So, there I was, minding my own business…
And I read that the guy with the long, scruffy beard from Duck Dynasty can’t figure out why some guys might prefer a man’s anus to a woman’s vagina.
Ho, hum, another day in America. What’s on the Weather Channel?
It seems like just yesterday that we were all worried about Miley Cyrus “twerking” –although, being a homophobic, square, uptight, white Christian male, I am still not certain what that is. Nor, for that matter, am I sure what a “wardrobe malfunction” might be, except that CBS blamed thusly when Justin Timberlake ripped the front off of Janet Jackson’s top to reveal –oddly, not underwear– but a bare boob. I’ve (really) not affirmatively watched CBS since that Superbowl, now over ten years ago…
How time flies. And how one bit after another of traditional America is thrown on the bonfire. My memory is long: I can still see my mother at the kitchen table, now 45 years or more ago, writing letters to CBS demanding the ouster of the Smothers Brothers for allowing Judy Collins to croon wearing a crocheted top.
And I’m just supposed to sit here, and work myself into a lather about what the Duck Dynasty guy said… except that I agree with him. Not that I merely agree with his sentiment, and am somehow embarrassed about the crudeness of it. No, given the cultural parameters these days, where there is soft porn ornamenting the bottom of every news web site, and where Erectile Dysfunction ads are as common today as Wisk Laundry Detergent ads were when I was a kid, I think we’ve long since moved beyond any normative guardrails regarding modesty.
No, Phil Roberton’s words work just fine, thank you.
Anal sex, after all, is at the very heart of homosexual relations. Sorry, but it’s time to insert (-pardon the pun) a bit of unvarnished truth here. And, if you can ever get a real, breathing homosexual to delve honestly into the matter, they will tell you that ongoing, unrelenting anal (and oral, thrown in for variety) sex is the most fundamentally unsatisfying part of their relationship model. They know, in their heart of hearts, that they are missing something.
Homosexual sex, first and foremost, isn’t about lover per say: it is about humiliation and power. It may, at whiles, come to represent love, but– it is never loving. Just put yourself on the receiving end. As G. Gordon Liddy used to say, “In prison, you are either a pitcher or a catcher, and believe me, you don’t want to be a catcher…”
Yes, yes, I know: I am not sophisticated enough to understand, as the oft-quoted spokesman of GLADD sniffed, the “deep desires of the human heart”. We won’t mention that the deep desires of the human heart also include the covetousness that results in burglary, theft and embezzlement, or of the desire to rape, or the desire to cheat on one’s spouse. Human desires, I dare say, are more responsible for sheer misery, than just about any other human emotion. Stalin desired world domination– is there a deeper, more remote part of the human heart than that?
Which brings us to a broader point: We are constantly nagged to have “honest conversations about race”. When are we going to have an honest conversation about sex? Somewhere in the summer of ’67, it just became the accepted wisdom that “uninhibited” “free” “feel good” “sex” was the best in every sense of the word; Anyone who disagreed must be a button-down, uptight square.
Or a —gasp— Christian.
Except one thing: Loving, Christian, Heterosexual married sex rocks. It just does. Everything else pales in comparison, including that to which Robertson was alluding: Sex with that woman, and that woman, and that man, and that horse….
And I refuse to be quiet about it any more. I will no longer be closeted by terror-minded queers (a nome de plume these gentlemen adhere to themselves). I love my wife, and I love our sex life. I never have to worry about being caught by my wife, because, well, she’s part of the equation. I don’t have worry about AIDS, I don’t have to worry about her missing a period, I don’t have to worry about whether or not she’s older than 16, or married to anyone else. I don’t have to worry about the guilt, and the shame, and taking some penicillin just in case.
I think I will organize a “Hetero Married Pride” parade, featuring floats of dress-wearing moms, and tie-clad dads.
But, speaking of soft porn seeping from every pore of the culture, I can’t help but notice that it seldom features man-on-man images. We are always told that America’s attitudes toward Gay-dom is changing, yes it is, dammit, but I can’t help but notice that the soft-porn industry, which is now used to sell everything on the Web from t-shirts to Caribbean cruises –can’t quite bring itself to show us how much these attitudes have changed.
Which, evidently, isn’t much: Jared and Zales and Kay still sells it’s engagement rings in stultifying Victorian terms, and the consumer world still gets upset when a gay-themed commercial is shoved down our throats. Tony Randall starred in a sit-com in the 1970’s called Love, Sidney about a gay single man that purported to slash the envelope of bourgeois society, and every couple of years since, we are treated to another sit-com that purports to do the same… And they all fade into the same bit of obscura, destined for failure because, well…
Homosexuality isn’t normal. It can’t find an audience, no matter how hard Hollywood and the cultural elites try. And believe me, they’ve been trying since Oscar Wilde first hit the best-seller lists. We’ve always gotten a kick out of Gay Chic, but when we scratch a bit deeper than the flamboyance and devil-may-care, we find despondency, sadness and debauchery.
There, I said it. I won’t stay in my closet any longer. I won’t be a prisoner of the far-left cultural tyrants, and their fairy-tale myth-making
I refuse! I am free!