It's true. I woke up at 6:30 on a Saturday morning after a tiring week of travel with the burning, yearning desire to write more about Our Lady of the Latrines, Larry Craig.
Whose story, I might add, changed once again this past week--"My confession stands, but I'm staying put in Congress!"
Hurray for democracy.
A comment from No Rella regarding my last blog entry pointed up to me something I had missed and left unaddressed in my previous opining--that is, that La Larry intended not only to use a public restroom for the purpose of making a date for sex but that he also probably intended to seal the deal in the very same place. Through the playful interaction of hands under the stall wall, the coy, flirtatious use of a shopping bag to hide at least one pair of shoes, and the discreet charm of an impersonal, silent, sticky-floored encounter--a Last Tango in Plumbing Fixtures, if you will--ah well, who says romance is dead?
Seriously, I don't think it fully occurred to me that Dumb and Detective, or anyone in a similar predicament, all dewy-eyed and star-crossed over the stained tile and hand-dryers at Minneapolis International, would go all flagrante delicto in the fragrant, delicate ambiance of the men's room in which they just met. I guess I just figured they'd find a comfortable, private corner in, I dunno, Terminal A, Gate 46, to profess their undying (until 5 minutes later) lust.
Naive of me, truly, but then while I've been aware of such things happening (no, really), it's always been difficult for me to imagine their full realization. OK, well, I can imagine; I just can't see myself ever doing.
I'm awkward at best in public, just walking and talking. The thought of getting down to serious sexual hijinx in just about any public setting has always struck me as impractical (where would we put our clothes?), impersonal (how are we going to talk about what's going to happen/what has just happened?), and potentially hugely embarrassing. I could just see, in the throes of passion, the stall door flying open or the whole cubicle falling apart, the walls peeling away one by one, leaving me more humiliated than simply by the fact of just having experienced the world's most intimate act amidst the revolting charm of a public toilet.
Needless to say, I don't get laid nearly enough. I think about the details way too much, and, really, folks who are doing the nasty in the men's room probably aren't looking for the kind of guy who prefers long walks on the beach, cuddling in front of a fire with someone special, and good conversation. Silence, discretion, and a lack of personal interaction (other than with a spare appendage/orifice) are required here, not my kind of bon mots, thoughts on the definition and use of torture in war, and even details on one's turn-ons and turn-offs. (I'm assuming in this situation that for the eager actors pretty much everything would be a turn-on. Even oxygen.) Plus, in general, I find that most men aren't attracted to the kind of guy who, when describing life's more romantic (if bourgeois and pedestrian) moments, make them sound like the storyboard for a commercial for a feminine hygiene product.
Just an observation.
So, like, it never really sunk in that Larry would be doing the deed with the Hot Cop from the Village People in situ. And just for the record, I'm not down with that particular aspect of the situation. Like I said, men's rooms are pretty vulgar all on their own; I want to go in, do my business, wash my hands clean of the situation, and move on. I don't particularly want to have to mill about in a crowded anteroom while Larry and his latest Mary pretend to spend a penny while exacting a pounding of the flesh on my time, on my dime. It's the kind of selfish, public behavior that drives me crazy--"Oh, my needs are so special that I'm going to take up space for my carnal knowledge while you dance around outside, hopping from leg to leg, waiting to do what this place was intended for. Is that OK with you?"
No, it's not OK with me, not that you were really asking my permission, nor would you necessarily be able to, your mouth full and all.
I am reasonably content to lead a fairly compartmentalized life, generally using facilities in their intended manner, no questions asked. I use the left lane on the Pennsylvania Turnpike as a passing lane, not a travel lane (unless traffic is horrendous, and so it often is). I refrain from using tables as footstools, even in public waiting areas. I quietly accept that plastic bags from the drycleaners are safety hazards, not toys.
So those more free than me, those who throw the rules and regs of comportment to the winds, the rest of us be damned, tend to bring out the uniformed-police-officer-with-a-trigger-taser-finger in me. Have you ever seen the John Waters' movie Serial Mom, in which Kathleen Turner's character starts killing people for offending social custom--swiping parking spaces, not separating their recycling, wearing white after Labor Day? I can so empathize.
So, based on this and other absolutely flawless lines of reasoning, I don't empathize or sympathize much with Lewd Larry. Nevertheless, I can't help but think maybe ol' Larry got a bum deal--just not the kind he wanted.
What did Larry Craig intend to do? OK, dumb question. Despite his incessant denials, I think we all know what he intended to do, if given a half a chance and a willing, blond, chiseled jaw participant. But he didn't actually do it, and, thus, reluctantly, in his defense, I have to say I don't think he should have been charged with anything. Intent to molest another shoe? Possession of small pieces of toilet paper with intent to distribute between private stalls? I'm no legal scholar, as I've noted before and as my attempts at a living will and copyright interpretation no doubt would prove, so maybe intent is all you need to arrest and get a confession to "disorderly conduct." However, it would seem to me that you'd have to have some very specific action going on, a little South-of-the-Bible Belt exposure in view, before you could bring in the police, handcuffs, and interrogation room. Unless you're into that sort of thing.
Imagine my shame and consternation, however, in trying to defend Larry Craig's actions, intended or otherwise. I'm not all pro-let's-have-sex-wherever-we-like-'cause-we're- feeling-horny. But I'm not all pro-let's-support-another-asshole-conservative-who-has- consistently-voted-against-anything-gay-affirmative-while-still-enjoying-certain-fruits- of-his-labor-available-only-to-willing-participants either. In situations like these, what's a right-on kind of homosexual supposed to do?
* * *
To say I find myself at odds with most of the big gay world--as well as the world at large--is something of a duh statement. (Read the blog. All is revealed.)
During the midst of all this homo hullabaloo, a friend sent me some photos from San Francisco's notorious Folsom Street Fair, held annually in the old meat-packing section (heavy irony) of the Anything Goes Capital of America. For the unitiated among us--and, please, I beg of you, don't ever go to the Folsom Street Fair and say, "I'm ready for my initiation!" because I'm pretty sure you won't like the results (or so I'm assuming)--the fair is sort of an arts-and-crafts approach to kink. Or, if you prefer, a better description of the fair might be to say that it is the kink-and-arts approach to leathercraft.
The Folsom Street Fair is not for the faint-hearted or even the not-so-easily shocked. As an article in Wikipedia describes it, the Folsom Street Fair is
. . . [O]ne of the few occasions when sadomasochistic activities are encouraged and performed in public . . . [the fair] attracts a considerable number of sightseers and those who enjoy the attention of onlookers as well as the hundreds of photographers and videographers. Although the costumes and activities can be eye-opening and transgressive, the event tends to be very peaceful and non-threatening.
So, heck, it's fun for the whole family! Especially if your family is into flogging, branding, bondage, and other things you don't really want to know too much about (again, or so I'm assuming).
Again, what's a right-on kind of homosexual to do? On the one hand, these folks on display and, well, splayed, at the Folsom Street Fair are consenting adults. Who am I to play Nanny 911, Big Moral Government Edition, and say, no, you can't do that in public?
On the other hand, jeez, you're doing this in public! And the whole world is watching!
I'll leave the defense or critique of such behaviors to those who have more of a vested interest. I will say that while some aspects of the activities on view might be described as playful, fun, and even sexy (two men dressed in leather, kissing each other, maybe be shocking in some circles, but in and of itself, it's hardly inflammatory), others look like some sort of odd psychotherapeutic passion play, a way to work out childhood traumas over and over and over again, for all to see. Snaps for your bravery, I guess, but I really wish you'd just talk it over with a counselor. In private.
Still, this view of San Francisco is something of a raw-like-sushi bento box of a Marilyn Manson concert, an Xtreme! Sports event/Ironman competition, Disneyland for naturists, a DIY home improvement show aimed at people with a fondess for excessive use of duck tape, and a steamy, night-time lockdown at Louisiana's famed Angola Prison--all balled up into one and left whimpering in the corner. There's more to the city and its culture, including its gay culture, than just the most kink-fueled and attention-grabbing, but direct your vision to certain corridors and corners in the City by the Bay, especially on a gorgeous, sunny weekend in October, and you're liable to see more of the wild side than you would, say, in Peoria. Or Pittsburgh, for that matter.
So, whatever. To each his own. There are more important issues to wrestle with, more significant topics for me to spank, more demanding points for me to parade around on a leash attached to a dog collar.
Nevertheless, a little discussion and analysis of the behaviors in evidence might be required--particularly with regards to the "in evidence" portion of the conundrum. For you see, the photos sent to me were credited to the American Family Association, the Donald Wildmon-operated shriek-tank that has created a successful cottage industry out of sending snail- and e-mail screaming bloody apocalypse about the conservative Huey, Dewey, and Louie anti-Christs of our time--indecency, obscenity, and homosexuality.
Well, no cultural critic ever went hungry, no minister de-flocked, by parading examples of tawdry public behavior and tasteless media representation before a repressed yet eager audience/congregation. Need convincing? Have you ever heard of Mel Gibson's The Passion of the Christ?
Still, while I'm not feeling particularly protective of fundamentalists wittle feewings, I can't say that I'm all gung-ho for the right of my fellow Friends of Dorothy to make rubber-clad, bullwhip-inserted-where?!?! spectacles of themselves on the streets of Any City, USA. I want to be all libertarian laissez-faire on yo' (properly protected) ass, but it's a neverending and not particularly satisfying challenge for me to justify your right to do whatever you want in public, when it is used as a way to keep me and my more mundane fellow travellers from getting basic legal protection in housing and employment, not to mention respectful treatment by public officials and private citizens.
So what's my point exactly? I guess it's that public actions have pubic consequences. Have yourself wrapped in leather mummy drag and strung up like a rotisserie chicken in the streets of San Francisco and someone might take it the wrong way and use it against you and your kind on a fundamentalist website. Try to secure a blowjob in an airport toilet, and you're liable to have your constituents read about the details on The Smoking Gun website, as well as on the front page of The Washington Post. And no one is really going to be all that up for defending your right to do so, especially if your behavior is going to make them blush with embarrassment and shock--or, worse, miss their connecting flight.
So maybe don't do that. Or, if you must do, think about who might be watching, paying attention, or able to hear/read about it. Or barring that, close the blinds, shut the door, and get the hell out of my way. I've got a plane to catch.
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