or Y U No Draw the Dick, Moof?
A while ago, I had gotten an interesting question from one of my readers. She said to me, you know moof, you’re always drawing these pretty boys, or boys kissing… but where is the dick? Why do you never draw their dicks, moof? For that dearest reader, I present to you……
I drew it, but you are spared. Another for the tentacle lovers. (Work in progress)
Why did I never draw the dick? HAVE I even drawn a dick, ever? I realized with a start that my dick-drawing experience was limited entirely to scribbling unsophisticated cocknballs in the margins of my school work in days of yore. This conversation with this friend happened months ago and in its wake, I did make a few half assed attempts to pin the tail on the donkey so to speak, but whenever I got to the crotch area, my pencil would get shy. Wither. Performance anxiety. And you know I’m not such a shy moof, but it seemed dirty somehow.
Well, not last night. Last night, at two in the morning with a Nazgul sleeping hard in the next room, I decided I was going to Draw the Dick. And I did! And it was so pretty and veiny and triumphant that I wanted to share it with you and this particular reader, but something tells me I’d get in trouble with WordPress and that many of you …. don’t really care to see it, so you guys are just going to have to take my word for it that under that rage face is an EXTREMELY handsome specimen of a penis.
In other news. I’m kind of in a fight with my mom. : ( Is it in bad taste to bitch about your mom on the internet? (Probably about as bad taste as posting a picture of a penis covered by a rage face…) Oh well, you know how much I like my mom, so it’s nothing personal, and I’ve bitched about my mother in law on this blog, so maybe it’s only fair And then, this fight is a little bit unique:
It’s about lesbians in space.
I have to go back to set up the story a bit. I have to go back about two years ago when I was trying to sell my first book to a small press called Manic D. One of their submission requirements was that you read at least one book they had released and explain why you thought your work was compatible with their material. At that time, I was trying to sell them a story about an astrophysicist who finds a tear in the fabric of space-time that allows him to go back in time and alter the…
Wait a minute.
No, I was trying to sell them a story about sexxxxxx so I perused their online offerings, trying to find the sexiest cover that might be sandwiching contents relevant to my writings. I didn’t have to look far. A few rows down their virtual bookshelf, I found a cover featuring a dog-collared, hairless, smooth twinktorso against a faux-jaguar background. Beads of sweat and sparkles may or may not have been added via Phoshop. The cover to a story of a happy-go-lucky 19 year old boy who falls into a mind-altering obsession with a dropdead gorgeous older hustler named Colin (hottest hustler name ever?!?)–I knew right away that ‘Gutterboys’ by Alvin Orloff was my boy. Only problem was that Manic D didn’t ship overseas. No prob–I entered my mom’s address back home in the states and went on with my life.
A few weeks later my mom tartly informed me on the phone that a book had arrived for me in the mail. ‘Oh, for me? Are you sure?’
“I’m sure. It’s called,” the temp of her voice dropped 20 degrees. “Gutterboys.”
She said ‘gutterboys’ like other people says ‘he’s in the last stages of syphilis’.
I tried to keep my tone bright.
“Oh yeah! Gutterboys! I forgot I had ordered that… Can you send it to me? They didn’t ship to Europe…”
“Why do you have to read a book called ‘Gutterboys’ so much that you had to have it shipped to me?”
“Oh, don’t worry.” I reassured her. “It’s research!”
That was a good four years ago, but I recognized that tone instantly again in my mom’s skype font last week in 2012. Deja vu?
“Did you order some book for yourself and have it shipped to me?”
I had ordered in fact several books in the last few weeks, and I was wondering which one she could mean.
“It’s small…” She went on slyly. I wondered why she didn’t just tell me the title.
“I ordered a zombie horror novella. Maybe you’re talking about that. It’s called ‘Eat Your Heart Out.’ Is that it? I’ve been wanting to read it for a while. It was another book released this year by my press.. It’s got zombies.”
“And lesbians!” She typed accusingly. I blinked. Yes, the book did have lesbians as well as zombies.
“And lesbians.” I added. . “It’s about a lesbian couple fighting zombies….”
Her font jabbed at me.
“You know… I can understand a book like yours… but this? THIS? What, so… they [they are the gays] they just write books now about anything to stick lesbians in our faces?? What’s next? Lesbians in space? Lesbians solving crimes? It’s just like all those black shows on TV!!”
I didn’t want to tell her that I was 100 percent certain that niche fiction did exist for lesbian sci-fi and the like… maybe I was too busy fuming.
I like my mom, no scratch that, I love my mom, which is why it’s so frustrating to talk to her sometimes. It’s like.. how can I like someone this much who never sits down and thinks: Hey. As a white, North American straight woman, I relate most to white, North American straight women. Maybe… just maybe.. a lesbian relates more to lesbians sometimes… or maybe black people also like to see shows with characters that relate to them.
Not to ‘stick it in our face.’ A phrase I fucking hate. It’s just so presumptuous, this ‘sticking it in our face.’ Yes, I wanted to tell her. Lesbians and blacks and minorities in general should only create shows, literature and art that explains to YOU, the majority, why you shouldn’t lynch them. They have NO RIGHT to create these things simply as entertainment for their own community. In fact, any time a lesbian puts her nib to the paper, she is probably only doing so to try to turn you, the straight person, into a carpetmuncher!
Our argument took a definitive turn for the worse when Victor Hugo was once again evoked. Mr. Hugo, who wrote such wonderful literature without a single swear or lesbian in sight.
Well, I’m sorry. I wanted to yell. As much as you can yell while texting on Skype. I am NOT Victor Hugo, and neither is this young woman who wrote this lesbian zombie thriller, but what can I say? I create stuff I like about subjects I find moving/sexy/weird in the hopes that other people with like minds will like them too and NOT to convince closed minded people otherwise. Because frankly, I don’t care. If you like what I like, cool. And if you don’t, then a big, wet, juicy, tentacled
pgfffftttttgggggbbbbbbbbbb <3 <3 <3