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silverfoxesclub-digest In this issue:
-Plague of purple kisses
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Subject: Plague of purple kisses
Plague of Purple Kisses
It may seem strange to some, but one
of my regular stops for the past 50
years whenever I have visited or lived
in Paris has been a renowned
cemetery where the remains of many
famous people are interred. I used to
love strolling there, sometimes taking
a book with me to read while sitting
on or near the tomb of its author.
That's where I read Oscar Wilde's
"The Ballad of Reading Gaol" for the
first time, and two books by Colette,
one of which inspired the musical play
"Gigi."
It is famous not only for the dead, but
also for its cats. They are everywhere,
fat and happy, well-fed on the mice
and rats that in turn dine, shall be say,
six feet under. I have always been a
cat lover, and once when I lived in
Paris, I stupidly took my two
dachshunds with me to the cemetery.
That was a short visit! Although they
had a cat of their own at home, the
army of felines at Pere Lachaise was
more than they could handle. They
literally dragged me out of the place,
terrified of the butch pussies that
snarled at them from behind
tombstones.
Irreverent cuss that I am, my very
favorite spot in the cemetery, on
which I wasted endless film taking pix
over the years, was the tomb of the
Fuk family, their name emblazoned
across it in big, gold letters. I sent the
pix to friends worldwide, my favorite
being one I had a friend take of me
and my lover at the time, simulating a
bend-over butt-fuck squarely in front
of the tomb. Ah, youth!
Headline:
Elegant tomb suffers rash of mauve
kisses
(Agence France Press, 11/18/00)
Text:
Some kisses are hand-painted and
some have been lip-applied, and
together with a scrawl of multilingual
graffiti they form a hideous rash over
the face of an otherwise elegant tomb.
Wilde's grave has long been a place of
pilgrimage. He died a pauper's death
in a seedy hotel in the Latin Quarter
of Paris on Nov. 30, 1900, and was
buried in the Pere Lachaise cemetery
in the working-class eastern half of
the city in a tomb paid for by an
anonymous ``lady.''
Since then, the grave has attracted a
steady stream of admirers who regard
Wilde not just as a celebrated
playwright, poet and wit but as an
early gay martyr. He fled to Paris in
disgrace after serving a two-year
prison sentence imposed for a
homosexual love affair.
The sphinxlike angel that guards the
tomb, sculpted by Sir Jacob Epstein,
was originally a well-endowed male,
but his male parts have been removed,
not once but twice -- first by an
outraged cemetery-keeper who,
legend has it, used them as a
paperweight, and later by a souvenir
hunter.
The plague of purple kisses threatens
to be equally damaging. Containing
animal fats, the lipstick sinks into the
stone and the stone-masons
responsible for the upkeep of the
cemetery monuments are unsure if the
marks can be removed.
The tomb was last restored in 1992
and a plaque was added at the base
reading, in English and French:
``Respect the memory of Oscar Wilde
and do not deface this tomb.''
The kisses reportedly began a few
years ago when a visitor thought it
would be a good idea to place a mark
of affection on the tomb, and then
people started joining in. The latest
curse is graffiti.
``Ti Amo!'' exclaims one. ``El mejor,''
comments a Spanish-speaker. ``Oscar
forever and more smack,'' claims
another.
Several visitors, including Kevin,
Marc, Regine and Antonella, have
inscribed their names, often
thoughtfully indicating the date of
their efforts. ``Romeo Deutschland'' is
registered twice. Aidan of Dublin has
misquoted Wilde's famous line about
lying in the gutter but staring at the
stars.
Most of the markings appear to have
been added in the past two months.
Cemetery officials say periodic
attempts are made to clean graffiti off
tombs.
The former inmate of Reading Gaol is
not the only distinguished foreign
guest of the Pere Lachaise cemetery
to attract visitors from around the
world.
The tomb of Jim Morrison, lead
singer of the Doors rock group who
died of a heart attack while passing
through Paris in 1971, has suffered
similar indignities to that of Wilde,
although it was recently cleaned up
and is now spotless. The present
difference is perhaps due to the fact
that Morrison's grave has a full-time
guard. Wilde, ever the outcast, has no
such protection.
Subject: Deep Thoughts
Deep Thoughts:
Never raise your hands to your kids.
It leaves your groin unprotected.
I'm not into working out. My
philosophy: No pain, no pain.
I am in shape. Round's a shape...
I'm desperately trying to figure out
why kamikaze pilots wore helmets.
Ever wonder if illiterate people get
the full effect of alphabet soup?
I always wanted to be somebody, but
I should have been more specific.
Did you ever notice when you blow in
a dog's face he gets mad at you? But
when you take him in a car he sticks
his head out the window.
Have you ever noticed? Anybody
going slower than you is an idiot, and
anyone going faster than you is a
maniac.
You have to stay in shape. My
grandmother started walking five
miles a day when she was 60. She's
97 today and we don't know where
she is.
The reason most people play golf is
to wear clothes they would not be
caught dead in otherwise.
Anytime four New Yorkers get into a
cab together without arguing a bank
robbery has just taken place.
I have six locks on my door all in a
row. When I go out, I lock every
other one. I figure no matter how
long somebody stands there picking
the locks, they are always locking
three.
The statistics on sanity are that one
out of every four Americans is
suffering from some form of mental
illness. Think of your three best
friends. If they are okay, then it's
you.
Now they show you how detergents
take out bloodstains, a pretty violent
image there. I think if you've got a
T-shirt with a bloodstain all over it,
maybe laundry isn't your biggest
problem. Maybe you should get rid of
the body before you do the wash.
I ask people why they have deer
heads on their walls. They always say
because it's such a beautiful animal.
There you go. I think my mother is
attractive, but I only have
photographs of her.
A lady came up to me on the street
and pointed at my suede jacket.'You
know a cow was murdered for that
jacket'? She sneered. I replied in a
psychotic tone, 'I didn't know there
were any witnesses. Now I'll have to
kill you, too.'
Future historians will be able to study
at the Gerald Ford Library; the
James Carter Library; the Ronald
Reagan Library and the Bill Clinton
Adult Bookstore.
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Date: Sun, 19 Nov 2000 00:18:41 -0800
Subject: "Telos" for gay lovers
Ben Boxer comments: I spent some
of my youth in Argentina. Being gay
was dangerous, but that only gave it
an extra edge. I had many sexual
adventures with Argentine men, who
liked it more than they admitted
because they always came back for
more.
I have recorded one story about
those days in Boxer's Booths at the
Snooker Club,
www.boxersfoxes.com, called "The
Tiger's Tail," a sex scene from which
is included in a CD I am recording
right now for people to buy in time
for Christmas. I will be offering 74
minutes of dramatic readings of hot
action on the CD, excerpted from
several of my stories. It can be
played on CD players in the car or
anywhere, or in a computer, if
preferred.
Headline:
(For BBC News by Daniel
Schweimler in Buenos Aires,
11/17/00)
Text:
They do not advertise themselves.
Their windows, if they have windows,
are dark and their front doors always
closed tight. Those that have car
parks have them hidden round the
back or underground.
Telos are often identified by the
words "albergue transitorio" or
"transit hostel", displayed discreetly
by the door, and perhaps a dim red
light.
They are not hotels, neither are they
brothels. Some are cheap and
somewhat seedy. Others are used by
film stars and politicians and boast
every luxury imaginable.
But telos have only one purpose...to
provide a safe, comfortable place in
which to have sex.
Argentinians in general have a
complicated attitude to sex.
There are few places where men
strive to be more macho. Machismo
is idolised in the culture of the virile
gaucho or cowboy riding the pampas
on his horse, or the well-dressed city
slickers who are the subject of so
many sad tango songs. That
machismo is often measured by the
number of sexual conquests a man
can notch up...
Yet Argentine women are supposed
to be as virtuous as their mothers, to
emulate the Virgin Mary.
The great Argentine heroine, Eva
Peron, is dubbed Santa Evita, or
Saint Evita, by her supporters. But
she is said by her enemies to have
been a woman of loose morals who
slept her way to the top.
That other great Argentine hero, the
footballer Diego Maradona, has been
heard, as he leaves restaurants in the
early hours, extolling the virtues of
his wife and children - while a
prostitute hangs on each arm.
There are therefore many
affairs....and where better to conduct
them than in a telo. But people
cheating on their spouses are not the
only ones to frequent telos.
Most young Argentines have their
first, nervous sexual experiences
there - usually some distance from
their houses so the neighbours do not
spot them entering or leaving. Most
people do not leave home until they
marry so the telo again provides a
more private refuge than the local
parks. These tend anyway to be
littered with kissing couples at any
time of the day or night.
They provide a secluded hideaway
for gay lovers in a still homophobic
society.
And telos are ideal for married
couples who crave a little intimacy,
away from boisterous children and
perhaps a prying mother-in-law.
No-one ever admits to using telos...so
I shall have to relate the experiences
of a friend of mine.
He was visiting Buenos Aires with his
Argentine wife and two small
children. They squeezed into her
parents' already overcrowded
apartment but desperately needed
some privacy to celebrate their
wedding anniversary. With the
grandparents willing to babysit, they
said they would go out for a meal.
Conveniently a telo was situated on
their way to the restaurant and with
a quick glance over their shoulders
to check no-one they knew was
passing by, they darted through the
front door. The receptionist was
barely visible behind a smoky pane of
glass.
"Would you like the twenty-five, the
thirty or the forty dollar room?" he
asked.
I, I mean my friend, was too
embarrassed to ask what customers
got for the extra money and went for
the thirty dollar option. Cash only...
no potentially incriminating credit
cards.
The room was clean and plush, the en
suite shower had a window that
looked out into the bedroom. The
bed was large and the seats soft and
furry.
Drinks could be ordered by
telephone and arrived in a two-door
hole in the wall so that room service
never see the guests and the guests
never see room service.
A packet of condoms, bearing the
telo's logo and extolling the virtues
of safe sex, lie by the bed. There are
mirrors everywhere and a television
with an endless number of channels -
many of them pornographic.
And, surprisingly, English football is
showing - Leicester City versus
Liverpool - a potentially dangerous
option, guaranteed to dampen the
ardour of even the most passionate
relationship.
Special deals are offered for
off-peak visits and, like any good
hotel, guests are invited to fill in a
customer survey form, suggesting
any way to improve the service.
On the way out, a chance encounter
with another departing couple.
Sheepish grins but no eye contact.
Many telos try to portray themselves
as respectable. But by their very
nature they will always carry with
them an air of seediness and perhaps
even danger. Or maybe that's just
because I have an uptight, British
attitude towards these kind of things.
Okay, I'll come clean, although
you've probably already guessed by
now, it was my wife and I who went
to the telo, not our friends.
But when, in a moment of candour,
we told the family where we'd been
they merely shrugged and said:
"Yes, we knew."
A shame, since the surreptitious
sneaking about and the nervous
planning were all part of the fun.
Subject: Surprise!
If some of you who have placed
profiles as list members wake up
this morning or any morning this
week and discover that e-mail from
this list in your In-Box, SURPRISE!
Hee hee!
I have discovered that several of you
sent in profiles, some with pix,
without being members of this group.
I am a trusting soul, and when I first
announced the new profile system,
I trustingly expected everyone to be
straight up and honest about their
membership. I did not check the list
membership records, primarily because
I was swamped with profiles and
had no time for administrative details.
What I have done now when I find profiles
of people who are not list members is
to register them as a subscriber to the
digest so that they will not be swamped
with e-mail they didn't expect.
I can't help but giggle at people who
try to pull a fast one and get caught
with their pants down. I know some of
you will write me nasty letters and
bitch about this terrible thing I have
done, but frankly, my dears, I don't
give a damn. I will happily remove you
from the list if this makes you unhappy,
but your profile will go, too, PLUS
your personal ad and your listing in the
general Clubhouse Member Profiles
not associated with the list.
I would be happier if you stayed on,
however, and behaved like gents. That
is entirely up to you.
As for the vast majority of members
who play a straight game, I want you
know how much I appreciate you. Many
of you have written kind and supportive
letters during the Natividad virus crisis --
which is over now, thanks to one of our
subscribers in France who found a cure
for it and also to QueerNet, our list
server, who trapped the little fucker
and beat the shit out of it.
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