Pink Narcissus

Greek

The drip drip drip of echoic tiles. The sting of ammonia; the jargon of palimpsest doors, a hole in one, at crutch-height, in which to make your confession of a sin you can’t name. The architecture of desire awaits the future of now before revealing itself; its turrets and corners, its dark secrets.

He can’t be more than seventeen, the boy you once saw here, swaggering his boastful cock at you. The jeans are pushed to a crush at his hips, his hairless arse shining like a slaughterhouse knife.

Gender Is A Pretzel

THE KILLOUGH CHRONICLES

by James Killough

It seems to have been very moving for non-LGBTs to see Chaz Bono on Dancing With The Stars.  He has even persuaded the skeptical, maybe even some of those who were initially outraged that he was going to appear on such a wholesome show, although I doubt the Christian groups which called for a boycott of the season were ever appeased.

Male model Andrej Prejic was named the 98th sexiest woman in the world by men's magazine FHM, which also called him a "thing."

For most of us in Homolandia, it wasn’t a big deal at all, of course.  We live in a magical parallel world like Harry Potter’s, full of all sorts of odd, splendid creatures walking around fucking with your reality and casting spells.  What is always more surprising is the negative reactions we still get from the religious troglodytes in the flyover states.

Mike Thompson, the acting president of our own grand arbiters of moral rectitude, GLAAD, a.k.a. The Swish Inquisition, issued this statement:

Royce from Royce and Marilyn

In Search of Royce and Marilyn

This post is dedicated to Jonathan Kemp, whose latest book Twentysix has just arrived from the printers and is available on order from Amazon.  It’s twenty-six prose poems about random sexual encounters, or it was when I read an early version of it.  When we were a couple, I made Jonathan write me in as one of the stories, but I might not have made the final cut; I wasn’t exactly a random encounter, nor am I exactly prose-worthy in bed.  (This just in: Jonathan’s first book, London Triptych, is available as of today in the US.)

A couple of years ago, Jonathan sent me this video as a sort of birthday card.  It’s mandatory viewing to follow the rest of this post:

The moment the video was over, my mouth was agape and little cartoon hearts could be seen popping joyously around my head.  I’ve known many aging alcoholic drag queens in my day, but none could surpass Royce, even if she is a real woman.  This wasn’t mere bitterness or curmudgeonry, Royce’s was cuvée de prestige vitriol of the finest vintage.  I watched it over and over and over again.  My roommate at the time was a big burly gay plumber named John Wood, who is more masculine than any straight man I’ve ever met, like something Tom of Finland could at best imagine and draw as a cartoon, but would never meet in real life.  He and I stomped around New York belting “Oh, just SHUT UP!  You know nothing!  God on a wheel!” for an entire August, until one day John said, “We need to stop.  I think we’re annoying people.”

TOMS Steps in Shit

THE KILLOUGH CHRONICLES

by James Killough

I’m not a chick, and as I age I would make an increasingly frightening one, so I’ve only ever been marginally aware of TOMS shoes.  I believe the one time I came into contact with them I was hesitating between buying a pair of those or a handbag made of recycled materials for my mother as a house present.  I was almost going to eat the TOMS gimmick—buy one pair, and another pair is gifted to a poor child somewhere poorer than where I sit right now—but the recycled handbag won over as having the better narrative, as well as the more stylish design. And there was no fucking way I was paying $44 for those cheap-assed espadrille-looking things, which, as it turns out, really cost less than $5 to make.

TOMS founder Blake Mycoskie saving soles and spreading the anti-gay word.

Plus, Mum really loved the handbag.  It kept my stock at her country house slightly above junk status for a good few weeks.

Marcia in Flames

THE KILLOUGH CHRONICLES

by James Killough

I was just thinking yesterday how PFC really ought to stay away from politics and focus more on film reviews and lifestyle.  The response to the Marcia Bachmann reward post was initially so feeble, I felt that there were others who did the political thing better than we do, so we should stick to the fluff that truly excites us.  That is, until Andy Towle posted the piece on his website.  Now we’re not only political, we’re queer activists.  For this week, at least.

Yee haw!

Gay power blogger Andy Towle between two hunnies. He's not so bad himself. Andy, you have my contact details. Let's be a gay power couple together.

Our token Str8 Eric Baker is being a trooper about it.  I can picture him explaining his hobbies over the water cooler at his office in New Jersey.  “Yeah, and I write for this radical queer blog called Pure Film Creative.  We’ve started an avalanche that is hopefully going to bury Michele Bachmann.  My wife and son are so proud of me.”