Number 186 Summer 2021 • $11.95 SUMMER of SLEAZE IIIssue 187 / Fall 2021 YOU + ANOTHER = STORY Submission Deadline: July 21, 2021 www.rfdmag.org/upload A pandemic thought experiment for our readers: YOU For most of the last year we’ve been mostly in isolation, in small groups and we’ve had to readdress how we view ourselves and others. So while we usually ask our readers to reflect on themselves through words—we’re asking you to consider using a novel idea: use no more than four images— photos or artwork—that reflect where you are right now. You can provide short captions for the images. ANOTHER Another way of breaking the isolation is to reach out, right? Well, how about delv- ing into your world of friends, people you admire, someone you think RFD’s readers should know about. Consider it a way to connect with someone you may have not “seen” recently. Thinking of a short interview, do a small essay about some- one you’ve been thinking about recently that you haven’t seen in a while because of the pan- demic. But also consider docu- menting the people you think we should know with imagery. TELL A STORY We’re hoping this will lead you to tell us a story with images which tell a part of your day, explore people you miss and allow you to reach out to peo- ple you believe others should also cherish and know about. We’re all struggling and so we want to keep things positive for this issue—but we also want to reflect people’s individual truths but be gentle with yourselves and reach out! We also are keenly interested in showing more artwork, po- etry and diversity of ideas. We always welcome content which explores our creativity and di- versity of ideas. Collect images of you in four pictures or talk with or about someone else you admire whom you haven’t seen recently. As always, we accept “off theme” submissions at any time. And, if you have ideas for a future issue themes, be in touch. —Love, RFD. RFD 186 Summer 2021 1 Rakish Ferə-mōn Dabbling Vol 47 No 4 #186 Summer 2021 Between the Lines The summer is here and we’re all simmering in our desire to reclaim our lives, our identities and our personhood after a year of being iso- lated. The Summer sun brings heat with its light, filling nature with the energy that feeds our bodies. Eros brings that energy up into our limbs and loins, rejuvenating our spirits, inviting us to seek out partners old and new in its raucous revelries. Within this desire to rekindle life made anew we offer to you our dear readers a Summer of Sleaze II. We asked you to reflect on our sleazier side and you responded with a number of avenues to explore that idea—from Japan’s homoerotic art heritage, telling stories of early explorations of one’s sexuality, and how desire can shape whom we’re attracted to, and then how substance use can affect our relationship to ourselves and others even as we seek to still find desire for ourselves. The response to our call included many steamy images, whether in visuals encapsulating a hot memory or imagining, and words crafted in the constraints of poetry—pressing feelings into expressing a salacious moment or mood. We hope you will view this issue as our steamy way of saying “can’t wait to see, smell, and taste you soon”. In the meanwhile, we hope everyone is safe, getting access to the vaccine and finding ways to stay connected with friends and lovers. We’ve been busy at RFD working hard to share our legacy with uploading our back issues. We’ve recently uploaded an index of early issues. We hope to expand the indexing further to help our readers reaching into our past. Meanwhile, we’re exploring ways of reaching out to more readers both in print and via our online edition of the magazine. We welcome your input on the themes and ideas to explore for upcom- ing issues and we welcome your creative input to our pages. Enjoying the summer already as we’ve been able to work collectively together again on this issue. Happy Summer! Blessed Beast! —The RFD Collective2 RFD 186 Summer 2021 RFD is a reader-written journal for gay people which focuses on country living and encourages alternative life- styles. We foster community building and networking, explore the diverse expressions of our sexuality, care for the environment, Radical Faerie consciousness, and nature-centered spirituality, and share experiences of our lives. RFD is produced by volun- teers. We welcome your participation. The business and general production are coordinated by a collective. Features and entire issues are prepared by different groups in various places. RFD (ISSN# 0149-709X) is published quarterly for $25 a year by RFD Press, P.O. Box 302, Hadley MA 01035-0302. Postmaster: Send address changes to RFD, P.O. Box 302, Hadley MA 01035-0302. Non-profit tax exempt #62-1723644, a function of RFD Press with office of registration at 231 Ten Penny Rd., Woodbury, TN 37190. RFD Cover Price: $11.95. A regular subscription is the least expensive way to receive it four times a year. First class mailed issues will be forwarded. Others will not. Send address changes to submissions@rfdmag.org or to our Hadley, MA address. Copyright © RFD Press. The records required by Title 18 U.S.D. Section 2257 and as- sociated with respect to this magazine (and all graphic material associated therewith on which this label appears) are kept by the custodian of records at the following location: RFD Press, 85 N Main St, Ste 200, White River Junction, VT 05001. On the Covers Front: Photograph by Eric Lanuit Back: Photograph by David Clifton-Strawn Production Managing Editor: Bambi Gauthier Production Editor: Matt Bucy Submission Deadlines Fall—July 21, 2021 Winter—Oct 21, 2021 See inside covers for themes and specifics. For advertising, subscriptions, back issues and other information visit www.rfdmag.org. To read online visit www.issuu.com/rfmag . Visual Contributors inside this Issue Images or pieces not directly associated with an article. Benyamin Reich .............................32 Chris Moody. ................................44 David Clifton-Strawn. ................14, 11, 53 Dmitry Bitjukov. ......................10, 29, 45 Eric Lanuit. .................................37 Gordon Binder. ..............................59 Kwai Lam ................................ 24, 43 Maj ............................... 8, 13, 18, 38 Michael Mitchell ............................47 Philip Hare (Sweet Marie). ....................62 Pioneer ...................................2, 61 Phoenix Dragon ..........................35, 57 Regina Upright. ..............................41 Richard Vyse. ...........................4, 27, 50 Street Candy / David Wright .................22 Uncle Seedy. .................................21 “Friend,” photograph by Pioneer. RFD 186 Summer 2021 3 CONTENTS Beginnings ..............................leopard ...............................5 Blue Dicks ...............................Andre Le Mont Wilson ................12 Daryl and Gerald .........................Andre Le Mont Wilson ................15 The Vale of Cashmere .....................Cary Alan Johnson ...................17 Dreaming of Joe ..........................Ian Young ...........................20 For Wulf. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .Ian Young ...........................20 A CockEyed Believer ......................James Eilers ..........................23 The Old One and the Young One ...........James Eilers ..........................23 Stockroom Story .........................Gregg Shapiro ........................25 Sky Blue .................................Candystore ..........................29 Traditions of Japanese Queer Art ..........Wes Hartley .........................30 ‘I Too, Am Nature: Weeds, Stories, and Queer Becoming’ ....Andrew Sanger .......................34 Free Love ................................Pink (Andrew Deppe) .................36 Encased .................................Scott Damon .........................39 Superman ...............................Mark Ellis ...........................40 when sex is done .........................Franklin Abbott ......................42 Cherry Picking ..........................Top Cerise ...........................44 Bus Stop .................................D. Scott Humphries ...................46 Sex With Straight Guys. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .Quinoa / Chris Kirk ...................48 Sonnet Satyric ...........................Trebor Healey ........................52 1978 The Best ............................West ................................54 Fetish Poem .............................Trebor Healey ........................56 The Kiss .................................Andre Le Mont Wilson ................58 Murder ..................................D. Scott Humphries ...................604 RFD 186 Summer 2021 “Met On Line,” by Richard Vyse. RFD 186 Summer 2021 5 Beginnings by leopard 1980 fourteen years old. A boy on a farm just outside a village banked against the grey North Sea. Apart from its cobble stone pub charm and ships passing on the horizon, the mostly empty sandy beaches, the village didn’t have a whole lot to offer. There was The Coast Road Tea Rooms with the Bingo and Amusements - a haven of one arm bandits, coin waterfalls, pinball machines, a few of the modern “fruit machines” all noise and annoy- ing lights, those pesky, hypnotizing Space Invaders, and the one my brother loved, a skinny spaceship turning and shooting little green lasers to blow up asteroids - relics of a time when people came as holiday makers to Bacton-on-Sea. I knew I was Gay. I felt as if I had been informed of the fact by the girls teasing me the last year of middle school, then had embraced the idea with en- thusiasm and certainty. This and a restless imagina- tion, teased by subtle mentions of homos on TV and the wonderful illusions of pop music, created in me a deep dissatisfaction that drove me to find some- thing brighter and better. Being Gay, I knew in the back of my head was a way out, I just had to find it. I would walk down to the village fairly often. Away from the house, past the green wooden-shed petrol station on the corner, down the hill along Sandy Lane through the church yard - quiet past the Rectory - through the grave yard - must we all die die we all must -the little church gate through the mediaeval stone wall. Over the fields on the public footpath, towards the wartime gun emplacement, always a little haunting wherever they are found, then cross the main road, down to the gap where village has met seafront for a thousand years. Over the uninspiring concrete sea wall, built to stop the constant erosion by the tides, the familiar ring of the hollow steel handrail. All I know is to walk down the steps to the comfort of the fine golden sand and the constant language of the waves. In all weath- ers I would walk an hour or two along the coast. Often I would sing, the latest tunes from the radio or perhaps some lyric I had conjured. I would climb the rusted barnacle encrusted sea breaks casting my unconscious spells into the rough cold waters. I would cry and shout and trudge, always imagining some handsome stranger may be walking towards me, to see my need, to respond to it. Just a sign that the constraints of farm, family and school would not hold me forever. I t came on a summers afternoon. Leaving the beach beginning the walk home there swings around the corner a cyclist. A vision of a man with tight muscly legs in smooth silky athletic shorts, short grey hair. I give a quiet wolf whistle. A brave thing to do, but I was searching hard. He turns to look and I feel a deep fear and embar- rassment, telling myself that my whistle had been for my own amusement and unheard, but he just continued on round the corner, never to be seen again. I walk the way he went and am surprised to see his racing bike leaned up against the railing in front of the small brick built public toilets. I could not help but cross the road and go in. There he is, older than I had imagined, his face lined, his lips strangely moist. I walk behind him, stand at the familiar urinal, pretend to try and pee and, of course, glance over to see this fellow’s large hard red penis only an arm’s length away. He takes the chance of stepping over and reaching to touch me. I was thrilled. He gently squeezed and stroked me then said the strangest thing. Do you wear your foreskin back? he asked. Sure that this must be a sign of sexual prowess which, even so young, I was unnecessarily concerned with, I said yes. You know you can have it cut off! he informed me. Not an idea I had thought of, ever, and why would he say such a thing? I did not have time to consider this strange let down, because sud- denly he sees something through the adult-height frosted glass and, in a mild panic, folds his dick back into his fly, swears a little under his breath, turns abruptly and leaves. A little stunned, I put myself away and there at the door I run into Jacko, the village Punk, with two of his tough looking friends. Although a couple of years younger than me I am always intimidated by these ‘louts’ and here I am almost caught in the act. Putting on the most aggressive look I can come up with, I scoot past them as if invisible, and walk briskly, road, field, church, finally slowing down up the hill to tea time and where’ve you been?6 RFD 186 Summer 2021 I had felt my first touch by a man. Now I knew where I might find the next I began a regular search. My walks to the village became even more frequent but soon I realized that such a moment was never to be repeated here. On Sunday after- noons the circles of my cycling range widened to ever more distant market towns, riding on the excitement of some toilet connection, but finding no more than empty spaces and strange looks. Sat- urday town grocery trips, I would slip away and go visit the toilets over by the Fine Fare Supermarket, behind Business Services and Supplies, or go ‘play’ at the park. Nothing, apart from some scrawled messages and numbers in felt tip that I would only dream of calling. Until one dark afternoon in Norwich, family Christmas shopping, having hurriedly bought the requisite presents for each member of the family, I went alone to the old Victorian W.C. by the cathe- dral gates, an area called Tombland. Between two once grand iron lamp sconces, through the open wrought spiked-top gate swung, down stone steps, to turn towards a row of urinals and stalls below street level. In the dusky light I find it seemingly heaving with men in various states of arousal. Play- ing with themselves, watching each other, some furtive others brazen, the energy high, heavy breath- ing and even little moans sounding from behind the closed cubicle doors. My eyes become as big as saucers with all my senses firing, yet pretending, unsuccessfully, not to care. Looking, staring, longing to touch, almost overwhelmed by what I had found, I turned and left. I am followed by a man who almost looks famil- iar, a regular down at The Duke of Edinburgh pub, the type Dad would use as an example of someone you wouldn’t want to be like, drinking every day. I’m sure its not him as how could anyone from Bacton be Gay, and despite not wanting to talk to him—out of all those men why this one—I stop and turn to him, curious to know what happens next. He asks me do you want to go somewhere? I ask where. He suggests St. Andrew’s? I say I’d like to, trying to sound like I know what he is talking about, but I have to go meet my parents now. Completely shameless really. Naive and desper- ate. In the car home my head begins to fill with se- cret possibilities. Is St Andrews was some comfort- able place where Gays could sit around talking with each other, coffee time and gently holding hands. These city trips to Norwich would only be once every two or three months, so, finally being able to return in the spring, I rush there full of conjecture only to discover at St. Andrews (areas of the old city are named after the local church) just another Vic- torian stone Public Convenience, though this one is at street level and has a beautiful curved wall tiled glossy white, with a more open plan. Nothing to see, rarely was here, I marched off to Tombland to see… to see…only to find further frustrating emptiness. T he following summer I finally found more than what I had been looking for. Driving in with mum and sister I had a full day to myself. First time looking there is a handsome and young enough man, styled ginger hair and mustache, in t-shirt and jeans standing, waiting, gently pressing his rock hard cock. Oh! How he moved once he saw the keen fascination in my gaze. He had scarcely looked at me but he knew. Alone in this moment he would have to act quick. He does, up, turns and as he pass- es he whispers, “Follow me.” With all the excitement and focus of an undercover mission I am three steps behind him, up those stone steps and standing by the passenger door of a brown Ford Cortina. With- out a word we get in and I am being driven through those city streets, trying to hide without being obvi- ous about it, terrified I may be seen. What teasing questions and speculations I would face on Monday if any school mate in some very off chance might see me or, much worse, mum and sister shopping. We drove silently out to a public toilet I didn’t know about, a small building situated awkwardly on an island between lanes of the inner ring road. We pull up. “Follow me,” he says again and hops out of the car, into the Men’s. We are together in the cubi- cle, separated from the world by a matt-black swing door. Engaged. He grabs me and plants his cigarette mouth and mustache on my lips, the scent and the tickle and the moisture of his lips, his dark brown eyes, his hand on the back of my head and the other hand exploring under my shirt on my skin, a man’s hands stroking my back. Someone comes into pee on the other side of the door. My fear grapples with my desire - but he can kiss silently! Alone again, he fumbles with his belt and his trousers go down, and I take the cue and start to untie the school tie I am wearing as a belt. The knot is tight and difficult to undo, just when ease and quick were so necessary. I am embarrassed by this little fashion absurdity - always insecure about how I would dress - and I did not want give this guy any reason to guess I had not done this before (what was I thinking?) Then, somehow my pants are down, he turns around and indicates for me to fuck his ass. A boy could not be more unprepared for the moment. So he turns RFD 186 Summer 2021 7 around and whispers you want me to fuck you? and, not knowing what I am agreeing to, I nod yes, He turns me around, lean over a bit, he whispers. Dry and uneasy, unready and without warming up or warning, I feel a shooting pain run through me. I want it but I cannot have it. I indicate for him to get out and he does. I pull up my pants, turn to face him, I want to get back to the comfort of the kiss, the certainty of being held but we are done. I guess we are both in shock at what we had just done. He offered me a ride but I refused. I was gripped by a need to put distance between us, even more reason now not to be seen and questioned. I wouldn’t know any answer I could give. He left, not even looking back. I waited a breathless minute then ran out and down the busy street, along the modern high street of St. Stephens, around the Castle along the street they call Castle Meadow, past the Maid’s Head, the Cathedral walls, round a maze of small disused brick factories, to the car park where, a good forty five minutes late I find my sister and my mother standing against the car. Waiting. I make up an excuse about loosing track of time but they must know something is up. The drive home more than an hour along ever darker and more twisting roads seems to take forever, the silence thick. In the back of the car I sitting on my discomfort, hands under legs, gripped by exhilaration, pent with anxiety. Not recognizing the taste of stale cigarettes in my spit I wonder if it could be disease; my wild imagining of having to reveal the circumstances to my parents, but never would I want to. Once home, I rush up into the bedroom I share with my brother. I want to relive every moment of the experience, hold the story in my mind. I cannot let the ordinariness of my home life steal the truth and wonder from this difficult but precious, hard won, moment. T he secrets are becoming more intricate. I must navigate these urgent emotional needs and the ways I am finding to fill them, with the realities of family life and school. Wanting to share my feelings but not knowing what to say to who. Acting out my moods and frustrations but getting defensive like nothing is up if anyone asks. More and more long bike rides in search for resolution. Another year of finding any excuse to be set free in Norwich, where, finding nothing and no one again and again, I would circle round the streets, distracting myself for a while before returning again to ‘pee’ and focussed only on one thing. Slowly learning the signals and the rhythms, understanding the looks that distin- guished a fellow interested from one who was not. Becoming more confident, even over confident. Once I was so disconnected from myself that I stepped into the road with my hand out to stop the traffic, only a few yards from an actual pedestrian crossing, marching across the road straight into the toilets. What could those drivers have thought? Another time following a guy a long way - obvi- ously Gay so why wouldn’t he be interested - until he turns round and snarls what do you want? I turn and run in the opposite direction. One time I found a handsome man who re- minded me of my history teacher’s husband. He had a wedding ring and a baby seat in the back, drove me out of town to a patch of woodland. There is a No Trespassing sign, this means you he jokes but on such high alert I wonder for a moment if he is being serious. We walk in, a safe distance from the road and he leans against a tree, pulls out a large, antici- pating cock. He tells me to kneel down and put it in my mouth. For the first time I not only feel a sense of fulfillment, I also feel a sense of comfort. And that skinhead big guy taking me to a country cottage he was doing up, plonking himself down on the toilet because there was no where else to sit. Discovering the joy of having my nipples played with and the erotic charge of a pair of Doc Martins, as I continue to explore my new found vocation. I was ready to fall in love with this one right there and then, but was informed he had a boyfriend who was about to move in. No more information was exchanged. A t sixteen I inherited my sister’s moped. Its electrics failing, its engine whining, max- ing out at thirty miles an hour, but when summer holidays came I couldn’t wait to crawl up to the city on it. I had began typing and pasting together an ABBA fanzine called abbatising and taking this to the photocopier shop was the perfect reason to go. All day I would cruise my heart out. No longer constrained by family meet-up ties and suspicious looks, I wandered freely and with abandon. Enjoy- ing the sun, the record shops I liked to pop into, the small stationers with the new homo-themed cards, and a corner newsagents where the lady would let me buy Gay News and PlayGirl putting them in a paper bag for me—all along a circuit of Public Toi- lets that I knew well and timed carefully. Standing just long enough to not seem too obvious, in spaces stinking of the sweet smell of stale piss, waiting, hoping, charged by my own adrenaline and eager- ness. When a man walks in I cannot help but look with that learned turn of the head that could mean Next >