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212                                     Jack Fritscher, Ph.D.
               My porno I write with my dick in one hand. Like the reader later
            falling into the story, I, the writer, must fall into the story while creating it.
            I must believe the fiction or the feature article (“Prison Blues,” “Pumping
            Roger”) to the degree my dick stays hard driving the words, just as the
            words ultimately must drive the dick of the reader into hardening, and
            cuming, in what I feel is the most interactive art in the world.
               The ultimate porno review is a reader shooting his load.
               Others may deny that, because they’re gay Puritan Fundamentalists
            who swing “politically correct.” I’m as fucking nice a BoBo (bourgeois
            bohemian) as you can get, but no one fucks with me — who success-
            fully escaped the censorship of the Catholic Church and Vatican poli-
            tics — when it comes to writing, photography, and videography. I am an
            indie artist.
               What you read is what you get: no agenda; all entertainment. It’s
            sexual truth, personal and raw, the kind you can’t write if you suck off
            publishers, editors, workshops, museums, archives, or, worse, write for
            the failed Marxists in “politically-correct focus groups.” Fuck ’em all. As
            Sondheim writes, and Streisand sings, in “Putting It Together,” it’s all
            about the work.
               Porno is an act of aggression that tops the reader, making him go
            nucking futz making a party in his pants.
               Erotic writing is so Fritscher-Rechy “outlaw,” so much like shooting
            an “indie film” outside the studio system that the “proper” academic gay
            rags have yet to acknowledge the literary merits of the only real gay writ-
            ing there is — erotica — in reviews or awards.
               But God spare us from gay erotica becoming academically institu-
            tionalized. Teaching novels as assignments for class ruined the reading
            of fiction. College film courses assigning movies for term-paper critique
            destroyed the enjoyment of film.
               The irony is that twenty years after erotic “outlaw writing” is written,
            the mainstream begins to suck it up into respectability. It’s hard to be
            edgy; it’s harder to remain edgy. For a good time, give me a heaven with
            wild fucking saints who aren’t canonized.
               Too bad the future of an art form lies in the prejudices of its audience.
            The straight press thinks I’m “gay.” The gay press thinks I’m “erotic.”
            (The San Francisco Gay and Lesbian Film Festival thinks my videos
            about homomasculine men are “not gay enough.” Go figure.)
               I’m professionally trained in literature. I know writing. Most gay
            writers who wannabe on the straight best-seller list are perpetually angry
            because the straight mainstream literary world judges “Gay” and “Les-
            bian” writing as just another genre like “Westerns,” “Mysteries,” and

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