So today's post isn't just about SEX (a blatant attempt to make that little weebly pageview graph head north again -- Oh, Bear, really?). It's about sex as good and beautiful and everlasting.
Whoever has propagated the idea that sex is dirty should go lie face down in a pig sty. For when sex and shame are brought together we get too much booze, unwanted pregnancies, and lots of out-of-touch people unfeelingly touching (and penetrating and being penetrated and weeping afterwards). I say, let's talk about sex. Good clean fun.
I was precocious. So because I got started early, I've been very fortunate that I was given a strong foundation of self-regard growing up. My inchoate 14-year-old horniness had me feeling full of promise, brimming with that uber human basic desire to connect. Only connect. From age 14 to when I turned 18, I was geeky theater-boy Clark Kent at home and school, and Superchicken when I headed downtown.
I didn't much like the "chicken" part. Gays still operated way under the radar in the sixties. We had ghettos within ghettos. Since I was young and boyish and as-yet not too hairy, I was labeled Chicken. But poultry don't come that smart. By some mysterious DNA education, I knew who I was and how I was (and am) from age four. I just knew it was my little secret.
By the time I was fourteen going on fifteen, my gay-DNA guided me, while my hormones pushed me... onto the bus from the 'burbs to Dupont Circle. Through high school, the men with whom I played and formed relationships were kind and real and bold or furtive, ready to teach and be taught, and I have never been molested. To any of my dear readers who have had their or their loved ones' lives marred and hurt by a molestation, I do not mean to be flippant about this topic. Adults who misuse their power over young people are engaging in very reprehensible behavior and need to be stopped. With a clear sense of who I was and what I wanted, I was fortunate in knowing to choose good men to partner with.
My chief desire was a boyfriend. Nobody, and I mean nobody was Out in those days. When I was a high school sophomore I had a huge crush on a tall, dark, schnozzy Junior named Gary. Only a dear girlfriend of mine (and I had lots of wonderful girlfriends) knew and kindly acted as my Hermes. I'd write him poetry and dazzling love missives, all unsigned. Janice delivered them and even took careful note of all Gary's facial expressions while he was reading them. Dear Janice. Dear Gary. When he found out who his admirer was, he had the good heart to befriend me and the good sense to feel complimented. Gary was straight, but not narrow.
Better wrap it up. Weebly doesn't keep track of who opens a page only to become bored and move on without reading it all. Or maybe they do, but are smart enough not to tell us. Anyway, this post is about sex. And I say we need to talk about it, make friends with our sex, and then go out and engage in it -- joyfully, soberly, tenderly, smartly and outrageously. My thanks to Jane Goodall and her chimps for confirming what my gay little heart always knew. It's good for you, kiddos. Take your time. There's plenty for everyone.