Am I edgy? At the recent Loyalist workshop, when my piece was being commented on, one of the women started by saying – “knowing Duncan, when I saw this was his work, I knew I was in for something edgy, out-of-the-box and funny and I was was not disappointed.” This woman later presented a great piece about street people – one dressed in pink tutu with matching feathers in hair, so she knows edgy.
To be honest I don’t think of myself or my writing as edgy. When I think of edgy Electric Jon or Charlie Petch comes to mind – but me, I’m pretty tame, right? Sure when I write about sex I’m direct, fun – often people compliment me on being ‘brave’ – I just don’t get it – I know my audiences pretty well – what I present at the Erotica Writers certainly isn’t what I’d present at a high school poetry class.
So I guess writing frankly about sex is edgy? Or is the matter-of-fact way I present these pieces what makes them edgy? I’m thinking – what do I find edgy to write about. One area is race and sex.
Watching a recent spate of Weismuller Tarzan movies on Turner I couldn’t help but notice the amount of nearly naked flesh on screen – particularly the many ‘native’ bearers and tribesmen. I recalled Saturday matinees when I was a kid seeing some of these then and realized that the erotic appeal of black men had started then – now is this a racist memory? Is this dehumanization via a fetish of blackness or just some adolescent male seeing so much man flesh he likes it?
This reaches its apogee with Woody Strode in Spartacus – magnificent – his skin shines like armor in every scene – this movie brings up the another erotic area that caught me growing up – bearded, burly men in skirts. All those sword & sandal pictures: from the Ten Commandments to Hercules in the Underworld (I longed for Hercules out of his underwear).
I love all those Biblical epics with nearly naked men everywhere, rowing the galleons, training to be gladiators, just hanging around the market place waiting for Jesus (often a bearded hottie with a dozen other yummy bearded men to party with) to show up. When I see these today I am amazed at the amount of male flesh in them and am not surprised at how they informed my adult sex objectifications.
Sure there were pretty women in most these, usually so pure they gave our hero reason to win, or so evil they had to be vanquished. But first they’ll dance for you. Always in definitive period make-up too – eyeliner, eyelashes and blush. Not to mention cleavage that I’m sure required post-dub to removed the echo of any dialogue said near the valley of their ample, yet perky, breasts.
So Hollywood made me the queer I am – is that edgy?
my masochist lover wants to leave
I’m not causing him enough pain
he’s tired of merely being ashamed
of being seen with me in public
he needs more domestic humiliation
I reminded him
it wasn’t my fault he needed an audience
in order to feel the depths of abasement
that got him off
besides I have rotator cuff tears from
spanking him every time
the dishes weren’t cleared away fast enough
aggravates my carpel tunnel syndrome
tennis elbow from fisting
doesn’t get me off at all
the constant stream of abuse
I had to supply him with was so draining
I had no spite left
for people who really deserved it
like that asshole barista
who couldn’t make a latte
without a shake of cinnamon
I told him twice no cinnamon
and when it came with a dash
a sense of futility
flooded me with each sip
of that fucking latte
I had no choice but to go home
and take it out on my masochistic lover
but that wasn’t enough for him
and now my masochistic lover wants
because I don’t make him suffer enough
he feels I don’t care when I hurt him
that I’m not into the brick-weighted nipple clamps
into the cigar scarification
that I do those things with too much detachment
I ask him why my not caring
doesn’t add to his sense of being abused
isn’t it worse when the abuser
does it out of boredom
and not out of passion
once he packed up his latex
I slapped him goodbye
then shut the door