sex

Paging all freaks

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johnny@sfbg.com

QUEER ISSUE As May gave way to June, news arrived that a veteran gang of gay magazines — Honcho, Inches, Mandate, Playguy, and Torso — were printing their last glossy naked pages, no thanks to the unending onslaught of Internet porn and hookup sites. For print fetishists of the queer variety, this would seem like a sign of the gloomy end times. But signs can be wrong. In fact, a teeming variety of small publishers are bringing a mix of sex and sensibility to those underground seekers who revel and rebel outside the eye of the computer monitor. Here’s a brief, far from complete, guide to the action.

BAITLINE

In a recent interview on the Guardian‘s Pixel Vision blog, the artist Matt Keegan talks about the subversive social potential of gay calendars and magazines during past eras. You could say Baitline revives this potential. It’s the anti-Craigslist. Hallelujah! Hand-drawn and stapled, this local community resource can help you find your next pervy playmate or like-minded roommate, or assist you in stoking an artistic project and finding a job.

70 Richland Ave, San Francisco, CA, 94110. sywagon@gmail.com

BUTT

Not-so-straight from the Netherlands comes the gay version of Playboy for the 21st century to tease your nether lands even though you buy it to read the interviews. BUTT’s been around long enough to be anthologized as a book. The latest issue is SF-centric, with appearances by Hunx from Hunx and his Punx, and Hunx’s sometime partner in crime, Brontez.

Klein-Gartmanplantsoen 21-I, 1017 RP Amsterdam, The Netherlands. www.buttmagazine.com

CHECK OUT THESE GUNS

Artist Nathaniel Fink is interested in documenting male body types. This simple and cute little zine finds a shirtless and slim subject flexing against a big blue sky.

nathanieljfink@gmail.com; www.morephotosaboutbuildingsandfood.blogspot.com

FAG SCHOOL

Your teacher at Fag School is the one and only Brontez of Younger Lovers and Gravy Train!!! fame. Brontez knows how to turn funny anecdotes and sexy pics into an old-school queer zine for our ADD moment. Not as simple as it sounds. He’s also good at making straight guys takes off their clothes and model.

www.myspace.com/1256201

FOR LONELY ADULTS ONLY

The most recent example of Regis Trigano’s photo zine presents a man alone in bed having some fun. Well shot.

www.proun.us

GOTEBLUD

This isn’t a zine, but instead a zine store run by Matt Wobensmith, the queer punk stalwart behind Outpunk Records and the zine of the same name in the 1990s. Opening night last month revealed a small emporium of countercultural wonders — queer stuff is just one facet. Just try to resist the Wuvable Oaf memorabilia.

Sat–Sun, noon–5 p.m. 766 Valencia, SF. www.goteblud.livejournal.com

HANDBOOK

Men, oft-scruffy, sometimes tattooed, taking care of themselves — based in San Francisco, this publication reaches all over the country to create images that owe a debt to old amateur raunch hands such as Old Reliable.

handbooksf@yahoo.com; www.hanbookmen.com

PINUPS

Christopher Schulz’s three-times-a-year publication featuring one or two models is bearish and cuddly, whether depicting a light wrestling bout or a sandy frolic with a beach ball.

contact@pinupsmag.com; www.pinupsmag.com; www.myspace.com/pinupsmag

QUEER ZINES

This book lists and shares samples from the ever-expansive realm of queer zines. As a zinester from the early days who attended the Chicago SPEW conference decades ago, I can say it isn’t definitive — but it is wonderfully, revealingly comprehensive.

Printed Matter, 195 10th Ave., New York, NY, 10011. aabronson@printedmatter.org. www.printedmatter.org

SPANK

I’d call this the My Comrade of today, replacing that primarily 20th century zine’s drag comedy with boyishness. In other words, here’s a rag for partying NYC art fags.

www.spankzine.wordpress.com

STRAIGHT TO HELL

Still raunchy at 66 issues old, this is a classic, the daddy of them all, the one that exposes Penthouse Forum as boredom. Images by the late, great photographer Al Baltrop appear in the latest edition along with stories bearing titles like "Jockey Rides Teen’s Face — Wins Race" and "Appaloosa Stud with ‘Epic Torso’ Overwhelms Startled Shutterbug."

S.T.H., Box 20424, NYC, 10023. sth@straight-to-hell.net; www-straight-to-hell.net

Kingston nights

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a&eletters@sfbg.com

Everybody loves bounce. It persists as a state of mind, an epiphany of sexual exhibitionism and physical delirium: Baltimore club and San Francisco’s hyphy movement; Rio de Janeiro’s baile funk to Puerto Rican reggaeton; and London grime and dubstep to Berliners’ dub.

Philadelphia label owner, producer, filmmaker, and occasional journalist Wesley "Diplo" Pentz has probably done more than any other American DJ to popularize the notion of club music as an international phenomenon with common roots and regionally distinct varieties. Last year, Paste magazine claimed he "has updated the template set by 20th century song hunter Alan Lomax." Much like Lomax, Diplo has brought "undiscovered talent" to Western ears, from his early championing of Atlanta crunk as one-half of the pioneering DJ duo Hollertronix to his support of Brazilian rappers Bonde Do Role. However, just because he brings those artists to hipsters’ attention doesn’t mean they aren’t successful within their Third World communities.

Yet even if some myths of cross-cultural exchange persist, they aren’t fraught with as much racial tension as in Lomax’s day. This leads us to Diplo’s latest project, Major Lazer, with U.K. producer Dave "Switch" Loveys. The two traveled to Kingston, Jamaica, last year, recording with dancehall and reggae stars such as Turbulence, Mr. Vegas, Vybz Kartel, and Prince Zimboo at the Marley family’s legendary Tuff Gong Studios. The resulting Guns Don’t Kill People … Lazers Do (Downtown) is a wildly libidinous dance party, a hymn to club nights where pussies pop and guns blaze.

"We both concluded that there’s a lot of talent in Jamaica that isn’t really being exposed at the moment," Switch says from New York City. Many of Major Lazer’s Jamaican collaborators — including T.O.K., author of the infamous gay-bashing anthem "Chi Chi Man" — have had U.S. deals in the past. However, with the music industry’s continuing decline, U.K. label Greensleeves’ meltdown and purchase by equally troubled imprint VP Records, and the cyclical nature of Jamaican music’s popularity, they haven’t received as much attention as in the recent past. "All we’ve tried to do is expose the talent … on a more global scale than just in Jamaica," Switch says.

Switch is the lesser-known of the Major Lazer squad. He first drew recognition in West London for producing garage house tracks. He called his work "fidget house," and the term stuck: the English love their nomenclature. A U.S. trip to work with Spank Rock and Amanda Blank inadvertently led to credits on Santogold’s "Creator," a major hit that, coupled with his widely-acclaimed contributions to M.I.A.’s Arular (Interscope, 2005), helped fuel the Major Lazer project. "Now when we approach things, people are more willing to trust us when we want to make it a little bit more quirky," Switch says.

Both producers have traveled to Jamaica before. Diplo has released material by JA artists like Ms. Thing on his Mad Decent label, while Switch announces his love for the hot Kingston street party Passa Passa. After the two returned to the U.S. to assemble Major Lazer’s debut "in little bits" between other DJ and production gigs, word of the project leaked out to their American friends. "As soon as they heard we were putting it together seriously, they were, like, if you need any help, let us know," Switch says.

Perhaps the best parts of Guns Don’t Kill People … Lazers Do come when their American friends nestle against their Jamaican counterparts: Amanda Blank answers slack rapper Einstein with an equally filthy rhyme on "What U Like"; Brooklyn singer Jah Dan kicks a conscious flow on "Cash Flow"; and criminally underrated harmony sisters Nina Sky sing coquettishly on "Keep It Goin’." Sometimes it’s difficult to appreciate our bouncement artists until you hear them hold their own with their Jamaican counterparts, like when Santogold chants a hook for Mr. Lexx’s gruff war chant on "Hold the Line." It’s then that you realize that club music’s lingua franca — swagger, sex, and having fun — has no borders.

Meanwhile, the cover art for Guns Don’t Kill People … Lazers Do pays homage to the comic art found on the back covers of old Jamaican albums like Scientist Meets the Space Invaders (Greensleeves, 1981) and the Upsetters’ Super Ape (Mob Entertainment, 2006). "Major Lazer is basically a fictional character we dreamt up to give this whole project we did down in Jamaica an identity, rather than it just being me and Wes — two white guys going down to Jamaica and trying to make a record," Switch says. "We tried to make it a little more fun."

MAJOR LAZER

Fri/26, 9 p.m., $26

Regency Ballroom

1300 Van Ness, SF

(415) 673-5716

www.spectrumfest.com

Average Jane

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andrea@altsexcolumn.com

Dear Readers:

I’ve known people who have sex for money, have sex as a hobby, write about (or perform about or do art about or teach about) sex as an avocation, and still have enough interest and energy left over to have the occasional bit of relaxing off-line sex at home with a partner when nobody’s watching or reading along. But I am not one of them. I get bored. There was a play about vibrators here recently and everyone asked me if I was going, but I said, "Eh, I’d rather see Up." I like to cook and read and watch shows about things that have as little to do with (my) real life as possible — high fashion, for instance, the nuttier the better. I like it when the models wear their dresses upside-down and have monkey-fur eyebrows and a teapot on their head. You don’t?

So … I’m a huge fan of Project Runway and a lesser one of its lesser successor, The Fashion Show. Every season, though, there’s some kind of challenge involving "real women" and, while it’s fun to see the contestants, used to dressing compliant stick insects, wrestle with a mouthy client who dares to voice her own, often scandalously après garde opinions (she often just wants to look nice, of all things), it’s appalling to hear what the designers have to say about the non-model bodies. Faced with the task of dressing a modeling agency admin instead of the expected model, one of the Fashion Show wannabes pouted, "She’s very normal. I don’t do normal."

Well too bad for you, darling! Let us return the favor!

So imagine my glee upon discovering a recent study which found that regular men (as opposed to fashion designers of any gender or sexual preference) not only DO do average women, they vastly prefer us. I knew it! All these years of assuring women that jutting hipbones and sunken chests are not only not required to attract guys, they aren’t even preferred, and now I have at least this one study to back me up.

This isn’t about the "something to hang onto" hypothesis, although I do think that men in general do prefer some padding on those they plan to bump up against, and not only to avoid all the bruising. Men who are attracted to women tend to be attracted to women, and women have boobs and butts and that cunning part in between, where it gets smaller.

You’ve probably heard about the alleged universally preferred waist-hip ratio: it’ s 0.7. This shows up constantly in popular-sciencey psych articles about men’s hard-wired preference for female bodies that signal youth, good health, and fertility (they also like symmetry, even skin tone, and teeth) and depresses female readers who wonder if they measure up. Some researchers in Australia decided to take a closer look, and recruited a bunch of guys to rate line drawings of female torsos for attractiveness. (I may have read too much hard-boiled crime fiction to hear about female "torsos" without mentally adding the word "dismembered," but let’s hope the test subjects had not.) From the NewScientist article:

The work, by Rob Brooks at the University of New South Wales in Sydney, Australia, and colleagues, suggests that the popular notion that a waist-hip ratio of 0.7 is the most attractive only holds if the rest of the body is average (Behavioral Ecology, DOI: 10.1093/beheco/arp051 ).

"The orthodoxy says that you will be attractive with a certain waist-hip ratio no matter how the rest of your body varies. Our study shows this is not the case," says [researcher] Brooks…. The men showed a preference for women with a waist-hip ratio of 0.7 — but only if they had an average-sized waist, hips, and shoulders.

When compared with groups of real women, including Playboy centerfolds, Australian escorts advertising on the Internet and average Australian women between the ages of 25 and 44, the latter group most closely matched the preferred body shape.


Strike one for the average Sheila. Isn’t this heartening? Of course women who are substantially smaller or larger than average can still find plenty of ammunition here with which to wound themselves (the men liked average women, after all), and we don’t know for a fact that it applies to non-Aussie men. Even so, it’s something to remember when the heart sinks and the self-loathing rises upon looking in the mirror and failing, once again, to see Kate Moss pouting back at us. Suck it, Kate! Go eat some crisps.

In other heartening news, the editor of British Vogue put fashion designers on notice that she would no longer publish photos of ultra-emaciated models, so they’d better start sending larger clothes. Apparently the samples have been arriving at the magazines in ever-tinier sizes, until even the models we’re used to seeing, who are about 5’10 and 100 to 125 pounds, can’t fit into them. Not that the average size 14 Australian torso is going to be able to squeeze into those Valentinos, but at least it’s a start.

Love,

Andrea

Grade A

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a&eletters@sfbg.com

It was a gathering of tribes with more tattoos and partially shaved heads per square foot than anywhere else in San Francisco. The sartorial imagination at times rivaled the one on stage. In other words, it was the eighth Fresh Meat Festival, celebrating transgender and queer performance, and Project Artaud Theater packed them in.

Announced as the largest festival of its kind in the country, Fresh Meat is the brain- (and heart-) child of Sean Dorsey. A smart organizer and good artist, he programmed a lineup that showcased not only gender but ethnic diversity: a Latino singer, an African American rapper, and a Sri Lankan theater artist, among others. Differences extended to quality; not all the performers were equal in either craft or talent. But this was a theatrically pungent evening whose concurrent themes couldn’t be missed. Joyful affirmation of self and the pain of not fitting in went hand in hand.

The evening opened on a note of female assertiveness. Taiko Ren’s exuberant women embraced those huge drums — for centuries restricted to the male of the species — as their birthright. Planting their hips and focusing their energy into the hard-hitting batons, they set the air humming with overlapping and shimmering resonances. Hip-hop closed the two-and-a-half-hour show. Allan Frias’ high-camp and razor-sharp Mind over Matter Dance Company’s Bring it to Runway exploded the fashion world’s dehumanized body as a clothes-hanger. Seen as manipulated mannequins, the dancers revolted into a brigade of hard-hitting, furiously stepping males and females whose individuality was as strong as their sense of common purpose.

Coming fresh from the Ethnic Dance Festival, the Barbary Coast Cloggers’ footwork and the body slaps in Hambone didn’t sound as finely synchronized as they have in the past. However, the marvelous Wind It Up, to Gwen Stefani’s yodel-infected song, highlighted the sly note of urbanity that’s always present in these dancers’ take on rural traditions. Another reminder that common dance traditions often exclude non-heterosexuals came from North American same-sex ballroom champions Zoe Balfour and Citabria Phillips. Their spacious Ballroom Blitz, a suave and light-as-air foxtrot, went by too fast. I would love to see what else they do.

Most of the solo performers came from Los Angeles. Ryka Aoki de la Cruz’ Alternator Domme was a little heavy-handed in its use of metaphor, but she is witty writer and quick-change artist who times her material — paying for car repairs with a gig in a dungeon — well. In the hilarious excerpt from Ramble-Ations: A One D’Lo Show, D’Lo transitions from a traditional Sri Lankan mother into an Angelino "tomboy". The work dove deeply into the poignancy of not wanting to be put into a gender — or any other kind of — box. Rapper Deadlee’s in-your-face "We Serve it Up Nasty" — with audience participation — was a rebellious rant against homophobia in hip-hop. Yet I wondered whether its transgressive tone didn’t strike a note of simple-mindedness with this audience. StormMiguel Florez has a beautifully flexible voice, yet his family-inspired songs sounded bland. SF’s own Shawna Virago — edgy, elegant, elegiac — premiered a lovely new work dedicated to Sean Dorsey.

Dorsey’s substantial Lou is his finest work yet, and the festival’s highlight. The excerpt (performed beautifully by Dorsey, Juan de la Rosa, Brian Fisher, and Nol Simonse) stood well on its own. Some of the verbal links between memory and history probably could be tightened, but the simple yet eloquent choreography opens up Dorsey’s language and Lou’s life remains simultaneously tender and powerful. As for the next Fresh Meat Festival: less between-the-acts talk and tighter tech, please.

The price of normal

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news@sfbg.com

With a 2010 state proposition on gay marriage in the works and a national gay rally on the Washington Mall being planned for October 10-11 of that year, it’s obvious that more and more of the LGBT community’s resources are being funneled into the battle for marriage equality, while other causes go begging.

Already gay marriage has become a black hole that is sucking untold amounts of money, time, and energy out of our community. In the 2008 election alone, gay marriage supporters raised $43.3 million to defeat Proposition 8, the anti-gay marriage initiative that California voters passed by 52 percent. It may be the biggest chunk of change the community has ever spent for a single fight.

A QUESTION OF PRIORITIES


I’m not against gay marriage. If queer couples want to be as miserable as straight ones, that’s their choice. Marriage is a failed institution. With a 54.8 percent divorce rate nationally and a 60 percent rate here in California, there’s no doubt in my mind that heterosexual "wedded bliss" is more of an oxymoron than a reality.

What’s troubling to me as a queer activist of almost 40 years (much of that time spent on economic justice work) is that, with the tremendous amount of homelessness, poverty, and unemployment in our community, we are spending so much dough on the fight to give a minority of folks — those who opt for tying the knot — rights and privileges that straight married folks have.

Sure, it’s unfair that married straights get tax breaks, not to mention the status of next-of-kin for hospital visits and medical decisions when one partner is ill, and queers don’t. Altogether, married couples have 1,400 benefits, both state and federal, that domestic partners and single people don’t enjoy. It’s a matter of simple justice that the playing field be leveled. Only a right-wing idiot could disagree with that. Now, if only we could fight to give everyone (including singles) those 1,400 benefits.

For me it’s a question of priorities. We are living in scary times. Unemployment is sky-high; millions are without healthcare, including children; foreclosures are robbing homeowners and tenants alike of their housing; and business collapses are leaving a lot of people out in the cold and unable to pay the rent or the mortgage.

DINKS NO MORE


The queer community is no better off.

It’s a popular misconception that queers have a lot of disposable income. The "double income, no kids" (DINK) myth was promoted in the 1980s by gay publishers who wanted to expand their advertising base and their profits. These days, to read many gay publications, you’d think that all queers are going on fabulous vacations and buying expensive clothes, jewelry, and electronic gizmos.

That myth was easily dispelled by a recent study, "Poverty in the Lesbian, Gay and Bisexual Community," published this March by the Williams Institute at UCLA. Like "Income Inflation: the myth of affluence among gay, lesbian, and bisexual Americans," the groundbreaking 1998 study by M.V. Lee Badgett of the Department of Economics at the University of Massachusetts at Amherst, the Williams report found that many members of our community aren’t shopping ’til they drop. They can barely afford to put food on the table.

Nationally, 24 percent of lesbians and bisexual women are poor compared to 19 percent of heterosexual women; 15 percent of gay and bisexual men are poor compared to 13 percent of heterosexual men.

Queers aren’t just low on cash — we’re homeless, too. A 2006 report, "Lesbian, Gay, Bisexual and Transgender Youth: An Epidemic of Homelessness" from the National Lesbian and Gay Task Force and the National Coalition on Homelessness, showed that 20 percent to 40 percent of the 1.6 million homeless youth in America identify as LGBT. In San Francisco, the number of queers in the homeless youth population (estimated at 4,000 by the Mayor’s Office) is "roughly 44 percent," according to Dr. Mike Toohey of the Homeless Youth Alliance in the Haight.

Brian Basinger of the AIDS Housing Alliance says that 40 percent of people with HIV/AIDS, in the city once acclaimed for its care of those with the disease, are either "unstably housed or are homeless." In the Castro, Basinger said, there are only "12 dedicated HOPWA beds" for people with the disease. HOPWA (Housing Opportunities for People with AIDS) is a federal voucher program for low-income people with AIDS that is similar to federal housing assistance program Section 8.

Certain members of our community don’t fare much better in the area of employment. A 2006 survey by the Guardian and the Transgender Law Center reported that 75 percent of transgender people are not employed full-time, and 59 percent make less than $15,299 a year. A mere 4 percent of respondents earned more than $61,200, the then-median income average for San Francisco.

Fifty-seven percent of trangendered people said they suffered employment discrimination, demonstrating the need for the inclusion of "gender identity" in the federal Employment Non-discrimination Act. Human Rights Campaign, a national gay organization, and out Congress member Barney Frank (D-Mass.) cut transgenders out of that legislation the last time it was up before Congress.

It could all get a whole lot worse.

AXING THE FUTURE


Gov. Arnold Schwarzenegger wants to lop at least $81 million from California’s AIDS budget, including money for AIDS drugs, leaving low-income people stranded without their medication. Senior services are also on his cutting block, including $230.8 million from in-home services and $117 million from adult health-care programs. (As we go to press, the state Legislature is working to restore the AIDS money to the budget.)

Mayor Gavin Newsom, in his proposed city budget cuts, is axing $128.4 million from public health and $15.9 million from human services. There’s no doubt these cuts in health and human services will severely affect people with AIDS, seniors, youth, the homeless, and others in our community who can least afford to pay for the city’s budget shortfall.

The millions spent on gay marriage in the past few years could have gone a long way in these lean times. It could have helped make the proposed queer senior housing project, Open House, a reality. With 88 units in the works at 55 Laguna St., the site of the old UC extension, it will be the only such housing for LGBT seniors in San Francisco.

The money also could have funded housing in the Castro for homeless queer youth or people with AIDS. It could have been used as seed money for a much-needed war against poverty in the LGBT community.

A DIFFERENT KIND OF LIBERATION


The queer movement hasn’t always been this obsessed about getting hitched. Forty years ago this week, drag queens and others fought back against the cops who were raiding a gay bar called the Stonewall Inn in New York City’s West Village. Three days of protests led to the creation of the Gay Liberation Front (GLF), a revolutionary group dedicated to the sexual liberation of all people. GLFers weren’t looking to walk down the aisle or form binary couples. In a desire to "abolish existing social institutions," as the NYC branch of GLF said in its statement of purpose, some GLFers explored polyamory (more than one relationship at a time).

That’s why I edited Smash the Church, Smash the State! The Early Years of Gay Liberation, just published by City Lights Books, a collection of writings by former GLF members and other gay liberationists. I wanted to commemorate the 40th anniversary of Stonewall and the birth of GLF with a reminder of who we were and what we did. After all these years, I still don’t want to head to the chapel to get married.

When it really comes down to it, gay marriage is a conservative issue. It’s about wanting to fit in, to be like everyone else. Beyond the important issues of tax breaks and next-of-kin status — and the fact that if any institution exists, it shouldn’t discriminate against queers — marriage is ultimately a means of normalizing binary queer relationships, especially for gay men who have always enjoyed the freedom to be promiscuous. It’s a way to try and rein in our libidos, though the prevalence of extramarital sex among straight couples — 50 percent for women, 60 percent for men, according to a recent issue of Journal of Couple and Relationship Therapy — shows that marriage doesn’t come with a chastity belt.

It also doesn’t come with any guarantees, as researchers discovered in Sweden, where queers were able to contract for same-sex partnerships from 1995 until recently, when full same-sex marriage was instituted. According to a study by the Institute for Marriage and Public Policy, Swedish queers have been divorcing in high numbers, like their straight counterparts, who have a divorce rate that’s just a little higher than the United States.

For queers in Sweden, that’s the price of being normal.

Tommi Avicolli Mecca, who has been a queer activist since he was involved with the Gay Liberation Front at Temple University in Philadelphia in the early 1970s, is editor of Smash the Church, Smash the State! The Early Years of Gay Liberation (City Lights Books).

Editor’s Notes

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marke@sfbg.com

So, OK, I just got engaged. Gay engaged. Engayged.

So weird.

First, this may be the worst time ever to plan on jumping the lavender chuppah knot or whatever. As far as legality goes, California’s up in the air until maybe the November 2010 elections and perhaps for a long time after that. Then there’s the whole federal kerfuffle to go through. And Iowa might be tempting right now — but gurl, I don’t have enough something blues for three ceremonies. Iowa, then Cali, and then federal — sheesh! Two is enough! At least when we were illegal, we only had to plan for one polka band. Miss you, "commitment ceremony."

Then there are the political equivocations. Plus or minus a few episodes of America’s Next Top Model, I’ve considered myself near the front lines of radical queer resistance ever since my friends started dying of AIDS when I was 17. I’m all for ethical non-monogamy, get queasy at the thought of official state-sanctioned relationships, and definitely believe that marriage, with all its financial benefits, discriminates against people who haven’t fallen in love. Or turns them into liars for money. Or makes them scream a lot during Sex and the City reruns.

Hunky Beau and I aren’t really after the cash and perks, anyway. Hospital visitation rights and insurance discounts would be cool (and are available locally already), and who knows if we’ll have kids who’ll require federal protection. But I’m pretty sure we’ll never need the legal right to “enlarge accommodation estimates for foreign dignitary missions” only available to married couples now. And as far as political statements go, there are a lot more things in my personal life that I’d like to see being used to help change the world for the better. Housing homeless queer kids and seniors and restoring the recent awful AIDS services cuts seems much more necessary right now as well. But this is the fight our community’s in — and whether it’s because I was raised that way by two incredibly supportive parents, or because I get a real rash when my government says I can’t do something other people can, or because within every loud-mouthed queen lives a hopelessly traditional romantic, I’ve got a dog in it. Not a chihuahua, mind you. More like golden retriever. Totally butch.

As some of our writers eloquently point out in this issue, same-sex marriage may be a boondoggle, sapping our community’s strength to confront real issues of poverty and inequality. It’s certainly not for everyone. But in a truly dark time in my life, when I thought the whole world was falling apart, I suddenly fell in deeply in love with someone almost annoyingly perfect for me in every way. To my continued astonishment, he seems to feel that way about me as well. We’ve been together a long time now and marriage seems, to us, the logical next step for whatever reason. It just feels right. Love is a crazy, crazy thing, full of diversity, surprise, and wonder. Isn’t that what Pride’s all about?

alt.sex.column: Real men DO do average women

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By Andrea Nemerson. View more alt.sex columns here. Email your questions to Andrea: andrea@altsexcolumn.com.

AltSex_Icon.jpg

Dear Readers:

I’ve known people who have sex for money, have sex as a hobby, write about (or perform about or do art about or teach about) sex as an avocation, and still have enough interest and energy left over to have the occasional bit of relaxing off-line sex at home with a partner when nobody’s watching or reading along. But I am not one of them. I get bored. There was a play about vibrators here recently and everyone asked me if I was going, but I said, "Eh, I’d rather see Up." I like to cook and read and watch shows about things that have as little to do with (my) real life as possible — high fashion, for instance, the nuttier the better. I like it when the models wear their dresses upside-down and have monkey-fur eyebrows and a teapot on their head. You don’t?

So … I’m a huge fan of Project Runway and a lesser one of its lesser successor, The Fashion Show. Every season, though, there’s some kind of challenge involving "real women" and, while it’s fun to see the contestants, used to dressing compliant stick insects, wrestle with a mouthy client who dares to voice her own, often scandalously après garde opinions (she often just wants to look nice, of all things), it’s appalling to hear what the designers have to say about the non-model bodies. Faced with the task of dressing a modeling agency admin instead of the expected model, one of the Fashion Show wannabes pouted, "She’s very normal. I don’t do normal."

Well too bad for you, darling! Let us return the favor!

So imagine my glee upon discovering a recent study which found that regular men (as opposed to fashion designers of any gender or sexual preference) not only DO do average women, they vastly prefer us. I knew it! All these years of assuring women that jutting hipbones and sunken chests are not only not required to attract guys, they aren’t even preferred, and now I have at least this one study to back me up.

This isn’t about the "something to hang onto" hypothesis, although I do think that men in general do prefer some padding on those they plan to bump up against, and not only to avoid all the bruising. Men who are attracted to women tend to be attracted to women, and women have boobs and butts and that cunning part in between, where it gets smaller.

The Air Sex Championships (fake) cometh

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By Juliette Tang


The amazing Dirty D at the Air Sex World Championship in NYC

Have a hot imaginary date and don’t know where to go? Head over to the Air Sex World Championships, which will be held at the Independent (628 Divisadero) this Wednesday, June 24, and get up on stage. You’ll be sure to score.

What began in Austin, TX, has become a nationwide phenomenon, as it appears a lot of people really, really like pretending to have sex in front of a live audience. The ASWC has been snaking its way around America and finally lands in our sexy city after stops that have included DC, New York City, Toronto, Chicago, Salt Lake City, Portland, and Seattle. Frankly, I’m surprised this hasn’t arrived to SF sooner — although the whole idea of fake sex is sort of PG-13 in a city known for its unapologetic love of outdoor nudity and inappropriate public sex/masturbation/orgies.

After a year of sold out shows at the Alamo Drafthouse and the Paramount theater in Austin, TX, the World Air Sex Championships are taking it to the road. “Air Sex is sort of like Air Guitar,” said Tim League, founder of the Air Sex World Championship, “except instead of pretending to play an invisible guitar on stage, contestants get up there and pretend to have sex with someone who isn’t there. With their clothes on, typically. They pick a song to perform to and then have two minutes to impress the judges with their overall Airness.”

Like many things that have to do with sex without actually featuring real sex (sex video games, hentai, Dutch Wives, host/hostess clubs) the concept of air sex comes from Japan, where it began as an outlet for sexually frustrated men to act out their desires.

Jane of the Jungle: Donkey shows, tapir dongs, stoned chimps

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SFBG’s Justin Juul asks zookeeper Jane Tollini — former penguin keeper at the San Francisco Zoo, and originator of the annual “Woo at the Zoo” tour — about life, love, and sex in the animal kingdom. Read part one here.

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Part Two: Donkey Shows — not as cool as they sound

SFBG: So! The real reason I’m here is to find out about donkey shows. I’ve been hearing about them my whole life, but I’ve never actually met a person who’s seen one. Have you?
Tollini: Yeah, they exist. And yes, I’ve seen one. It was horrible and extremely gross. I was drunk and stoned down in Mexico. Not sure why I wanted to see it, but hey, you’re only young once, right?

SFBG: Have you seen any other cross-species interaction? Chicken fucking, goat licking…anything like that?
Tollini: Oh yes, lots! There was this girl – I’m not gonna say here name, but she worked in the primate division — who just loved her apes to death. And we were just positive that she was getting down with them. She would bend over and give them a show in front of everyone and then she would stay late most days doing god knows what in the pens. Also, I have friends who have dogs and I’ve heard plenty of stories about canines sucking their masters off. The thing about the donkey show is that donkeys have pretty sizable dicks so a woman would have to be good and prepared, if you know what I mean. The show I saw looked pretty painful… but, well, you could tell she’d done it before. I also saw a pretty weird thing go down with an orangutan and a couple of cute college girls once. That was weird.

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SFBG: Please go on.
Tollini: Well, a few years ago, a couple of girls from UC Davis decided to collaborate on a thesis statement about orangutan reproduction. Obviously, they were gonna need some sperm, so they contacted The Sacramento Zoo. The zoo was cool about it and gave the girls permission to use one of their older orangutans, but also said that it might be hard because there were no female orangutans hanging around that weren’t already pregnant at that specific point in time. Also, this orangutan had arthritis so he couldn’t masturbate very well. You can imagine what happened after that.

SFBG: The girls found a different project?
Tollini: Ha! No, the girls spent four months giving hand jobs to a grizzly old orangutan.

Ah, sweet embarrassment of sex

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By Juliette Tang

Sometimes, porn takes itself way too seriously. Why don’t porn DVDs come with ‘bloopers’ features? Because after being gratefully exposed to Porn Fail, I feel my overall experience of porn would really benefit from seeing more bloopers. From a naked man doing a pirate jig in the background of a scene, to an overenthusiastic cumshot that makes its way to the cameraman’s eye, to um, trumpet sex, these NSFW ‘porn fails’ are great reminders of what the body is not capable of doing gracefully. If you’ve ever been embarassed about something you’ve done in the bedroom, reassure yourself with the knowledge that it even happens to people who have sex for a living.

Gloria Vanderbilt’s Brooklyn sex mansion: anything but vanilla

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By Juliette Tang

Gloria Vanderbilt may be 85-years-old, but she will have you know that she is having none of your boring, vanilla bedroom fantasies. Famous for that whole 80s denim thing, and for being Anderson Cooper’s begetter, Vanderbilt’s erotic novel Obsession (about BDSM no less!) is due out on June 23, and, according to the New York Times, it comes with a healthy dose of flora, though not, apparently, of fauna:

Mint, cayenne pepper and a fresh garden carrot are deployed in the book in ways never envisioned by “The Joy of Cooking.” And there is also a unicorn, though, blessedly, it remains a bystander.

Charles McGrath cautiously sidesteps Ms. Vanderbilt’s own involvement in BDSM (and stiffly acknowledges that her novel “uses vocabulary and describes activities of a sort that readers of The New York Times are usually shielded from”), but I doubt the author is any stranger to her subject.

Frameline33 review: “Cure for Love”

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By Laura Swanbeck

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For years cinematic satires such as Saved! (2004) and But I’m a Cheerleader (1999) have served as send-ups of extreme orthodoxy and have mined ex-gay therapy groups with names like “True Directions” and “Mercy House” for laughs. Francine Pelletier and Christina Willings’ Cure for Love (2008) also tackles these controversial subjects, but in a very earnest and even-handed way. Love opens with the wedding of Brian and Ana, two gay Evangelists who have no delusions when it comes to their sexuality, but who simply refuse to abandon their religious beliefs. The film juxtaposes their union with the relationships of their gay friends, Jonathan and Darren, who finally manage to accept their sexuality while retaining their faith after years spent struggling and journeying to Exodus, a retreat for “same-sex addiction.” From a liberal standpoint, it is extremely difficult to watch Brian and Ana’s wedding footage without thinking that this charade is what’s unnatural, not gay marriage, especially in light of the recent upholding of Prop 8. However,Love never preaches an agenda. Instead, it keeps both sets of couples clearly in focus, presenting an intimate portrait of the myriad kinds of love humanity possesses — love of family, love of God, love of a man or a woman (regardless of your gender) — and how individuals ultimately choose to reconcile them.

Cure for Love plays as part of the San Francisco International LGBT Film Festival
Sat/20, 11 a.m., $8
Roxie Theater, 3117 16th St, SF
www.frameline.org

Hot sex events this week: June 17-23

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Compiled by Molly Freedenberg

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Satan’s sultry songstress joins bawdy burlesqueteers at Friday’s Hubba Hubba Revue.

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>> MythFits
Elan, Leah Lakshmi, Piepezna Saramarasinha, and Luna Maia queerify classic myths in this series hosted by the legendary Michelle Tea.

Wed/17, 6pm. Free.
San Francisco Public Library
100 Larkin, SF
www.queerculturalcenter.org

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>> “Love and Sex in the Spin Cycle”
The Marsh presents Lambeth Sterling’s comedy concerning relationships, dating, marriage, and The Secret.

Wed/17, 7:30pm. $10-$15.
The Marsh
1062 Valencia, SF
(800) 838-3006
www.themarsh.org

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>> Frameline
The annual international LGBT film festival presents too many sexy, sensuous, thought-provoking, gender-bending, identity-questioning flicks to list (though I’d love to see Berated Woman, about an Orthodox Jewish woman who falls for a Christian Aryan Supermom). Check out the website for dates, times, and descriptions.

Thurs/18-June 28, times, locations, and prices vary.www.frameline.org

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>> Slinky Summer Tour of SF Strip Clubs
Slinky Productions hosts its award-winning walking tour of North Beach “gentlemen” clubs, this one open to couples. A professional exotic dancer will guide you through SF’s sexy history, host an elborate dinner at Chinatown’s infamous House of Nanking, and take you to Ruby Dolls, where you can pick up your own slink-a-licious outfits to take the magic home.

Fri/19, 6pm. $99/person or $190/couple, including club entrance, two drinks, and dinner.
Register at www.slinkyproductions.com

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>> MILF Fiction, Cougar Poetry and Cheeky Granny Literature
Anna Reed, author of Sleeping around Craiglist, hosts an evening of erotic readings about mature women and the carnal adventures they crave.

Fri/19, 6:30pm. Free.
Good Vibrations Polk Street
1620 Polk, SF
(415) 345-0400
events.goodvibes.com

Dave Cummings: the oldest American in porn

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By Juliette Tang

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69-year-old Dave Cummings, the oldest active porn star in America, has filmed over 500 movies and performed over 1,200 sex scenes in his 15-year career in the adult entertainment industry. He swears he doesn’t use Viagra, and when he’s not filming hardcore sex scenes in movies like Screw My Wife Please 32: And Make Her Sweat Like A Pig, Dave works as an educator and speaker, offering online classes on getting into the porn industry. Dave will be giving a seminar at the Cybernet Expo (1500 Van Ness) on June 27 called “Producing and Directing Adult Videos with Dave Cummings,” and spoke with the SFBG about sex, life, and his career in ‘old man porn’.

San Francisco Bay Guardian: First of all, congratulations on being 69! You are at arguably the most apropos numerical age for doing pornography and not many porn stars stay in the game long enough to get there.

DC: Thanks! I love my present life and age, and wouldn’t alter my past or present life at all!

SFBG: Nice name by the way! It can’t be your real name, right?

DC: No, it’s a stage name. Almost everyone in the porn industry uses a stage name.

SFBG: When did the idea of doing porn first occur to you?

DC: It happened as part of my swinging experience, specifically while Playboy Television was including me in a segment they were filming about swinging; that led me to a husband-wife team that filmed amateur porn, and my very first day as a crew member I was forced into doing a “stunt” money shot for the actor who was unable to do it that day. Subsequently, I performed in a few amateur movies, and then decided to try becoming a porn actor. I liked the fun of having sex with hot girls, AND getting paid for it. It was Heaven!

SFBG: What’s the market like for the kind of pornography you make?

DC: Aside from the present financial challenges foisted upon us by rampart piracy and copyright infringement, the market for my porn is unlimited. Although I’m a “niche”, people of both genders and of all ages seem to patronize my movies. The fantasy is that if an old, wrinkled, overweight, bald guy like Dave Cummings can have sex with such beautiful young actresses, then viewers can more easily envision that they themselves could indeed also have sex with the woman if they ever had an opportunity to meet her.

SFBG: Describe the sort of fan base you have.

DC: Mostly men looking for women to masturbate to while fantasizing that they are actually the one in the sex scene (not Dave Cummings!); couples looking for movies that show respect and caring for women; gays who appreciate older males (although I am heterosexual, I fully support their right to enjoy whatever sexual preference they want with other consenting adults); women who want to assert their right to get turned on sexually; and, women into the “daddy thing”.

SFBG: A lot of your titles have words like “Daddy” in them. “It’s a Daddy Thing,” “Sugar Daddy,” and “Dirty Dave’s Sugar Daddy”. You also have sex with much younger women in some of your movies, like “Barely Legal”. Your website talks about “teens getting drilled by Dave Cummings”. Yet the people you have sex with are, obviously, of legal age, and basically you’re just playing out a fantasy for viewers of an older man sleeping with younger women.

SF’s sexy queer film festival explodes

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By Juliette Tang

Frameline, the San Francisco LGBT Film Festival kicks off tomorrow and a quick glance through the festival schedule reveals that we are in for some sexy little treats. I have not seen any of the films, so I can only conjecture at their artistic or cinematic value. I did, however, sit through the trailers, and after doing so, I now know which films offer sex scenes.


Trailer for And Then Came Lola.

And Then Came Lola is the gay, San Francisco version of Run Lola Run. Because of the allusion to its German predecessor, in And Then Came Lola, Lesbian Lola is by plot’s invisible hand, forced to run – rather than cab – all over San Francisco in order to save her relationship with a girl named Casey. The film is described as a “fun-filled lesbian rom-com of 2009 complete with SF inside jokes and sexy bedroom scenes”.


Still from Boy

Boy is a Filipino movie about a young, rich lad who pays a gogo dancer at a party to go home with him, upon which they fall in love (and will forever have a great story to regale polite company at dinner parties when asked how they met). In the blurb on Frameline’s Web site, Michael Fox ambitiously alliterates: “lengthy, lovely, languid love scene”.


Trailer for Lollipop Generation.

According to its description, The Lollipop Generation offers these things: a bathroom blowjob, masturbation scenes, hooking, punks making porn, and lollipop licking. Shot on Super 8 film, the images might be too grainy to see all the dirty stuff, but at least you know its there.


Still from Dirt and Desire

Dirt and Desire is a set of dirty short films starring “sexy, hot, and porn-arific queers of all genders”. If something is described as “porn-arific,” you can bet there will be sex involved. Featuring shorts with titles like The Leather Daddy and the Unicorn, Kat-I’s Sex Toy Stories, and Tour de Pants, Dirt and Desire offers a feast of naked people doing, you know, all sorts of things.


Trailer for Greek Pete.

Greek Pete is a sexually explicit documentary about a year in the life of Pete, a rent boy in London who jumped in the game because he wanted to make fast money, and hooking was, in his own words, “the quickest and bestway to make loads of publicity”. Well, at least we feel less bad, in that case, for not feeling sorry for him.


Still from Thundercrack

Thundercrack is an underground porno/horror flick from 1975 that maintains the healthy cult following automaticlaly entitled to any movie of that description. The film stars 4 men, 3 women, and a gorilla, and “will arouse, challenge and question you through every torrid moment of solo, gay, bisexual and straight couplings, voyeurism and more”. Though not scary for a horror film, the scarily bad dialogue is truly something to fear. But hey, at least Thundercrack is funny, and there’s lots of sex.


Still from Shank

Sensitive, secretly gay thugs at so hot. In Shank, a sensitive, secretly gay thug named Cal drops trou in a “a sweet patio seduction scene” with a guy named Oliver.


Trailer for Champion

Champion, a film by Pink & White Productions (famous for the series) is, like Million Dollar Baby, a sexy film about a boxing lesbian — except this one features, in addition to the fighting, some rough lesbian sex. Angelique Smith at Frameline describes in more detail: “sweet, sweet pain of scratching, hair pulling, bondage, slapping, anal, choking and biting, with some unexpected FTM action thrown in!”

Hello sailor

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By Matt Sussman


a&eletters@sfbg.com

Revolution seems to be on the minds and in the hearts of many in LGBT folk these days. The desire for change is palpable at the marriage equality marches that have now become regular occurrences, even if one isn’t marching under the banner of marriage equality. Indeed, the large and sustained outpouring of grassroots activism that has sprung up since Proposition 8 "passed" last November has been hailed, however ill-fitting the comparison, as "Stonewall 2.0."

Stonewall is undoubtedly a milestone — and its resonance with our current historical moment is underscored by the fact that Frameline 33’s closing night happens to fall on the 40th anniversary of the New York City riots. But Stonewall is not our only example of queers taking power into their own hands (San Francisco’s own Compton Cafeteria Riots of 1966, in which transgender people fought for their right to occupy public space, immediately comes to mind.) Nor are the social justice movements and underground film culture of the Stonewall era — both subjects touched on in a swathe of ’60s and ’70s-related films at this year’s festival — our only historical models for envisioning and enacting change. There are other histories, other battles, and other scenes to explore.

Local filmmaker Cary Cronenwett’s Maggots and Men — a stunning black and white historical fantasia on the possibilities, pleasures, and perils of revolution — proposes such another scene. Set in a mythologized postrevolutionary Russia but based on actual historical events, Maggots marshals early Soviet cinema, the gutter erotics of Jean Genet, and what at times seems like a transgender cast of thousands to build its case for the necessity of queer utopias. "I made a school boy movie, Phineas Slipped [under the name Kerioakie, in Frameline 26], so the next logical step was to make a sailor movie," says Cronenwett, explaining the germ for his film over the phone. "I wanted to make a film that created another world."

Maggots dramatizes the events of 1921, when the sailors of the seaport town of Kronstadt (whose failed 1905 revolution would be immortalized by Sergei Eisenstein in 1925’s Battleship Potemkin) drafted a resolution that supported the factory workers on strike in St. Petersburg. Deeming the sailors’ declaration of solidarity and demands for food and greater autonomy as "counter-revolutionary," the Bolshevik government launched a propaganda campaign against them, eventually sending the Red Army to take their island stronghold by force. The Bolsheviks eventually won the two-week long battle, in which both sides suffered heavy losses, killing or exiling the remaining sailors.

Told through the fictionalized letters of sailor Stepan Petrichenko (played by dreamboat Stormy Henry Knight, aptly described by Cronenwett as "the transgender Matt Dillon") to his sister and the performances of agitprop theater group Blue Blouse, Maggots repurposes the aesthetics of socialist realism to both pay tribute to the Kronstadt sailors’ quashed communal experiment and to use that same history as a means to engage with contemporary transgender lives and radical politics. "I’m wrapping together my different fantasies," explains Cronenwett. "There’s the sexual, kinda homoerotic utopia and then there’s this sort of communal utopia, where you have a society based on mutual respect."

If Maggots were a poem, it would undoubtedly take the form of an idyll. The sailors engage in a bucolic routine of communal farming and exercise, angelically sleeping in hammocks, carousing with the local ladies, and occasionally engaging in some alcohol-fueled sex with their fellow mates. Flo McGarrell’s gorgeous production design and composer Jascha Ephraim’s accordion-rich original score certainly contribute to the film’s reverie-like passages, but much of what is beautiful about the film is due in no small part to the handsome chiaroscuro visages of the film’s primarily trans-masculine actors. Cronenwett is as quick to cite Genet’s Un Chant d’Amour (1950) and James Bidgood’s Pink Narcissus (1968) as he is Eisenstein, as influences — and it shows.

But Cronenwett has other things, aside from "dirty sailor beefcake," on the brain. As he points out in a follow-up e-mail to our conversation, the trans actors in Maggots don’t just rewire the long history of the sailor as subject of homoerotic image-making in terms of gender, but also reframe the homosocial world of Krondstadt in terms of anarchist politics. "It’s not just cute butts that turn me on — it’s also ideas, and people’s politics. Not politics, like chatting about Obama or whatever, but people that are into creative ways of living and aren’t into non-consensual domination."

These politics were put into practice, as much by necessity as design, over the course of the four years it took to make the film. Shooting sporadically in rural Vermont (a frozen Lake Champlain uncannily summons the wintertime Baltic captured in photos of the Red Army’s 1921 advance); San Francisco backyards and gallery spaces; and Battery Boutelle in the Presidio and Battery Mendell in Marin, Cronenwett describes making Maggots as a "highly collaborative" process that involved the talents of friends, DIY artists, political organizers, nonprofessional actors, and anyone else who could be tapped via word-of-mouth (the film also received financial support from the Frameline Film and Video Completion Fund). At times, the filming even started to take on the communal can-do atmosphere of Kronstadt itself. "People slept on the floor and took cooking shifts, and helped make costumes," remembers Cronenwett of the Vermont shoot.

As much as Maggots is a homoerotic pastoral, the film doesn’t shy away from exploring the difficult, sometimes painful, realities attendant to any act of self-determination. As its very title — itself a reference to the rotting meat that sparks the sailors’ mutiny in the first act of Potemkim — suggests, the consequences of our actions can fester within us. "The sailors are still lugging around the violence from the revolution with them," writes Cronenewett. "Even in the salad days the violence is there just under the surface."

This violence takes on a different cast in the context of transitioning genders, something which the actors’ own mixed gender expressions continually underscore. "Transitioning is, hopefully, a liberating, positive experience. But it can also have some elements of violence associated with it. That can be a literal kind of violence — like chopping off body parts — or can be something more ethereal, like squashing aspects of ourselves to fit into either gender category."

The film is careful, though, not to hold up the sailors’ bloody defeat as a cautionary example of revolutionary hubris, just as it stylistically evokes Russian cinema of the ’20s and ’30s while avoiding that period’s penchant for egregious hero worship (flirting with martyrdom can be a slippery slope when engaging with the Soviet realism). In a sense, Maggots‘ restaging of history captures the full allegorical meaning of "utopia" — a social ideal that doesn’t exist and yet, nonetheless, remains an ideal. But, as Maggots also proves, film gives us the means to envision such ideals. At a time when our "revolutionary" moment seems blinded by tunnel vision — and has largely become defined by terms we never dictated — Maggots‘ kino eye reminds us that our past and our present are full of radical possibilities. *

MAGGOTS AND MEN

Sun/21, 1:30 p.m., Castro


The 33rd San Francisco International LGBT Film Festival runs June 18–28 at the Castro, 429 Castro, SF; Roxie, 3117 16th St., SF; Victoria, 2961 16th St, SF; and Rialto Cinemas Elmwood, 2966 College, Berk. Tickets (most shows $8–$10) are available at www.frameline.org.

The man from camp

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If I had to choose a true SF son of the Kuchar brothers, it might be Gary Gregerson. Unlike a number of great local filmmakers, Gregerson — as far as I know — has never taken a class from George Kuchar. When it comes to wild B-movie imagination, he was born that way. A madcap mainstay whose zines (Fembot), music (with Sta-Prest in the 1990s, and Puce Moment, featuring Jon Nikki, today), DJing (at the Clap) and DIY filmmaking (Mondo Bottomless) make this city lively, Gregerson is currently at work on a movie titled AIDS Camp. I recently jumped on my pogo stick and caught up with him to discuss fashion, the perils of directing, the last days of a landmark, and his role in a film at this year’s Frameline festival.

SFBG What are you wearing?

GARY GREGERSON One of my favorite shirts from the ’60s, baby blue cords, and a button that says, "Tennis is a ball."

SFBG AIDS Camp: please break down the title in all its potential meaning.

GG Originally I wanted it to be set in a place a sci-fi wasteland but outdoors. There’d be a discussion about breaking out and someone would say, "But there’re no walls here," and someone else would say, "Look around, it’s camp! Everywhere you look it’s camp, camp, camp!" Oh, and I have HIV.

SFBG This movie is more of a group effort, with a large cast that needed to be wrangled. How was the experience different?

GG Continuity was a challenge. It was a challenge getting the same people to spend all day in the "internment" area and then another day in Glen Canyon Park for the "liberation" scenes. I didn’t have any problem finding "untrainables" (sex radicals) but it was hard to find "trainables" (straight-laced gays).

SFBG You appear in The Lollipop Generation, which is playing at this year’s Frameline fest. What was that experience like, and what have you learned from the film’s director, G.B. Jones?

GG I was supposed to be flagging tricks from in front of DeGrassi Junior High — that’s the actual location. I had one car honk at me. I learned that Super 8 looks even better when it’s been sitting around for 15 years, maybe in a fridge somewhere. The condensation gives it a neat effect.

SFBG What is your favorite dance?

GG The Hip-o-crite.

SFBG You are a known Sid Krofft admirer. What is your stance on the current film "remake" of Land of the Lost? What are your views on Sleestaks in general?

GG Maybe a "serious" remake would actually be more enjoyable, but we’ll see. I wanted to do a short with Alvin Orloff called H.R. Buff-n-stuff. I can’t weigh in on Sleestaks, but I like guys with Chaka hair.

SFBG If you paid no heed to the words of the Flirts and put another dime in the jukebox right now, what three songs would you choose to play?

GG A jukebox?! How quaint. Let’s see … maybe "Goin’ Cruisin’" by Malibu (another Bobby O group), "Cruising" by Hunx and his Punx, and "Just Like the Leaves" by my friends the Bippies.

SFBG As a host of many events there, tell the people: What is great about Aunt Charlie’s?

GG The scents and sensuality. And Joe and the gang are really awesome for letting me film there.

SFBG What are your thoughts on the closing of the Central YMCA?

GG It’s only two blocks from my house, so I’m ridin’ a bummer. I need a tile from the steam room for a memento.

SFBG Gary Gregerson, is that what you call sockin’ it to me?

GG Well, it is my happening and it’s freaking me out.

AIDS CAMP premieres in August at Homo A Go Go in Olympia, Wash. Puce Moment plays Club Club You’re Dead at the Stud in July.

Hot topic

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a&eletters@sfbg.com

 

If you’ve seen Flesh (1968) or Trash (1970) or Heat (1972), there’s a good chance you’d like to spend an hour alone with Joe Dallesandro. Let’s face it — that’s probably not going to happen anytime soon, so you may have to settle for something a bit less private. As substitutes go, Little Joe is a nice alternative: no, you can’t talk to (or touch) Dallesandro directly, but the experience is certainly intimate.

Little Joe just isn’t your standard documentary. Forget the talking heads or — horror of all horrors — reenactments. This is Joe on Joe: 90 minutes of the Warhol superstar reflecting on his accidental fame and everything that came after. It’s a fascinating story, even without the cinematic embellishments. Of course, it helps that Dallesandro himself does all the talking. For one thing, he’s undoubtedly the best authority on his life. For another, he’s not bad to look at, even pushing 60.

The film was conceived and produced by Vedra Mehagian Dallesandro, Joe’s daughter, and Nicole Haeusser, who also directed. Speaking about their unusual approach, both agree that the close, conversational style gives a better sense of the subject than other films might be able to do.

“Our original goal was to make a great documentary on Joe, because many have tried,” Vedra Dallesandro explains. “And we’re very intimate and connected to him. That’s the reason he did this for us.”

But, as Haeusser elaborates, the filmmakers’ decision to do the film as a one-on-one with Dallesando wasn’t appealing to potential producers, who sought a more conventional documentary technique.

“When Vedra tried to get financing, they were all worried about the third act,” she says. “They were worried that Joe was still alive and wanted to wait for him to die, basically. So Vedra and I were talking, and I was like, ‘Well, we don’t need money. We can just do it ourselves.'”

The decision turned out to be a happy accident: Little Joe’s biggest strength is its almost amateur quality. Which is not to say that the film feels lacking — it’s just an intentionally limited production. There are no experts over-explaining Dallesandro’s overnight success (he was hot) or later substance abuse (it was readily available). Nor are there any TMZ-esque voiceovers highlighting the more illicit aspects of his career. And who needs ’em? The clips of Dallesandro strutting nude through, well, all of his early films speak for themselves.

Of course, the point of all the real talk with Dallesandro is to show that he’s more than just a sex object — and the message definitely comes across. He is, as he puts it, smarter than people give him credit for.

“A lot of times you hear people talk about him like he’s a piece of meat,” Haeusser says. “And he’s a very spiritual person.”

I don’t know if that’s quite the impression I got, but Little Joe does flesh out Dallesandro (pun fully intended) more than frequent collaborator Paul Morrissey ever did. Dallesandro’s early career was about his appearance: the muscles, the hair, the manparts. And that’s all well and good, but no one wants to be defined solely by how good they look naked. This documentary is the ideal vehicle for Dallesandro to prove, as the saying goes, that he’s more than just a pretty face.

Still, there’s no denying Little Joe‘s eye candy status. To its credit, the film never shies away from that. No one appears embarrassed or regretful about the past, and why should they?

“Who he is, is who he is,” Vedra Dallesandro offers. “I think it’s amazing.” Amazing may sound like a stretch, but consider the life of a sex symbol. It takes courage to bare it all — and it takes star quality to turn that into a career. (Louis Peitzman)

LITTLE JOE

Sat/20, 4:15 p.m., Castro ————

ODE TO JOE: A FIRST-PERSON TESTIMONY TO STARDOM OF DALLESANDRO

“Don’t do this to me and leave me, Joe!” So rasps Sylvia Miles as Joe Dallesandro dutifully pleasures her missionary-style in a scene from Andy Warhol’s Heat (1972). When it comes to mid-coital dirty talk, could any line possibly be more comically terrible? Miles’ character is Sally Todd, a past-prime actress with a Beverly Hills mansion whose “game show money” doesn’t keep her in hairspray. Dallesandro is Joey Davis, an ex-child star terminally on the make in an attempt to revive his marooned career. But really, anyone who enjoys Heat — and I’ll come right out and say it’s my favorite movie, ever — is enjoying the people behind the characters.

A key reward of the Warhol movies that star Joe Dallesandro is that he doesn’t just do it to us and leave us — his signature brand of candid male sexuality, something entirely new in American cinema when it arrived, is still available to us today. “Little Joe” brought before the camera the fantasies that biographers and gossip tattle-tales entertained about James Dean and Marlon Brando, and his naturalism helped pave the way for Robert DeNiro’s and Al Pacino’s brands of Italian-American charisma and machismo, even if he wasn’t theatrically trained. Yes, Dallesandro was usually stoic-to-stony, scarcely reacting to the hijinx of the myriad feminine characters with whom Paul Morrissey and Warhol paired him. But he knew enough to realize that he didn’t have to do much, which is more than most actors learn in a lifetime.

Joe Dallesandro played a key role for me in terms of knowing I was attracted to men, and I can hardly be alone in that experience. When I first saw him, it was only a portion of his body — his sculpted chest and abdomen, tinted a plum color on the cover of the Smiths’ self-titled 1985 debut album. This image was too oblique to be lust at first sight, but still images of Dallesandro from Flesh (1968) in Parker Tyler’s book Underground Film and Stephen Koch’s Warhol cinema survey Stargazer resolved any lingering issues or teenage doubts. The treat in discovering the movies behind these images was that Dallesandro’s unapologetically naked good looks were simply the hook on which Warhol, and especially director Morrissey, hooked a fantastic crew of eccentrics.

Little Joe, Nicole Hauesser’s new feature-length biographical portrait of Dallesandro, has as much in common with That Man: Peter Berlin (2005) as it does the legion of documentaries about Warhol superstars. Like the Berlin movie, it fascinates as a study of an icon of masculine glamour, though Dallesandro isn’t as narcissistic (who could be) or as detached and cerebral. Hauesser skims over the coded symbols of Dallesandro’s physique model days, and I wish she’d had Dallesandro sound off more about dearly-departed costars such as the amazing Andrea Feldman.

But Little Joe‘s story can’t help but be dramatic. Who knew Dallesandro had an ill-fated handsome brother — shades of Catherine Deneuve and Francoise Dorléac — or that the love of his life was Suspiria (1976) star Stefania Casini? Still handsome today, Dallesandro addresses the camera with a directness missing from his Warhol performances, wrestling uncomfortably with his manipulation by Morrissey, and reminiscing with little sentiment about latter-era Warhol films such as Flesh for Frankenstein (1973) and Blood for Dracula (1974), which includes his best and most hilarious performances — as a Marxist servant with a Brooklyn accent in medieval Europe.

“Have you even lived to know what beautiful is?” Lydia (Pat Ast) asks a male stripper jealous of Joe’s good looks during a sunny afternoon scene from Heat. As Joe descends down some stairs for an underwater swim across the length of a pool, she answers her own question: “You’re just a spoiled brat, living the life of Riley.” Watching Joe Dallesandro in Flesh, in Trash (1970), and most of all, in Heat, we’re all spoiled brats living the life of Riley. (Johnny Ray Huston)

 

The odds

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le.chicken.farmer@gmail.com

CHEAP EATS Speaking of clocks running down, here it is, the second half of June, meaning by the time you read this I will be either in Germany, or dead. I’m pulling for the former.

My favorite ex-therapist, who shares my fear of flying, once told me every time he got on an airplane he had to first live his own death.

"Hmm. Tell me more about this," I said, crossing my legs and scribbling in my note pad, because that’s the kind of student of life I was, at that time: the kind who takes notes about every single thing, but learns nothing. "For instance," I prodded, because he was just sort of staring at me, speechless, "by ‘living your own death’ do you mean imagining it, accepting it, facing it face-to-face, kissing it on the lips? …" I looked at the box of Kleenex on the coffee table between us, and I looked at him. My goal in therapy has always been to reduce my shrink to tears. "Or do you mean wanting it, like anal sex," I said. "Take your time."

Now I am a different kind of student of life: the kind who stays out late drinking, sleeps through her first class, spends more time in the bathtub than at her desk, and couldn’t find the library with a map and eight weeks.

There’s a lot I don’t know. Give you an example: does my plane go down on the way there, or on the way back? My personal preference, and it’s a strong one, would be the way back. Kiz, who is coming with me but returning earlier, shares this preference.

My friend, my friends, I’m good at math, and philosophy. Death doesn’t listen. It kisses you back, but doesn’t care a lick about personal preferences. There is a 50 percent chance I will be dead by the time you read this. And a 50 percent chance that I will be a donut. And then dead when you read next week’s column, which I’ll hammer out as soon as I finish this, to be safe.

Plus, I don’t want to have to work while I’m on vacation. Which word (vacation) I use very very poetically. Are you listening, IRS? I am doing a reading in Berlin, I am meeting many times with my German translator, and we are pitching my book, our book, to publishers there. Honestly, I’m not just saying this in case the taxman is a fan of Cheap Eats. I mean, I am, obviously, but it also happens to be true.

I would like to look pretty while I’m there. To this end, I had another laser treatment to my chin before I left. Now, please don’t misunderstand me: I think the world of bearded ladies. I think they rock. I think they are the most beautiful people in the whole wide freakshow, and this is coming from a huge fan of both contortionists and strong men. But I have no idea how the Germans feel about them. Us. And, given what I am going through to get there (50 percent + 50 percent = let’s face it, 100 percent) I really really really REALLY would like to be loved in Berlin.

So, yeah, laser. Now, the thing about laser hair removal is you can’t pluck for a few weeks before, and then after, it takes a few weeks more for the hairs to fall out. Meanwhile you still can’t pluck. So that’s all together, what, a whole month of being kind of grizzly and self-conscious, learning to talk and eat and even in some cases kiss with your hand over your chin. Being naturally pensive, and thoughtful, I’m pretty good at this.

But the day of the treatment is the worst, because then you’re all red, too, and there are tears in the corners of your eyes and snot on your nose. Plus I had decided to get something else done too, while I was there, so my overall discomfort was, well, pretty dang discomfortable. Let’s just say that neither walking, nor sitting, felt quite right.

Still, you gotta pay the driver. Steak and eggs for Earl Butter, and, since I was moving, standing, and maybe looking a little bit truckerish anyway . . . chicken fried steak for me. These things — like death — you go with them.

Oh, and, yum! But where?

CRAIG’S PLACE

Daily: 7 a.m.–4 p.m.

598 Guerrero, SF

(415) 461-4677

Beer & wine

MC/V

L.E. Leone’s new book is Big Bend (Sparkle Street Books), a collection of short fiction.

Wet stuff

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andrea@altsexcolumn.com

Dear Andrea:

I know you’ve written about the G-spot before, but I have to say I’m still confused. I can have orgasms when my boyfriend goes down on me but not from intercourse, which I guess is pretty common. I keep wondering maybe if he could find my G-spot? I was also wondering about female ejacuutf8g. I don’t think I’ve ever female ejaculated or had a G-spot orgasm. What can I do?
Love,

Hoping For More

Dear Hope:

You and quite an army, actually. All of your desiderata are perennials on women’s must-have lists. Sadly, though, unlike the "it" bag of the season, you can’t get just get a cheap knock-off at Target and be satisfied. Oh, wait, that’s not true — it’s actually entirely possible that the right tool might get the job done, and those, you can buy.

The G-spot, as we have discussed ad infinitum, is not so much a discrete spot as it is a convenient catch-all for a bunch of associated structures, including the erectile tissue around the urethra (paraurethral sponge), and the vast internal portions of the clitoris, the body and crurae (the external part is the glans). OK. We’ve done that. You may also remember that because all that good stuff is largely above the vagina, any fingers attempting to access it are going to need to apply a firm upward pressure. Think of it as that "You! Over here!" gesture that Carmela Soprano made to Charmaine Bucco that time when Artie and Charmaine catered her party. Fingers can do this successfully, but most often those are somebody else’s. If you want to do the preliminary exploration on your own, or want to speed things along, one of the approximately 100 million sex toys made for the purpose will likely do the trick.

Now, the wet stuff. May I just say, before we get started, that I really object to the term "female ejaculate" as a verb, even though I occasionally end up employing it? Let’s try to stick to using it as a noun, the stuff in that puddle there, and use just plain "ejaculate" for the verb, figuring we know we’re talking about the women-folk here. Good. So, ejaculation has a funny sort of recent history, going from utterly obscure and unmentioned to the subject of heated argument to feminist cause célèbre in less than 30 years, starting with Grafenberg (he of the Spot) in the 1950s. By the ’90s women (or sometimes womyn) were making theater pieces and giant marching puppets about it, while others were watching instructional videos and driving themselves and their partners frantic looking for the elusive spot and its payload, the equally elusive (female) ejaculate. By the oughts, the endless stream of articles about how to get yourself an endless stream of orgasms along with their attendant rivers of body fluids seems to be drying up, replaced largely with articles about … dryness. Low sexual desire and no sexual desire and how to spark up your marriage. The audience is getting older, I guess. The how-to books and videos produced during the boom years are all still around, though, so no reason not to give ’em a shot.

Love,

Andrea

Don’t forget to read Andrea at Carnal Nation.com.

Interview: “Humpday” director Lynn Shelton

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By Mara Math

Humpday-2009.jpg

In Humpday, two longtime straight male friends just reunited dare each other to have gay sex on camera for the amateur erotic film fest of the title, a dare that will test the boundaries of friendship, marriage, and self-definition. San Francisco Bay Guardian talked with director Lynn Shelton.

San Francisco Bay Guardian: What inspired the inventive plot?

Lynn Shelton: The starting point was actor Mark Duplass. I was looking for an idea for a film to center around him. And then when a straight filmmaker friend came back from Hump! (formerly Humpday), the real amateur porn festival in Seattle, and he was just fascinated by his first look at gay porn, and I thought it was really amusing and sweet. And I started thinking about the relationships between straight guys and gayness, and the tension inherent in super-passionate but platonic straight male friendships. There’s this low-grade homophobia — they don’t hate gay people but they still have residual anxiety about their own relationship to homosexuality. I find that very poignant, and I also loved the absurd deliciousness of taking two straight guys who are being so straight — it’s really about the extremities of straightness, in a way — that they can’t back down from this dare that neither of them wants to carry out … and that in fact is to be gay for a day.

Jane of The Jungle: Zookeeper Jane Tollini on life, love, and sex in the animal kingdom

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By Justin Juul. Read part two of this interview here.

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Woo at the Zoo, the afterparty

Being a part-time sex writer is tough because there’s only so much you can say about the topic. Lovemaking is a lot like eating in that way; we all have peculiar ways of doing it, specific attractions to wildly different things, and often-clashing ideas about what’s good and bad, right and wrong, etc. But it’s not like we’re breaking a lot of new ground when we talk about these things; we’re just sharing stories and ideas about an urge and all the weird stuff that happens when we try to satisfy it. Don’t get me wrong. I’m not saying that sex is boring or that I don’t enjoy writing about it; it’s just that sometimes I need a break. That’s why I tracked down this month’s featured sexpot, Jane Tollini. Tollini is not a sex worker. She doesn’t do porn and she doesn’t work for a dildo company. Why interview her for a sex blog then? Well, Tollini offers something that bookish porn stars, ex-manwhores, and transsexual southerners don’t. She offers a sex writer the chance to talk about something other than humans fucking. Instead I get to talk about animals fucking. Yay!

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Jane talks facts of life

As a life-long veteran of the San Francisco Zoo (she lived next to it as a child, served almost 20 years there as a penguin keeper, and now works as a consultant), Tollini has seen it all. From donkey shows, to masturbating raccoons, to highly questionable cross-species relationships; you name it and Tollini’s got a story. By the time she’d been at the zoo for a year, Tollini realized she had enough material to host her own beastly sex forum so she grabbed a microphone and never looked back. Tollini’s “Sex Tour,” now known as “Woo at The Zoo,” is an annual romp through the world of sex in the animal kingdom. It happens every Valentine’s day at The San Francisco Zoo, but you can check it out early this year on June 25th when Tollini will be hosting a special kick-off to Pride Week at The California Academy of Sciences called “How Animals Do It.” Tickets available here.

Part One: Gay penguins, animals with two dicks, and the way it used to be

SFBG: So how did you become San Francisco’s premier animal sex guru?
Jane Tollini: I met a pair of lesbian geese named Alice and Gertrude. They stood out to me because, even thought hey had full access to a male goose named Henry Miller, they didn’t want to be with him. Alice and Gertrude laid eggs for each other and then they took care of them as a couple. It was such strange behavior; I just couldn’t help wondering what other kinds of kinky things animals got into. Well, as an animal keeper, I soon found out. When you get to the zoo first thing in the morning, you see a lot of things other people don’t see, believe me. I remember thinking things like “My God, it’s longer than my arm! It’s got a flowering doohickey on the end of it!” Soon after I started at the zoo, I was put in charge of the penguins and that’s when I really started to notice some weird behavior.

Take it outside this summer

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By Juliette Tang

watermelons0609.jpg

Reading this article about the risks of summer sex in LiveScience got me thinking about how I hate it when these sorts of alarmist articles come out, proclaiming the tired cliche that outdoor sex is bad for you. Not bad in the sense that it might land you in jail or cause you public humiliation if discovered, but bad — i.e. dangerous — because you might get sunburned, risk exposure to bacteria that live outdoors, or get your genitalia stung by a poisonous jellyfish (seriously?) from the ocean. We all understand that going outside to have sex comes with certain risks. But we also know that even though every so often another article will be published reiterating the same message, people will still be having sex outdoors. Let’s face it: outdoor sex is fun and people like it.

Even though sex on the beach might be more burning than hot, with the potential of, literally, sandpapering your sexy bits (sand, friction, ouch!), it’s not like people will simply stop doing it. Entire generations have had their fantasies fueled by the beach scene in From Here to Eternity. As a society, beach and other types of outdoor sex have made it on our collective list of “sex acts to have before you die,” right up there with the menage-a-trois and having sex on an airplane. If we didn’t take our outdoor sex seriously, why is there a book called The 50 Places to Make Love in Golden Gate Park? Instead of merely listing the risks, these articles would be light years more useful if they gave people clear alternatives (sex by the pool, for instance, instead of sex by the beach) or helpful tips on how to make outdoor sex safer. That way, we can all stop freaking out and start getting freaky, especially since summer is finally present — or as present as it will ever be — in San Francisco.

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