— Originally published in Honcho magazine - December, 1996 —

PRIMPING

by Lefty Boylan (aka Michael Kirwan)

Last week I accompanied a friend of mine to one of the clubs. His usual crowd had flitted en masse to one of the far-flung circuit parties that have mushroomed up around the country, and he felt that his popularity would be called into question if he showed up at the regular haunt alone. I avoid these places as a general rule. Paying fifteen or twenty bucks to get in the door seems like a waste of good drinking money to me, and the whole velvet ropes/creepy doorman/waiting-in-line business is just irritating. So after being ripped off in quick succession at the entrance, the coat check, and the bar (seven dollars for a watery gin served in a plastic eyewash cup), we elbow into a relatively shove-free zone to begin our evening of "fun."

The dance floor is too packed to move comfortably, the music is loud enough to cause bleeding from the ears, and lighting is so dark and furious that actual cruising becomes an exercise in futility. My friend mumbles something into my ear, and I study his face to see whether the proper response is to laugh, nod, cringe, or mouth an unintelligible retort. A combination shrug and pained smile seems to satisfy him, so he drifts off and I crunch into the bar mob to get my eyecup refilled. At some point, we're reunited and as my ears have adjusted to the continuous sonic boom, we talk.

He: Whaddya think?

Me: Boring, crowded, still sober.

He: But lookit all the hot boys.

Me: They're men, and I don't find them particularly hot.

He; What?

Me: Not hot.

He (surveying the mock revelry): You're just jealous.

But I'm not jealous — or even sure what I'm supposed to be jealous about. The cavernous room holds an army of beautifully muscled men swarming hither and yon, but I've yet to feel any desire to jump at anyone for a fuck-frolic. They're too studiously butch in their macho drag, too aware of themselves flexing, grouping in herds of similarly pumped-up manhood. They wear a patina of rugged masculinity, but it is of the fantasy kind, not real or deep or casual. The outfits, the buzz-cuts, the mirror-tested grins: it's all a sham. The whole scene strikes me as being forced, superficial, and self-conscious in a very feminine manner, and any hint of femininity limps out my libido big time. I associate the act of glamorizing one's self to become an object of desire with women. Men should be well-molded because their jobs are physically strenuous or because they play sports in their free time (I don't consider body-building a sport, regardless of the effort expended). The entire concept of rigorously contouring the body and adorning it with clinched accessories just strikes me as a very female activity, and therefore, not one to get my bone motivated. Oh, aesthetically, they're marvelous. Beautiful, chiseled, poised, luxuriously fleshed. But it's not accidental. It's not really that natural melding of random features that takes your breath away with its sheer gloriousness. Instead, it's frivolity, like make-up, more like fussy frills of lace and ribbon, the entire effect designed more to conceal than reveal. This dependency on physical hardware to impress indicates a lack of character and strength — the things I most associate with true masculinity. When I have someone's cock buried in my throat, I'm accepting their body, their life-force, an extension of who they are personally, and I want it to be a man, not a contrived facsimile. Man-sex shouldn't be based on beauty pageant standards, but on the raw animal needs of hunger and dominance. Jealous? I think not.

In my humble opinion, a man just shouldn't have to work so hard to look like one.