Wednesday, February 21, 2018

Very short story

New in the gallery --- Zane Nox

"Fuck me like you hate me" --- Zane Nox

We asked the artist about himself, and he answered: "Well unfortunately I just recently started posting my art so there is not much to say about me...yet.:) I'm an artist from Europe, interested in beauty, fun and joy in every way..So that's what I want to invoke in my work, in this case - male beauty is my main focus. Glad if you like it."

Jean Genet --- "I wanted him to love me, and of course he did!" --- Our Lady of the Flowers (2)

(For an explanation, please refer to the previous Genet post)

Very little of this Corsican remains in my memory: a hand with too massive a thumb that plays with a tiny hollow key, and the dim image of a blond boy walking up La Canebiere in Marseilles, with a small chain, probably of gold, stretched across his fly, which it seems to be buckling. He belongs to a group of males who are advancing upon me with the pitiless gravity of forests on the march. That was the starting point of the reverie in which I imagined myself calling him Roger, a “little boy's” name, though firm and upright. Roger was upright.

I had just got out of the Chave jail and I was amazed not to have met him there. What could I commit so as to be worthy of his beauty?

I needed boldness in order to admire him. Lacking money, I slept at night in the shadowy corners of coal−piles, on the docks, and every evening I carried him off with me. The memory of his memory made way for other men. The last two days, I have again, in my daydreams, been mingling his (invented) life with mine. I wanted him to love me, and of course he did, with the candor that must be joined to perversity for him to be able to love me. For two successive days I have fed with his image a dream which is usually sated after four or five hours when I have given it a boy to feed upon, however handsome he be. I am now utterly exhausted with inventing circumstances in which he keeps loving me more and more.

I am worn out with the invented trips, thefts, rapes, burglaries, imprisonments and treachery in which we were involved, each acting by means of and for the other and never by or for himself, in which the adventure was ourselves and only ourselves. I am exhausted; my wrist has cramps. The pleasure of the last drops, is dry. With him and through him, I lived, between my four bare walls and in a period of two days, everything possible in an existence that kept getting mixed up and that had to be started all over again twenty times, until it became more real than a real one.

Sunday, February 18, 2018

New exhibition --- Twenty Japanese artists

We're great fans of Japanese erotic art---no nation does it better, we feel---and so we've curated a little electronic exhibition of twenty of its outstanding protagonists.  Here are the contact sheets (and here's the link to the page):

(And here's the link again)

Wednesday, February 14, 2018

Jean Genet --- Our Lady of the Flowers (1)

(Artwork by Roland Caillaud)

(LustSpiel was asked to contribute to a bibliophile book on Genet's "Our Lady of the Flowers," so we had to read it---run a magazine, see the world---and our first effort entails the publication of a few fragments from the book. People have heard of Jean Genet, of course, but few of our generation will have read the "Lady", his first book, published in 1943. The all-knowing Perry Brass wrote in an email-exchange a few days ago: Our Lady of the Flowers was one of those superhip books that everybody bought when it came out in mass market paperback back in circa 1964, when I was graduating from high school. They bought it, but nobody finished it. Supposedly it reads much better, though not easier, in French than in English.  
Well, LustSpiel is hailing from France, so we tried the French edition first, but the vocabulary was simply too difficult. The English translation is adequate, we feel (better than, say, the English translations of Anna Karenina). We read the "Lady" twice now, and it reads better the second time. There's something worthwhile to one of the first unabashedly gay books in the history of world literature. So, we publish a few fragments, and here's the first:)

I do not know whether it is their faces, the real ones, which spatter the wall of my cell with sparkling mud, but it cannot be by chance that I cut those handsome, vacant−eyed heads out of magazines. I say vacant, for all the eyes are clear and must be sky−blue, like the razor's edge to which clings a star of transparent light, blue and vacant like the windows of buildings under construction, through which one sees the sky from the windows of the opposite wall. Like those barracks which in the morning are open to all the winds, which one thinks empty and pure when they swarm with dangerous males, sprawled out promiscuously on their beds. I say empty, but if they close their eyelids, they become more disturbing to me than are huge prisons to the nubile maiden who passes by the high barred windows, prisons behind which sleeps, dreams, swears and spits a race of murderers, which makes of each cell the hissing nest of a tangle of snakes, but also a kind of confessional with a curtain of dusty serge. Those eyes, seemingly without mystery, are like certain closed cities, such as Lyons and Zurich, and they hypnotize me as do empty theaters, deserted prisons, machinery at rest, deserts, for deserts are closed and do not communicate with the infinite. Men with such faces terrify me when I have to cross their paths warily, but what a dazzling surprise when, in their landscape, at the turning of a deserted lane, I approach, with my heart racing like mad, and discover nothing, nothing but looming emptiness, sensitive and proud like a tall foxglove!

Each cell is a hissing tangle of snakes

As I have said, I do not know whether the heads there are really those of my guillotined friends, but, I have recognized, by certain signs, that they, those on the wall, are as utterly supple as the lashes of whips and rigid as glass knives, precocious as doctor−children, bodies chosen because they are possessed by terrible souls.

Tuesday, February 13, 2018

Countdown (2) --- Essential pictures you need to know (330 - 321)

Here's the second installment of our new countdown, a collection of essential pictures. Occasionally we've been able to identify the model(s) or the photographer. If you know more or better, leave a comment. 

Jeff and Travis by Corbin Fisher

Saturday, February 10, 2018

New in the gallery --- Patrick Angus (1953 - 1992)

Patrick Angus

(From the artist's Wikipedia entry:)

Patrick Angus (1953–1992) was a 20th-century American painter who, among many other works, created a number acrylic paintings of the interior of the Gaiety Theater and some of its dancers and customers in the 1980s. Some of the titles are: Grand Finale (1985), The Apollo Room I (1986), Remember the Promise You Made (1986), Slave to the Rhythm (1986), All The Love in the World (1987), and Hanky Panky (1991).

Patrick Angus in his studio

Although a dedicated creator of portraits and still lifes, and an occasional designer of stage settings, Angus is principally known for works begun in 1981 depicting the young male erotic dancers at the Gaiety and other New York showplaces.Referring to an earlier French painter who made his reputation depicting the demi-monde, playwright Robert Patrick deemed Angus "The Toulouse-Lautrec of Times Square."

Angus died on May 13, 1992, from AIDS

(more art on our gallery page)

Thursday, February 8, 2018

When Rufus sings --- a short story

By R.J. March

(Artwork by Josman)

Jake says this time it will be all right, but Kevin's not so sure. He's thinking otherwise. This is looking like something else to Kevin, a step into something murky and deep, something he might not be able to shake, a commitment to something he doesn't quite believe in. He leans back on his haunches and wipes sweat off his forehead, which seems a little higher every day. He keeps his hair short and wears a ball cap constantly. He looks for it now.

He has still his shirt on and his socks. His shorts are by the door; his sneakers beside the futon. His hat is nowhere to be seen. His cock drops, heavy-headed, juicy. It comes to rest on the sheet under him, making a wet spot.

Jake comes up off his elbows, turning around to face him. "We don't have to," he says. "I mean, if you don't want."

Very short story

We never knew --- Fischerspooner

(Hat tip: Homodesiribus

I guess I made a bad decision
I laid it on the line
I’m hard wired, tunnel visioned
How do you like your grind?
I’ve overshared, I don’t know why
We‘re in a room
This is doomed
What did I say I’d do
What did I say I would do?

Take it, take it all the way
What am I looking for?
Why do I need more?
What do I really want want want want want?

Let’s do it, I go all the way
I want a Roman holiday
I know it’s just a game we play
I know it’s just a game

I’m not opposed to humiliation
I hold my breath until
I wiggle out of a bad position
I call it topBrazil
T-O-P-B-R-A-Z-I-L (take it)(take it)(take it all the way)

What am I looking for?
Why do I need more?
What do I really want want want want want?

Let’s do it, I go all the way
I want a Roman Holiday
I know it’s just a game we play
I know it’s just a game

All the way (I know it’s just a game)
Take it all away (I know it’s just a game)
All the way
I know it’s just a game we play
I know it’s just a game
All the way 
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