BILLY AGNES WRITES GLORY HOLE SMUT

Interview by Kelly Lovemonster

While I was a young teen my family totally had AOL. Remember that hella slow dial-up network that wouldn’t allow you to talk on the phone and be on the Internet at the same time? I have to admit that I spent countless hours waiting with baited breath for the dirtiest erotica to upload to my family’s computer. Once loaded, I would read stories about individuals’ first times, try to take notes on how to effectively give head and imagine what sex would really feel like. In celebration of all things kinky this Folsom season and as homage to a teenage me, I thought it would be rad to have San Francisco transplant (via Santiago, Chile via Minnesota) writer Billy Agnes share some of his erotic poetry. But before you get to all of Agnes’ poetic smut, read our interview and find out what lead him to the lovely city of SF, why Agnes will always choose watching porn over reading erotica, and the dirtiest thing he’s ever done.

AHDM4U :: Where are you originally from and what lead you to SF?

BILLY AGNES :: I grew up in the frigid tundra that is Minnesota, splitting my year between a tiny suburb of Minneapolis and my grandmother’s soybean farm. Youth passed slowly in rural America, which has a certain rustic appeal in hindsight, though it’s often overshadowed by the general backwardness of the people.

Last March, I moved to San Francisco from Santiago, Chile, after having lived outside of the country for a few years. Don’t move to random countries around the world for a lover you’ve only been with for three months, unless you’re looking for a story. I didn’t originally intend on staying long in San Francisco, but the city swallowed me whole, and I now feel myself growing in along with all the other half-digested artists, writers and whatnot.

AHDM4U :: Several great writers and poets have spent time in SF. Do you find that SF inspires your writing?

BA :: San Francisco is a terrific inspiration; the bizarre social ecology, the rolling hills, the otherworldly sunset sitting like a fat egg yolk over the ominous, white-out fog. This city is also responsible for the last great movement in poetry, which first took off in the late 1940s. New American Poetry was never so strong as when the San Francisco Renaissance expanded from writing and oral performance to transform philosophy and performance arts across the world. I mean, the Beat Generation, that happened just yesterday! This city is still such a powerful center of creative activity. I wonder if our generations’ poetic movement might come from here, as well.

AHDM4U :: Is there a difference between reading erotica versus watching pornographic content? Do you prefer one over the other?

BA :: Watch porn when you need to get off.  Read erotica when you have a lazy afternoon to dwell on trivialities. Does Johnny’s grimace while getting his dick sucked have to do with his latent self-loathing over his homosexual tendencies, or is it from the other dude’s jaggedy-ass teeth? You can explore these things in erotica, whereas porn feels largely physiological: hot bodies slam into each other while I jerk off. There’s no time for thinking about porn stars as multi-faceted characters; the “pizza man” who shows up to a frat party and becomes a spontaneous pass-around bottom doesn’t have a life, a world, outside his scene; he’s just that, nothing more.

I prefer porn. I would never trust a writer to describe sex without getting completely muddled up in all their strangled sentences, their bizarre metaphors. Erotica as a genre really suffers from this, you know, when writers describe the woman’s tits as two mountain peaks at sunrise and the guy’s tongue as a river running between them — like, what the hell is that?

AHDM4U :: What’s the dirtiest thing you’ve ever done?

BA :: I am fascinated with the play areas peppered across San Francisco; the ones quietly curled up behind non-assuming porn shops. These labyrinths with shadow men wandering mindlessly. It is the embodiment of anonymity. It’s simultaneously empowering and so utterly self-defeatist; how does this need, this love, this impulsive sex manifest? The fascination with this bizarre domain has lead me to investigate these 10 dollar cover, plywood glory hole rights of passage.

AHDM4U :: Have you been to Folsom Street Fair? If not, what are you looking forward to?

BA :: This will be my first year at Folsom, though I played around at Up Your Alley. I find the entire fair electrifying for its blatant, orgiastic worship; for it’s assimilation of power; for its hyper-masculinity reminiscent of post-WWII biker gangs, of military protocol and ritualized sexual society; these guys whose life is to strut their heavy muscle. It’s a reminder of political radicalism, of alternative sexual identities. It’s beautiful, it’s worthy of protecting, of keeping its autonomy and not getting sucked into the realm of the conventional and politically correct.

Photo of Billy Agnes by Robbie Sweeney

Love Letters at Faggot Camp

Look here, I grew all these muscles
Now who will love me?
I walk the parks,
I sit there on the towels
Shear moist in the sun.
I squeeze my juices,
Tighten my plumps,
In case you might be looking.
I feel my haunches quake in atrophy
every moment in the desks.
I am too man for this life.
I am a heavy, heated Ox
Puffing outward, man of men!
I could break a neck, any neck!
With all my hard-assembled beef.
I am bigger now
I am so big my chest cavity
Could fit three ovalline babies
One for each decade I have spent
On my sweet masculine, my Apollo.
I touch my ridges, all of them,
I squeeze them, I can’t help it!
Yours, I look for your bulges too,
Do you have them like mine?
Do they juice up veined and red,
Sliding under 12 pack-skin?
Your bulges and my bulges,
Flexing on each other,
Lost in love pools of protein milkshake.
We could fall in love together,
We could make them so big together.

7 11 17

The first time I wrote gay smut
I was seven
I drew long rows of man penis
Across my primary school
In the bully’s baseball diamond.
Those little squiggle dicks
Insidiously undermining
Our Gophers! school mascot
As kids balled and batted
For their fathers’ love.
The drawings looked like
Mutilated broccoli,
Stem and shrub and head
Intertwining with a dozen more.
There I hid my knowledge of the penis
Of all that man on man on man.
The second time I wrote gay smut
I was eleven
I decimated Poor Kyle’s name,
“Kyle sucks dick” with bold black sharpie,
“Kyle sucks dick below the bleachers;
In the locker room; on the bus!”
He suffered long and hard for it.
In my boyhood need,
Without that full-grown taste for values,
I would have thrown a thousand Kyles
Under my classmates’ iron fist,
If only to write it again:
suck dick suck dick suck dick.
The last time I wrote gay smut
I was seventeen
I only wanted to write out my name
In college applications;
In fledgling resumes;
Letters to my hospice grandma:
Billy, Billy, Billy Boy
Every which way I wrote it
The words came out the same.
Each time I spoke I smut,
Gay and faggot dripping,
Flaking filthy spirit on the
Good and peaceful folk.
That’s how they saw it, anyway
Those grown-ups all in row
With their pretty lives, their pretty lives.
To them each gay each smut
Was written all the same.

Ten Dollar Glory

Each man a black-wing bullet
Pistol gripped and pointing down
Into the other’s bottom target.
Each man virile at full tilt,
Granite-faced over ragged decades,
Carving gods from out his stonehide.
Each man easy as the word is,
Shadow-hugging park night bushes
Blowing through the anon, anon, anon.
Each man countless hours bloody-kneeling
All for homemade medicine
That vicious thrust with white swallow.
Each man an angry pocket
The one rearing up his lust,
Never the baby boy, the baby boy.
Each man gazing into lover’s death
The one each night asked for;
Yet fearful of the dark angel, H-eyed and vining.
Each man donning dirty boots
Leathered-up as Holy Daddy,
More faithful than the Catholic Father.
Each man paying 10 buck cover
Switching green for bareback bareback,
Open mouthed with open glory.
About 4U Mag (264 Articles)
A lifestyle magazine by Kelly Lovemonster and Caitlin Donohue. Not a total vanity project.

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