— Originally published in Honcho
magazine - December, 1996 —
PRIMPING
by Lefty Boylan (aka Michael Kirwan)
Last week I accompanied a friend of mine to one
of the clubs. His usual crowd had flitted en masse to one of the
far-flung circuit parties that have mushroomed up around the
country, and he felt that his popularity would be called into
question if he showed up at the regular haunt alone. I avoid these
places as a general rule. Paying fifteen or twenty bucks to get in
the door seems like a waste of good drinking money to me, and the
whole velvet ropes/creepy doorman/waiting-in-line business is just
irritating. So after being ripped off in quick succession at the
entrance, the coat check, and the bar (seven dollars for a watery
gin served in a plastic eyewash cup), we elbow into a relatively
shove-free zone to begin our evening of "fun."
The dance floor is too packed to move comfortably, the music is loud
enough to cause bleeding from the ears, and lighting is so dark and
furious that actual cruising becomes an exercise in futility. My
friend mumbles something into my ear, and I study his face to see
whether the proper response is to laugh, nod, cringe, or mouth an
unintelligible retort. A combination shrug and pained smile seems to
satisfy him, so he drifts off and I crunch into the bar mob to get
my eyecup refilled. At some point, we're reunited and as my ears
have adjusted to the continuous sonic boom, we talk.
He: Whaddya think?
Me: Boring, crowded, still sober.
He: But lookit all the hot boys.
Me: They're men, and I don't find them particularly hot.
He; What?
Me: Not hot.
He (surveying the mock revelry): You're just jealous.
But I'm not jealous — or even sure what I'm supposed to be jealous
about. The cavernous room holds an army of beautifully muscled men
swarming hither and yon, but I've yet to feel any desire to jump at
anyone for a fuck-frolic. They're too studiously butch in their
macho drag, too aware of themselves flexing, grouping in herds of
similarly pumped-up manhood. They wear a patina of rugged
masculinity, but it is of the fantasy kind, not real or deep or
casual. The outfits, the buzz-cuts, the mirror-tested grins: it's
all a sham. The whole scene strikes me as being forced, superficial,
and self-conscious in a very feminine manner, and any hint of
femininity limps out my libido big time. I associate the act of
glamorizing one's self to become an object of desire with women. Men
should be well-molded because their jobs are physically strenuous or
because they play sports in their free time (I don't consider
body-building a sport, regardless of the effort expended). The
entire concept of rigorously contouring the body and adorning it
with clinched accessories just strikes me as a very female activity,
and therefore, not one to get my bone motivated. Oh, aesthetically,
they're marvelous. Beautiful, chiseled, poised, luxuriously fleshed.
But it's not accidental. It's not really that natural melding of
random features that takes your breath away with its sheer
gloriousness. Instead, it's frivolity, like make-up, more like fussy
frills of lace and ribbon, the entire effect designed more to
conceal than reveal. This dependency on physical hardware to impress
indicates a lack of character and strength — the things I most
associate with true masculinity. When I have someone's cock buried
in my throat, I'm accepting their body, their life-force, an
extension of who they are personally, and I want it to be a man, not
a contrived facsimile. Man-sex shouldn't be based on beauty pageant
standards, but on the raw animal needs of hunger and dominance.
Jealous? I think not.
In my humble opinion, a man just shouldn't have to work so hard to
look like one. |