I usually reserve Gay For… for hetero man-crushes based as much on respect and admiration as the wrong twinges in my groin - but digging out tunes for a party in tribute to Electroclash, the gayest genre of the Naughties, flipped me into all-out bum-lust.
The object of my infections is Fischerspooner, the New York artcore scene’s answer to the Pet Shop Boys; specifically, frontman Casey Spooner, who comes across (you) like Neil Tennant dragged from his dressing up box into a dungeon where the walls drip with semen, blood and engine oil.
As a performance artist cum actor cum honey-tongued singer, Spoony C embodies a modern day Renaissance man, only wrapped up in glitter, drag and drama. Like he told Suicidegirls, “I need it all. I need sensuality, I need intelligence, I need expression, I need physicality.” Well said, Casey - now shut up and lick me.
Vintage Gay For…!
First appeared on Manflet in March 2010.
You make it look so easy
Pen to paper
Mind on overtime
Like you just need two hours sleep
Two cups of coffee
Thick and black as crude oil
Like all you need to be a poet
Is to reach into the pit
Of your stomach
And spill its bile over the page
Screw up your eyes
Screw your face
And hope that what comes out is more than
Pile of shit
You know that urban myth about the guy who bets his friends he can get a girl to touch his dick on the first date, and wins it by poking said member through the bottom of his popcorn box? Well that guy was Mickey Rourke, in his breakthrough performance as “Boogie” in 1982’s Diner.
What’s so charming about this scene, what makes you fall in love with young Mickey, is not the dicky trick itself - which isn’t big or clever, and more than a bit gross - but the way in which he explains himself to his date: he was just trying to relieve the pressure from the massive hard-on she was giving him. In a way (although he leaves this unsaid), the whole thing’s her fault, and besides, it’s a pretty huge compliment.
With his cheeky grin, Rourke sells this line - and you completely forgive the girl for buying it. Hypnotised by his dirty-dog, come-to-bed eyes, you think you can make out the faintest hint of guyliner. This juxtaposition of masculine and feminine features - the boxer’s nose (before the boxing caved it in), sitting between sky-high cheekbones and above bee-sting lips, all framed with a strong jaw brushed with stubble - meant that women wanted to be with him, and men wanted to be him. And then jack off in front of a mirror.
Time hasn’t been kind to Mickey Rourke, and neither have violent sports, substance abuse or plastic surgery. You have to agree with his character in The Wrestler, that he’s an “old, broken-down piece of meat”, and if you were feeling cruel you’d suggest that the meat he most resembles is bacon - a Francis Bacon. But behind all that bruised flesh hides a heart throb, and one who now sports arms the size of tree trunks. Put a bag over your head, Mickey, and hold me..
Vintage Gay For…!
First appeared on Manflet in September 2009.
or: De-clothed in the Homo-torium
OK, so rock has always flirted with the homoerotic, with prog the biggest sausage-fest of the lot. All that self-gratification - wanking off your instrument for no one’s pleasure but your own, while a sweaty, writhing mass of men gaze on longingly…
Well, even with all the latent gayness at the Mars Volta gig at Somerset House this week, my subconscious managed to take things too far. About four minutes into a seven minute instrumental psyche-out, I shut my eyes for a moment. And what should pop into my mind but an image of - what’s that? Lead singer Cedric Bixler-Zavala… doing… me?
Never mind that he looked like Gary Sinise with Anita Dobson’s hair, or that he was wearing a shirt that a dart player would be proud off - but probably couldn’t fit an arm into - or that my idea of sex with him was face to face (were we just rubbing our bits together?) and looked a bit like jazz dancing; that split-second between me and the Texican troubadour was totally freakaay. Man.
Vintage Gay For…!
First appeared on Manflet in July 2009.
Please change your mind and join Kyuss on its reunion tour next year. PLEASE. I know you’ll have to smoke fucking truckloads of weed to get in the right frame of mind, but I’m sure you’ll be able to find *some* willing fan to give you a blow-back. No, I said blow-BACK, you dirty sexy ginger bastard.
Hugh. Jack. Man.
Such a bloody bloke, they gave him two men’s names, and then stuck a “man” on the end for good measure.
Buff, bristly and brooding - he’s exactly the kind of guy you wouldn’t mind catching in bed with your missus because, hey, you get it. Hell, you might even try to steal a feel of rock-hard, molten-hot, battle-worn flesh…
Phew! OK, so this is partly an extension of my boyhood crush on Wolverine. In my pastel pink, pseudo-homo daydreams, Hunky Hugh will forever appear as the man’s manimal from Marvel. He rides his chopper down the highway of our heart, clad in painted-on leather, whiskers flowing in the wind, with a heady musk issuing from his chewed-down cigar.
And now, with the added emotional complexity injected into the character by the new X-Men Origins film, I can really picture him cradling me in his arms, watching the light fade from my eyes and vowing to avenge my death. Sigh…
Vintage Gay For…!
First appeared on Manflet in May 2009.
Tonight Matthew, I’m going to be…. anything you want me to be.
I’ll swoon when you look in my direction across the dancefloor of Berghain/Kantine; I’ll marvel at your out/up-standing quiff, and fantasise about slipping into your tight tux; I’ll be astounded by how you can turn the XX’s “VCR” into “Heroes” and get away with it; I’ll be heartbroken when you don’t play our song “Gem”; but I’ll still walk away into the snow smugly satisfied that electronic music can be performed. Back at home, I’ll listen to Black City over and over again, and fall in love with you a little more each time.