The Flaming Artist Speaks to the World
My Back Pages
from True Adult Fantasy Number 1
I was a victim of childhood sexual abuse. By that, I mean I didn't lose my virginity until 3 months after my 21st birthday, in October, 1980.
Seriously. I wanted it so bad I thought I'd die or end up like that loser who tried to kill President Reagan to prove his love for Jodie Foster. But I had no idea how to get it. I feared I'd reach my grave never having loved. The men I hungered for so desperately in my home town of Anchorage, Alaska seemed separated from me by a wall of Plexiglas an inch thick. They'd be sure to react with horror or contempt if I told them how I felt. So I made love to them by drawing them. Pencils, pens and brushes were my sex toys; ink and watercolors were my lube.
Few of those drawings done prior to art school survive. I'd be so consumed with fear of discovery that I would burn them in the fireplace when I was alone in the house. The first drawings in this book aren't the earliest survivors, but they're the first I think are good. I did them when I was 20, before I got laid the first time. They are my fantasies of a land unknown, only guessed at. What strikes me, seeing them now, is how full of tenderness they are. Later when I contributed to Drummer magazine, it was the men that attracted me, not the physical torture they inflicted or received to justify their love.
The other thing that strikes me about the earliest drawings is the exaggerated size of their dicks and the youthful perfection of their middle-aged physiques. I mention this only as an example of my youthful isolation and inexperience. I honestly thought these were normal sizes for penises, and that I had a tiny prick. When Frank Zappa sneered “eight inches or less” in “200 Motels,” he was talking directly to me. (I later learned this was not the case.) Experience also taught the lesson of hanging flesh and bulging midsections, which I quickly incorporated into my art.
These pages are culled from 20-plus years of jerk-off sketchbooks. There's a 12 year gap between '89 and '01. In October 1989, I was struck by a speeding motorist while jaywalking across Hyperion Avenue on my way to an Act Up meeting. I was thrown 20 feet and spent a week in the hospital. Everything's fine now, thanks, except I lost my sense of smell and my sense of lust, to a certain extent. Everything still worked, but I could and did go a week at a time without much thinking about it. The fantasy also went out of my drawings. They were suddenly just pictures of naked men, no longer possessing history or narrative.
That changed after 9/11. The specter of mortality raised by the terrorist attacks opened the spigots of my sex drive. Not only was I generally more horny, but my erotic art interested me again. I wasn't inspired so much to do new work, but to bring my old work to light, making it available to others. Like the Blues Brothers, I'm on a mission from God. I want to make the world a better place with my drawings. This planet desperately needs images of men loving, not killing each other. My personal favorites in this collection are those on page 25 and the top of page 32. I like this pre- and post-coital intimacy. In fact my philosophy of eroticism is that anticipation, flirtation and foreplay frequently surpass the act itself.
With your support, there will be more.