May 28, 2009
The Chronicles of Testaclese: The Finale
The Finale: Chapter Sixteen
THE MAN
WHO LOVED TO MAKE
PENISES HAPPY
I love penises. I love men. I do not see them as separate things. Men pay me to dominate them, to excite them, to make them come. I did not start out like this. No, to the contrary: I started out as a lawyer. But in my later thirties, I became obsessed with making men happy. So many men who had no access to their sexual happiness. It began as a mission of sorts, but then I got involved in it. I got very good at it. It was as if I had found my calling. Tax law seemed completely boring and insignificant then.
I wore outrageous outfits when I dominated men—studs, leather, and chains—and I used props: whips, handcuffs, rope, dildos. There was nothing like this in tax law. There were no props, no excitement, and I hated those blue corporate suits, although I wear them now from time to time in my new line of work and they serve quite nicely. Context is all. There were no props, no outfits in corporate law. There was no wetness. There was no dark mysterious foreplay. There were no erect penises. There were no delicious mouths, but mainly there was no moaning. Not the kind I’m talking about, anyway. This was the key, I see now; moaning was the thing that ultimately seduced me and got me addicted to making men happy. When I was a boy and I would see men in the movies making love, making strange orgasmic moaning noises, I used to laugh. I got strangely hysterical. I couldn’t believe that big, outrageous, ungoverned sounds like that just came out of men.
I longed to moan. I practiced in front of my mirror, on a tape recorder, moaning in various keys, various tones, with sometimes over operatic expressions, sometimes with more reserved, almost withheld expression. But always when I played it back, it sounded fake. It was fake. It wasn’t rooted in anything sexual, really, only in my desire to be sexual.
But then when I was ten I had to pee really badly once. On a car trip. It went on for almost an hour and when I finally got to pee behind this dirty little gas station, it was so exciting, I moaned. I moaned as I peed. I couldn’t believe it, me moaning behind a Texaco station somewhere in the middle of Louisiana. I realized right then that moans are connected with not getting what you want right away, with putting things off. I realized moans were best when they caught you by surprise; they came out of this hidden mysterious part of you that was speaking its own language. I realized that moans were, in fact, that language.
I became a moaner. It made most women anxious. Frankly, it terrified them. I was loud and they couldn’t concentrate on what they were doing. They’d lose focus. Then they’d lose everything. We couldn’t make love in people’s homes. The walls were too thin. I got a reputation in my building, and people stared at me with contempt in the elevator. Women thought I was too intense; some called me insane.
I began to feel bad about moaning. I got quiet and polite. I made noise into a pillow. I learned to choke my moan, hold it back like a sneeze. I began to get headaches and stress-related disorders. I was becoming hopeless when I discovered men. I discovered that most men loved my moaning—but, more important, I discovered how deeply excited I got when other men moaned, when I could make other men moan. It became a kind of passion.
Discovering the key, unlocking the penis’s mouth, unlocking this voice, this wild song.
I made love to quiet men and I found this place inside them and they shocked themselves in their moaning. I made love to moaners and they found a deeper, more penetrating moan. I became obsessed. I longed to make men moan, to be in charge, like a conductor, maybe or a band-leader.
It was a kind of surgery, a king of delicate science, finding the tempo, the exact location or home of the moan. That’s what I called it.
Sometimes I found it over a man’s jeans. Sometimes I sneaked up on it, off the record, quietly disarming the surrounding alarms and moving in. Sometimes I used force, but not violent, oppressing force, more like dominating, “I’m going to take you someplace; don’t worry, lie back, enjoy the ride” kind of force. Sometimes it was simply mundane. I found the moan before things even started, while we were eating salad or chicken, just casually right there, with my finger tips, “Here it is like that,” real simple, in the kitchen, all mixed in with the balsamic vinegar. Sometimes I used props—I loved props—sometimes I made the man find his own moan right in front of me. I waited, stuck it out until he opened himself. I wasn’t fooled by minor, more obvious moans. No, I pushed him further, all the way into his power moan.
There’s the penis moan (a soft, in-the-mouth sound), the balls moan (a deep, in-the-throat sound), the combo penis-balls moan. There’s the pre-moan (a hint of sound), the almost moan (a circling sound), the right-on-it moan (a deeper, definite sound), the elegant moan (a sophisticated laughing sound), the Black Sabbath moan (a rock-singing sound), the WASP moan (no sound), the semireligious moan (a Muslim chanting sound), the mountaintop moan (a yodeling sound), the baby moan (a googie-googie-googie-goo sound), the doggy moan (a panting sound), the southern moan (southern accent—“yeah! yeah”), the uninhibited militant bisexual moan (a deep, aggressive, pounding sound), the machine-gun moan, the tortured Zen moan (a twisted, hungry sound), the twisted-toe-orgasm moan, and, finally, the surprise triple orgasm.
Comments (2)May 27, 2009
The Chronicles of Testaclese: Chapter 15
Chapter 15: I asked a six-yeard-old.
I ASKED A SIX-YEAR-
OLD BOY:
“If your penis got dressed, what would it wear?”
“Red high-tops and a Mets cap worn back-
ward.”
“If it could speak, what would it say?”
“It would say words that begin with ‘D’ and
‘K’—‘kick’ and ‘discombobulate.’
“What does your penis remind you of?”
“A big space shuttle. Or a rocket taking off.”
“What’s special about your penis?”
“Somewhere deep inside it I know it has a really smart brain.”
“What does your penis smell like?”
“Snowflakes.”
Comments (0)May 26, 2009
The Chronicles of Testaclese: Chapter 14
Chapter 14: Introduction
I have been traveling with this piece all over America (and now, the world) for years. I am threatening to create a penis-friendly map of all penis-friendly cities I have visited. There are many now. There have been many surprises; Oklahoma City surprised me. They were wild for penises in Oklahoma City. Pittsburgh surprised me. They love penises in Pittsburgh. I have already been there three times. Wherever I go, men come up to me after the show to tell me their stories, to make suggestions, to communicate their responses. This is my favorite part of traveling with the work. I get to hear the truly amazing stories. They are told so simply, so matter-of-factly. I am always reminded how extraordinary men’s lives are, and how profound. And I am reminded how isolated men are, and how oppressed they often become in their isolation. How few people they have ever told of their suffering and confusion. How much shame there is surrounding all this. How crucial it is for men to tell their stories, to share them with other people, how our survival as men depends on this dialogue.
There was one night in Pittsburgh when a man filled with passion rushed up to tell me he had to speak to me as soon as possible. His intensity convinced me, and I called him as soon as I got back to New York. He said he was a massage therapist and he had to talk to me about the texture of the penis. The texture was crucial. I hadn’t gotten the texture, he said. And he talked to me for an hour with such detail, with such sensuous clarity, that when he was finished, I had to lie down. During that conversation he also talked to me about the word “dick.” I had said something negative about it in my performance, and he said I didn’t understand the word at all. He needed to help me reconceive it. He talked to me for a half-hour more about the word “dick” and when he was finished, I was a convert. I wrote this for him.\
Chapter 13: Reclaiming Dick
I call it dick. I’ve reclaimed it, “dick.” I really like it. “Dick.” Listen to it. “Dick.” D D, Di, Di. Diamond, delightful, dip, delicious, drink—dunk d—dunk it inside, inside di—then i—then di—then straight, inviting satin i—informed, intelligent, insatiable, independent, inner, inner, i—then c then dic—snug letters fitting perfectly together—k— king, kite, kind, kind, always in depth, always straight in uppercase, dic, dic—k a jagged wicked electrical pulse—c [clamor] then soft c—warm c—dic, dic, then k—then sharp certain kindling k—kabob, kangaroo, kempt, keep, kazoo, karat, kaleidoscope, keen, tell me, tell me “Dick dick,” say it, tell me “Dick.” “Dick.”
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May 25, 2009
The Chronicles of Testaclese: Chapter 13
“What does a penis smell like?”
Earth.
Wet garbage.
God.
Water.
A brand-new morning.
Depth.
Sweet ginger.
Sweat.
Depends.
Musk.
Me.
No smell, I’ve been told.
Pineapple.
Chalice essence.
Paloma Picasso.
Earthy meat and musk.
Cinnamon and cloves.
Roses.
Spicy musk jasmine forest, deep, deep
forest.
Damp moss.
Yummy candy.
The South Pacific.
Peaches.
The woods.
Ripe Fruit.
Strawberry-kiwi tea.
Fish.
Heaven.
Vinegar and water.
Light, sweet liquor.
Cheese.
Ocean.
Sexy.
A sponge.
The beginning.
Comments (0)May 24, 2009
Rule Five Sunday: Kicking it Old School
OK, I forgot to set this up before I left. Vacation is going well, but I had to hit you with some Rule 5 Sunday action. I had to post this next one. She’s smoking a ciggy!
OK, now where did I put that margarita down? Back to vacation…
Comments (6)
The Chronicles of Testaclese: Chapter Twelve
Chapter Twelve: Introduction
For the last ten years I have been actively involved with men who have no homes, men we call “homeless people” so we can categorize them and forget them. I have done all kind of things with these men, who became my friends. I run recovery groups for men who have been raped or suffered incest, and groups for men addicted to drugs and alcohol. I go to the movies with these men, have meals with them. I hang out. Over the past ten years I have interviewed hundreds of men. In all that time I have met only two who were not subjected to incest as young boys or raped as young men. I have evolved a theory that for most of these men, “home” is a very scary place, a place they have fled, and that the shelters where I meet them are the first places many of them ever find safety, protection, or comfort, in the community of other men.
This monologue is one man’s story as he told it to me. I met him about five years ago, in a shelter. I would like to tell you it’s an unusual story—brutal; extreme. But it’s not. In fact, it’s not nearly as disturbing as many of the stories I have heard it the years since. Poor men suffer terrible sexual violence that goes unreported. Because of their social class, these men do not have access to therapy or other methods of healing. Their repeated abuse ultimately eats away at their self-esteem, driving them to drugs, prostitution, AIDS, and in many cases, death (as if AIDS isn’t a death sentence of sorts). Fortunately, this particular story has a different outcome—at least as I report it here it does, but like I said, I can’t remember anymore what is fiction or fact.
This man met another man in a shelter, and they fell in love. Through their love, they got out of the shelter system and have a beautiful life together today. I wrote this piece for them, for their amazing spirits, for the men we do not see, who hurt and need us.
Chapter Twelve: The Little Power Drill That Could
Comments (1)May 23, 2009
The Chronicles of Testaclese: Chapter Eleven
Chapter Eleven: My Angry Penis
MY ANGRY PENIS
My penis is angry. It is. It’s pissed off. My penis is furious and it needs to talk. It needs to talk all this shit. It needs to talk to you. I mean, what’s the deal? An army of people out there thinking up ways to torture my poor-ass, gentle, loving penis…. Spending their days constructing psycho products and nasty ideas to undermine my penis. Penis motherfuckers.
All this shit they’re constantly trying to put on us, pull on us—cover us up, make it go away. Well, my penis is not going away. It’s pissed off and it’s staying right here. Like condoms—what the hell is that? A piece of rubber to roll on there. Why can’t they find a way to produce a comfortable condom? As soon as my penis sees it, it goes into shock. It says, Forget it. It goes limp. You need to work with the penis, introduce it to things, prepare the way. That’s what oral sex is all about. You got to convince my penis, engage my penis’s trust. You can’t do that with a rolled up piece of fucking rubber.
Stop putting things on me. Stop putting things on me and changing it’s taste. The taste of my penis doesn’t need to be cleaned up. Don’t try to decorate. Don’t believe her when she tells you it tastes like candy when you’re supposed to taste like dick. That’s what they’re doing—trying to clean it up, make it taste like a cake or a pie. All those flavors—strawberry, banana, chocolate. I don’t want my dick to taste like fruit. All cleaned up like breading up fish and then drowning it in ketchup. Want to taste the salt water. That’s why I ordered it.
Then there’s those exams. Who thought them up? There’s got to be a better way to do those exams. Why the scary paper dress that scratches your balls and crunches while you lie down so you feel like a wad of paper someone threw away? Why the rubber gloves? Why the turning of the head like it’s something I should be afraid of, something I shouldn’t want to see? Why the touching? Why the forcing me to cough? What’s that? My penis is angry about those visits. It gets defended weeks in advance. It shuts down, won’t “relax.” Don’t you hate that? “Relax your penis, relax your penis.” Why? My penis is not stupid. Relax so you can put your hands all over it? I don’t think so.
Why can’t they find some nice, delicious, forest green flannel and wrap it around me, lay me down on some feathery cotton spread, put some nice friendly green or blue gloves on? Warm up your hands first. Work with my penis.
But no, more tortures: rubber condoms, cold hands, and tighty-whities. Who thought that up? Constricting all of the time, cuts off circulation throughout your penis.
Penis is supposed to be loose and free, not held together. That’s why tighty-whities are so bad. We need to move, to hang and talk and talk. Penises need comfort. Make something like that, something to give them pleasure. No, of course they won’t do that. Hate to see a man having pleasure, particularly sexual pleasure. I mean, a nice pair of smooth silk boxers with a massager built in. Men would be coming all day long, coming in the supermarket, coming on the subway, coming, happy penises. They wouldn’t be able to stand it. Seeing all of those energized, not-taking-shit, hot, happy penises.
If my penis could talk, it would talk about itself like me; it would talk about other penises; it would do penis impressions.
It would wear Harry Winston diamonds, no clothing—just there, all draped in diamonds.
My penis helped release a giant load. It thought it would be doing more of that. It is. Now it wants to travel, and wants a lot of company. It wants to read and know things and get out more. It wants sex. It loves sex. It wants to go deeper. It’s hungry for depth. It wants kindness. It wants change. It wants silence and freedom and gentle kisses and warm liquids and deep touch. It wants beer. It wants to scream. It wants to stop being angry. It wants to come. It wants to want. It wants. My penis, my penis. Well…it wants everything.
Comments (0)May 22, 2009
Rule Five Friday: Reese Witherspoon
First official day of vacation. Don’t worry, I’m not actually blogging. I set all of this up in advance. Here’s a little Reese action for you.
And, here’s one more for you.
The Chronicles of Testaclese: Chapter Ten
Chapter Ten: Because She Liked to Look At It
BECAUSE SHE LIKED TO
LOOK AT IT
This is how I came to love my penis. It’s embarrassing, because it’s not politically correct. I mean, I know it should have happened in a bath with salt grains from the Dead Sea, Enya playing, me loving my man self. I know the story. Penises are beautiful. Our self-hatred is only the internalized repression and hatred of the matriarchal culture. It isn’t real. Dicks unite. I know all of it. Like, if we’d grown up in a culture where we were taught that small muscles were hot, we’d all stop lifting weights at the gym, and drinking those muscle building milkshakes. But we didn’t grow up in that culture. I hated my muscles, and I hated my penis even more. I thought it was incredibly ugly. I was one of those men who had looked at it and, from that moment on, wished I hadn’t. It made me sick. I pitied anyone who had to go down there.
In order to survive, I began to pretend there was something else between my legs. I imagined furniture—cozy futons with light cotton comforters, little velvet settees, leopard rugs—or rugged things—log cabins, power tools, machines—or miniature landscapes—clear crystal lakes, tall, overbearing trees. I got so accustomed to this that I lost all memory of having a penis. Whenever I had sex with a woman, I pictured her being entered by a stem from a beautiful rose or a furry little caterpillar.
Then I met Jane. Jane was the most ordinary woman I ever met. She was short and fat and nondescript and wore khaki clothes. Jane did not like spicy foods or listen to Prodigy. She had no interest in a sexy face. In the summer she spent time in the shade. She did not share her inner feelings. She did not have any problems or issues, and was not even an alcoholic (because most women are). She wasn’t very funny or articulate (in fact, she was borderline retarded) or mysterious. She wasn’t self-involved or charismatic. She didn’t drive fast. I didn’t particularly like Jane. I would have missed her altogether if she hadn’t picked up my change that I dropped on the deli floor. When she handed me back my quarters and pennies and her hand accidentally touched mine, something happened. I went to bed with her. That’s when the miracle occurred.
Turned out that Jane loved penises. She was a connoisseur. She loved the way they felt, the way they tasted, the way they smelled, but most important, she loved the way they looked. She had to look at them. The first time we had sex, she told me she had to see me.
“I’m right her,” I said.
“No, you,” she said. “I have to see you.”
Thinking she was a weirdo, I was freaking out in the dark. I mean, who was this freak that I just picked up at the deli a few hours ago? She turned on the light.
Then she said, “Okay. I’m ready, ready to see you.”
“Right here.” I waved. “I’m right here.”
Then she began to undress me.
“What are you doing, Jane?” I said.
“I need to see you,” she replied.
“No need,” I said. “Just let me dive in.”
“I need to see what you look like,” she said.
(I still wonder if she was really just looking for any signs of disease.)
“But you’ve seen a cucumber before,” I said.
Jane continued. She would not stop. I wanted to throw up and die.
“This is awfully intimate (because just having sex isn’t),” I said. “Can’t you just let me dive in?”
“No,” she said. “It’s who you are. I need to look.”
I held my breath. She looked and looked. She gasped and smiled and stared and groaned. She got breathy and her face changed. She didn’t look ordinary anymore. She looked like a hungry, beautiful beast.
“You’re so handsome,” she said. “You’re elegant and deep and innocent and wild.”
“You saw that there?” I said.
It was like she read my palm.
“I saw that,” she said, “and more—much, much more.”
She stayed looking for almost an hour, as if she were studying a map, observing the moon, staring into my eyes, but it was my penis. In the light, I watched her looking at me, and she was so genuinely excited, so peaceful and euphoric, I began to get hard and turned on. I began to see myself the way she saw me. I began to feel handsome and delicious—like a great painting or a waterfall. Jane wasn’t afraid. She wasn’t grossed out. I began to feel it swell, I began to feel proud. Began to love my penis. And Jane lost herself there and I was there with her, in my penis, and we were gone.
May 21, 2009
Tom Coburn is my hero.
Sen. Tom Coburn, who I admittedly have had a huge crush on since 2004, along with some others, has offered an alternative to “Obamacare” called the Patient’s Choice Act:
The Obama plan promises change and progress, but it is based on old ideas. For the past 50 years, the Left has promised that a little more government intervention and spending will fix health care. If Washington can effectively run a health program like Obama’s public option, why are Medicare, Medicaid, and other federal health programs in such disrepair?
Today, federal and state government controls about 60 percent of our health care economy, which has helped create the chaotic system Americans loathe. Congress and the Obama administration are now on a path to finish the job and move us past the tipping point into a Canadian or UK-style government-run system.
The American people deserve better. Congress should be looking to 2040, not 1940 or 1965. We can achieve universal access to quality, affordable health care without bankrupting our children with trillions more in debt or imposing draconian tax hikes on all Americans. It can be done, and the Patients’ Choice Act shows us how.
If this bill has the ability to do what they claim it will do–save $1.3 trillion over the next 10 years rather than cost the indeterminable actual amount Obamacare will end up costing–I’m all for it. To be honest, I’m so against free health care that I would probably get excited about any proposed alternatives because I know that the “free” health care system will be that bad for America that anything else has to be better. Let’s hope the rest of America knows this, too.
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