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In Ancient Greece, men would
swear an oath by grabbing the testicles of the person administering it.
No joke—this is where the word “testimony” comes from. Nowadays we
just use a Bible, which is yet another example of how Christianity went
and spoiled a good thing.
With the exception of doctors doing
hernia exams and priests interviewing altar boys, gay men are the only
ones left who view grabbing someone’s nuts as part of the fabric of
daily life. For instance, haven’t you ever noticed how quick we are to
hug after having just met? Don’t think for an instant this has
anything to do with the solidarity of our shared brotherhood. It’s all
about rubbing our dangly bits against one another.
Fondling is the gay version of shaking
hands and nowhere was this phenomenon more in evidence than during my
recent night in Prison Camp.
No, that indecent exposure charge
hasn’t come back to haunt me (they never proved a thing, I tell you).
Prison Camp was simply the bash of the summer here in Portland. It
followed last year’s Egyptian party, which was also great fun despite
it being like 45 degrees that night. We were as frigid as Dr. Laura, but
I must say our nipples sure looked perky.
This year, however, not only was the
weather nicer, but we had more clothing options. As in real prison,
felons outnumbered guards, perhaps because it’s easier to throw on a
denim workshirt, tie a bandana around your head, and call it done. Some
opted for classic horizontal stripes, while others went for the simple
orange jumpsuit, including one poor soul who had to repair a flat tire
on the way home with the words “Federal Penitentiary” emblazoned
across his back. Accessories included chains, handcuffs, and a
surprising amount of soap on a rope.
I, however, was the only one wearing
license plates.
Among the advantages of owning a sign
shop are the craft opportunities, so Floyd and I fashioned a skirt made
of personalized vanity plates. I spent much of the night twirling around
so people could read messages like “JAIL B8,” “WF BTR,” and, my
personal favorite, “BND OVR.” The latter got me some offers, which
just proves that it pays to advertise.
Originality could be found elsewhere,
too—the guys in the “Free Martha” tank tops, the boys wearing
nothing but a towel and a smile, and the priest who went by the name of
Father Foreskin. Instead of a cross around his neck he hung the Pope on
a rope soap. (I must mention here that Father Foreskin was continuing a
phallic theme from last year—at the Egyptian party he simply stuck a
picture of Elizabeth Taylor as Cleopatra on his crotch and told everyone
he was Liz and Dick.)
But this year all eyes were on the blonde
hunk dressed as The Policeman Who Forgot his Pants. There are very few
of us in this world capable of wearing buttless chaps, but I must say
that this man is definitely one of them. Because he was a generous sort
of fellow (or perhaps because the drinks were strong), Officer Hottie
allowed a goodly number of us to cop a feel (or perhaps I should say
feel a cop). His hiney was shiny after being rubbed by so many eager
hands.
At midnight, a siren went off and a guard
grabbed me and Pretty Boy Floyd from the dance floor and led us away in
handcuffs, my license plates clanking like cowbells. Before I could
explain about that old morals charge, we were whisked to the top of a
building and flown over the party in a helicopter which, by the way, is
every bit as thrilling as it sounds. But when we returned, we discovered
that few noticed, their attention fixed steadfastly on the ground, or
below the waist, to be more accurate. I’m not even sure they noticed
the laser light show above their heads. Not wanting to be left out, I
tried to take part in the fun, but it ain’t easy grinding against
someone when your crotch is covered in aluminum. I might as well have
been wearing a chastity belt.
So instead I hung out on the sidelines,
pretending I was an anthropologist studying the mating habits of
homosexual men in their native habitat. And I wondered to myself whether
the physical freedom we enjoy somehow prevents us from making a more
intimate, meaningful connection with one another. If we’re so fixated
on grabbing a quick feel, could we be missing out on feeling more?
Perhaps our lives are empty, filled only with meaningless diversions
like drinking too much, dancing all night, and groping sexy strangers.
I can’t wait for next year.
And that, my friends, is The Gospel
According to Marc.
Marc
Acito can be reached at MarcAcito@attbi.com. For information on this and
future events, see www.AlleyProductions.com.
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