Bareback Videos: A Full Circle

Yeah, so I was stoked at the prospect of hitting my local porno shop, gettin' my hands on Treasure Island Media's latest, 'Kenny's Raw Fucks' and making a night of it: porn in my pocket, hittin' my fave spots in the Castro for a couple of cocktails, get home, relax and absorb what promises to be some good old fashioned raunchy sex on video, free from interruptions and friendly intrusions.  Just me, Stoli and Kenny Host.  On such occasions, sex can wait.  That's why I buy this stuff, rather than subscribe to a streaming website: I want and need the collateral evidence of filth.

Except that my local shop has reduced its inventory to just a single rack of boring programmed porn from people like Titan.  It possibly makes business sense: for all the shelf space devoted to porn, the yield probably doesn't measure up.  I checked around the other shops, even the local smut emporium in my mother's dusty Central Valley cowtown (where the porn palace now resembles a Walgreens), and it's the same story: you won't be able to buy Kenny Host's epic off the shelf.  So it's back to the mail order game.  Mail order...it went downhill after shopping malls came to predominate the retail scene...and now it's back.  Amazon, Zappos, etc. show no sign of retrenchment.

Today I will order 'Kenny's Raw Fucks' online and wait patiently for the postman to deliver.  I'm especially interested in this video: it has some old faves, Jon Shields, my buddy Jayson Park (!!), Brian Bonds, pozdicks galore, and Nate Grimes, who may or may not be the fetish star from the old Kink Studios.  The 'new Dawson' TIM says.  We'll see.  I'm sorry we'll have to wait this time, like in the old days.  F..u..c..k!

The bareback porn era started almost 20 years ago, in the midst of AIDS, safe sex, and fear, if not hesitation to the point of tedium.  I rented a fisting video called 'Depth Charge' and my life changed: it showed bare knuckled fisting.  There was a sequel, as I recall, and some raw dick insertions were included.  Fleetingly.  Michael McKey, the videographer for Steven Scarborough (the director, if I'm not mistaken), went out on his own and produced a couple of outright filthy, raunchy videos starring a mostly bearish cast selected from his clutch of Phoenix buddies.  It was about 1998, 1999.

Then I read a review of 'Raunch Lunch,' I think that was the title, or something close to that by a guy named Paul Morris.  The review was in one of the so-called 'zines of the era, hastily copied and stapled, available off a shelf deep in the rear of the City Lights bookstore on Castro Street.  I bought it, via good old fashioned 19th century mail order.  It starred my favorite nom-de-porn...Wyatt Trash (!), and though it would be another couple of years before I put my ass on the mattress, I was already mentally a barebacker.  There was nothing I wanted more than Wyatt Trash's daddy dick up my butt.
'Raunch Lunch' proved to be tame compared to Paul's sequel, 'Breed Me,' which featured a headless bottom coaxing multiple loads out of his ass, as bells tolled.  This blew me away, and I did the mail order thing until TIM started marketing its product on pornshop shelves.  It must have been a Tom Shannon video, slightly pre-Dawson, because Dawson was never VHS, as I recall, and Tom Shannon was in 'Animals,' 'Plowed,' etc....we were trending, overlapping VHS to dvd.  It was about 2000.  The fact you could buy the stuff over the counter turned out to be pretty meaningful, in retrospect.

So now we're there again.  Except in the old days, Paul actually included a stamped (a real stamp pasted with somebody's saliva) return envelope for your mail order check.  Think about that for a moment.  And where TIM is today.

So, I'm so looking forward to Kenny's renditions of raw fucks.  The vodka's waiting.

Folsom 2017, Up Your Alley, San Francisco Gay Pride

I missed the SF Gay Pride Parade this year, and don't care.  I gave Up Your Alley a pass, and don't care.  I haven't written off Folsom, however, probably because, unlike Pride, it doesn't try all that hard at being inclusive.  Folsom remains a festishist event, and a chance to meet kindred spirits, old friends and make new ones.  But we'll see; a lot depends on who's appearing on the entertainment program.  In years past, I've enjoyed Varla Jean Merman singing for real, an outrageously awful but still fabulous Dirty Sanchez, Heklina's ass eating antics and Kimo's hilarious '20 Years of Madonna in 20 Minutes'.  Uhm, that would be 30 Years now, but that's what it takes, I guess.  I checked the website and couldn't find the schedule.

As for Gay Pride and any related excitement, the Parade has become the victim of its own success: this is not really bad, but it is different and it shows how far we've come from drag queens lounging in limousines and go go boys (porn stars, barbacks) doing their thing on flatbed trucks.  Now we have 500 Yahoo types marching followed by 500 guys from Google and 500 more guys from Salesforce, going on and on; last year the Parade went on for about four hours and I'm assuming the same for this year's.  Lost, among all of this, are a dozen (or so, one does lose interest) so-called grand marshals, their impact enfeebled by the magnitude of the event.  When I was a youngin, my next door neighbor enlisted my attendance at a local parade where John Wayne was to be the grand marshal, and he was!
He sat on the back of a Cadillac (a big car, anyway) convertible and shook the hands of all the parade goers who approached the car while the marchers fumbled on.  He was gracious and fulfilled what a grand marshal should be: the exclamation point to a parade's relevance.    At the San Francisco event, I've observed Cyndi Lauper and Chaz Bono, among others, living out their grand marshal-ness, squeezed into tiny sportscars idling down Market Street and having no impact whatsoever.  A grand marshal, like the beauty queen or Santa Claus, should come at the end of the parade and preferably on a big float: this is IT folks, this is the end of the Gay Pride Parade,a big deal.  I'd like to be able to say, 'Remember, that was the year, it was Chaz Bono!"