Three Boys / One Cup

Book time! Wee, what a selection! Didn’t mean to make it theme reading, but so it turned out to be. Three books, three boys– I’ll start with my favorite.

Portnoy’s Complaint – Philip Roth

From one of the still living emperors of American literature, I finally got around to this book, as recommended by a good friend.. My random but by no means conclusive sampling of Roth’s work so far concludes that he has a healthy and indeed admirable obsession for screwing. Which I’m down with. ‘Portnoy’ however, isn’t about just any boy’s fantasies about screwing–they are specifically a Jewish boy’s desire to ‘put the id back in Yid’, be it in an Isreali hotel room, in between the legs of his shikse (non-Jewish)  illiterate underwear-model girlfriend, or back home in his mother’s kitchen, having some good old-fashioned sexual communion with the liver… (Remember those times? Back when you were… Oh, I dunno. Somewhere between 10 and 18 and you felt that nobody would ever, EVER want to screw you? And so, in your desperation, you violated random objects in your house, including but not limited to foodstuffs and the sofa pillows your mother embroidered with such loving care?) We want to forget that those times existed, but Roth brings them back into blistering and hilarious focus.
Ahaha, just a sample:

-She called me a kike! She’s an Anti-Semitic, Babalu!
-And what do I give a shit? All I know is I got laid, twice. [...]
Oy, civilazation and it’s discontents! I have to know and with details–exact details! What about her nipples? What about her thighs? What does she do with her thighs, Ba-ba-lu, does she wrap them around your ass, like in the hot books, or does she squeeze them tight around your cock until you want to scream, like in my dreams?

Read ‘Portnoy’ and blast all your meek Jewish boy preconceptions to pieces!

For something totally different, we have The Discomfort Zone. If you read a few entries back, you’ll see that Jonathan Franzen’s ‘Freedom’ almost gave me a heart attack at the tender age of thirty, but as one contemporary American novelist vying for a seat in that glorious and sadly thinning Pantheon of US Writing Gods: Philip Roth, John Irving, Tom Wolfe, John Updike and Norman Mailer, Franzen’s a Big Deal, he’s writing Literature, so this was my attempt to give him another go and see what I was missing. “The Discomfort Zone” is his autobiography of growing up in the middle class in the middle of the century, in the middle of America. As he put it: In the middle of the middle. And though ‘Zone’ did not drive my blood-pressure to the unhealthy heights ‘Freedom’ did, let’s just say that Franzen was one of those kids who would have never. Ever. Ever.


Admitted to fucking any piece of lunch meat or inanimate object, no matter what teenage sexual duress he suffered and that may as well be the long and short of why him and I can never get along. I found myself enjoying the writing most when it focused on some random aspect of American culture. Birdwatching, the cartoonist Charles Schultz or after-school church groups. When he focused on himself, for all the supposed ‘self-deprecation’, I got the impression that he thought he was a pretty effin awesome guy. Which is fine, it was the smoke screen that irked me.

Bottom line: Franzen can take the seat vacated by Updike (I never got into him either) but too much brains and not enough balls for this moof’s taste.

Which brings me to: Felching. Do you know about felching? Do you wish to know in intimate detail what it looks, sounds, feels, smells and tastes like? Then look no further, mon ami. My last book of recent times was…. ::drum roll:: Forty Dollar Buttboy. By Jackman Hill. Don’t even ask why I have this book in my house. The details are hazy. If you do end up using our bathroom in the next few months, you will probably find it, nestled on top of the detergent and without having to feel even an atom of guilt, I encourage you to cast off all memories of nuns slapping you on the palms for reading dirty books and open ‘Buttboy’. Skip the first two tedious pages of ‘story’ and get right into the gritty gritty world of hard-core college boy on boy hustling. One page of ‘Buttboy’ provides a better smorgasbord for ‘dick’ and ‘butthole’ synonyms than 1000 pages of another book could even dream to supply (unless it’s Franzen and then he would have to write 100,000 pages), and if you flip around here and there, you will find these two items combined in every possible sexual scenario with a Unicef rainbow of rods from around the globe. Except for Asians. No Asian meatslabs representing in this piece and I want to write Mr. Hill and tell him that if he thinks Asian prongs have no place in the world of nympho-boy hustling, he is sorely mistaken. I mean surely mistaken.

And now I wait with breath that is bated for the next party where I can jump in and say: “Oh felching? Why yes, I know exactly what that is….”

All right moofies. Time to get my sleep because tomorrow, we are going to the Isar. My favorite man is going to wear his Mankini, in honor of summer finally here, and take around my favorite mini-man. I can’t wait to see peoples’ faces… OMFG, you were allowed to have a kid?!?

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