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  • welcome to the hole

    welcome to the hole

    Once upon a time, I kept a LiveJournal account, gryphons_hole, a deep, dark, comfy little hole in my brain where I kept notes on my life and queerness.

    This is the archive to that account, mostly password protected, adult, queer content, stripped of photo content after the site restructured its photo hosting feature. I hope to restore that content as well.

    If I know you, ask for the password. If I don’t, hope for a generous mood.

    08.18.24 I have realized a need to continue in this space. A kink reawaking if you will, with content that may range into inappropriate for my other blog spaces.

  • how gay was I…?

    This is a game that I am going to call How Gay Was I…?

    Think along the lines of, "OMGs! How did my parents not know…?"

    During dakoopst’s visit, the topic of showtunes came up. I forget which one of us was at fault… That was when I had the horror of learning that he was entirely unfamiliar with A Chorus Line.

    *gasp*
    Kids these days!

    I was a drama-fag in high school.
    Big surprise.

    Either just before or just after a class trip to see a live travelling company perform A Chorus Line in downtown Cleveland, I picked up a copy of the original Broadway cast recording. Yes, on vinyl. Those shiny things did not yet exist.

    *gasp*
    I know! This post is full of shock and horror.

    This album was my survival kit for high school in white-bread suburbia.

    You see… I already knew that I didn’t fit the mold, that I could not blend as easily as the other kids that eventually would grow up to become aging fat armchair quarterbacks, marry their high school sweethearts, have two point three children and never leave white-bread suburbia for the remainder of their lives.

    A Chorus Line saved my teenage life, giving me hope for color in a dismal world.

    And gay-among-gay, the songs that did it were the torchy women’s songs. One in particular speaks of escape from rotten childhoods. (Although mine was far from rotten, it felt the part.) This song weaves together three very different women’s stories of youthful torture-at-home and how they found escape watching the ballet. How they found a way to be happy, a place to be pretty, and a moment to let the imagination run wild.

    At the Ballet.

    I found a YouTube video with the original cast members recorded on the Phil Donahue Show in 1990:

    This is how gay I was!
    How gay were you…?

    P.S. I never realized that Grandmama Gilmore was the bitter aging chorus girl, Sheila, from the original cast. She has some pipes plus she could really throw those legs around. There are some related clips that show the original cast…

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  • memage…?

    I was tagged by

    [info]philhasablog

    . I would be remiss to not respond, but I will have to twist it a bit.

    The thing is… I am surrounded by music. On the odd occasion where there is none playing, my brain will fill in with its own bizarre soundtrack, but most of it really is other folks’ music. I don’t pay enough attention to know who the artist is. Or even the title, really. I just notice enough to respond well to it.

    The reality is that I have not spent money on owning music in over a decade. And I don’t what to make room in the budget right now to change that.

    So, in answer to the meme, I offer this instead:

    http://www.ktbg.fm/

    It is a local college station with NPR features and news. Their music most often kicks ass. It is on the car radio whenever I can get a solid signal. Unfortunately, the studio is literally in a hole in the ground. That had caused the lack of The Bridge in the studio until I sought out their website for this post. Now, I see they have a  streaming broadcast.

    Yay!

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  • Protected: winding up the visit…

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  • Protected: OMG, it’s early…

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  • Protected: my evolution

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  • Protected: heavy flow day

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  • metamorphosis

    I am developing something that could be called a complex.

    I am finding more and more of a struggle in approaching men online. It has begun to surface in face-to-face cruising as well. This sense of isolation I have is gaining coherence, becoming more concrete.

    I no longer want to fit by presenting only part of myself. As a result, I do not approach as often as I have in the past. I wait for them. I want to see that they might be able to handle the all of me.

    I am not butch. I am not uber-masculine of hyper-manly. I may been seen as such things, but I hold to the fact that in those moments the viewer is ignoring the rest of me that doesn’t fit their concept of hot. I do not care for repressing my whole self for the sake of bedding some guy that can only be into a piece of me. I am requiring more of myself involved with my arousal these days.

    I no longer wish to hold to arbitrary lines draw between gender and sex. I am not fully sure that I was ever invested in such things…

    I know to present myself wholly to the general public is to be black-balled from most inner circles. The idea of compartmentalizing my life and filtering out folks I don’t think can process all of me is bothersome at the best of it all, but I am trying… It moves slowly.

    Everyone needs me to be this or be that or do this or do that. I am done. I need what I need and if the terms cannot be met on equal ground then I am no longer interested in sacrificing my wholeness for someone else’s gain.

    Bother.

    To be clear, I am not confused about my gender. I do not feel particularly masculine or feminine internally. I am a place in between. I am not confused by my body. I am a man. I have a penis. I enjoy both of those facts, but I understood that I could have just as easily been born a woman. I also understand that I would feel just as much a paradox in that body as this one. I do not wish to be a girl, I have no yearnings to play dress-up and be mistaken for a woman. Difficult thing considering how much I love my beard…

    But skirts are fucking comfortable. And I love confinement and corsets have a wicked feel to them. And a wicked aesthetic as well.

    I have known most all of my life that I am a freak. I have done a good job of surrounding myself with other freaks. However even in those circles, I have allowed myself to be seen as would most make others comfortable to see me. I am done with that.

    I am tired of my skin being so plain and pasty. I have been working on a design to cover most of my flesh in ink. I started the basic concept some ten odd years ago and still have nothing done on my skin towards that end. I have been waiting for the money. It never shows. I need to make it exist and stop waiting. I need to become the person I have always been inside. I need to stop keeping others comfortable. I don’t do a very good job of it anyway…

    I need to stop worrying about what others think. I need to stop caring what effect being me will have on my friendships, because – honestly – I do not have too many of them to mention as it is. I end up more isolated than not sacrificing my true self. It is time to stop waiting for people that cannot possible handle me to say hello and time to begin being who I am to spite what others need of me.

    I have gone too long into my life ignoring this fact.

  • Protected: yes, I did that once

    Protected: yes, I did that once

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  • Protected: so it begins…

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  • disturbing dream

    I woke up out of a dream just minutes ago. It involved what I shall call a local celebrity of the gay community. Inherently, that means corrupted, dubious, disorganized and loved madly by the folks he regularly screws for money. There are more than a few here.

    Although I enjoy him on stage, his behavior and social skills face-to-face set me off – big time.

    In the dream, he is rather sick, not really sure from what.

    He and I finally have it out verbally. He proposes a you hit first, I hit back situation. Actual fisticuffs… He wouldn’t stand a change.

    I start off tedious about the whole thing. Just light taps with my knuckles, then it happens and I get pissed. He uses his round to touch me softly. Intimately.

    I am furious. I punch into his ribcage with everything I have. He strokes his hand across my jaw. I impact just below the shoulder. He is winded. He runs a finger across my lips. I wail on his gut. He brushes my nipple. I clock him in the jaw.

    I am furious that I didn’t see his manipulation coming. I am furious at his audacity. I am full of rage and pummelling him at each chance.

    And I am enjoying it. Viciously.

    The stuff inside of me when I landed a punch…? I could feel it for real inside of me, like part of me was awake and aware.

    There was a flash at the end of the dream, of this guy all sickly white, being driven off in his limo. (Limo??? Ugh.) His driver and personal assistant were with him. He reaches up to hold his assistant’s hand and gets the most evil of smiles. She smiles, too. Even though I know in that moment that she is giving him her heart. Literally. They are off to the hospital and she is dying to keep him alive. Honestly… WTF?!?