Me, Anatole

Looking back upon my life, I am content--Satisfied? Relieved?--to have done pretty much what I wanted to do, had as much sex as I wanted to have, seen the art and the places I wanted to see, listened to the music I loved the most, and written the songs that I needed/wanted/intended to write--and all without doing the world and the creatures in it much harm.  I managed quite successfully in my time to be a good-looking young gay man--one who kept his figure, gracile and muscular, till he was in his fifties--doing my share of the things that young gay men do, and somehow getting through a time of plague (with what seems now a sleepwalker's perilous aplomb), without contracting the HIV virus.

It is also worthy of note that, although a good many of my friends (some quite close) and acquaintances did die of AIDS in the Decade of Death between 1985 and 1995, I never, ever, had sex with any of them--and not because they did not solicit my favors, and not because they, or I, were not beautiful enough; but simply because at the time (so far as I can remember), though I loved them sometimes dearly, I found them sexually repulsive.  And, child of Venus-in-detriment in Virgo that I have faithfully been my whole life long--were it the smell (though never so faint) of shit, or a nauseating hint of effeminacy, or obesity, or ugliness, or deformity, or just not coming up to specs--sexual repulsion (Ick!) has always been my absolute cut-off point, beyond which I proudly, though with some bemusement, may say that I have never, ever, gone, or even begun to go.  Call it (Virgo) Chastity, call it Pudeur.  It's who I am.  And of similar note is the fact that none, of the two or three hundred perhaps, almost all men, that I did have sex with in this charming life, that I know of, ever contracted HIV, or, to my knowledge, died of AIDS.  And furthermore, and likewise--though I have, on occasion,  and not always with sensible preparation, been variously both a "bottom" and a "top" in anal sex, and not disdained even to rim those asses that I found irresistibly alléchants--yet never once did I encounter the fact, or detect the former presence or the faintest odor, of fecal matter.  I'm not saying I wasn't lucky--just that it wasn't all luck.

At any rate, when Luck struck a half a dozen years ago, and bestowed upon me the world's finest home computer, along with high-speed Internet connection, I discovered that the bizarre vulgarism "fudge-packer" is a virtually universal hearty (hardy-har-har) heterosexualism, among English-speaking straight men and trannies, for us whom they would otherwise call "faggots" or, apparently, "cocksuckers."  God the cuteness of calling shit fudge.  Somebody with pimples and a lard ass and bad breath must've sat up all night thinking that one up.