Put Your Work on Frequently Felt!

Here’s a special invitation to unpublished – or just beginning – erotica writers looking for a bit of free exposure.

Frequently Felt is my playful little blog -- “A lobcock of erotic trivialities, oddities, and miscellanea transcribed with jaundiced talent for naught but a boxing Jesuit indulgence by a disreputable posse mobilitatis” – where I’ve been posting this, that, and everything betwixt and between having to do with sex and erotica. What I’d like to do is open Frequently Felt to very short stories, on a first-come-first-posted basis.Here are the specifics:

• Stories or literary pieces no longer than 500 words.
• No underage characters, excessive violence, incest, homophobia, or bestiality
• Please include some form of contact information at the end (email, Web site, etc.) to be published with your piece
• I reserve the right to refuse to publish anything – it’s my blog, after all

Submit your work to mchristianzobop@gmail.com. I do my best to post things every other day or so but things sometimes happen to disrupt that schedule...

I’m also interested in interviews, reviews, editorial pieces, artwork, blog posts and other fun things. If you want to help out with that, just write me and we’ll chat about it.

Be On The Look Out -

WANTED!
For Impersonating Author M.Christian

Sketch by Daryl Walker

Do You Know This Man?
Do You Even Know Yourself?

The REAL M.Christian is asking for your help in tracking down an impostor who is claiming to be the author of an innovative, thought-provoking, humorous, terrifying, surreal, and unforgettable novel called Me2:

He looks just like you. He acts exactly like you. He takes away your job. He steals your friends. He seduces your lover. Every day he becomes more and more like you, pushing you out of your life, taking away what was yours … until there’s nothing left. Where did he come from? Robot? Alien? Clone? Doppelganger? Evil twin? Long lost brother?

This impostor has even duped such notable authors as Felice Picano and Michael Thomas Ford, getting from them rave blurbs such as:

Absolutely brilliant. M.Christian explores the meaning of identity and humanity in a generic world where literally everything can be manufactured - a world frighteningly like our own.
- Lisabet Sarai, author of Incognito and Fire

Me2 is a unique and always entertaining fable-novel about what exactly identity may entail and how we may or may not decide whether it's worth the price of keeping it.
- Felice Picano, author of Art & Sex in Greenwich Village

M. Christian has a delightful, marvelously twisted way with words which cause his narratives to crawl beneath your skin and fester there, making you go back for more. He writes with a strong, unique voice which is not only entertaining but also makes you think, makes you ponder the improbable. You'll think you've read this delicious, fast-paced story, but did you? Or was it you?
- Mari Adkins contributing editor, Apex Science Fiction and Horror Digest

"With delicious slyness, M. Christian creates a world in which the familiar becomes sinister and the comfort of daily routine is replaced by a growing sense of dread. His modern parable lays bare the all-too-real dangers inherent in the sacrifice of individuality in the pursuit of cultural homogenization."
- Michael Thomas Ford, author of Full Circle and Changing Tides

Don't be fooled! Accept no substitutes!

In order to defeat this devious impostor, please purchase as many copies as you can of this innovative, thought-provoking, humorous, terrifying, surreal, and unforgettable novel:

Me2
M.Christian
Alyson Books
ISBN-10: 1555839630
ISBN-13: 978-1555839635
$13.95

If you're a reviewer and you'd like to receive a review copy of this one-of-a-kind novel -- as either a paper copy or as a pdf file -- please contact M.Christian for a copy of this outrageous book:

M.Christian
41 Sutter Street, #1012
San Francisco, CA 94194
zobop@aol.com
mchristianzobop@gmail.com
www.mchristian.com

Confessions of a Literary Street Walker: Tooting

(the following is part of an ongoing series of columns I did for The Erotica Readers & Writers Association on the ins and outs and ins and outs and ins and outs of writing good smut)


There are a lot of myths about being a writer: Fame, fortune, tweed coats with leather patches, million dollar advances, movie deals, publisher-sponsored book tours and so forth. Not that there aren't a few instances of these things actually being true, but for their rarity they might as well be right up there with unicorns and trolls under bridges.

For the most part these fables only turn a smile into a frown for the newly published writer, but with book tours and publicity the affect can be much more traumatic: the writer who depends only on their publisher for publicity is quickly going to find their book remaindered, their work quickly forgotten.

Certainly some publishers are very good about heralding their books - like Alyson Books, who I've worked with several times - but that still doesn't mean they're going to do all the work. It all comes down to numbers: even a great publisher has a LOT of books to sell; they simply don't have time or resources to publicize each and every one. Most of the time you're lucky that the publisher sends out a dozen or so review copies or galleys - let alone does the legwork and makes the calls to drum up interest. Getting your book published, in other words, is just part of the battle: you have to do even more work to get your work noticed.

There is a fine line in publicity, one that's way too easy to cross: one side is humility and invisibility, on the other is hyperbole and arrogance. The trick, obviously, is to try and put you and your work somewhere between the two. I wish I could say I'm good at this, but to be honest I have the same problem other writers have in regards to publicity: you don't know you've become one or the other until it's almost too late.

Publicity usually takes several forms, but what I usually do just a few - mainly because I have a full-time job and my time is limited: press releases, readings, and interviews. Press releases are simple in concept, but take some skill in creating effectively: they should be short, a page to a page in a half, be attractive to various media outlets (magazines, radio, Web sites, etc.), and give all the info they need to write up something about your book. For interviews, you can create your own - which works quite often - or ask a friend or regular interviewer to do one and send it out with your press stuff. Readings are tougher, as it usually requires quite a bit of time (research, phone calls, sending our press stuff) and the rewards are scant, but it can get your name out there - especially to bookstores that, after all, buy your books.

Speaking of books, many publishers give free copies of your book, but only so many. I always buy 30-40 copies of whatever I do and then spend about $4 each sending them off with press releases and interviews to all kinds of friends, reviews, magazines and Web sites. Yes, it is unfair that you have to buy your own books - though most publishers give you as much as a 50% discount, which is nice - but that's the facts of life. Besides, if a copy you buy gets enough publicity to sell more books then it's more than worth it.

A Web site listing your accomplishments, contact info, and reviews is also a very good idea. Try and keep it professional, lean, and easy to access (no flash or java). Don't date it unless you plan on updating it regularly (unlike me), and don't put anything up there you wouldn't want your parents to see - erotica can make a lot of media nervous and you don't want to scare them off.

As for what to say and how to avoid sounding like a self-important jerk easy, take a good look at what you've accomplished and try and present it realistically, though attractive enough for a reviewer to pick up. Try and get some nice juicy blurbs from other writers, especially those who you recognize and respect (or who sell books). In your press release, mention and quote any reviews you may have gotten (though be careful of getting permission - some don't care, others are very prickly about such things). Avoid hyperbole in describing yourself or your accomplishments - this might work in getting your name out there, but can cause problems when other writers, editors and publishers get annoyed at you calling yourself "the greatest living American writer," or some such - though if a lot of other, neutral folks have called you that then go for it. Also, try and keep your announcements down to a dull roar - or set up an email list so people at least know that it's a regular thing and not just an "I'm fantastic" email that comes in your mailing every few months, unsolicited.

Another cold hard fact about publicity is that it usually only works for books - short stories in anthology, magazines, and Web sites simply aren't impressive enough to warrant a press release. The best you can do for shorts in magazines, Web site and anthologies is volunteer yourself for readings and offer possible reviewers or interviewers for the editor.

Doing publicity always reminds me of the joke where a man is constantly entreating God to let him win the lottery. Finally, fed up, God responds: "Meet me half-way: buy a ticket." In others words, the reality of writing is that success comes to those who try, try again, try some more, and - more than anything - keep trying. The work of making your book a success doesn't stop when you finish writing it - in fact, that's often just half the battle. The rewards, luckily, are more than worth it - especially when you get your first good reviews or people actually start to know your name.

Regarding My Impostor

Thank you all so much for your interest in my terrible plight. Before I touch on now you might help me in dealing with this frightening situation let me address a few of you who have expressed doubts about the existence of this 'other' M.Christian.

True I have a fondness for pranks and hoaxes, definitely the book itself it about an individual being haunted by an imitator, sure the book is written in a style that is as good as -- if not, I have to grudgingly admit, better than -- my usual style, but believe me when I say that THIS IS NOT ME!

As for how you can help me deal with this impostor please keep a regular eye here, on my site at www.mchristian.com, as well as purchase a copy of the book so you can read for yourself how this book differs than anything I might write.

Best regards,

The REAL M.Christian

A Wonderful Gift

My new pal, Daryl Walker, who is a fantastic artist just sent me this lovely drawing of Sage Vivant and myself. Keep an eye out for Daryl and myself to be doing some very cool things in the future.

PLAGIARISM ALERT: Me2 novel by ‘other’ M.Christian

I’m writing to inform you about a disturbing situation that has recently come up. In my ten-plus years as a professional author with more than 250+ short stories, 20 anthologies, four collections, and five published novels to my credit, I have never had someone try and impersonate me and plagiarize my work.

Until now.

Someone calling himself “M.Christian” has been publicizing a gay horror novel from Alyson Books called Me2. This person is not me, the real M.Christian, but rather someone trying to capitalize on my name and steal my identity.

Sure, the plot of Me2 sure sounds like something I would create. Agreed, the style is very close to my own. And yes, I have done a lot of good work with Alyson Books before. But Me2 is not mine, and this other “M.Christian” is not me.

Just take a look at the back cover copy. Does this sound like a novel I would write?

Do You Know Yourself?

He looks just like you. He acts exactly like you. He takes away your job. He steals your friends. He seduces your lover. Every day he becomes more and more like you, pushing you out of your life, taking away what was yours … until there’s nothing left. Where did he come from? Robot? Alien? Clone? Doppelganger? Evil twin? Long lost brother?

A shocking new view of queer identity, Me2 is a groundbreaking and wildly twisted novel that you’ll remember for a long time – no matter who you are, or who you think you may be.

This copy even goes for far as to steal my actual biography and even make fun of the fact that the author is not the real me! Here’s what he says on the back of the book:

M. Christian’s numerous stories have appeared in such anthologies as Best American Erotica, Best Gay Erotica, Best Lesbian Erotica, as well as in the collections Dirty Words, Speaking Parts, The Bachelor Machine, and Filthy. He is also the author of the novels, Running Dry, The Very Bloody Marys, The Painted Doll, and Brushes. Some, however, suspect that M.Christian may be more than one person. The other “M.Christian” adamantly denies this rumor.

What’s even worse is that this copycat hasn’t just managed to trick Alyson Books into publishing this novel, but he’s somehow tricked respectable authors and reviews such as Felice Picano and Michael Thomas Ford into providing blurbs for the book!

Absolutely brilliant. M.Christian explores the meaning of identity and humanity in a generic world where literally everything can be manufactured - a world frighteningly like our own.
- Lisabet Sarai, author of Incognito and Fire

M2 is a unique and always entertaining fable-novel about what exactly identity may entail and how we may or may not decide whether it's worth the price of keeping it.
- Felice Picano, author of Art & Sex in Greenwich Village

M. Christian has a delightful, marvelously twisted way with words which cause his narratives to crawl beneath your skin and fester there, making you go back for more. He writes with a strong, unique voice which is not only entertaining but also makes you think, makes you ponder the improbable. You'll think you've read this delicious, fast-paced story, but did you? Or was it you?
- Mari Adkins contributing editor, Apex Science Fiction and Horror Digest

"With delicious slyness , M. Christian creates a world in which the familiar becomes sinister and the comfort of daily routine is replaced by a growing sense of dread. His modern parable lays bare the all-too-real dangers inherent in the sacrifice of individuality in the pursuit of cultural homogenization."
- Michael Thomas Ford, author of Full Circle and Changing Tides

Please, help me catch this "other" M.Christian and expose him for the plagiarist and fraud that he is. It’s important to me, as the real M.Christian, to preserve my identity and career as a writer. For updates on this fraud being perpetuated in my name, please check out my Web site at www.mchristian.com.

Luckily I have managed to get my hands on the novel itself. If you’d like to receive a copy of Me2 -- either in its final printed form or as a PDF file -- so you can see that while is this is a excellent novel full of humor, horror, suspense and all kinds of devish twists and turns it's still not a book that I would actually write, please contact me:

The REAL M.Christian
41 Sutter Street, #1012
San Francisco, CA 94194
zobop@aol.com
mchristianzobop@gmail.com
www.mchristian.com.

For your reference, I’m attaching info on the impostor’s book:

Me2
Alyson Books
ISBN-10: 1555839630
ISBN-13: 978-1555839635
$13.95

Thank you for your help and support regarding this frightening situation.

Almost as good as 'frequently felt'

From Frequently felt:


But it's too late to change the name of this blog [frequently felt] but Pornosec would have made a great title:

From 1984:

"She [Julia] had even (an infallible mark of good reputation) been picked out to work in Pornosec, the sub-section of the Fiction Department which turned out cheap pornography for distribution among the proles. It was nicknamed Muck House by the people who worked there, she remarked. There she remained for a year, helping to produce booklets in sealed packets with titles like Spanking Stories or One Night in a Girls' School, to be bought furtively by proletarian youths who were under the impression that they were were buying something illegal."

Welcome to Weirdsville: The New Motor

From Meine Kleine Fabrik:

John Murray Spear and a guess at what the New Motor looked like

As promised, I’m continuing to dig through my dusty books to pull up odd-tasting tidbits of information, which is to say hard-core, certifiable, definitive, positive, and no-shit Weirdness.

And few things are as strange as the tale of the The New Motor.

1854, America, the Northeast. The time, particularly, is important. Think about it: 1854. Years before even the civil war, a time of technological innovation. No electric lights. The safety match was even a year away. No elevators. The hypodermic syringe and spinal anesthesia was either just developed (the former) or just a little ways away (the latter). So don’t even THINK of getting sick. Think coal, wool coats, the Crimean War, legal slavery, and Sir Richard Burton in Mecca and Medina.

Also John Murray Spear.

Go ahead, look him up. If you’re lucky, you might find him as a footnote, a side-thought in the spiritualist movement of the time. You know: ghosts, table-turning, trances, automatic writing, levitations ... in other words, spirits. Spear was part of that world, a medium-temperature medium. Then sometime during that coal and Crimean War year of 1854 Spear was elevated from mediocrity to the domain of the truly, magnificently ... unusual.

See in 1854 Spear was contacted by a bunch of spirits, with an “apparent mechanical turn of mind” (to quote A.J. Davis) that included the ghost of Benjamin Franklin: the Association of Electricizers, who commanded him to go forth unto this world and build The New Motor.“The Physical Savior of the race,” was how Spear described the Motor. As to its mysterious workings he said it was to be powered by “power from the magnetic store of nature, and therefore to be as independent of artificial sources of energy as was the human body.”

What the hell the New Motor looked like anyone’s guess. A clockwork Jesus? A steam-powered messiah? A rubber-band savior? A locomotive God? The fact that we haven’t the foggiest idea of what his “The Physical Savior of the race” looked like doesn’t diminish the fact that Spear and his spiritual mechanical gizmo really existed -- at least according to the eminent Lewis Spence in his An Encyclopedia of Occultism.

Slowly, Spear collected quite a little cult of followers … who did just that: Trail behind him and the New Motor, which they worshipped as a god, on tours throughout the Northeast. Eventually, this little band ended up in the lovely little town of Lynn, Massachusetts. There a certain lady received a vision of the New Motor and, while in its presence, suffered “birth pangs” for over two hours.

After this certain lady went through her “pangs” it was said that “it was averred that pulsations were apparent in the Motor”. After learning of this wonderful bit of unusual (okay, weird) history, the term “jump start” has not meant the same to me ….

I really wish this story had a better ending: like maybe Spear vanishing one day with the Motor, or that it ascended into some kind engineering nirvana, or was lost only to be discovered to our fascination and delight in some farmhouse in Connecticut. But, sadly, real like is too often stuffed with clichés: I can only hope that the “outraged” citizenry of Randolph, New York, who smashed the Motor to bits, had been carrying torches.

Still, who knows? Maybe someone someday will discovered a twisted bit of spring and cylinder, a crumpled mixture of glass and copper, a wind-up collection of gears and pendulums in a old barn, at the bottom of a filled well, on a dusty shelf somewhere and, to his surprise and shock, he will notice certain ... movements ....

No, that’s not quite right. Not movement, rather: “pulsations” ….

And so maybe The New Motor of John Murray Spear will tick and tock, and live again …

High Rock Cottage, Spear's home

Here's a bit more info on Spear and the Motor, compliments of Old Is the New New:

In 1851 or 1852, Spear and his daughter Sophronia began seeking messages from the spirit world. In 1853, they announced that Spear had become the mouthpiece for the General Assembly of Spirits, a benevolent association of departed worthies like Franklin, Jefferson, and Emmanuel Swedenborg. The Assembly of Spirits was divided into a number of committees and subcommittees: the “Educationizers,” the “Governmentizers,” the “Healthfulizers,” the “Agriculturalizers,” and so on, but it was the “Electricizers,” headed of course by Franklin, who had immediate plans for Spear.

Franklin tasked Spear with building a series of electrical inventions—a “wizard’s suit” made of minerals and batteries, an electric ship shaped like a duck (they ply the waters of Boston Harbor to this day!), and most famously, a perpetual motion machine known variously as the New Motor, the New Messiah, and the God Machine. From all this I deduce that Franklin got a little freaky in the half-century after his death. The New Messiah, which Spear constructed in Lynn, Massachusetts, was a roughly human-shaped machine, with an electric “brain,” magnetic “lungs,” and many more strange attachments. Bringing it to life involved much channeling of spiritual energy by male and female mediums “mingling into one,” and a “New Mary” going through simulated pregnancy and labor. (Spear had a string of “New Marys” as he drifted into Free Love circles, at least one of whom simulated pregnancy so well as to bear him an un-simulated son.)

Other delightful details can be found on the Fortean Times site.

Epicurus Quote

I caught this some time ago on Jonathan Miller's excellent series, A Brief History of Disbelief (here on YouTube) but keep forgetting to share it ....

Is God willing to prevent evil, but not able?
Then he is not omnipotent.
Is he able, but not willing?
Then he is malevolent.
Is he both able and willing?
Then whence cometh evil?
Is he neither able nor willing?
Then why call him God?
- Epicurus

Confessions of a Literary Streetwalker: Penis, cock, dick, member, rod ....

(the following is part of an ongoing series of columns I did for The Erotica Readers & Writers Association on the ins and outs and ins and outs and ins and outs of writing good smut)

Just to show either my dedication to this column, or my complete lack of sanity, I’m writing this on my laptop while sitting in the passenger seat of my girlfriend’s car as she drives us back from a Thanksgiving visit to my mom’s house. Ain’t technology wonderful?

One of my favorite things when teaching erotic writing is to talk about how it basically isn’t any different than any other form of writing. You still need, after all, a plot, characterization, description, a sense of place, suspension of disbelief, etc. Thinking otherwise will only put training wheels on your writing, which - believe me - readers and editors can easily pick up on. If you sit down and try to write a damned good story, that happens to be about sex or sexuality, the result will generally be much finer artistically than an attempt that’s just tossed off. The instant you approach a story as “just” anything (horror, romance, science fiction, erotica, etc.) you’ll demean yourself and the reader. The bottom line is that there really isn’t much of a difference between a great erotic story and any other genre’s great story.

With that in mind I agree with most everyone’s advice towards writing short stories (or longer works): polish your writer’s voice, give the story a sense of place and time, flesh out the characters, construct an interesting plot, create evocative descriptions (show don’t tell), etc. One way I tell people to approach erotic writing is to remember that erotica doesn’t blink. In just about every other genre, when sex steps on stage the ‘camera’ swings to burning fireplace logs, trains entering tunnels, and the like - in other words, it blinks away from the sexual scene. In erotica you don’t blink, you don’t avoid sexuality - you integrate it into the story. But the story you’re telling isn’t just the sex scene(s), it’s why the sex IS the story. Something with a bad plot, poor characterization, lousy setting, or lazy writing and a good sex scene is always much worse than a damned good story full of interesting characters, a great sense of place, sparkling writing and a lousy sex scene. The sex scene(s) can be fixed, but if the rest - the meat of the story itself - doesn’t work you’re only polishing the saddle on a dead horse.

So there really isn’t much I believe that separates good writing in any other genre from good smut writing. But like all so-called ‘rules’ of writing, there’s an exception. As you might know, a lot of people preach that it’s poor writing to use the same descriptive word too many times in the same section of writing. In other words:

“The sun blasted across the desert, scorching scrub and weed into burnt yellow, turning soft skin to lizard flesh, and metal to rust. Outside LAST CHANCE FOR GAS, the radiation of the explosion had turned once gleaming signs for COCA-COLA and DIESEL into rust-pimpled ghosts of their former selves.

“Parked outside LAST CHANCE, was a rusted pickup collapsed onto four flat tired, windshield a sparkling spider web under the hard white light of the sun’s explosion.”

Okay that wasn’t terrific, but I am sitting in the passenger seat of a old Toyota while barreling up California highway 101, for goodness sake. The point is - aside from the poor metaphor of the sun as an explosion - the word “rust” springs up a bit too much in that off-the-cuff description. It’s not ‘that’ bad a description, but having the same word pop up repeatedly (especially if it’s tied to the same image, such as ‘rusted metal’ the writing will come of as lazy, unimaginative, or simply dull. To keep this from happening, many writing teachers and guides recommend varying the descriptive vocabulary. Now you don’t need to change rust to ‘corrosion’ or ‘decay’ or ‘encrustation’ once you’ve used it once in a story, but if you need to use the same kind of description in the same paragraph or section you might want to slip in some other, perhaps equally evocative, words as well.

Onto that exception for erotica. In smut, we have a certain list of words that are required for a well-written erotic scene: the vocabulary of genitalia and sex. If you follow the ‘don’t ever repeat’ rule in a sex scene the results are often more hysterical than stimulating.

“Bob’s cock was so hard it was tenting his jeans. He desperately wanted to touch it, but didn’t want to rush. Still, as he sat there, the world boiled down to him, what he was watching, and his penis. Finally, he couldn’t take it anymore. Carefully, slowly, he lowered his zipper and carefully pulled his dick out. Unlike a lot of his friends, Bob was happy with his member. It was long, but not too long, and had a nice, fat head. Unlike the rods his friend’s rarely described, his pole didn’t bend - but was nice and straight.”

- another bit of less-than-brilliance as my girlfriend ducks in and out of traffic. But hopefully, you’ll get the idea: if you follow the ‘non-repeat’ commandment, you’ll quickly run out of words to describe what the hell’s going on in your story. With women’s anatomy it gets even worse - I’ve read a lot of amateur stories that go from cunt to pussy to quim to hole to sex ... somehow getting a down-and-dirty contemporary piece to a story that should be titled Lady Rebecca and the Highwayman.

It’s more than perfectly okay to repeat certain words in a story - especially an erotic one - if other words just won’t work, or will give the wrong impression (if there anything less sexy than using ‘hole’ or ‘shaft’?). My advice is to stick to two or three words that fit the time and style of the story, then rotate them: cock to dick, pussy to cunt, etc. Some words can also be used if you feel the story is getting a bit too thin on descriptions: penis, crotch, groin, etc. - but only if kept to a very dull roar.

One of the best ways to avoid this problem is to describe parts of the character’s anatomy rather than using a simple, general word. For example, lips, clit, glans, balls, shaft (when specific, it’s fine, but not as a general word for cock), mons, etc. Not only does this give you more flexibility, but it can be wonderfully evocative, creating a complex image rather than a fuzzy impression of the party going on in your characters’ pants.

The bottom line is what while there is a core similarity between a good erotic story and any other genre, there are a few important stylistic differences - and, as the old saying goes: viva la difference!

Pornotopia: Balls Without Chains

The following is just one of a bunch of pieces I’ve been working on for a project tentatively titled Pornotopia: The Ins and Outs and Ins and Outs of Sex and Erotica. Enjoy!

#

Okay, then ... gay marriage.

I'm against it. (ducks slings and arrows)

Lemme finish.

You're definitely not going to find the word 'god' in this little essay, or 'traditional',' or 'family,' or 'protect,' or 'sanctimony' or any of those other precious little terms the rabid weasels who are usually against the idea of legal gay marriage throw around. For one thing I'm a diehard atheist without even a drop of agnosticism coursing through my thoroughly evolved monkey veins.

For another I'm completely, totally, absolutely - well, 'sort of' queer. As I like to say, I'm politically gay, socially bi, sexually straight. To put it another way, I vote a pink ticket, kiss and hug every damned gender - and living in San Francisco, that's a LOT of genders - but my penis only responds to women. Or should I say 'woman' since I'm completely, totally, absolutely in love with a very special lady.

Anyway, back to politics: gay men and women must be legally recognized as having the same inalienable rights and legal benefits as straight folks. Period. End of story. When I rule this world - and, believe me, if I have my way I will - gender, race, age, and orientation will be meaningless in the eyes of the law. Want a job? A place to live? Adopt children? An education? You can have all of that and more regardless of your sexual equipment, the color of your skin, how old you are, or who you like to fuck - as long as it’s consensual, of course. We on the same page? Liberty and justice for all. Not for some - for all.

But I'm still against gay marriage.

(ducks further slings and arrows)

I'm not against gay men and women walking down the aisle because families need protecting because, frankly, if the bullshit concept of 'family' we've been force fed by cereal-box grinning conservatives can be threatened by something as silly as Bob hitching up with Steve, or Shirley shacking up with Betty then the nuclear unit should be taken out back and shot through the head like a lame old draught horse. I mean, shit, just look at any of the whack-jobs who are frothing at the mouth about two brides or two grooms: were any of them the products of Bob and Carol Average and their Standardized Marriage? Are any living in blissful coexistence with a member of the opposite sex? Want, sure, but do any of them really have Stepford children? Any of them you want to see - shudder -naked? I rest my case.

I'm still against gay marriage.

Holster your slings and quiver your arrows because here's the reason why: I'm against marriage.

What is marriage, after all? The perpetual, eternal, timeless chaining together of two people - if they get tired of being together or not. It's a simplistic, ridiculously idealistic device designed to enforce togetherness in a species that's more known for beating each other's heads in with rocks and other blunt instruments than demonstrations of affection.

Long before we started to buy Bridal magazine and plunge headlong into diabetes from sugar icing, marriage was its own form of blunt instrument: a device used against women (mostly) and men (occasionally) to cement political and economic alliances, sell people into servitude, and in general make people's lives totally miserable. The idea of a married couple actually caring about one another, let alone finding each other desirable, is a modern development - and then only in the so-called developed nations. For many cultures, marriage still remains the only 'legal' way to have sex. No ring, no nookie. Nookie minus ring equals social taboo, corporal punishment, jail, or even death (mostly for women - again).

Being for marriage (gay, straight, or otherwise) strikes me like Jews missing the good old days - of 1944. Being for gay marriage is a celebration of being chained together, forced to live the confinement too many straight couples have been sentenced to. Certainly, gay men and lesbians have the right to have the same legal rights and benefits of straight married couples - that's a given - but do they want to share the same legacy of financial, legal, emotional and sexual imprisonment? Sure, they should have the pleasure of joining together with someone they are sure they - well, moderately certain ... they maybe ... kind of ‘like’ – but do they really want to go through the even greater pleasures of divorce, child custody and community property battles, lawyers, judges, alimony, spousal support and ... do I really have to go on?

I know your question and, yes, I have been married, but that's not the only reason for my ire. The woman of my dreams is sitting here on the couch with me as I write this and I wouldn't have it any other way - forever if possible - but that doesn't mean that we want to, or should, tie ourselves together with legal, financial, or emotional cables. We stay together because we want to, and because this continuation of desire and friendship has to be maintained day by day, a work in progress rather than an illusion of perfection that insecure participants feel has to be nailed down lest it even think of straying or fading.

But the big reason I'm not in favor of straddling my gay and lesbian friends with the torture that begins with "We are gathered together here today -" is, simply, that there has to be a better way.

Marriage isn't just an antique, a legacy of abuse and economic bondage, it also doesn't work. If it did then divorce attorneys would be mythical, just like diamond anniversaries are now. Look at the facts, check the figures: marriage as an institution is, and has always been, a failure. Rather than gleefully marching off to join the rest of those unhappy straight couples, gay men and

lesbians – as well as the rest of us ‘straight but not narrow’ types - should instead seek to create new lifestyles. Gay men and lesbians are not straight ... duh. They have their own history, their own philosophy, their own social contracts and taboos. Absolutely they have more in common with their straight friends, but the way they deal with relationships, dating, commitment, and, yes, sex are not the way most heterosexuals do.

I'm not trying to be divisive. What I am trying to say is that all of us - gay, straight, bi, and everything else - should look at those differences, as well as the reality of heterosexual pairings and study them all toward creating new relationships: life models not based not the ridiculous proclamations of the big mythical daddy in the sky but instead on how human beings, or every orientation, actually live.

This is a chance for humanity to take a big step forward. Here's a perfect opportunity to change how we relate to each other, how we form bonds of love, create and maintain relationships - and so much more. Okay, equality is the issue, and rightfully so, but being equal to a group that's suffered and inflicted no end of emotional damage on its members for centuries is nothing to strive for.

What will these new ways of loving and living be like? I don’t know exactly, but I often think that they’d take the form of the way people live now, maybe just cemented through law, custom, or social contract. After all, there are just about as many relationship forms as there are people on this planet – gay, straight, bi, or whatever. We don’t have a term for it, or a legal definition, but we have ‘old boyfriends I occasionally sleep with,’ ‘cyberspace play partners,’ ‘we’re together but don’t have sex,’ ‘we’re together but have sex with other people,’ ‘we only do have sex with each other, but can do S/M play with anyone,’ ‘the lesbian whose the mother of my son but we’re not emotionally or financially involved,’ and so on.

In a few decades who knows what else could evolve? ‘Claves’ of individuals living together for financial or legal benefit, individuals as corporations or even nations unto themselves, virtual mini-societies of like-minded individuals, children searching for and then ‘adopting’ the perfect parents, consensual servitude, sex-changing triads? Limited duration marriages? The mind staggers. To walk towards this varied and plastic view of relationships - where if you don’t find something to your liking you search until you do find it, or just make a new one up - with the baggage of two gold rings, eternity, and a gravy boat is ridiculous. It’s time for a change.

Once again: I’m not for gay marriage. I’m against marriage. Equality is a must, definitely, but this is the perfect moment to really make a difference in the way all of us – gay, straight, bi, whatever - relate and bond with each other and the rest of the world. Don’t play the marriage game: no one’s ever won it. Not in achieving the right to do it, but in making it ever really work.

We can do better.

The View From Here: Suicide

(the following is part of an ongoing 'column' I did for Suspect Thoughts, and, no, it's not supposed to make sense)

He’s going to be through that door any minute. I thought about the snail-whip I’d bought last SumSpring in the Underneath Market. You know, the one with the carved face of a weathered old Lunar nomad - the one that looked like my mother? But my place is small, and - well - have you ever tried to use a snail-whip in a room where your head hits the ceiling if you stand on tip-toes?

I could have used the reaction pistol a Hitchcock synthetic sold me, but I quickly threw out that idea - reactions are still really illegal and a sharp-eyed Priest would naturally have spotted the head-sized hole in the corpse, scratched his pink-dyed skull and drawn the obvious conclusion that a promotion was in his future.

The only knives in my kitchen were the degradables they give away with Tinkonese Take-away, and they were all green-spotted and way too soft to slice through a brick of jelly-water, let alone a throat.

Whip too long, gun too illegal, knife too soft ... the question of the morning remained: how to kill myself?

I finally decided on the collected works of Bart Bransom, the thief poet. It was one of my favorite books, but it also weighed a nice, hefty 60 decimars - more than enough to crush a skull. So I pulled up a friable wood chair next to the front door, climbed up and gripping the book tightly - with one finger lodged somewhere in middle of The Tale of the Gold Job - I prepared to bash my skull in as I walked through the front door.

Killing yourself is something I’d had to think about quite a lot - as everyone does, and that doesn’t include suicide. The problem with trying to kill yourself - no, wait, ‘murder’ is more like it - is you have to try and out-think yourself. The way I figured it, he’d walk home, as usual, down Fire Lane, stopping here and there to check out the changes in the shop windows or even indulge in a little purgative at one of the express blow-out booths - so I’d say twelve to twenty dulwhich minutes, maybe eleven mid-range minutes, tops.

He’d also be a little disoriented - okay, a bit more disoriented - than I usually am. Being decanted from a Noh Bureau tank will do that to you. I was counting on him being a bit fuzzy around the edges (and in the cases of some of the older tanks that’s quit literal). Come home, I thought at him as my arms quivered under the weight of the book; come him like you usually do - it won’t hurt. Well, I hope it didn’t hurt much - he might be an official copy, but he was still me. The last time this happened I was a bit more prepared, and had borrowed a spring-gun from my downstairs neighbor, the one with the bathing-in-fresh blood fetish, and had managed to ambush myself on the front stairs.

This time, to be honest, I wasn’t nearly as prepared as I should have been - thus my mad scramble to find something fatal. I’d been way too into my new micro-dome. It was a treat to myself for finally finishing the last draft of my new book, A Fall From A Moderate Height, and I was way too involved in giving the little half-life critters religion, guilt, paranoia, and half a dozen other ugly, unnecessary things to make their lives (and thus my viewing of their little world) interesting - so interesting that I completely missed the notice of my impending imitation.

I was a little cocky, I admit it. I mean, I hadn’t lost a duplication for over twenty nuyears - since ... well, since the last me lost and I took over. While I thought the Noh Bureau was a bit over zealous in the execution of their duty, I sort of agreed with the idea of facing yourself in a life or death struggle every five dolamars. There was something savagely poetic about having to look at your life and decide that it was worth killing to defend, and if it wasn’t then all you had to do was wait till the next you showed up to give it a better shot - suicide by not living a meaningful, happy existence. It also satiated natural human bloodlust, turning it away from some innocent stranger and instead directing it inwards, towards self-examination ... and self-execution.

Yeah, it can be rough to have relationships change overnight when your loved one looses to a copy, or when an artist’s work-in-progress is interrupted by a less-inspired duplicate - but by and large the system worked rather well. Of course, I think that after winning every battle since the third Mumbar SumSpring.

And I wasn’t about to loose this one. Standing there, legs quaking from the weight of Bart Bransom’s rhymes, I rehearsed my motions, running them through my mind, trying to cover every contingency: door opens, down comes the book, door opens, book comes down, door opens, book comes down - crushed skull and five more nuyears of comfort at the end.

It had been a good time, a rich, full time - many loves, many successes, a few failures. Standing there on my chair, the heavy book in my hands, I flashed a few of them through my mind - a mental background to my plans for self-murder: the Coronation of the Black King, getting my fingers lengthened, the Festival of Lust, writing ... lots and lots of writing. Salari, Miss Postilla from down the hall, Valencia, Domache - and all the other good friends and lovers. Yes, it had been a good nuyear.

Maybe that was it - I was so lost in memories, in rewinding the past, that I forgot why, exactly I was there. Whatever the reason, I didn’t think - and then it was too late.

Even as he came at me, from the kitchen door I had completely forgotten about, a knife in his hand he’d managed to find somewhere, I refused to admit that maybe it was time to be replaced, that my mind was so clogged with experience I could no longer think straight.

Just dumb luck - that’s what it was. At least, I admitted to myself as his knife arced towards my heart, I’d finished my book. But as his knife met my chest, sinking deep within, I couldn’t suppress a flash of anger that he’d be the one to get the good reviews.