Page 230 - Gay San Francisco_Eyewitness Drummer
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210                                     Jack Fritscher, Ph.D.
               At the baths, one time, a man whose tits were in my steely fingers,
            slipped down past my face, my cock, looking up at me, saying, “Do to
            me what you did to that guy in that story.” I sent him on his way. My
            sex life is not a tour of my “Greatest Hits of Fritscher Friction Fiction,”
            but erotic reputation is a pisser after more than thirty-five years in adult
            entertainment: literature and photography and video. With more than
            8,000 pages in print, and around a thousand photographs in magazines
            from Drummer to Bear to Unzipped to Honcho, and more than 170 feature
            videos, I’ve been a busy boy living a wonderful life. My mantra is: “He
            who dies with the most column inches wins.” That’s a joke.
               Personally, I am leather; I am wicca; I am bear fetish. But, in my liter-
            ary poker hand, my “wild card” as “culture critic” trumps leather culture’s
            Full House to top me; trumps satanic culture’s four Aces of Spades to
            claim me; trumps bear-fetish culture’s Hearts and Diamonds to seduce
               I create erotic videos, but, maverick, neither join nor validate any
            adult director’s guild or video corporation run by the Mafia. I am a unique
            hybrid: I am personally leather and a pioneer action-figure in leather cul-
            ture as well as a scholar-historian of gay male leather culture, but not
            part of the establishment Leather Reich of “Mother-May-I S&M.” In my
            Porno Manifesto, art for art’s sake may go beyond the pale of consent as
            in this excerpt that pre-dates the murder of Matthew Shepard by almost
            thirty years. Style sample:
                   The rest of that particular Wyoming night was the sort of
               history that never gets recorded, but’s never forgot either: how
               three fairground fellows, all rodeo cowboys, paraded into the
               bar duded up . . . and started a punch-out with the barful of work-
               ing cowboys in a brawl they could never win . . . The biggest one
               escaped when Arrow’s dad kicked his ass through the bar win-
               dow . . . The middle-size cowboy . . . revived fast when the barkeep
               dragged him across the floor to the john and shoved his face into
               the cold piss-water toilet. The third cowboy they dragged to the
               feedlot . . . . A boot on the back of his neck shoved his face into a
               fresh steaming horse-pie. They pulled the shit-covered outsider
               to a railroad X-sign. Arrow watched them lift the drunken cow-
               boy in his filthy satin shirt and torn jeans up against the railroad
               cross. They spreadeagled him to the four heavy-beamed wooden
               arms. He was roped tight and secure. The men passed around
               a bottle of whiskey. Arrow’s dad handed the bottle to his son.
               Arrow raised the bottle to his lips and pulled a long burning
               swig. He could never forget that moment: looking at his father

          ©Jack Fritscher, Ph.D., All Rights Reserved—posted 05-05-2017
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