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The Whipping Boy.
May. 24th, 2007 09:34 amIt is entirely the wrong weather for it, but, as I've found the subject in print twice recently, I've been thinking about it anyway. The immortal Marchesa Luisa Casati "wore live snakes as jewelry, and she was infamous for her evening strolls, naked beneath her furs, parading cheetahs on diamond-studded leashes." Norma Wallace, the artist responsible for the great New Orleans whorehouses, was "a great moviegoer - she often, in a rush, threw her fur coat on with nothing underneath to catch the last feature at the Saenger Theatre on Canal Street." Many thanks to them both. For me the image is so persistent, I think, because there is no equivalent for a gentleman. There is no similar elegant, sensual act of sloth. Wearing garters and stockings under a suit is fine enough, I suppose, but is almost its opposite.
Parker started testosterone a month ago. He's not showing yet, obviously, but there has been a shift in pronouns. He's most excited about increased musculature. His arms and back are already notable; soon he'll look like a circus strongman, short and thick and hard. I, on the other hand, like to remind him that before long he'll be made of nothing but hair. He is a bit fuzzy to start with, so I plan on buying him a cat brush to celebrate when the massive quantities of chest hair begin destroying civilization.
To be honest, I'd been nervous. I've considered this, and I'd worried that Parker's starting would leave me jealous, or rushing into something, or with that not-enough feeling that I think is familiar to those like us, when, obviously, all I want to feel is happy for him.
Again, there have been no changes yet, but, instead, this has left me feeling remarkably secure, and certain. Parker is the only person with whom I've ever been involved who felt as if they were the same gender as me. Feeling that the term homosexual was applicable for once was delightful, but now that we are more firmly on our separate paths, I feel a sort of freedom. I suppose it should have been obvious already that we are very different sorts of boys. If I'm a young gentleman, once his voice starts to crack he'll be the adolescent waif.
Today we'll meet at our doctor and I'll learn to administer the injection. I watched when he did it himself two weeks ago, and was almost shocked to discover how much I enjoyed it.
Parker started testosterone a month ago. He's not showing yet, obviously, but there has been a shift in pronouns. He's most excited about increased musculature. His arms and back are already notable; soon he'll look like a circus strongman, short and thick and hard. I, on the other hand, like to remind him that before long he'll be made of nothing but hair. He is a bit fuzzy to start with, so I plan on buying him a cat brush to celebrate when the massive quantities of chest hair begin destroying civilization.
To be honest, I'd been nervous. I've considered this, and I'd worried that Parker's starting would leave me jealous, or rushing into something, or with that not-enough feeling that I think is familiar to those like us, when, obviously, all I want to feel is happy for him.
Again, there have been no changes yet, but, instead, this has left me feeling remarkably secure, and certain. Parker is the only person with whom I've ever been involved who felt as if they were the same gender as me. Feeling that the term homosexual was applicable for once was delightful, but now that we are more firmly on our separate paths, I feel a sort of freedom. I suppose it should have been obvious already that we are very different sorts of boys. If I'm a young gentleman, once his voice starts to crack he'll be the adolescent waif.
Today we'll meet at our doctor and I'll learn to administer the injection. I watched when he did it himself two weeks ago, and was almost shocked to discover how much I enjoyed it.
