Like this. But the rocket is a penis, and the fire is...I don't know what the fire is.

But enough about me getting off on  cheap, sick thrills.  On to me getting off on politics!

"I rim for votes." James Buchanan, you fucking scamp.

It seems fitting that in the days leading up to a possible government shutdown (which may or may not be solved by the time I finish writing this article) I found myself in a position to attend the new Broadway production of Garson Kanin’s priceless 1946 comedy Born Yesterday.  It’s a favorite of mine, with a classic screwball premise: Harry Brock (James Belushi), a rich, bullying New Jersey scrap merchant, arrives in Washington with his drunk, dim-bulb moll, Billie Dawn (Nina Arianda), in tow.  Brock’s there to buy out a senator who will push massive deregulation, allowing him to do deals in a Europe that’s still in tatters from WW2.  Billie, though, proves a roadblock: she’s crass, loud and very hard to control.  Her social ineptitude so worries Brock that he hires a highbrow journalist, Paul Verrall (Robert Sean Leonard), to educate her.  A little knowledge, as everyone knows, is a dangerous thing, and Billie’s education drags Brock’s life into chaos as she begins to understand (and question) democracy, money and power.  She’s also beginning to take a liking to Verrall, a dangerous proposition when you’re on Harry Brock’s arm.

It’s simple, diagrammatic and perfectly turned by Kanin, whose knack for finding poetry in the inarticulate is second to none.  Doug Hughes’ handsome, well-mounted production is  still in previews, so I can’t say too much about it, nor about my connection to it, so I’ll keep this part brief: it’s old-fashioned in the best way, and if it doesn’t make a star out of the sexy, funny, utterly beguiling Arianda, I’ll be shocked.  The other two leads are great value as well, Leonard charming and dry, and Belushi a bit of a revelation.  On the evidence of this, I’ll have to take him off of the “Jesus God In No Possible World Will I Ever Watch Something With This Toolbag In It” list.  He’s fucking GOOD.

If you desire him, render his mating cry: "Beluuuuuuuuuuuush!"

The reasons the play resonated with me so much, especially watching it at this point in history, are manifold.  First of all, I’ve been doing a lot of thinking about feminism, as readers will know.  Born Yesterday is, despite its antiquity, pretty fucking strong as a proto-feminist piece: initially seen as a piece of arm candy and kind of a moron, Billie Dawn reveals hidden depths and a canny intellect.  Admittedly, this is under the tutelage of a man, but Billie is the engine that drives the second half of the play, her machinations and desires proving stronger than Brock’s endless fortune.  A kept woman, she finally decides who she wants to be with and what she wants to do.  Kanin gives Billie dialogue about as funny as anything ever put to paper, and Arianda nails every laugh down to the commas, but what this production and performance really put into stark relief for me is the way that a repressive male system strangles female liberation by force and deprivation.  Billie is constantly sent to her room, insulted to her face, even slapped (a moment that may not have played as heavily on its debut, but REALLY put the shits up the audience at the Cort), but she glides through it all, drunk and switched off.  She’s numb to the indignity of it all, accepting that her place is on a powerful man’s arm.  What other opportunities are there for a former chorine?  She has fits of rebellion (stubbornness, flirtation, and an almost terrifying aptitude for beating Harry at cards), but they’re only taken seriously inasmuch as they endanger Harry’s Washington business.  She’s treated as a device for sex and not much else, and she’s not questioning her role, really.

The beautiful irony is that Verrall’s education of Billie, initially part of a plan to make her more acceptable and compliant, shakes her awake.  It’s largely against her will.  But once she begins to read, think, research, it becomes clear to her: she has a place in this world that demands active participation.  She takes to it with a vengeance, and the conclusion is a gratifying example of a female hero having her cake and eating it, too.  Billie may be running off with Verrall at the end, but he’s a man of quality who doesn’t take her for granted.  She wins because she realizes she’s worth a damn, and she really is.  It’s a Kanin special, a unique mix of cynicism and wide-eyed hope.

This extends to the politics of the thing, which is the other big reason I was so smitten.  It’s a transparently liberal play, political in broad strokes, but it’s almost unnerving how relevant it is now.  This may be due to the fact that the more things change, the more they stay the same (Bob Roberts has a similarly eerie resonance), but it’s still surprising when a 65 year-old play talks about the dangers of deregulation.  Kanin’s play, hilarious and fleet on the surface, finally blossoms into full-blown outrage when the extent of Brock’s disregard for process and civility is revealed.  The play near-explodes with its keening love for real, functional democracy.  Kanin wants to show the beauty of the system: that every vote counts, that the government really is US, and if we get involved, we can affect positive change.  I’ve always believed this, and I also think that the only reason the Tea Party is running so hurtfully amok in Washington is because they got involved, loudly.

"Lower my taxes, don't give healthcare to the poor, and GET ME MY FUCKING SNUGGLEBEAR!"

It’s a heartening message in any case, all the more poignant as partisan ideology brings us to the brink of government just….stopping.  As of writing, the one thing holding up budget negotiations is the Republicans’ insistence that all federal funding to Planned Parenthood be immediately yanked.  Seriously.  That’s it.  Thousands of seniors will go without hot meals.  Military payroll will freeze.  It will hurt America in so many hundreds of ways if this shutdown is effected, and I want everyone reading this to remember one thing: if it happens, it’s because there are rich assholes in Washington who want to erase, little by little, every piece of progressive legislation going back to the New Deal.  They want women to sit down and shut up.  They want gays to stay second class citizens.  They want corporations to run your healthcare.  They want you to think that you’re powerless.

Don’t buy it.  Make like Billie Dawn.  Read up, get informed and get moving.  ASK QUESTIONS.  In Wisconsin, recall elections are happening in the wake of a ghastly piece of Republican anti-union legislation.  I’d be willing to bet that an awful lot of voters don’t even know that they have the power to recall.  Millions are standing up for Planned Parenthood, for NPR, for all of the tiny little bricks that the GOP want to chip out of the wall.  Stand up with them.

The Tea Partiers have this abstract notion of “spending.”  It’s bad, it’s wrong, we want LESS of it. How many have really contemplated how their lives are affected by that spending?  No EPA?  Great!  No Department of Education?  Fine!  Social Security? Privatize it!  Medicare, Medicaid?  Cut, cut, cut, cut, cut.  No more Planned Parenthood.  How DARE my tax dollars be spent on ABORTIONS?

Except that the EPA is acting to save our environment, which, contrary to what you may have heard, is affected by pollution.  The Department of Ed is working to genuinely improve conditions for our country’s students.  Every available model says that privatizing Social Security would be calamitous.  Medicare and Medicaid help so many older or impaired citizens that cutting to the extent that the GOP are demanding would be inhumane.  And Planned Parenthood?  Whether you like abortions or not, they also do breast exams, pap smears, GENERAL WOMEN’S HEALTH.

This shit is important.

Make cuts, absolutely.  We need to tighten the national belt.  But if you want government revenue to bump up, stop giving tax cuts to the wealthy.  Like Harry Brock, the millionaires and billionaires of this country have proven that if you give them enough rope, they’ll hang YOU.  It isn’t trickling down.  There aren’t more domestic jobs being created.  Fuck it, look at the MATH.

Gracious.

It was awfully nice to come out of a classic play so fired up.

And in the last few minutes, it seems a deal has been struck to continue funding (at least temporarily) our government.  The Planned Parenthood rider will be up for a vote on the Senate floor, where it will, rest assured, die.  As will the rider defunding health care reform.

The good guys may not always win, but the bad guys don’t always get what they want.

This is a country full of Billie Dawns, male and female, intellects just waiting to be switched on and fired up.

Many of them are super-foxy blondes. TRUE.

Get involved.

Love,

BK

"Hey, thumbs up, fucker!"

But here’s the thing.  Men need to think about what it is to be genuinely pro-woman.  Not think more, but think at all.  Because right now the earth is opening up right under our feet, all of us, and we face a choice.  A regressive, repressive white male Taliban is trying to legislate women back into the kitchen and the maternity ward for good.  Opposing them, the rest of us, those who feel that a woman’s body is hers to do with as she pleases.  This goes beyond pro-choice/pro-life.

"Trust us with your ovaries."

Side note: The terms that have come to define the differing sides of the abortion debate are FUCKING STUPID.  Pro-life?  “Sure, you could be for abortion, but that would make you ANTI-LIFE, wouldn’t it?  What?  You don’t like life?”  What about the life of the woman in question?  Why does the consideration of a fetus, which has no conscious sense of being, carry more weight than the medical/existential situation of the woman carrying it?  And if women HAVE to carry the baby to term, what’s the plan for giving care if the woman can’t actually provide it herself?  Oh, that’s right.  To the religious right, life begins at conception and ends at birth.  After that, the little fucks are on their own.  Pro-life my ass.

Where was I?  Right.  With the proliferation of recent anti-choice legislation (including but not limited to the bill that would have redefined rape as either “rape” or the more rapey variety of actual rape), battle-lines have been drawn.  But that’s only partially what this is about.  Plenty of ink has been spilled on the Tea Party’s delightfully relentless assault on the dignity of America’s women.  I’m not here with another diatribe to provoke scores of chin-scratching lefties into nodding thoughtfully and saying, “So true.”  I probably don’t have much new to say on the matter.  Here’s where I’m going with this:

My life has recently been a fertile space for the consideration of what feminism means from a male perspective.  Being married to Rosebud, a dominant female-bodied queer person hasn’t muddied the issue; rather, it has only clarified my feelings.  There has been much discussion in this house of privilege and what constitutes privilege.  Learning submission, at its most basic level, is about a rejection of the very idea of privilege.  The funny thing about privilege, though, is how invisible it is to the privileged.  I don’t kid myself that I’m somehow a member of the underclass; as a white male, I’m pretty much guaranteed a seat at the table (even if Jews have always had to be more self-deprecating and receptive to insult in order to gain that seat).  A recent conversation with Rosebud shed some light on the matter.

We had a discussion after which I was CONVINCED that somehow she had obscured her feelings from me.  I asked questions, she got frustrated, I asked more questions, and she finally expressed her frustration that I was focusing so much on understanding her actions as opposed to respecting them.  And I got it: I’m not OWED anything.  And that includes an understanding, or even, really, an explanation.  Now, this may not be the case in many vanilla relationships, but it was a useful lesson in what I’ve come to expect: that everything has to make sense to ME, through the prism of MY experience.

It sort of blew my mind, even if to the reader it might seem a bit trivial.

Anyway, I got thinking.  I’ve always considered myself a feminist.  Supporting a woman’s right to choose, her right to say no to sex, her right to equal pay for equal work, her position as a head of a household, her freedom to do LITERALLY WHATEVER SHE DAMN WELL PLEASES within the limits of legality.  I’ve also always understood that the system was rigged against her, and as such needed reform.  I read scores of books in high school, works by Gloria Steinem, Camille Paglia, bell hooks.

The point is: I TOTALLY GOT IT.

Except, of course, I didn’t.

I’ve done stupid things in my life.  I’ve made comments that could be seen as sexist.  I’ve made poor, insensitive word choices.  I’ve acted comfortably in a patriarchal system without really thinking about what I was doing.

I had immense resentment with my mother for several years, not really stopping to think that she basically had one of the hardest jobs of all time: being the woman of a house with her husband and three sons.  These days, understanding her gifts to me and my brothers, her wisdom and her sacrifice (this is a woman who gave up smoking and a globe-trotting lifestyle to raise three kids, four if you count my father, which he probably would), I cherish every moment I’m lucky enough to spend in her presence.  She carved out her own identity before, during and after our births.  She worked jobs, some well-paying, some not so.  She’s contributed in time, work and money to the AIDS crisis in South Africa, and educated me in it, and continues to do so.  She is an amazing person.  I may have been an impossible shit to raise, but I like to think I’m doing a little better at being her son these days.  Rosebud makes sure of that.

Rosebud telepathically commanding me to stop being a huge idiot.

I also reflect on my mother’s mother, who raised more than twice as many kids, most of them fiercely battling girls.  I think about the time I quoted some blowhard comedy character to Grandmother, just because I thought it was a smartass thing to say, and her response: “That’s very macho of you.  And I don’t like it.”  At the time I was butt-hurt, but now I just think that’s fucking awesome.

I’ve been surrounded my whole life by strong women, and most of them I’ve not really thanked for the privilege.  I just took it as read that there were, like, these WOMEN everywhere.  Like trees.  Trees with boobs.  And no one really pays that much attention to trees.  Well, hippies.

Like women, treeboobs are everywhere.

And now here I am, a burlesque host, a friend, nay, a member of the alt-porn community, basically for all intents and purposes a sex worker, a worker in a field that is predominantly female.  I mean, shit, man, empathize or die.  But this again raises questions: there are those who say that sex work, whether it be in porn, burlesque or prostitution, cannot be pro-woman.  From my own limited perspective, I’d call horseshit on that.  The women in these sectors have been the strongest, smartest, most extraordinary people I’ve ever met. I’ve been a friend, a lover, a pupil to these women.  Not all of them, obviously.  There are only so many hours in the day, and I’m not 18 anymore.  The point is, it’s the first time I’ve ever had to justify my presence anywhere.

This was probably the key to my dawning sense of gender actuality.  Rosebud, who has had some terrible experiences with men, told me, “Every man is a potential rapist.  You won’t ever understand what it is to know that.”  And she’s right.  The burden of proof will always be on me.  This isn’t unfair, it’s just a fact.  And I’ve had to do serious thinking about what the point of Bastard Keith is in these settings.

Backstage with a bunch of changing burlesque performers, I’m the one with the immediate potential to be an asshole.  This is their safe place.  Not mine.  I’m usually the one offering to get water for the room, to make sure everything’s running okay out on the floor.  That attitude stretches to the stage.  I’ve seen hosts who make fun of the performers, who make shitty, condescending, belittling, macho remarks that re-orient the show to be about THEM and not the women and men who are doing the real work of the night.  I can’t do that.  I’m in love with these performers, and I need the audience to feel that love, to be respectful of their art and their boundaries.  If they aren’t safe, the show isn’t fun.

It’s NOT ABOUT ME.

That’s what I didn’t get for so many years.  My entire notion of feminism was processed through this idea that I was a card-carrying pro-woman liberal guy.  It’s only recently, as a sex worker, as an MC, as a submissive man, that I’ve learned about the negation of the philosophical male self.  When I take my maleness out of an equation, I can see it more clearly.  I’m not that great at it.  I’m still trying.

Another side note: It’s one reason that so much porn leaves me cold.  Well, there are a couple of reasons.  One is that, honestly, just watching people fuck is kind of dull.  I see myself and Rosebud fuck all the time (though less so in our current chastity experiment).  It’s not the fucking, but the TENSION that does it for me.  It’s why so much of the kink.com material, while undeniably well-produced, is just brutally exhausting to me.  The other reason, the one I was talking about, is that, while I respect the agency of the women involved in making it, this porn, like so much, is shot through the undeniable filter of the male gaze.  That saps it of pleasure for me.  For some wonderful, female-oriented Femdom porn, check out femmefatalefilms.com.  It’s decently produced and the product of Eleise De Lacy’s sensibility and vision.  It’s also as hot as hell, the first porn I’ve enjoyed watching with someone (Rosebud is in love with Mistress Eleise).

A frosty Nordic blonde in a business meeting.

It’s my job, as a husband, as a sub, as a male sex worker, as an artist, to get over myself.  If you’re a man reading this, I’m not saying to put women on a pedestal.  I’m saying to see them without YOU.  Just try.  That’s the gateway to beginning to understand being a pro-woman male.

No revolution succeeds that is without a sexual revolution.  To loop this ramble back to where we began, the reason so many men fight against women having reproductive rights isn’t because they’re evil.  It’s because they’re threatened when a woman lives a life that doesn’t revolve around reproductive sex and domestic service.  A life, in short, lived for a woman and not for a man.

I’m a smut peddler who loves women.

Keep trying to lose yourself.

Love,

Bastard Keith

He’s also one of those hardcore conservatives who thinks that the merest criticism of Israel is anti-Semitic and un-American.  Speaking as someone who was raised Jewish, the difference between Judaism and Zionism needs to be better articulated; I think the Jews deserve Israel, and I think the Palestinians are getting roundly fucked by the Israelis.

Today, however, he’s upset about the US aiding rebels in the Libya.  Because that’s an affront to Israel, apparently.  Watch:

I’ll just give you about a half hour to parse that, since, if you’ve never been lucky enough to experience the incoherent gurglings of Baby Beck, it can be a bewildering listen.

I, personally, do not have a coherent opinion on Libya.  Like many people, I think that Gaddafi is a tyrant, that the Libyan opposition is in the right, and that without assistance the rebels will get the dogshit kicked out of them.  On the other hand, like most liberals, I am VERY reluctant to cheer on another military intervention in the Middle East.  No one wants another Rwanda.  No one wants another Afghanistan.

Especially not Hot Fetish Blonde.

"I do NOT want another Rwanda, or another Afghanistan. Is that clear, bitch?"

Like I said.

I think the wave of insurgencies across the Middle East is an encouraging sign that a region stuck between the distant past and the problematic present is finally looking to modernize.  Basically, all that shit we’ve been trying to do in Iraq?  Sisters are doing it for themselves.

Quick sidenote: Women are still treated like shit in much of the Middle East.  I was referring to the rebels as sisters because it amused me to do so, and because it sounded a little gay.  Gayness + Middle Eastern Insurgency = Comedy Gold.  Except that they treat gays like shit, too.  Maybe I’ll go back and edit that, but probably not.  You just read all this!  Have a sandwich, fucko!

What Beck is saying is that we’re empowering the enemies of Israel, that the merest attempt to halt the massacre of a few thousand Libyans by an oppressive regime is spitting in the face of our greatest ally in the region.

This seems to me a colossal act of point-missing.  Is it not possible that with democracy replacing tyranny there will be, as so many rap-type artists have begged, “Peace in the Middle East?”  That perhaps the anti-Semitism of so many countries in the region might be a little eased when their leaders don’t pump “Jews are responsible for all of your troubles” into the state press every day?

I mean, fuck it, who knows, it might be a total disaster, and once new governments have been implemented there might be a decision to REALLY stir shit up.  We just don’t know.  But isn’t a world without a Mubarak or a Gaddafi or an Ahmadinejad in power automatically a better place?

And look, not to dissect the ramblings of a retarded goat-boy or anything, but is it really fair to say that to support Libyan rebels is somehow anti-Israeli?  That’s like saying saving a racist from being hit by a truck makes you a Klansman.  Israel may be many things, but it is not an unambiguous force for good.  America’s conservative hard-on for Israel (which, by the way, derives not from liking Jews but largely from the evangelical Christian belief that Israel will play a pivotal role in the Second Coming) is what’s stopping our center-right government from taking an adult tone regarding their treatment of Palestine.

I’ll say it clearly so that no bloated, paranoid shit-monkey accuses me of calling Israel evil: Israel is a functional Middle-Eastern democracy that has done great things, given a home to a homeless people and should exist forever.  And it wouldn’t kill them to give a little ground to the Palestinians.  Hell, it might show the rest of the Middle East that Israel isn’t the root of all evil.  Sweet, cuddly Israel.

"Here, Palestine. I brought you a kitten and some settlements."

But no, Glenn Beck thinks that stopping the death of thousands means we’re turning our back on Israel.  He thinks that because he’s a simpleton, and he says it on air because he thinks that Real America is made up of simpletons, too.

Fuck you, Glenn Beck.  And I leave you with our Really, Guy? mascot to play us off.

REALLY, GUY?!

Obviously practical; thanks, Victorians!

Thus begins a new chapter in the ongoing saga of savage weirdness and perversion that is my life.  I, Bastard Keith, am submitting to a period, yet undefined, of chastity, to be supervised by my beloved wife and keeper, Madame Rosebud.  It took me considerable thought to actually post about this before I realized that most people who know me know that this is exactly the sort of thing I would do.  Testing the waters, I made a twitter remark referring to my situation that I thought was rather cryptic.  I was then barraged with responses along the lines of, “So your johnson’s locked up, huh?”

Apparently I am not as subtle about my fetishes as I like to imagine.

So, why chastity?  Apart from getting to wear something WAY FUCKING STYLING?

This is made from the same material as Wolverine's exoskeleton. Okay, Adamantium. That's what it's called. Shut up, nerd.

I smell all the time, cannot control my bowels and resent fetching anything. Please euthanize me.

Look upon me and despair, for I am CB6000, destroyer of worlds. I think that's Chinese writing there. Nice.

I actually masturbated to this picture at age 13.

Talk to me.

- Madame Rosebud’s Twitter

Sucker Punch: A Film by Merchant Ivory

Director Zack Snyder has so polarized his viewers, pitting those who adore his cinema du right-this-moment and supernatural genius for imagery against a growing throng who detest his style-style-style approach to storytelling, that seeing his latest work is a mere formality.  Sucker Punch, a wild, unclassifiable 109-minute trip crammed tight with dragons, zombies, robots, hot chicks in fetish garb and about five million other things, is not going to be the work that finally convinces the haters that they’ve been in the wrong all along.  It is, instead, Snyder’s ultimate statement of intent, his eardrum-blasting, eye-melting, jaw-dropping Ulysses.  He’s not trying to make friends; he’s trying to blow your fucking mind.

He’s also revealed himself as one of the only genuinely feminist directors working in the Comic-Con fanboy vernacular.  Sucker Punch is going to save us all, and I’m not kidding.  It’s a call to arms for every young woman who has ever felt powerless in a world of men, a Dolby Digital battle cry for every girl who can’t relate to the intolerable passivity of Twilight‘s Bella Swan.  Sucker Punch doesn’t have a single scene of its young women agonizing over the affections of this or that petulant hunk.  If a vampire and a werewolf were fighting over a Sucker Punch girl, that girl would machine-gun them to shreds, rip their hearts out, eat them and stomp on their steaming remains.  And she would look unimaginably hot doing it.

"I love you and I must possess you."

"Die, pussy."

But let’s back up for a moment.

For such a divisive director, Snyder’s not been at it very long.  Debuting with a surprisingly effective (if utterly subtext-free) remake of Dawn of the Dead, Snyder blew up with his adaptation of Frank Miller’s 300.  Morally grotesque but aesthetically supercharged, 300 was a massive hit, and it allowed Snyder to more or less write his own ticket.  He cashed in every single cent of his capitol with a mega-budget film of Alan Moore’s Watchmen, and that’s where things get complicated.  To some, Watchmen is a hyped up, ugly bore.  To others (and it should be pretty clear where I fall in this) it’s the JFK of comic book movies, a kaleidoscopic phantasmagoria of pop culture, politics and brutality.  It also made one thing resoundingly clear: Snyder’s as good as his material.  Where 300 preserved with clarity Miller’s romance with hard right wing fascism, Watchmen is every bit as morally complex as its source.  Snyder never tries to make his “heroes” anything but the reactionary vigilantes they are, and the liberal superman who turns out to be the story’s “villain” essentially saves the world.  To the surprise of probably one or two people, a dark vision of a ruined world sprinkled with sex, violence and sexual violence, didn’t do huge business.

Giant radioactive blue cocks: not a crowd-pleaser, apparently.

And then there’s the movie about the cartoon owls.

Yeah.  So.

Which brings us back to Snyder’s fifth film, his first not based on pre-existing material.  Even that, though, is a misnomer: Sucker Punch plays like a compendium of every fascination that pop culture nerds have ever held dear.  If you’ve ever seen a 70s album cover or detail work on a van, you’ve probably seen a lot of Sucker Punch.  What’s surprising is what Snyder has decided to do with his images.  He’s taken a half century of typically male fantasy material and made all the men in the story either faceless or impotent.  This is an epic-scale fantasy about a teenage girl.

Many critics have called the storytelling muddled and confusing, but the text is almost ludicrously simple: Babydoll (the hypnotic Emily Browning) is sent to an institution after an attempt to kill her rapist step-father winds up deep-sixing her little sister.  At the exact moment that she is to be lobotomized, burying her dad’s secrets forever, the film jumps into her mind’s eye.  From there, we chart her and her friends’ attempts to escape the institution, represented in her dream as a sort of burlesque brothel where the inmates have to dance for male clients.  Every one of Babydoll’s “dance” sequences takes the film one level further into the dream world, illustrating her quest as hardcore fantasy action.

So basically, it’s like Bob Fosse stuck his dick into an Xbox.  It’s Lola Montes meets Heavy Metal meets Brazil.  It’s Gloria Steinem making an electro-prog concept album with swords.  It’s the New Feminism and it FREAKS ME OUT.

It’s also, bizarrely, the first movie I’ve ever seen that really gets burlesque, the idea that a sexy woman on a stage can hypnotize and weaken the most powerful man in the world, bring time to a standstill and plunge any viewer into a realm of pure fantasy.  That we don’t see the dances is almost beside the point (though apparently, many numbers were shot; this is a rare film where who knows what the director’s cut will look like?).  This is about what actually goes on in the mind of a sex object, a fact that has brought out much of the latent misogyny in fanboy culture.

Browning’s startling lead performance is supported by turns from Jena Malone (heartbreaking), Jamie Chung (SMOKINGLY HOT), Abbie Cornish (playing intensity a little too hard) and Vanessa Hudgens (High School Musical, for fuck’s sake) as fellow inmates.  Supervising them in both fantasy and reality is a Polish therapist, Dr. Gorsky, played by Carla Gugino, who has not only become one of the most reliable actresses currently at work, but a figure of lush, almost comically bodacious sexiness.  She looks like an inappropriately foxy Italian widow, and Snyder gives her scenes of Douglas Sirk-ian melodrama, knowing that little is more captivating onscreen than an outrageously beautiful woman in trouble.

Put this woman in every movie. Thank you.

Almost every man in the film is a grotesque caricature of male privilege.  From Babydoll’s incestuous brute of a step-father (Gerard Plunkett) to the institution’s depraved chef (Malcolm Scott) to the genuinely loathsome man who runs the ward like his own personal candy store, Blue (Oscar Isaac), this is less a rogue’s gallery than a Bosch mural.  The two men who aren’t self-evidently evil are Jon Hamm’s ambivalent lobotomist (he really only has one or two scenes, delicately played) and Scott Glenn’s mystical guide, known as Wiseman.  Glenn’s job is to spout vague platitudes, but he’s wonderfully touching in the role.  Notably, Wiseman may be a father figure, but his main lesson is that the women in this story can’t rely on him.   They have to rely on each other.

Of course, you could also argue that this is mainly, and most prominently, the sort of film in which a bunch of astoundingly hot women gun down a train car full of cyborgs on a distant planet (this does happen).  It’s true that Snyder may be the most imaginative and, importantly, coherent designer of action scenes working in Hollywood right now.  He merges the mad visual abstraction of Japanese manga with the lovingly choreographed combat of classic Hong Kong.  Indeed, every scene in which Babydoll and her co-horts drop into fantasy is so intensely imagined, so richly designed and so viscerally presented that it’s almost exhausting.  This is, on some level, a movie about hot chicks in fetish gear fighting dragons, and every moment they’re doing so is geek kryptonite, the kind of holy-shit spectacle that cinema was invented for.

Actually in the movie. Not just from this one time I was high.

But really, Snyder’s not just plugging a female character into a traditionally male role (as much geek fantasy reductively does): he’s actually talking about what it means to be a female struggling against a male hegemony.  This is a story about a young woman gathering the tools to hold her own and eventually triumph when she’s in a system designed to take her power, about learning to get a sister’s back when she’s in need.

The fantasies on display may be Snyder’s, but his avatar is a brutalized young woman.  The story may be his, but his narrator is an older, wiser female voice.  In the closing moments, Snyder’s dark fairy tale finally gives us a few moments of light and hope.  The nameless narrator, who has spent much time ruminating on who it is that really controls our destinies, finally gives us an answer: “It’s you.”  She isn’t talking to the boys.  It’s sentiments like that which make Sucker Punch the kind of film that I’d be okay with my niece watching.

You know what?  I bet you’ll fucking hate Sucker Punch.  The reviews have been brutal, and even the fanboys have turned on it, many criticizing it for not being sexy enough, for not having a story they can relate to, for not making sense.  Yeah, you’ll probably think it’s a big bunch of bullshit and nonsense, sound and fury signifying nothing.

However.

I’ll bet some girl out there sees it and finally doesn’t feel so alone and powerless anymore.   And I bet she slays a fucking dragon.

Easy target? Sure, but not only because he’s so fat you’d have to fire in the exact opposite direction to miss him. He’s also an easy target because I can’t imagine anyone reading this blog has a single nice thing to say about Rush Limbaugh, unless they’re a closeted GOP Rep who doesn’t know how to use Google and stumbled in by accident while searching for some cock porn. If that’s you, here you go.

Seriously, cock porn.

Now, then, to business. have a listen to Rush at the following link (sorry, video doesn’t seem to embed well here):

This is much less fun than cock porn.

Rush Limbaugh lords over his dirty little Right Wing Talk Radio fiefdom with the noxious, flatulent White Male Outrage that has come to be the standard for all such commentators.  He’s very much the daddy of the form.  If political punditry was a prison (and it kind of is), he’d be the guy with all the cigarettes and cocksuckers in Cell Block Retard.  He earns millions of dollars a year denigrating minorities, women, queers, welfare recipients and drug addicts, so it’s never a surprise when he whips out some new, steaming hot shitdevilry.  This, though, bears unpacking a little bit.  Listen to the whole segment and really think about it.

Limbaugh is, most simply, saying that by taking advice from women, Obama has revealed himself to be a massive pussy (I’d argue that the President’s unwillingness to stand with the Wisconsin public workers in a meaningful way indicates a certain, shall we say, flexibility of constitution, but never mind that).  Limbaugh is also saying that opposing war is a total pussy move.  So here we are, stuck in the middle: to stand with the pussies against war makes you a pussy, and to side with the NAGS who are all for it makes you a double fat-lipped pussy with a cherry on top.  A most amusing paradox

While we continue, just so you don’t get bored, enjoy this picture of a hot Asian dominatrix.

Yay politics!

The story of Obama being pussywhipped is taking hold in the larger media.  A lot of ink has been spilled over Samantha Power, Susan Rice and Hilary Clinton’s influence on America’s involvement in the Libyan situation, most notably by Maureen Dowd.  Dowd, an ace shit-stirrer, declines to really opine on the question of whether Obama’s decision to go into Libya was a capitulation, but she makes it very clear that the decision was motivated “more by impulse and reaction than discipline and rigor.”  In other words, the decision was an “emotional” one.

A “female” one.

So what are we dealing with here? A couple of problematic stereotypes:

1. As per the passage Rush quotes, a lot of people think that if women ran the world, it would be more peaceful.  I assume whoever keeps saying this has no knowledge of Kali.  I believe the world would benefit immensely from female leadership, but I’d never kid myself that war is an essentially male impulse.  It’s a human impulse.  If women did run the world, there would still be wars, just about different stuff.  The notion that women would govern more peacefully is derived far more from an assumption of softness than from an assumption of wisdom.  Fuck that.  Women are smart as hell, but they aren’t immune to belligerence.

2. It’s a widely held notion that women don’t make decisions based on facts and logic, but on “feelings” (as opposed to the decision by Bush’s cabinet to invade Iraq, which was obviously the result of a lot of preparation, research and *mouthfart*).  Again, PEOPLE make decisions based on feelings.  Just because the white hetero male establishment frequently acts out of greed and wrath doesn’t mean that those aren’t feelings.  They’re just shitty ones that hurt people.  The only women who act notably more irrational than men are on Sex and the City.  Man, fuck those broads.

3. “Real men don’t take advice from the womanfolk.”  This is the problematic douche-cream filling of Rush’s whole shitcake.  It’s also another example of why the right wing is really shitty about women.  They love their anti-choice gun nut mommies (and they scream “sexism!” whenever a lefty criticizes them), but when it comes to women on the left?  No vitriol is too extreme, no insult too condescending, no line of bullshit too bullshitty.  The moment a woman steps out on a liberal issue, she is a nag or a bitch or an enemy.

You can’t have it both ways…well…no, apparently conservatives can.

What do we take from all of this?  Well, we take that Obama can’t win with conservatives (nothing new) and that women can’t either.  Don’t like going to war?  Typically feminine POV.  Anxious to bomb someone?  What a nagging cunt, and probably a lesbian.

REALLY, GUY?!

"OH HAY GUYZ! I'll see you on Thursday..."

"...AT THE KLAN RALLY."

You know, I’m in my thirties now. One of the really amazing benefits of age is that I need increasingly scant reason to do anything. By the time I’m in my 50s, my lack of accountability will be ghastly. I’ll be hurling nail bombs at passing children and calling in to talk radio, and nothing my mother says will be able to stop me. But let’s stay in the now. I don’t need MUCH reason not to fuck a racist.

When I was in my 20s, however, I think I might have needed a little more reason not to fuck a racist. Because I kind of totally did, and it’s been on my mind recently. Of course, we all have this fantasy that sex has no political belief and that if you have sparks with someone, hell, you have sparks. In much the same way that every movie is someone’s favorite, someone has to suck Glenn Beck’s cock some time.

But here’s the thing: just to take one example, have any of the liberals reading this ever really tried to have a sustained sexual partnership with a libertarian?  IT’S IMPOSSIBLE.  IT’S FUCKING ABSOLUTELY IMPOSSIBLE.  First of all, libertarianism is a godawful stupid philosophy.  Hell, it’s barely even a philosophy.  All of the trappings that allow libertarians to live their lives and yell in relative comfort about how they have no need of the government are provided by the government.  It’s not like some magical unicorn swoops in from the sky and shits infrastructure.  Don’t get me wrong, that would be awesome.  But unicorn shit doesn’t fix bridges.  No, libertarians piss and moan about how the government should basically tax them next to nothing and get off of their lawns.

Anyone who gives a shit about the government giving aid to the poor, the oppressed and the shit-out-of-luck can’t possibly hit that ass for more than a few times on the trot.  After a while, their partner’s callous disregard for even the barest civility and defiant, childish delusion that somehow the private sector will take care of the big stuff will wear on them.  They will grow cold, distant.  They will try to ignore that voice in the back of their head that says “You are with a complete tool who shares none of your values.  DITCH THIS PRICK.”

For the record, I prefer libertarians to Tea Party Republicans, largely because libertarians, not by and large a spiritually-driven group, don’t care whose dick is in whose ass as long as it’s not on their lawn.  Though precisely which queers are doing all the lawn-fucking in this little scenario is a mystery to me.

Libertarians: THIS IS YOUR GOD. A shitty novelist with bad teeth and a rape fetish. Kudos.

I may have complicated this unnecessarily.  Suffice it to say, it’s very difficult to be in a relationship with someone whose values system exists at a painful angle to your own.  Case in point: Laura.  The Blonde Racist.

In my defense, the first few times I had sex with Laura, I had no idea she was a racist.  I thought she was just, you know, intense.  A firm, unyielding woman with muscular thighs and a full body tan, Laura was the hard-charging, all-business friend of a cute redhead I was doing my damnedest to talk into bed.  Being 21, my game had not caught up to my ability to sustain an erection, so I wound up doing what most men of class and distinction do when they can’t score with a cute redhead: I fingerblasted her blonde friend.

Laura had a blunt, fruity, inexplicable scent, the kind you can’t really call good or bad.  It was just there, and it became a thing of comfort.  Her face was unmemorable, a pleasant arrangement of exactly what you’d expect to see on a face but without that crucial extra molecule of character. Her voice, similarly, performed all the necessary duties of a voice without ever becoming familiar.  What sticks with me is the rope-like consistency of her hair, her permanently hard nipples, and those fantastic thighs.

Our arrangement: she’d pick me up, we’d go to her place, she’d talk about business, I’d stare at her thighs and we’d fuck around.  She was an animal.  It’s not that the sex was life-changing or even filthy, just that she had absolutely no interest in foreplay, and her sheer physical strength meant that I could either go along with it or risk getting a joint bent backwards.

Being someone who’s always eroticized emasculation, I took an odd pleasure in it, though I distinctly remember spurning her one night and turning over to sleep.  Her words rang with simian confusion: “Uh…so we’re not going to fuck?”

It took every molecule in my body not to respond, “I AM NOT A PIECE OF MEAT.”

I am NOT a piece of meat.

After a few weeks of this joyless, convenient roundelay, we went to see James Toback’s Black and White.  If you don’t know this one, it’s the James Toback movie with  drug use, lots of fucking, and endless scenes of people batting intellectual douche-bombs back and forth.  You know, that one.  Also, it has a shit-ton of Black people in it, and it’s almost exclusively about America’s troubled relationship with race.

I enjoyed it even though, being a James Toback movie, it had no aesthetic and the characters were intolerable.  I mean, it had some sweet, sweet fucking.  So come on, now.  A discussion started in the car on the way back from the theater.  I talked a little about how I thought race was a class issue in America, how Black people have been marginalized and degraded economically and culturally, and how White America has been lazily complicit in the process.

Her response: “Ugh.  I mean, I just can’t stand them.”

“The…the characters, right?  In the movie?  It’s true, they were pretty shrill…”

“No, no.  Black people.”

There followed some silence.  She spoke again.

“I mean, they’re just so entitled.  Like, the way they act is ridiculous, and if you call them on it, they yell about racism.  It’s so aggressive and there’s the music that they play SO LOUD and again, if you’re like, ‘Turn it down!’ they call you a racist.  And then they want jobs, and it’s like, am I supposed to give you a job dressed like that?  I’m not a racist, but PLEASE.”

Before I could say, “No, I’m pretty sure you’re a racist,” a few thoughts came to me.  First, I wondered whether I should ever have sex with this woman again.  Second, I thought that if I did, I might be able to talk her into performing any depraved, fucked up sex act, because racists are essentially gullible and can be talked into anything.  If you can convince someone that, say, Jews have tails, or that Chinese women have sideways vaginas, or that Armenians smell like cabbage, you can probably convince them to get slamfucked at both ends by dildo-wielding leatherdykes while dressed as a member of the Lollipop Guild.

This is what occurs to me at times like that.

Let’s face it, racism at this point has been so mainstreamed that if you really called someone out on it, they’d be shocked.   White America does not know itself, because to know itself would be to grasp White Privilege.  If you pointed out that White people get a free seat at the table, a lot of them would tell you that they just don’t see race.  That maybe you have the problem.  These are usually the same people who don’t mind Brown folk being asked for papers in Arizona, because hey, there are illegal immigrants down there, and if they have nothing to hide, why should it be a problem?  This lazy slide into racism-by-any-other-name is exactly what makes it possible for mainstream political figures to embrace Birtherism.  “If it’s about his birthplace, then obviously it’s not about his race, and can the American left knock it off with this race obsession?  It’s getting embarrassing.  Yes, Julio, the hedges need trimming.  God, they’re affordable, but so lazy. Which reminds me, hide the silver.”

Convenience is the American God, after all, and to interrogate why there’s a White Hetero Male Hegemony in this country is a pain in the ass.  So is growing up.  Someone I know suggested that if Obama could win the presidency, we should end affirmative action.  Because obviously, racism is no longer a factor in American politics.  This person also plays Halo for 6 hour stretches and really enjoys Eli Roth movies.  Let’s not start taking policy tips from that guy just yet.

It took a few minutes of imagining Laura bent into impossible bondage predicaments, with spreader bars, ball-gags, plugs, inflatable plugs, a TENS unit, clothespins and sundry other leisure items before it became clear to me that this just wasn’t going to work.  Every time I imagined her body slumping in post-coital exhaustion, my cum oozing out of multiple orifices, I imagined her saying, “And what is the deal with that Puerto Rican Day Parade?  Do I get to celebrate my culture without being called a RACIST?!”

So long, erection.

There was some arguing on the way back to my place, and I may have weakened my position by insisting that the CIA had destroyed Harlem by selling crack, but that’s passion for you.  When she dropped me off, she was faintly annoyed that she didn’t get a goodnight kiss, but I knew that if I was to ejaculate that night, it was going to be in the warm, cheap embrace of Skinemax, not with this budding Grand Wizard Cheerleader.  Skinemax knew no prejudice, no hate.  Only bad writing with poorly staged fucking every few minutes.

As Muhammad Ali said, “No Shannon Tweed ever called me Nigger.”

Definitely not a racist.

P.S. I am in no way equating libertarianism with racism.  Tea Party Republicans, however, need to make their shit just a little clearer to me.

An image from the endlessly wonderful, perfectly monikered Nailin' Palin

It’s always a faintly astonishing moment when a mind glimpses the very bottom of its owners’ depravity and then finds itself willing to go further. Yesterday, shooting a local commercial for a not-to-be-named office cleaning company, I had such an epiphany, and I’m still dry-cleaning the sheets. Arriving to spout cheerful pablum about how utterly fantastic the company was, Beth was first glimpsed sitting on a couch reading Shopping magazine and drinking Starbucks. A statuesque blonde with big, pretty eyes and a figure that would strike most physicists retarded, she seemed nice enough. She’s one of those people who listen and nod nicely at everything you say, occasionally letting her eyes widen when she’s thinking about something else. Low-fat lattes or Fish’s Eddy moving sales, that sort of thing. We chatted for a while about this and that, until politics entered the conversation.

“Oh, you’ll hate me,” she smiled. “I’m a Republican and I love Bush.”

I was actually disarmed by this. I don’t always have to talk to people I agree with. As the conversation continued, though, our new and burgeoning friendship began to sour. She admitted she was the child of privilege, wondering what that had to do with anything political, and that she liked how many jobs Bush had created, and how could Democrats complain, she asked, when Bush had completely turned us around from the recession? I parried politely, but she wouldn’t acknowledge it, only reassuring me that she was happy to listen to my opinions. She said she was fiscally Republican, but pretty liberal in most social ways. A “Republitarian” as she put it. As the word left her mouth, I began to hate her a little bit. Later on, I stood in the studio in my immaculate cleaning person uniform (cleaner? cleansmith? cleansman, perhaps?). I was trying to concentrate on looking reliable and experienced. She noted that I seemed intelligent, and that she knew it was hard to act stupid, as she suggested I ought to. Stupid, I wondered? “Come on,” she said. “I mean, you’re playing a cleaner, so…” I looked at her very hard but couldn’t find a trace of irony in the fucking thing.

She represented everything I can’t stand about Republicans: the child of privilege, wanting for nothing, almost innocently contemptful of the working class.

And here’s where I glimpsed the bottom of my rusty old barrel. I began to fantasize about her. At first, I couldn’t even allow it to be true. But there it was, as clear as day, the evidence of my bottomless perversion. I seriously fantasized about fucking a Republican.

The first image was this: A bedroom, hers, everything decked out in pink and plush. Stuffed toys, everything in hearts and rainbows. Her, in an adorable pink teddy with her voluminous breasts almost but never quite popping out, fucking my ass with a strap-on. The seduction part is a haze, and frankly I’m not too curious how we got here anyway, but I’m on all fours, moaning like a little girl. She’s pumping me gently, but the rubber cock is so big that it’s all I can do not to scream. This would not make a difference in any case, since I have an apple stuffed into my mouth. I breath through my nose, hissing, drooling around the ripe natural ball gag I’m stymied by, eyes wild and red. My prick is fully extended, dripping precum onto the sheets. She’s smiling, stroking my hair with one hand, and steadying herself with the other. Then, just as things are finally starting to get romantic, she flips me onto my back and sodomizes me like that, sterner and harder now. She is talking while she thrusts, her teeth gritted, giving me a lecture on personal responsibility. I’m trying to resist, but I can’t get a word past that apple. She starts stroking my cock, which is now so leaky it resembles the White House Press Corps.

“The state doesn’t make or break anyone, my sweet little fuckslut,” she’s saying, and she spits on her hand to make the stroking more expedient. “Everyone is in control of their own destiny, and it’s only losers who complain about losing. That poor black kid on 128th St. has just has much of a chance of being president as you do.”

She is buggering me with a force hitherto unknown in man or beast, and I’m wailing myself red in the face, eyes filling up with tears, but that erection just won’t go away. It all ends quite predictably, with me shooting my cum into my own face as she laughs triumphantly over me, the ultimate tableau of the current sociopolitical landscape.
Then, of course, there was the point at which she arrived on set in her pink jacket and skirt, looking like Maria Schriver’s nymphomaniac PA. I tried not to think about her, tried to concentrate on just being the best fake cleaning expert I could be. I hated her so much as she came up next to me and practiced her hatefully mock-flirtatious news presenter style: “We provide the customers, but we’re NOT a franchise,” she said, hand on my shoulder, looking as vacuously personable as a Teddy Ruxpin doll with beautiful, beautiful breasts.

The moment the dam broke was when she was getting a make-up touch up. The make-up lady was shorter than her, so she squatted down a little, striking a pose more openly pornographic than she could ever have guessed. Back curved, head upturned, ass presented like drinks on a tray at some chenille-festooned pro-life benefit. Oh stop, Abe, stop, this is only because you hate her so much, don’t be such a child!

The images came flooding into my head….every one of them more shameful than the last. I come up behind her, putting one hand around her neck and letting my fingers explore her contours and squeeze her neck just a little, and letting the other hand travel down the front of that cartoon Kennedy skirt.

“I mean, tell me how on earth an artist can support a party that legislates like it has a vendetta against the creation of art? It seriously baffles me,” I say as my fingers yank up that skirt. She’s wearing hose, which for some reason turns me on completely. It’s an odd fetish, I know, but good lord, the tightness and the sheen are positively glorious. I slide my hand past the waist and into the tight, clammy recesses of her hose-clad nethers, creeping past her tangle of pubic hair and into the folds of her labia. She’s shaved, as it happens. The first Mohawk I’ve ever seen on a Republican.

“Look, Bush has created millions of new jobs,” she says as she reaches behind her and places her hand between her ass and my now rapidly thickening erection. “And we’re rebounding from the recession.”

She rubs the length of my prick with her fingernails, very lightly. I grab her hand and force her to touch me more vigorously, rutting against it and her ass.

“Well, maybe it’s rebounded for the top few percent, but for the vast majority of Americans, those most seriously affected by the ebb and flow of the national economy, things have either stayed the same or gotten worse.”

Her pussy is wet, increasingly so as I fiddle with her clit and slide my fingers in and out. There’s a strange irony with Republican pussy: it’s never as tight as their moralism would suggest, nor as loose as you’d expect from a bunch of hell-sent pathological breeders. This was, indeed, like the little bear’s accoutrements, just right. Nice, puffy pussy lips, enveloping my hard-working fingers, sucking them into her, it seems, the ever-increasing wetness exerting a kind of slick pull.

She bites her bottom lip. “But…the tax refunds….everyone’s getting a check…”

She finally pulls her hose and panties down, greedily undoing my trousers, freeing my now fully erect cock, jerking it hard and guiding it inside her.

“The tax cuts don’t take payroll taxes into account,” I say, feeling her lips tease the head of my prick. She runs it up and down her opening, and I shudder, the sensation almost unbearable. I could cum right there and then.

“What do you mean?”

I finally shove myself into her fully, straight up to the hilt, and her intake of air is audible. The walls of her pussy tighten around my shaft, and even without moving around all that much, it feels as though she’s subtly milking me. I feel a tickle at the base of my cock, and I realize she’s fingering her clit as we fuck.

“What I mean is…JESUS….that people are getting this flat sum not calculated in any way from their earnings, deductions, blah blah blah, basically that if people were getting tax refunds based upon actual accounting that those in lower income brackets would get refunds of the size they deserve, and those in the higher brackets would pay something more commensurate with their earnings, some even close to 50 percent, which is fair.”

Her exquisite legs, hobbled by those hose, straighten a little. Her back arches, and she bends herself over, now an almost flawless 90 degree angle. She grabs onto the makeup counter and begins to intensify the pumping. Forward and backward she moves, with no grace or sense, just a rhythmic, animalistic shunt.

“Are you some kind of communist?” she asks wildly.

“A communist? No, I think the system works, seriously.” I grab a hold of a clump of her hair and pull it so hard that it jerks her head back. She growls angrily and begins to push and pull harder, perhaps punishing me for my presumptuousness. It becomes a tug-of-war, both of us attempting to regulate the speed and rhythm. It’s the best kind of stalemate, putting us both in a state of complete frustration and bringing us simultaneously, inexorably closer to release.

“Democrats only gripe, they don’t propose solutions,” she moans, her pussy’s musculature beginning to close ever tighter around my pulsating prick.

We both feel something dreadful and astonishing brewing inside us, an orgasm that could either unite two utterly disparate philosophies or prove such a cataclysm, such a Geiger-shattering apocalypse that the rift would be irreparable.

“Your philosophy is based on orthodox activism, but your actions themselves imply complete apathy.”

“That’s completely unfair!” I shout, my unoccupied hand slapping her taut, round ass and raking my nails across it. The noise she makes indicates she approves, albeit angrily.

Oh, how we hate to agree! How dreadful the indignity of conceding the point! I slap the other cheek, just to even it out, and her buttocks, already so lush, plump, firm and delightful, look even more inviting now.

“Well, come ON,” I say, “we’re advocating for debt relief, and you people still drive around in your Hummers like there’s no tomorrow, which there probably isn’t, thanks very much. Don’t you talk to me about apathy!”

Now she’s not even letting me thrust into her, she’s ramming herself back against me, her moisture dripping down her thighs. The place smells like a perfume factory exploding inside a sushi joint, and I’m loving every goddamn ion of it. I’m getting close, so close, so close I could scream, but these people smell weakness like I smell her cunt-juice, so I just keep grunting. I put my hands around her neck and begin to squeeze, at first gently, but with increasing constriction. She breaths in heavily, shaking all over, and arches her back. My cock is trapped inside her silken vice, and it’s getting tight in there.

“Ohmyfucking GOD!” she rasps, and she growls her way through an orgasm of overwhelming violence, grinding her ass and pussy against me, her press-on nails snapping and shattering on the table. She rides it out for a good fifteen seconds, and I feel my moment of opportunity.

It’s so nice and warm in there, and I’m this close to cumming….and she pulls off and collapses onto a nearby chair. I look down in horror as my orgasm retreats, only to watch a sad, sustained dribble of cum leak out of my cock onto the floor. No contractions, no pleasure, just thick, ropy strands of wasted spooge pooling on the carpet beneath me.
I’m speechless.

I look at her. An eternity seems to pass. She straightens herself up, and looks immaculately composed within moments. She pinches my cheek, smiles, and starts to leave the room.

“Just like a Republican,” I say, which stops her. “You fuck the shit out of people, you don’t follow through, and then they have to clean up the mess.”

The only bookend to all of this is my very real shame. Oh, deplorable fate! How longingly I have searched all of this for meaning. And how short I have come up.

Therapy seems too kind a prescription for sickness such as this.

It’s nothing but pornography, really. This is the kind of depraved imagery we’re talking about here:

Vagina Muffins. I MEAN, REALLY NOW.

Or, for heaven’s sake, look at THIS:

Way to go, Japan.

Sometimes this site will show ACTUAL COPULATION. Between HIPSTERS. Such as in this picture:

This photo was taken in Williamsburg.

I suppose what I’m saying is this: if you enjoy the sort of filth of which I’ve just given you a MERE SAMPLE, you’ll probably enjoy Darling House. You will also have earned my bottomless contempt.

Congratulations, fucktard.

Now, then, I am Bastard Keith, and I am to be a regular presence on this site. I will be covering humor (because porn stars are a sullen, humorless lot) and politics (because sex and politics are one and the same, or so my mother told me). I’ll also be on the culture beat. Music, movies, books, art…I’ll pretend to care about all of them. I’ll probably mostly write about hot chicks, Republicans and kung fu, honestly.

Some things I believe:

This is a good and beautiful world, despite the awful, awful people in it.

The feminine is sacred and must be worshiped. You do otherwise at your peril.

No queer ever drew up a law telling a square who they could or couldn’t fuck.

Sex is natural.

Sex is good.

Not everybody does it.

Everybody should.

To be opposed to a woman’s choice in anything is stupid. To be opposed to her choice in reproductive matters is evil.

Politics is an intellectual art. Liberals grasp this (though there are plenty of brainless liberals). Conservatives view politics as warfare, much as they view everything else.

Ethnicity is a class issue in America.

America is a great place to live.

The scums don’t always have to win.

You don’t get to talk about liberties until you grasp your responsibilities.

We all owe something to our fellow human. No exceptions.

You have to have seen at least one Kurosawa movie.

You have to have read a few books elucidating a position diametrically opposed to your own.

Drugs aren’t evil. Dealers frequently are.

Men fuck up everything they touch, but we have our moments.

My penis is pretty okay.

Oh, and this is me:

Start jacking it, ladies.

I’ll see you on the beat.

Love,

BK