Sodomy à la mode

You know, as a gay guy I've never really had a problem with fucking someone in the ass. It's often a really enjoyable experience - sometimes on both ends - and "anti-sodomy" people have quite frankly become a joke in recent years. What's so wrong with fucking someone in the ass?

Oh - oh dearest, cock-handling me, and excuses all around. I forgot about the goddamned Liberals. We all know these guys are sensitive people, and we wouldn't want to offend their sensibilities. Let's see what those sensibilities are, because God knows that Liberals can get nasty when Liberals get offended.

For starters, there's things like Enron, or Wall Street. Those are bad words, because they mean a bunch of rich people fucking a bunch of not-so-rich people in their not-so-rich asses. I can understand the case against sodomy there, although I think we have better things to worry about. But let's take Catholics - Catholics is another bad word, because a flock of frocked middle-agers decided that little boys were easy prey - and by "prey" I mean, "fuck-in-the-buttable" - by little boys, I mean "Damn, they're only thirteen." - by "frocked middle-agers" I mean a bunch of weird guys, blessed with dicks that God "told" them never to use. No wonder they took the easy prey...

But now I'm sidetracking, and probably offending the Liberals (are the Conservatives queasy yet?). The point is, if an Enron or a priest or a babysitter fucks someone in the ass, it's wrong and against the law. If a man like myself - with all my own dirty little quirks and quinks and quibbles - if a man like myself actually fucks a person in the ass, it's really cool. It's actually awesome. It's protected by laws and lobbyists and pressure groups. Feminists jump around us and tell us how spectacular we are for doing it. The President himself comes down from his world-rearing perch and kisses us on the cheek - and all I can think is "Fuck. that. shit."

If you want to tell me that having a cock, or a carrot, or a cucumber rammed up your asshole is a pleasurable experience, well hell, I'll listen to what you have to say. I bet it is, and I'd try it if not for my hemorrhoids. But if anyone with a virgin asshole - and by that I mean "anyone who has never been fucked in the ass by a cock or a carrot or cucumber" - if any of them tries to tell me that being fucked in the ass is a horrible thing metaphorically, and a human right when actually done physically (with cock, carrot or cucumber) - well damn. That kind of person has no idea what the hell he's talking about, and shouldn't be talking.

Fucking is part of Life. Being fucked is also part of Life. The ramming of something up somebody's somepart has been an established human practice for millions of years, and our primate predecessors still do it today. But this new thing, this "legislation" - for or against anyone fucking anybody - is stupid, and boring, and pointless: because people will keep fucking each other in the pooper, regardless.

So I have an idea (we'll call it an alternative): let's take all those good intentions and stick them up our asses - or better yet, since I have hemorrhoids, let's stick them up the Liberals' asses, and we'll at least spare me the pain (sorry if you're a Liberal with hemorrhoids). Take your laws against sodomy, and stuff 'em right up. Take your pressure groups in favor of, lube 'em up all slick, and slide 'em right on in. Because the truth of the matter is, people are going to fuck people - in the ass - and they're not going to feel any better or worse about it because of You Self-Righteous Pricks.

And if anyone was wondering, I will fuck you in the ass to prove my point. If you buy me dinner. And snuggle afterwards.

Hey, boy. Hey.

I'm scared to say that I love you. I'm scared of all the little things that could go wrong, and the things I could lose. I'm scared of the things I could gain - but mostly I'm scared of being embarrassed. In fact -

I'm embarrassed.

Let's be honest: I'm just all-around inside/outside embarrassed. I'm embarrassed of the way my heart moves, or that part of my brain I like to call "my heart" - it's way down in the bottom and way up at the top, and it leaks around the sides and gets gooey in the cracks. I'm embarrassed of the little nosey-snuggle things it wants me to do to you, and the stubbornness, and the silly way it laughs. I'm embarrassed, because it thinks you think that I think too much. Too little.

I'm embarrassed.

I'm not even sure you could handle that part of me. I think it's too fat, too sweaty, too fuzzy and sticky. It's got too many tongues, not enough fingers, and two big, rosy cheeks that would smother a cute little face like yours. I think it probably wants to smother your face. It wants to lick you, and tickle you, and poke at your belly. It wants to walk up behind you while you're eating your breakfast and put its head on your shoulder, so it can see what you're eating. Maybe you'll feed it some yogurt. I think it really hopes you will.

It probably doesn't want to hold your hand in public, although it might. It definitely doesn't want to go down on you in a movie theater.

I'm embarrassed.

I have a part that doesn't get to see daylight very much. It could be my own fault, and it could be yours - do you have to be so intimidating? It keeps trying to come out and play, but it's scared of the big boys and the bullies - it thinks you might be one. It's scared of "No," and "Maybe," and "I don't think so." It's scared of rejection.

I don't know all the things it would do if it got out. It might go shopping, but I don't think so. It would probably snuggle up with you and watch a movie, but I don't think you would let it. It would certainly stare at strangers from across the room, and forget to file its tax returns, and eat its own boogers. On Saturdays it would dress up as Charlie Chaplin and dance with jiggaboos in local Irish pubs, and on Sunday it would go to church as Hitler so it wouldn't have to shave. It would keep both costumes clean and pressed. Shoulder pads on Sunday.

I'm embarrassed.

It wants you to know all these things and more, but it can't seem to make me tell you. It wants you to love, and be loved, and it's jealous enough to want me to be the loved and the lover - but I'm scared of it. I'm scared of it, I'm scared of my sticky-fluffy part - and that's why I'm embarrassed.

But I do think you'd like him. And he'd like you.