penis a la laid-a-aways

andy pink, jamestown, usa —

from headless lice to lifeless men —

andy here —

mike says he sent in the corrections for the book, 'pervert-schizoid-woman,' to which i have dedicated this site, to the printer, it should be 2 weeks for them to make the adjustments, then he'll proofread the text twice, find a few errors, and then we should be good to go; mike said he suspects that the book will be published around his father's birthday — october third — of all times, and that would be wondrous, we all agree, as the book is dedicated to his father's dead soul, as all souls are properly dead and gone, as:

'for jonathan williams — and the hearse he rode in on.'

mike agreed with me — but i'm an observer, as andrew pink — that the dedication tag would be best served by his mother, lucy, whose husband, jonathan, most certainly rode in on a horse, if a first cousins horse, which indeed turned out to be a hearse-horse, or at least a black stallion, but mike also feels like the properly oedipal (or at least castrative) subtext of the book makes the strong amorous and sexual text of the relationship between alive son and dead father appropriate to the dedication of the book. but is it uncomfortable for the reader? — only if visible perhaps, but i suspect, as does mike, that the reader will imagine that this anonymous 'jonathan williams' will be read as the author's ex-husband or even ex-boyfriend — and this will no doubt leave the reader with the impression either that mike is a bit older than he is or that this ex-husband or ex-boyfriend is much a bit younger than he should have been when he passed from buck chariot to gray ash. mike says he likes the idea of being considered a queer widower in his text, but he also enjoys the ambiguity of the relationship in the dedication — father or boyfriend, dad or husband? — and in fact this fissure is internal to male (homo)sexuality no matter its unresolved etiology.

andy is over here at hoodlo cafe in charlestown, finally mike is back, i'm but 13 or so feet from him, he is behind the counter, working the espresso machine, i'm at my hot seat for him to give him his prize, to be deferred, he's wearing his maroon cap, baseball style, i can't see what the title of his cap is, something quaint, or local, random, but not unknown and unseen by him, with a contextual sense, local, for him, he wears his sneakers, they are dirty, i won't have access to them, i can't see them behind the counter, they will be veiled from me all morning, but they support him, i shall like to handle those sneakers, take them on and off of his souls, watch his feet, touch them, speak to them, play my musical keyboard to his feet, on his feet by his feet, wearing his sneakers, looking at his cap, remembering the local memories that we share with each other as we remember to make up the references to this past as we go along here toward our future, together, on the clock, at hoodlo cafe in charlestown, here while i tapa tap, type for you, he scoops the ice, bends, leather belt, chubs, pale, and a red apron, darker maroon, to match off his cap, he is dreamy, in my departed nightmare from him, and i am the only one in this arthouse who knows it, i wonder why the rest of the patrons miss it — his voice — edged, low — but committed, engaged, 'i know, it's like,' — am i seeing what they miss, and hearing — or are they missing what i see — and hearing — or am i missing his, or hearing his — feet shoulders knees and toes —

penis —

the paradigmatic issue with the penis is:

could the testicles do the job on their own?

i like to spend my time with the balls, the ballsack is one of the great mysteries of mankind and though i am not one to believe the sacrosanct words of a coke addict like mister charles darwin whose survival of the species, endurance of the fittest, persistence of the heterosexualist — such is the reduction of the queer — elevation of the homosexual — to the antispecies beyond both the plant and animal kingdoms to the beyond of reproductive futurity — the posthuman, the postspecies, the postplant, the postanimal of the paradigmatic x-man of the antifuture — we, queers, need none of mister charles darwin and his survival of the heterosexualist — nor his precious ballsack and its futurist sperm, but it begs the question: why does the gay man and his eager mouth and hungry ass — why do andy and mike at hoodlo cafe, his sneakers and my laptop — why do we each beg, from the bare minimum of this 13 feet that separates my mouth from his ballsack, why: why do i want my balls wrapped around his tongue with such ferocity, and drool, with his sneakers wrapped around my neck, with his grotesque voice, 'i know, it's like,' and the feet, and his chunky, short, with cap, and local references, remembering our fond nostalgia for his balls, thinking: 'when will andy finally return to mike's cock?' — will it be hours, around these perfect balls before andy returns to the shaft and the head, before andy, who can only summon the other mike, mr. williams, whose hearse rode out on a rope on november second nineteen eight-four, will mr. williams, posthaste, postfuneral, postreproduction, will mr. williams return to mike to cut off his balls and say one last time: 'i know, it was like' — how will i ever stop sucking this one man's balls?

the point: gay men should not like testicles. balls are the immediate source of sperm — though: the ball bones connected to the what bone? — and gay men have no necessary connection to the sperm/egg configuration of reproductive futurity and the american party which is none other than the children's birthday party and the one story that america invented: grow up, get married, and have kids. this is a story that mike — of hoodlo cafe in charlestown — so obviously wants to reject: the one american story and the children's birthday party, desperately, i would like to reject this story with him. but, beyond sperm, what is the gay man's relationship to the testicles, to take them in his mouth, to take their sperm down his throat, to take their cum up his ass — what is the purpose of sperm for the gay man? the answer is that gay men's sexual practice inverts the purported natural purpose of sperm — perverts nature's sovereign aim of reproductive futurity — and sacrifices the otherwise sanctity of sperm to the queerness of pleasure. rather than the objective of sperm for reproduction, gay men queer sperm for the goals of pleasure in the sacrifice of reproduction to the motives of hedonism. queerly, sperm becomes excess and superfluity — surplus — and it cannot be reincorporated into any system of rationality and reason except the pleasurable excess — getting off — of the climax of fag orgasm and fairy ejaculation. The queer destroys sperm, and it murders its offspring — the child and its birthday party. the dead child — this is the surplus of the queer's ejaculative orgasm — yes!

mike is terribly busy, w/o me, 13 steps from me — he cheats on me with her, she is a need, he must be attentive, she has bit parts and tiny buttons, quick times and customer demands, he must deftly interact with her, dexteritously mediate between others and herself, cajole and even speak with her, he knows her well, seeing her every morning, at 7, but a day off now and again, she haunts him, they must get on, they know each other intimately, this expresso machine, her spirit, better than me, i know him but little, he sees me, he wants to be close, he wants to know, he is curious, his penis, it is present, but it is hidden, i can take it, different from patrick's penis, whose presence overwhelmed me, i couldn't handle it, too much, an obscene presence, only enjoyed in its absence, unspeakable horror, was patrick's, a kind of vagina<>penis, out to destroy me, i could only manage it from a distance, barely writing about it, with patrick, i could only concentrate on his chest, very little time for his circular nipples, just the torso, and abs, perhaps the trail, i wanted to be — but i knew he would be incapable, he was cold and dark, it would turn out, and i would not be able to thaw him, but mike — he lives here, he loves here, and i will be made to be at his feet, and he is a btm, and today he is wearing the black comb tee, ode to henry rollins and the black flag we, i should tell lisa, but she will only worry, 'andy, you can't come home with a boy when you never comb your hair' — but with black flag black comb boy for sure, why not? — 'i know, it was like' —

oh dear, what will he think of my furniture? must purchase the new west elm art deco coat rack within the september time frame, and then the new etsy ruby mason jar table lamp for the dresser, then the picture frames, of the boys, in the naked ink, oh then more bonobos mess hall bits and storage unit wants, articles of fabric to fuck and suck — a penis plaid button down and a dildo selvedge pair of jeans and a cock v-neck merino wool sweater and a dick pair of cords —

yet again, as with patrick, my only real interest is in mike's chest. i could see enjoying his penis quite a bit but — and perhaps balls, i'd like to get to know, on a first name basis, maybe go to a baseball game or two together — but in the endgame, it will be me, mike, and his chest, forever, listening to black flag, with me as accompaniment in the background with the keyboard, to make love to mike, forever, this will be my destiny —

it's andy p to the k on musical keys —

love andy

mike's book should be out in about a month, then the stars really should start to align in the direction of this god and his sneakers, feet, voice, chest, and precious espresso machine —

if mike accidentally has three balls, the deal is off.

the raw deal of the matter is that i have no real interest in sex with mike. i just find him beautiful to look at — and this may have nothing to do with his physical beauty at all in fact, i think he is probably very plain handsome looking from a more conventional or traditional perspective, i can't gauge — but there is something about his presence that makes me ferocious and desperate, or puts me in an affective orientation that is high and at fire — at my best, bodily and textually. truth to the word, despite these alphabets and slangs: i just want to hang out with the guy and spend time with him. it's a rather simple story, a simple request, and perhaps not worthy of such writings, but only because a time together — i imagine: visiting on a swing — could spawn more, better, text, to come. but the other side of this request is that there is simply no way to make this affair happen. after the patrick debacle — about which i still hurt and wonder — i will not begin to make the same, or even similar, mistake twice, and i am not prepared to talk to him in the store, though there is the possibility that if i saw him outside of the store, at an undisclosed location, afar from charlestown, outside of hoodlo cafe, that, there is the possibility, on the outside, that i might wave my hand and gesture toward our future together. it would be up to the beautiful boy in the sneakers in that moment to utter, 'i know, it's like — '

: )

the cheery african-american woman was especially cherubic this morning and i've actually come to like her, i am unable to return these gifts of sunshine — no matter the weather — but she is young and i understand this disposition, i was quite enthusiastic in college, a perpetual type of freshman at swarthmore, and i really enjoyed it, had the enthusiasm, and a kind of 'cynical optimism,' brightness, i suppose, and though andy has since grown into a radical with an edgy wittiness that can veer toward a dark wryness in its most sober and down moments, my masochistic good humor keeps this ship afloat even at the crucial instances when the ship come ashore appears to be a black freighter on the horizons rather than a disney cruise line. mike — ashore boy —

i would also like to update you all on the vagina poetry: it is going fairly well but slowly; it is harder than i suspected it to be; i think that writing penis poetry — which i may do later, in a different context, but on this website — would be easier, if only because male sexuality, and boy queerness, is better articulated than is female sexuality — but, in any event, there are two vagina poems up and i like both of them. the barbara vagina section is slow to come but i will be working on it in the next week and it should be completed within the september time frame. i am also at work on pieces of the manifesto to post so that we can move that along; stay tuned, dicksacks and bagballs!

love andy pink