I Must Be Gay

She doesn’t remember this pivotal moment in our relationship.  We were sitting there, just after fucking.  She turns to me and starts talking about what it’s like to gag on a cock.  “You know, how it goes down your throat and you’re like mmmm.  You know?  You know what that’s like right?”  I look at her really weird, and I feel that dread in my stomach.  Damn, this girl too?  I literally just got done fucking her brains out.  Why does she think I’m gay?

Not only gay, but she thinks I regularly gag on dicks.  I vividly remember her next to me, her smile, where she was in my bed, that the lights were on, everything.  I know she asked me this, and I know how it made me feel.  Every man who’s asked this is conflicted because he wants to appear cool.  We all know that if we say, “Fuck no you fucking idiot,” that we’ll never be invited to all the cool parties with the bisexual guys and the sluts.  But, if you’re straight, and you love a girl, then this question is devastating.  It hits right at the heart of what makes you a straight man.

It’s the same as asking a woman if she’s trans.  Imagine, if you’re a woman, that men on a dating site asked, “Are you trans?”  Nearly every woman will pretend it doesn’t hurt, because they also want to seem cool and not offended by being considered trans.  They play it off, then start asking the same kinds of questions I did:  “Why do you think I look masculine?” “What makes you say that? Is it my writing?” “No, haha, <block>.”

Asking a woman if she’s trans is insulting because it’s making assumptions about who she is based on superficial bullshit like how she looks or talks.  Asking a man if he’s gay by trying to bait him into admitting he gags on dicks on the regular is also offensive because, again, it’s based on nothing about him.  If you actually see a man gagging on a dick, then alright he is probably gay.  But until you see that, you can’t ask.  He might just be a little effeminate or have a lisp he can’t control for an unrelated reason.  You just don’t know, so don’t fucking ask.

What’s even more alarming though is how she didn’t remember it.  She didn’t remember it as insinuating I was gay for no reason by trying to trick me into admitting I gag on cocks.  She remembers it as asking me if I like MFM threesomes.  She doesn’t remember how she did it, or why I got angry, and said I blew it way out of proportion.  But when I bring this up, when I describe how it made me feel, exactly what happened, what she looked like, relaying this vivid memory that’s imprinted on my brain because it was painful, she tries to tell me I’m making it up.

In each case where she failed to remember what she did, there’s this immediate period where she tries to claim I’m crazy.  That I’m fabricating this vivid clear memory.  It takes a significant amount of arrogance and narcissism to tell someone with a clear and painful memory that their version is wrong.  That the correct version is the one that makes the narcissist look good.

Curiously enough, she’s not the only one.  I’ve asked one other womea why they thought I was gay, and she did the same thing.  She claimed it never happened, even though I remember her sitting on my bed, freaked out that she thought I was gay.  I remember the room, the lights, the brick wall, the bedding, her face, everything.  She doesn’t remember it at all.  She asked me because I had imitated a gay guy’s voice. That’s all.  No real reason, just I’m a good actor?

Not only does she not remember it all, but rather than say she forgot, she went out of her way to try to convince me that I’m crazy and making it up.  That this vivid painful memory of a woman I love making me feel small and insignificant for the dumbest of reasons is a complete fabrication.  That I must be crazy, but this is a fairly serious accusation to say the least.  That I am so fully insane that I am imagining a complete and vivid scene that then changed our relationship from then on.  That I imagined a scene one day, and then for years later worried about why she thought that.

Nobody is that crazy, and I definitely am not.

Other women I dated asked me if I was gay for even dumber reasons.  One girl asked me if I was trans because I knew a trans guy.  Another girl asked me if I was gay because she found a 6 hour straight porn VHS tape called “six pack”.  Another asked me if I was fucking my male friend because I hung out with him sometimes.  I’m not making this up.  Something about me, how I present myself, and about women’s skewed hypocritical views of masculinity, makes them perceive me as secretly gay (while I plow their vagina and only ever look at female porn).

It’s more than that though.  When you love someone you want them to want you.  To know you.  You want them to crave you and if that person thinks you crave the opposite sex they can’t do that.  In addition to that, it’s humiliating to have someone you love think that you can’t love them.  These women also said that being gay was something people are born with and that they could never change. I agree, but then that means these women were saying that I could never love them because I would always love men.  That I secretly loved men.

Part of me changing this blog around to be “artistically bi” is a joke about these women and how they just assumed I was gay for the dumbest reasons.  These women were all feminists, and all gay friendly with numerous gay male friends, but had some of the worst stereotypes about masculinity.  If great art comes from pain, then expressing my pain around women’s perception of my masculinity and their inability to admit their abuse is a good place to lay some paint on canvas.

I’m sure all kinds of people will see my paintings of my own dick and think, “Damn that dude’s a huge fag.”  Artistically?  Sure.  Fuck it, let’s play with that.   In the world of sexuality, people are allowed to be “romantically straight, but sexually bi”.  That means you marry or date the opposite sex, but don’t mind fucking everyone.  People say that gender is fluid and people can be one gender or another, and even some idiots think they’re truly dragons inside.

I figure, if someone can carve up their sexuality in such a way, then I can decide that I’m straight but artistically bisexual.  All my favorite artists seem to be gay or bisexual anyway.  Why not embrace this weird obsession that my girlfriends have about my sexuality and apply a little gender bending to make some art?  Could be fun.

The image of a raw cock, painted, as art, the way women paint their vaginas, expresses how I feel about their perception of what makes me a man.  When people see it, they’ll wonder about my sexuality, but ultimately it’s just a dick.  They have no idea where it likes to go just from looking at it.

the wall

She arrives at the apartment with it to her left, slightly buzzing and close. It wasn’t clear why this was the place, but the proximity of it made her skin grow cold and prickle. She’d seen what happened when others touched it. The agony on their face as it engulfed them, tearing them apart. She knew from others that she couldn’t touch it. She couldn’t go near it, and had to ignore the flickering little bit out of the corner of her eyes that made her want to look.

She knocks on the door, carefully looking over her shoulder, then glancing away. Feeling its obelisk presence on her shoulder, approaching, enveloping. It wasn’t this powerful in the beginning. At first it was just a spot, one that appeared shortly after her 28th birthday. Over the months it slowly grew in menance and intensity until one day it nearly killed her. She made the mistake of being able to see it clearly, then trying to touch it….

The door opens and an unassuming man in a t-shirt and jeans answers. He has a shaved head and no eyebrows, no hair on his arms, and potentially no hair on his body. He looks her up and down, and looks past her shoulder at it, then quickly motions her in, shutting the door behind her.

He calmly starts taking his clothes off, not saying a word. She sees he is hairless. Did it do this to him? Why is he the only one that’s immune, or so he claims? She had found him through connections, and searchs, found there was a small group of people who can make it go away. Who can make it stop and she was desperate for any cure.

He motions to a dining room table where there’s a large meat cleaver and a thick cutting board. She is wearing nothing but a simple dress, no makeup, or jewelry, and following instructions to the letter. He said she’d have to do the next thing to be cured, and she was ready to do anything. She undresses and walks to the table, picks up the cleaver. She starts to shake, does she actually have to? Why? She tries to place her hand on the cutting board, it’s already stained with blood, and she can’t.

He walks to the couch and sits down, turns on the TV and starts to watch porn, completely oblivious to her struggle. He’s clearly done this before. He seems prepared to wait. She see him, naked, getting hard and touching himself, and she looks at the board. Blood stains the surface in an ink blot test that suggests it’s been used 10, maybe 100 times. Others have come to escape this and have done this. How many couldn’t? How many simply accepted they would die and wanted to keep their bodies whole?

In her hesitation she starts to sense it outside the apartment, on the balcony. She begins to hear it, it’s buzzing screaming getting louder. It was only this loud the first time it almost killed her. When she woke in the night and it was over her bed, hovering waiting for her to reach and touch it. It was angry, maybe scared, could she do it?

In a flash of fear and dread she grabs the hefty meat cleaver and slams her left hand onto the board. She feels that it’s wet, and realizes it was recently used but doesn’t hesitate. Taking the cleaver high in the air, pointing a pinky finger out and tucking the others, stares at it. Aiming to make sure she gets it right, feeling the man’s gaze on her as he sits on the couch stroking his cock, she slams the cleaver down on the last knuckle of her pinky and screams, shearing it off in one stroke.

She jerks up off the chair grasping her hand, blood gushing everywhere, all on her naked body, she tries not to scream but starts to cry. He said she can’t make any noise, and at this small whimper she hears it get stronger. She feels it push against the balcony and then it slowly pushes through the outside wall, filling the apartment. It’s a deep blue green wall, made of a material that can’t exist. It flows around objects in the room, devouring them and creeping on toward her. She can feel it extend in both directions infinitely, and impenatrably. The man ignores it, but when it gets to him it stops.

He’s been watching her terror, blood pumping from her finger, onto her body, and then he turns his head toward her wall. Still staring at her, reaches his hand out, and strokes it, as he touches it the surface changes, leaving trails of gold like he was passing his hand through a deep ocean activating bioluminescent bacteria. She’s never seen someone touch another person’s wall, never seen anyone even acknowledge the existence of them. Everyone who knows they exist are too afraid to speak about them, until one day they die and leave terrified messages on phones screaming nonsense.

He yanks his hand out of the wall and stands up, walking to her with direct purpose. Reaching past her with indifference, he grabs the severed piece of her finger then walks toward the wall, tossing it into the deep recess of it with force and power. The wall curves, then greedily eats it and explodes in reds and golds, ripping open and showing the balcony window behind it for a split second. The air crackles with the smell of burned flesh and the wall screams with glee at claiming a piece of its victim.

The man walks back to her, grabs her by the shoulder, yanking her up. Her pussy is wet in defensive anticipation of what happens next, what has to happen to rid her of this disease. To make this wall leave her in piece, she has to give into it and release into it.

She stumbles around, stands up facing him, he yanks her so her ass is toward him and her tits are facing toward the wall. She jerks her face back away from the wall, feeling its heat and power reaching for her, demanding her death. She instinctively thrusts her pussy and ass up so the man can access her and he grips her upper arms at the shoulder in a tight painful grip to hold her still, making her pinky drip more blood. Panting, stomach heaving in desperation, fear tearing her apart, she knows she’s going to die. Nothing will be the same after this, and the chance she survives is small. She starts to cry while she feels the man’s hard desperate cock hover behind her wet and aroused swollen pussy.

At the sound of her crying the wall lunges and the man plunges his cock deep into her pussy at the exact moment the wall hits her body. She feels the flesh of her tits tear apart, her face burn in intense agony while the relentless cock of a total stranger rips into her pussy and fills her with cum. The intensity makes her orgasm in an deep vaginal rage, squirting fluid onto the floor and pushing her cervix down as the wall envelopes her body, she passes into the wall with the man fucking her and holding her still.

Her scream inside the wall is silent, an expression of all her pain and anguish at her wasted life. The days she spent caring for nothing but herself. The people she ruined and betrayed. As her flesh is shredded from her body and her pussy violated she feels the sadness of her vapid boring life of leasure and pleasure. She sees behind her, through the depths of the wall, into her past and finds nothing of worth, nothing to live for, and regrets her years of pointlessness and stupidity. This accounting of her life comes up with nothing redeeming and presents her with the realization that she deserves to die for having never lived to that moment in her existence.

Just as it seems that it was over the wall stops. Her body half thrust inside it, the man’s cock slowly falls out of her, spent, and he slowly pulls her out of the wall. The flesh that was ripped and seared is slowly repaired as he gently pries her out of the wall, yet the wall is also birthing her. There is no explanation as to why, no reason. The wall is done with her. Slowly she falls out and to the floor, clean and whole, but only missing one piece of her pinky.

The man sits her up, turns her to the wall, and forces her eyes open. He points at the wall and she watches. It begins to fade, to slowly roll away, into a spot out of the corner of her eye, until it is finally gone from her vision. Yet she still feels it there, waiting, possibly to come back, but done with her for now.

gloves

The bench under my shorts is cold and wet from the previous guy who sat there. My body is drenched as well, muscles still working from the class, slick skin and hair matted under my t-shirt and to my shorts. I can barely move and I have to take the leather gloves off my hands. The freshly wet leather scent sits in my lap simply laughing at me. I’m too weak to even undo the velcro around them, but I pick up my right hand and bring it to my teeth forcing the wet shaved dog tannins and sweat into my face just to get the damn things off. I grip it with my teeth, tasting the velcro and leather, closely examining the frayed patches of red around the palm. “I must be gripping too hard when I punch”, I think aimlessly. I finally get a grip on the flap and pull, feeling and hearing the tear of the velcro off it’s mooring and into my mouth violently bouncing my head off the wall behind me. Fuck, now I look like a dork because I can’t get my gloves off. Jerk to my left jumping rope, click-click-click-click, chuckles and keeps going. I still can’t jump rope very well but last week I punched him pretty hard so I guess that’s why he thinks this is funny. Using my knees I yank the glove off and it falls to the floor, bright fluorescent lights make it look blue and purple with spots of red at the dark edges meeting the pavement. I use my other hand to rip the velcro off the remaining glove and lean back against the wall that met my head just seconds before. Shins are sore from kicking the bag, hands are weak, I usually can’t think after kickboxing for an hour or more so I just sit there and do nothing, staring at the far wall trying to stop sweating all over the place.