A cock-and-balls story

Whodaho? Idaho. No, no. Larrycraigdaho.

I know, I know, I know. I've become something of an alternative, public-access, cable channel devoted solely to the surreptitious movements and incendiary TV appearances of America's Poster Boy for Repressed Sexuality, U.S. Senator Larry Craig, R-Idaho.

Call me tacky, call me obsessed, call me easily amused--but watching Larry Craig on TV is a bit like watching Dancing with the Stars. You know you should be spending your time in more productive ways--but it's just so darned entertaining! What will the dance consist of this night--a tango? a foxtrot? a hustle? What will La Larry dance to? "I'm in the Mood for Love"? "It's Raining Men"? The world's smallest violin playing "Nobody Knows the Troubles I Seen"? More importantly, will his leg (third or otherwise) fly off in the middle of a particularly exuberant herky-jerk?

Ah, think big, dear ones! Tonight it will be a choice of all three plus a wildcard--meet number four, a new dance partner!

This week, in an interview with NBC's Matt Lauer, Mrs. Larry Craig, aka Suzanne "Bearded Lady" Thompson, appeared side-by-side with His Lechness to refute the incessant accusations that hubby is a dyed-in-the-pink-wool homo.

Matt did a good job with the interview, but as is to be expected, Larry stonewalled (no pun intended) rather well. Then again, he's had several weeks and a few court appearances behind him, so surely he's practiced and perfected his denial and outrage by now.

Still, there were some surprises (and by surprises I mean out-and-out howlers) in the interview. Such as when Laddie Larry played the victim card, told how awful it was to be ridiculed and derided before the nation at large, wished ill, wanted gone, etc., etc., all for political gain.

Yes, yes, I quite agree. As a gay man during the era of politicians making careers and scapegoats out of us queers, I know just how you feel, Larry. It sucks (if you'll pardon the expression) to be judged on behavior deemed by some to be unseemly and immoral--although science strongly indicates its nature, not nurture, at work here. To have your private sexual life held up for ridicule and misrepresented in the media. To be paraded before an unkind populace and made to explain yourself repeatedly. It's so unfair to be treated such, rather than being credited for your record of good works and exemplary behavior.

Oh yes, my heart goes out to you. My pure, unironical heart.

But by far the best moment in the interview had to be when the Missus denied claims by someone (unnamed, probably reported on by that little-newspaper-that-could back in Idaho) that they had seen and could describe the Craig Family Jewels. *Shudder.*

And that's a shudder felt so deeply as to be mistaken for amoebic dysentery, because not only did Mrs. Craig bring this tale to our attention (an area of knowledge I had been quite comfortable living without, thanks all the same), she also added in a significant, I'm-fresh-from-coaching-by-her-husband's-chief-of-staff tone, that she should know what her husband's bits and pieces look like, having examined them and all, and they didn't look at all as they had been described.

Please. Let's all take a moment to let this sink in. Then let's all pull out our imaginary icepicks and stab ourselves in our mind's eye until the image fades from view. There. Better now.

I actually blushed at this detail. Not because I'm a prude and shocked by the reference to the pater genitalias. (I've seen a few in my time, but thankfully none of which belonged to ol' Larry.) No, it's more that I was embarrassed for the both of them, especially Mrs. Craig. That she would go on national television to defend her husband from (repeated and loudly repeated at that) charges of sexual misconduct with other men in public places by discussing this cock-and-balls story . . . well, I just feel ashamed for the both of them. Clearly they'll do anything to stay right where they are, no matter how humiliating and tawdry.

I mean, honestly, just how big a pair of whores are the both of them that they're willing to do not a tell-all but a tell-a-lurid-some to the world at large about the Senatorial Box? All this for what exactly? To be the Power Couple of Idaho in the post-Demi and Bruce era? For the chance to discuss, ferchrissakes, policy all day in a room full of aging, gray-suited men? (Whatever floats your dinghy, Larry.) For the opportunity to have an impact not on war and peace, healthcare, education, and social welfare, but on more pressing matters--like ads by Moveon.org, gay marriage, and Terry Schiavo? To continue to inhabit the power-mad but ultimately unsexy world of Official Washington, a construct so goyische that you'd swear the Capitol was made out of Wonder Bread and Miracle Whip?

It hardly seems worth it. But then owning a McMansion in the Virginia suburbs, having an entourage of sycophantic Young Republicans to guide you through every political landmine (although apparently not through the Minneapolis Airport), and getting to vote against other people's happiness is just too perverted a fantasy even for a known homosexual like me.

I'm not being fair here. I do a disservice--to whores. 'Cause whores at least have an honorable way of life. They avail themselves and their privates to others, make others happy by doing so, and don't deny it all when the going gets rough. They even do it for free! All very unlike a certain Congressman and his wife.

However, despite my rantings, the interview was successful in that it finally obliterated from my thinking that Loose Lips Larry is gay. I truly believe he's not. Labeling someone gay (in a post-Stonewall, pre-South Park way) implies that they have an affiliation with and understanding of homosexuality as not merely a sexual proclivity but a social and cultural alignment. In other words, there's more to homosexuality than just sex--but "homoculturality" won't make it past your spellchecker. And calling it "homosocialism" is just asking for trouble from the punditards on Fox News and CNN.

Oh, I'm still not convinced that Larry Craig hasn't at some point engaged in some form of same-sex sexual activity, whether in an airport restroom of his choosing or in some pup-tent-on-the-range, Brokeback Mountain fantasy style, acted out possibly with Dick Cheney. Or Karl Rove.

Possibly. Probably. Who knows? But even all that doesn't mean you're gay, as "expert" authorities like Dr. Drew--who, best as I can figure, represents some sort of Malibu Buddhist pinnacle of better sexual enlightenment through tanning and Botox--keep reminding us on the Larry King Show. That just means you're a man who has sex with men.

In other words, as they say in the vernacular of the sexual underworld, you're nothing more than a cocksucker.

And, Larry, I suspect you're the biggest one of 'em all.

Flushed away

Larry Craig keeps me up at night. Figuratively speaking.

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.

Hello Larry!

"What's this then? Another pig-ugly MP making a fool of himself with some scrawny old hooker, I see."

The character of Mum from Absolutely Fabulous, "Hospital" episode (1994), remarking on a photo in a London tabloid of aging party girl Patsy Stone being caught by the Fleet Street press in a compromising position with a member of Parliament

No, actually, it's just the case of a U.S. senator making an ugly hooker of himself with a pig.

Why I've chosen to wait until now to write about the mishaps . . . er . . . missteps . . . no, wait . . . ah, yes . . . mis-taps of U.S. Senator Larry Craig and the tempest in a tearoom at the Minneapolis Airport may be something of a mystery to us all, most of all yours truly. This is the sort of sordid thing I love to write about--dirty sex! public humiliation!--because, as they say, those who can't do (or seem to be lacking the opportunity of late), put pen to paper, fingers to keyboard, and comment away.

I started this post in late August and only now, a month later, am managing to finish and publish. We could chalk up my distraction to starting a new job and a new life and perhaps still dealing with the residuals from an old job and life. We could also claim that I was showing admirable restraint by refraining from writing about the misadventures of Latrine Larry out of some sort of respect for his tender feelings. But, really, we know me better than that, don't we? I'm determined to show him as much consideration as he showed the rest of America in voting for all those anti-everything measures in Congress over the the last two-and-half decades of public service.

What I think it comes down to, though, is that La Larry's story kept changing (and changing and changing and changing) so much so that I was having trouble keeping up. I'd write something, and then the facts would change ("I'm not gay!" "I'm resigning!"), and then I would stop to laugh for a few days. Then I'd go back to the blog and the "facts" would have changed again ("I'm not guilty!" "I'm not going anywhere!"), and I'd begin the laugh track again. So perhaps you can better understand what I've been up against. Really, it's all Larry's fault.

Honestly, though, despite (or because) of the fact that the Lady Craig doth protest too much, it's difficult for me not to think of Larry being a member of the Royal Order of Flaming Homos, precisely for this reason: The guy's got more twists and turns than a 20-year-old twink on the dancefloor. "Look at me!" "Wait! Don't look at me! I'm not ready! OK, now look at me! No, wait!" If that doesn't scream "I'm not gay--I'm fabulous!" I don't know what does.

Overall, though, I do have some mixed feelings about the two-for-tea imbroglio. I mean, on the one foot . . . uh, hand . . . I'm embarrassed for Larry Craig, and I'm ashamed for men everywhere. I've never understood the aphrodisiacal qualities of men's rooms or just about any quicker picker-up place deemed suitable for a snappy toss or a furtive ejaculation. I mean, there's a time and a place for everything, but if you must engage in public trading, at least choose a locker room, a sauna, a shower, or a steamroom--they are infinitely sexier and nominally cleaner. Warm water, steam, heat, guys in towels, and a vague whiff of birch and/or Pine-Sol in the air--what's to disagree with? Other than some old-fangled morality and a few sensitive natures that I can't be bothered with, I mean.

But a men's room? A men's room is often just stinky and disgusting--and that's the maven of all things aesthetically appealing in me talking, not the dour mistress of morality mouthing off. I've commented on this before--men's rooms are often smelly and dirty, and there is this propensity by some men to pee all over the seats and floors of most stalls and urinals, a behavior that completely baffles me (no, why don't you clean it up?) and makes me reach the conclusion that, with aim this poor, it's amazing the human race has survived at all.

With this in mind, I can better understand Mary Larry's "wide stance." I wouldn't allow my trousers to drop on a urine-soaked tile floor either. However, I also believe I wouldn't feel the need to share a little "shoe sympathy" with the guy in the next stall just to get through the horror.

On the other foot/hand, though, to each his/her/its own. I'm perplexed that it's still against the law to solicit sex in a men's room or anywhere for that matter, that it somehow offends someone's morals somewhere. Puh-leez. Corporate greed, stupid people on reality TV, and suburban lawncare offend my morals. I don't see them going away anytime soon.

Seriously, how does the situation differ from soliciting a one-night-stand in any public place? If you were to enforce the law across the board, singles' bars and Jimmy Buffett concerts would be forced into immediate shutdown mode.

All in all, it seems like a rather victimless "crime," this lavatory lothario business. Thus, it's a challenge for me not to think of what happened to Poor Larry as entrapment--although, as it's been pointed out by greater legal minds than mine, entrapment happens because of intent to perform the act in the first place.

Still, just imagine going to happy hour hoping for a little horizontal hubba hubba. You meet someone nice and seemingly responsive--they're toe-to-toe with you in that grand game of footsie--and you ask them to come back to your place. Then, all of a sudden, they whip out a badge and indicate that you should follow them to nearest police station. It all seems a bit unfair and quite unsatisfying, unless you're one of those wishin', hopin', and prayin' for a little sex-in-prison action.

Plus it all seems a bit ridiculous that some drinks, a little conversation, and poor lighting in a nightclub should somehow legitimize a pick-up that could just as easily happen in broad daylight, in silence, while completely sober. After all, isn't this supposed to be a Web 2.0 world? Aren't you supposed to be able to get everything you want, when you want it, how you want it, and where you want it? No lines, no waiting, no face-to-face, 24/7, with whipped cream, bran muffins, and warm leatherette? Why, then, viewed in this light, Larry Craig is something of a sexual visionary, a veritable Twitter of the tawdry, a Flickr of f#?!king around. Go ahead. You know you want to. Reach out and touch MySpace.

Nevertheless, none of this commentary should be taken as my giving Senator Craig or anyone else a free pass to do in public whatever he or she so chooses. I'm all into live and let live, play and let play, horndog and let horndog, but I for one would just as soon not be distracted by dubious offers and questionable advertisements while I'm trying to do my business in a restroom. On the rare occasions when I happen to have an oxygen mask and an industrial-sized container of Janitor in a Drum in my back pocket and dare enter a men's room, I really want to focus on the task at hand--as Lawrence Welk would say, ah 1 an' ah 2--rather than someone putting a hand to my tackle.

No, ol' Not-Gay-Larry's gonna have to pay his 10 cents to use the bathroom like everyone else. And I won't be making change for him, should the exchange of money be misinterpreted by the police.

After all, that sort of behavior may be OK on the floor of the U.S. Senate, but it's obviously not OK in a public toilet.

* * *

While we're down in the toilets, I should also state that I don't get why they put a web address and a telephone number on those rubber splashguards they place in the wells of urinals. Really, do I want to find out more about a product I've just pissed on? Am I supposed to make a note of this? With what exactly? You see what trouble you can get into for dropping some paper on the floor in a men's room.