Sex Sellout

A billionaire dinosaur forced a strapping young man with oiled pectorals to become gay, and as a side effect I have decided to become a best-selling author of adverb-laden erotica.

 I love it when the page beckons, but it doesn’t happen often enough to make me a millionaire. My hope is that this has more to do with commitment than talent, and that the more I sit myself down in front of the writing machine, the more material (and therefore money) I will produce. The trouble is, however, that I write about things that strike me, topics that mean something, and moments that should matter as much to the world as they do to me, but don’t.

I must be as out of touch as my children sometimes think I am. Not only do I like corduroys and listen to singer songwriters that can write and sing and play music without auto-tuning, I can't tell you whether a yellow circle emoticon with closed eyes and tears denotes laughing or crying. But worse than all of that, I am also clueless about what matters to the world, and what people living in it want to read. The human condition has in fact, nothing to do with family struggles, personal insecurities, falling in love, winning or losing at life, and toilet paper. No, it’s all about shallow, musky, animalistic rutting...and that’s what sells books.

Hunter Fox learned this while still at UCLA, and has self-published more than fifty novels based on the concept of dinosaurs, unicorns, and just about every character you might find in Tolkien, turning men gay. His titles read like something out of Mad Magazine in the eighties, if Mad Magazine in the eighties had been as dirty as every boy that read it had wanted it to be, and if every boy that read it had wanted to be turned gay by mythical creatures. There’s even a saber-toothed tiger (not mythical) thrown onto the title pile for good measure, while my favorite title includes an alien hound, whatever that might be.

I checked the Amazon rankings for Mr. Fox’s books, and while the Amazon ranking system is not a clear indicator of sales and income, there is no doubt that this guy is making money at this. Sure, the titles are funny and bizarre, and if you belonged to a fraternity (shudder) or were homophobic (shudder) you might give one to a buddy as a “joke” gift, but does anyone read these books all the way through, and without laughing?

No, I can’t go out tonight, guys, I just downloaded “Dark Pegasus Made Me Gay” to my Kindle, and I can’t wait to snuggle up in front of the fire with a cup of cocoa and get started on it!

And lest anyone that is straight think that their attraction to the opposite sex affords them a lofty look down their nose at the smut preferred by some LGBT readers, I’ll mention Fifty Shades of Grey, Twilight, anything written by Danielle Steel, and the complete Harlequin Romance collection. All of them relative smut when it comes down to it, all of them laden with adverbs and descriptors that can’t be read without imagining heavy breathing and the popping of bodice buttons, all of them selling millions of copies. And those are just a few of the mainstream mentionables; many authors have made small fortunes by churning out series of formulaic filth that no one has heard of, or at least will admit to hearing of.

A bad day of writing at home beats a good day inside the corporate grist mill, and while I would be happy just making a comfortable, anonymous living by writing, I can admit that a part of me would not reject a sellout opportunity to become an international sensation, churning entire forests into pulp and putting endangered owls into owl retirement homes. I sometimes wonder, however, can that happen writing short stories about moments that matter? Should I sex up the telling of my best friend and me boiling our own urine on his mother’s kitchen stove to make gunpowder, just to land on the bestseller list and extricate myself from corporate America for good? Maybe some sexually frustrated neighbor girls stopped by to borrow the very pot we pissed into, and maybe the oven glove that I used to pull the pot of the stove caught fire, and the girls ripped off their shirts in order to smother the flames and save my life, and in doing so they ignited the lusty pressure keg of passion trembling within a sinewy, pale-skinned, virginal teenage boy.

It could have happened that way. No wait, it did happen that way, I swear...

Elizabeth and I joke about me becoming an erotica writer all the time. We imagine book titles, all of them weighted with innuendo and vice, taboo titles that suggest sensual struggles between wealth and poverty, daring and innocence, pleasure and pain. These titles lead to a discussion of racy cover photos, glossy images of men with naked, oiled, capable chests taking tragic women with bulging breasts and desperate eyes into their arms for lessons in lust while holding uncomfortable, even physically impossible poses sure to bring about deep vein thrombosis.

And I know what I'm talking about; I used to spend hours hiding in my aunt's basement thumbing through her romance novel collection, drinking in lusty covers, wondering at racy titles, and reading about heated embraces and throbbing passions. All of it made me feel funny inside, but I didn't completely understand why.

Well I understand now, and I think it's time to cash in on that realization.

Of course, in order to write erotica, I will need to choose an appropriate pseudonym, something like Dick Foxhunter or Richard Stonewood. Being a righteous family man that has never once let a lustful thought linger, and has worked for years to earn an untarnished reputation for knightly valor and virtuous gallantry, I would not want to risk the public knowing that I earn my stacks writing such filthy books.

Especially those members of the public that are my friends and family, more specifically the ones who would secretly not only read my dirty books, but also dog-ear their favorite pages.

Hand Me Ups and Downs

Headline: "Severed hand kept alive on man's ankle"

While I am fascinated, impressed, and even frightened by this news story, I can't help but think of the everyday applications. Let's start with how much easier it would be to scratch your foot if your hand was already down there, and then we’ll move on to the obvious places that need discreet attention at inopportune moments throughout the day. I am pretty certain that if there were a hand growing out of your face, no one would notice should you pick your nose, because they would be distracted by the fact that there is a hand growing out of your face. This leads of course, to the butt; a strategically located hand would allow covert scratching at any time, say for example, in church, while receiving an award, standing in a wedding reception line, or being arrested on network television.

I could go there, and I will: an extra hand grafted to the groin. Think about it: men around the world would finally be able to slump on the couch and watch football without their wives telling them to pull their hand out of their pants. But honey, if you want my hand out of my pants, I’m going to have to take my pants off!

Additional areas of life that would change dramatically, where having extra hands grafted onto the body become an elective surgery (eventually covered by Obamacare, of course).

Sex! (I leave the rest of that one up to your own imagination/perversion, only because my thoughts are too many to insert here.)

Not only would this change the way we scratch and screw, but it would also affect the way we play sports. Goalkeepers would choose to have hands grafted onto their shoulders, waists, and thighs to increase their stopping ability. Wide receivers playing American football would attach hands to their hands, increasing their chances at catching and hanging on to the ball, while running backs would move their hands down to their groin area, preventing defensive players from stripping the ball away (because no one wants to be seen groping another man’s privates out on the gridiron). Fencing, with the addition of extra foils (and the potential for blood), would become the most watched sport during the Summer Olympics, while wrestling would be banned for the disturbing and non-consensual holds that would occur out on the mat.

The guy from Cheap Trick would finally be able to play that double-necked guitar he has been carrying around all these years.

The criminal system would spawn the stuff of Kafka stories, as judges would begin to sentence criminals to hand-relocation surgeries. Thieves would have their hands put high up on their shoulder blades, rendering them all but useless in the practice of their craft. Empty the cash register and stuff the money into my fanny-pack or I’ll shoot in your general direction! Those found guilty of assault would be sentenced to have their hands attached to the sides of their head, making the throwing of a decent punch impossible, and if stubborn or angry enough to try, they would only cause themselves serious neck injuries. Anyone found guilty of a sex crime would have their hands grafted to their buttocks, which would seem like a reward for a few minutes, until their hands fell asleep and the realization that they will be sitting on numb, sensory-deprived hands for the rest of their lives set in.

Bi-Polar parenting would enter a new phase, as crazy parents would begin to spank and hug their children at the same time. This may be offset, however, by the fact that parents would be able to document their children’s lives in HD while actually participating in them at the same time.

Political speeches would be outlawed as a safety precaution, after several Howard Dean “yaw!” like moments ended in concussion. Politicians would also find it easier to plunder taxpayers, however, not just because they would be able to shake constituents hands while simultaneously pick-pocketing them, but because they would be able to cross their extra fingers behind their backs while promising lower taxes and financial security if voted into office. Bill Clinton’s extra hand would wipe away a single tear that threatens to drop down to his bottom (and bitten) lip as he shakes his head and wonders at what it would have been like to serve as both full-time President and pervert at the same time, Barbara Bush would come home to the ranch after shopping and find George in the living room, waving an extra pair of “thumbs up” high into the air, a paper banner with the words “Mission Accomplished” scrawled across it in crayon hanging above him.

Clapping would have to be banned due to the high number of burst eardrums at concerts, theaters, and elementary school plays.

Clothing designers would enjoy an influx of business for the first several months of hand-grafting, due to the demand for extra-hand accommodating fashions, but in time the stress of constant work under such demanding conditions would send them spiraling into depression. Worldwide charitable donations would flood in, providing each designer with an extra hand that would pat them on the back and bolster their self-worth enough to get them designing again.

All in all, the world would be a better place with extra hands. There would be so many hands, enough to make light work of the world’s issues. Homelessness would end (more hands for building), hunger would become a distant memory (so many hands for planting crops), and confident high-tens would replace awkward, limp, clammy handshakes between world leaders, essentially ending war.

Of course, we will have to be careful. With extra hands will come extra responsibility; just because we can does not mean that we should play with our phones while driving But Officer, I had two hands on the wheel!

Until, of course, the day comes that science Apple develops the iGraft, giving us four eyes; two for driving and two for texting.

Blurred Lines?

Lightning woke me from my coma-like sleep the other night. I thought it was my wife taking photographic evidence of my shaking-paint-from-the-walls snoring, but it turned out to be Mother Nature competing with me for noisemaker of the night.

Once up, I couldn’t fall back to sleep, and so I decided to watch the natural fireworks display with my wife and kids. They were sitting in the breakfast nook, surrounded by windows. The show was dramatic; brilliant bursts of white followed by menacing thunder that echoed along the mountains and up the canyon behind our house.

But the thunder and lightning wasn’t the real threat that night. The real danger befell us when I let the dark stranger into our home.

We have a doorbell. When it rings, we have to answer it and let in the person that rang it. That is the way it works, am I right? Just like the phone; if it rings, you have to answer it, and you have to speak to the person on the other end of the line.

Wrong.

I opened the door as lightning flashed, illuminating the dark stranger. He stood a head taller than me, dressed in a black overcoat and grinning like the devil when he’s found out you’re dead. He held a hunting knife in one hand, and a baseball bat that dripped blood and rain in the other.

“Hello,” he said. “I would like to come in, but won’t unless you invite me.”

“Well, come on in,” I replied, stepping aside to allow him passage.

And so he entered.

The dark stranger tore through our house, smashing precious memories with his bat and tearing priceless works of art from the walls. He opened our kitchen cupboards and threw our china out onto the floor, then rifled through our bedroom closets and tore apart our clothes. He set fire to our cars in the garage, kicked our computer down the stairs, and rammed a chair through the big screen TV. As he did, he wiped his filthy boots on the carpet, leaving the dark stains and wretched smells of dog mess and blood everywhere.

And then he got personal.

He grabbed my kids by their hair and dragged them into the basement, where he beat them bloody, stripped them to their underwear and tied them to chairs with extension cords. He sat down before them and started sharpening his blade, laughing as they sobbed, begging for their lives. Satisfied with their terror, he left the room, leaving them to whimper in the dark basement while he took my wife on a terrible tour of our home. He mocked her cries as he ripped memories into pieces, stomped on clean bedding, and slashed curtains and carpet alike with a massive hunting knife.

And as he did, I sat on the couch eating a bowl of cereal.

He soon left, slamming the door to mark the end of his rampage.

Only then did I get angry. How dare he enter my home, hurt my children, torture my wife, and damage my property beyond repair? I shouted and roared, waved my fist in the air, and promised vengeance. I stood in the middle of my broken home, my broken family around me, and I raged like never before.

Who had let this menace into my home?

Oh right, it was me.

I opened the door when the bell rang, and when I saw the massive and dark stranger standing there with weapons in hand, asking to come in, I welcomed him into my home.

The man oozed danger, smelled of damage, and personified evil, and yet I let him into my home.

I have no right to cry foul.

Okay, so none of this happened (except for the snoring and the lightning show), and the story is pretty over-the-top and dramatic, but the message is this: When given a choice, choose wisely, and accept the fact that you are also choosing a consequence, one over which you have little or no control.

I know that Miley Cyrus danced like a whore on a pole at the VMAs, but only because the news told me that people were angry about it. I know that two people were pressing their naked flesh together in a commercial that aired during “Good Morning America” because a mother decided to complain about it entering her home as she ate breakfast with her babies. (see her blog post that went viral and somehow became newsworthy here, but not until you are done reading mine)

My response to the righteous indignation of these out criers is as follows:

First, if you admit to watching the VMAs, I don’t really need to argue with you, your admission is fuel enough to burn your argument to ashes.

Second, if you are surprised by Miley’s behavior, I want a hit of whatever you have been smoking for the past several years, because you live in oblivion. That girl walked off the set of “Hannah Montana” and stepped on a large but unfunny banana peel, and she has been sliding around on her ass ever since. Wake up and smell the cheap and whorish perfume.

And finally, to Rebeca Seitz, the outraged mother and “GMA” watcher, who wrote that the sex-filled commercial was seen by her young son “because somewhere, someone made some decisions.”

No, Rebeca, someone made one decision, and that someone would be you. (Insert funny image captioned with “You’re Doing It Wrong!” here.)

You chose to watch “GMA” (really? GMA?) and so it is your fault. Of course, you can argue the timing of the commercial (and you have) as if the outcome of the world depended on a boycott of ABC. In rebuttal I would ask, why did it take you this long? ABC has pumped out amoral garbage on their “Family” channel for years. (And why wouldn’t they, when it sells?)

Hint: Close the door and the dark stranger will go away.

Listen, I get it. I go to church, I believe in God, and I know that the world is at any given time and in any given place a real manure pile. Morality is mocked, sex is bandied about as if no one ever had or ever was a child, and life itself is all but worthless. Kids are assaulted from the moment they leave the house, regardless of your best efforts at home.

You can’t prevent the assault, but you can prepare your kids to defend themselves against it.

But it ain’t that bad; I also feel that for the most part, the world is beautiful. It is overflowing with good people, fascinating wonders, and evidence of a loving creator. Sex is great, and in the right context it isn’t dirty, evil, or immoral. The same goes for guns, video games, television, the internet, and a whole mess of other things that can corrupt if we choose to let them.

As much as you would like to, you can’t force your morality on others, just as you shouldn’t let them force their immorality on you.

The church that I attend (LDS) encourages its youth to “stand in holy places and be not moved.” When I first heard this said, I laughed. It sounded so pious, silly and self-righteous. I didn’t want my kids to be weird, or to become religious zealots, and I worried that being “not moved” would actually move them there. But then I was asked to write a letter to my children, telling them what I believed, and how I felt about them. As I wrote, I realized that when it came to my kids, being “not moved” wasn’t so pious, silly, or self-righteous after all. I want them to be good and happy people, and so I took the encouragement even further, suggesting to them that they themselves could become a “holy place,” a place that could not be moved by peer pressure, the world, or Miley Cyrus, the VMAs, and ABC. (And they could still be cool, or whatever word is used for being “hip” these days.)

Don’t get me wrong; I am not taking moral high ground here. You might be shocked at some of the things that I choose to watch in my own home and even some of the things I choose to allow my kids to watch.

But it’s my choice, and I choose to live with the consequences.

If you can’t, you’re doing it wrong.