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.
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
Our Gophers! school mascot
As kids balled and batted
For their fathers’ love.
The drawings looked like
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.