The Cum-and-Go Culture

A rant by Nicholas Thiwerspoon about love between men and how homo-hatred spoils our love for each other.

Men from my generation of gay-shaded men (and surely it happens even now) would meet a bloke, rut like crazed weasels, and part. A purely animal lust. Let me say at once that there is nothing wrong with lust. We treat sex dichotomously: it is either sacred (the most sacred being marriage between a man and a women) or it is profane (a random pick-up at a bar; opening your legs for any man;taking it up the bum.) This split derives from religion (St Augustine, in particular.) The religious horror of pleasure for pleasure's sake is a Christian invention. Sex within marriage is sanctified (though even there, the Catholic church still teaches that if a man lusts after his wife, he is committing a sin) because its purpose, supposedly, is for the procreation of children, not for anything so revolting and immoral as pleasure.

We are supposed to feel bad about profane sex, and uplifted about sacred sex. Just take a quick look at all the ads and stories about marriage in women's magazines. Marriage is the ultimate goal of sex. Man and wife can fuck all day, and their friends and parents smile indulgently. But any other form of sex, ending with male-to-male sex at the bottom of the rankings, is 'disgusting', 'dirty', 'immoral' to varying degrees. Yet it's the same part A into slot B. In one set of circumstances it's desirable, wonderful, ecstatic and uplifting. In another it's grubby or worse. Huh? And this entirely confected vision of 'good' sex and 'evil' sex contaminates and spoils all forms of sex, even the holy matrimony kind, because it means you always have to be careful to keep your actual sex uplifting. By doing it in the dark perhaps? Or only in the missionary position? Oral sex is profane. Anal sex evil. But the missionary position is sanctioned … by the Lord.

This nonsense is especially pernicious to gay relationships. We struggle against the silent or noisy disapproval of society, but these unsaid and implicit values make us doubt ourselves, even if we are not aware of it.

You can read more here.

Promise

Promise, by Brian Holliday (who is a frequent contributor to our magazine, and whom we have invited to join us as editor), is a lovely story about love and honour, set in a time when we did things differently.

Inside, there wasn’t much space to spare, just a small table at one side, with two wooden benches, and a lot of closed cabinets. A heavy curtain hung just behind the farthest bench. Everything was clean enough to please Mama, but the smells were heady and masculine: tobacco and harness soap and sweat. Thomas and Papa sat on opposite sides of the table, and I crouched on a little stool by the door, goggling at the private place that belonged to Thomas.

Thomas brought out two glasses and poured an inch of amber liquid into each, pushing one toward Papa. I’d never seen Papa take strong drink, except the medicinal whisky Mama spooned out for the chilblains, but he picked up the glass and took a sip, nodding appreciatively. “Kentucky,” he said.

Thomas smiled. “The best, sir.” And took a somewhat larger sip of his own.

Papa spoke: “I’ve given this a great deal of thought, and can think of no better way to ask.” He paused. “What are your intentions toward my son?”

The Frenchman

A dark but finely written story from a frequent contributor to Wilde Oats, Anel Viz, set in 1830s frontier America.

Fur Trapper's Log Cabin, Canada.  From Corbis Images

I asked Corniaud about the name he’d given the Frenchman. He said it meant hairy body, a good description, I thought, not that I ever saw more of him than his head: the shaggy, dark shoulder-length mane, bushy eyebrows and thick beard. His hairy hands, too. Only Corniaud knew what he looked like under his buckskins. They were lovers, after all. He didn’t keep Corniaud with him just to talk. If other people suspected, they kept it to themselves, as did I, who knew it for a fact. It neither embarrassed nor disgusted me that they slept together. Who’s to say I wouldn’t have done the same if I were in his place? Even a loner like the Frenchman can’t live without sex.

I don’t think it was by choice he lived with a boy instead of a woman. The Frenchman was not the kind of person who actively seeks companionship. No white woman would have had him even if he lived in town, and I couldn’t imagine he’d have thought it worth the trouble to haggle for a squaw. Corniaud fell into his lap by chance, and the arrangement suited him.

You can read more here.

Finding The Other Spirit

Finding The Other Spirit is a fascinating tale by Christopher Wagoner.  It fits right in with the theme of issue nine of Wilde Oats, frontiers, but it's a frontier of a different kind.

I glance over to the woman with the steno pad. Her short-cropped, graying hair makes her look rugged. Her face looks like it's seen its fair share of wind and rain. She's wearing green checkered flannel over a light sweater. Maybe she's an outdoor writer, used to how quickly Montana nights can steal your warmth if you aren't prepared. She's no longer scribbling on her pad. Instead she seems to have taken an unusual interest in the man under the cowboy hat.

My eyes skirt over to what seems to have piqued her interest. The man slouches back, his salt and pepper goatee tucked down tight against his adam's apple. The brim of his weathered hat dips to just below his eyebrows, hiding half his face. There's a stub of a Marlboro dangling between a pair of cracked lips. He's wearing one of those duster coats which hangs down the legs of his bar stool.

I can see the calluses of his hands from across the bar. His left thumb flicks the lid off his brass Zippo, igniting it in one smooth, practiced motion. He snaps it shut, killing the flame, only to repeat the motion a few seconds later. Each time the wick flares, the shadow masking his face recedes for a second, just enough to give a tantalizing glimpse. His features are a peculiar mix of Native and European blood.

It's hard to tell from his face alone how old he is. Past the goatee and hint of stubble, his cheeks look creased but not wrinkled. It's the look of constant windburn. He can't be much older than me. Middle thirties at most. I can tell by the glint in his eyes. Focused. Ravenous. Their amber irises flicker within the shadow mask like the flame of the Zippo they pretend to concentrate on.

Source : Wikipedia Commons

Fresh Pencils

Chris Castle has had a few stories in Wilde Oats and its predecessor over the years.  The story in this issue is entitled Fresh Pencils and it's a heartwarming story about ... well read it yourself!  It's not a Christmas story, but it's not inapt to the Christmas spirit either.

Issue 9 is up

With 10 stories; several book and movie reviews; a rant; and an interview with one of our editors.

The marvellous illustration below is by Linda Laaksonen  from a story by Nan Hawthorne called Le Beau Soleil.

Issue Nine of Wilde Oats

Our upcoming issue of Wilde Oats magazine has the theme of Western/Frontier.  We have several great stories in this theme.  We're busy putting the magazine together now, and hope to publish it in early December.