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In 2009 Savage invited his readers to vote to define saddlebacking as \"the phenomenon of Christian teens engaging in unprotected anal sex to preserve their virginities.\"[51] He was protesting the vocal support given to California Proposition 8 by Rick Warren (pastor of Saddleback Church), and President Barack Obama's invitation to Warren to give the invocation at his inauguration. When Savage vowed to boycott Utah due to strong Mormon support for Proposition 8, the Salt Lake City Weekly dropped Savage's column.[52]
When I get together with my gay friends, we talk about the same things I talk about with my straight friends: politics, movies and whether or not Brad Pitt cheated on Jennifer Aniston. But while my straight buddies will inevitably start talking about their impending pregnancies, the fags and I will chat about porn.
But not me. I was never ashamed of being gay. This isn't because I grew up in some liberal paradise like San Francisco or Amsterdam. I grew up in Cincinnati, arguably the most conservative city in the United States. It wasn't my parents' skilled social construction either. Sure, they were liberal-they never spanked me and they subscribed to both Ms. and the New Republic-but these former civil-rights workers didn't have a single gay friend, and they hid from my brother and me our godmother who had gone lesbian in the early eighties. In fact, my parents weren't ashamed of using \"cocksucker\" and \"faggot\" in moments of anger or disgust. No, I learned it was all right to be gay from pornography.
My dad had porn. Lots of it. Many educated liberals who came of age in the sixties and seventies didn't believe in teaching their children to be ashamed of the human body, and my parents were no different. They didn't obsessively prevent us from seeing them naked, and they didn't punish my brother or me when we were found in the storeroom off my dad's study, flipping through his collection of Playboy, Penthouse, Variations and Forum.
I don't remember discovering the magazines. I just always knew that they were there, stacked neatly on wooden shelves, between musty academic journals and the notes for my father's dissertation, Common School Reform: Connecticut, 1838-1854. My parents never told me that looking through the magazines was naughty. (That I learned from my friends and teachers and the billboards around Cincinnati that, no joke, exclaimed, \"Real men don't use porn.\") In fact, they seemed to be amused by my interest. Once, when I was six or seven and particularly obsessed with an issue of Penthouse, I clipped out the subscription form on the back cover and attempted to fill it out.
When that chance came, I was prepared. My friend Sam and I had a just watched The Wall in the rec room of his house in Western Hills, which was figuratively and literally on the other side of the tracks. The exchange of blow jobs had been planned for some time. I just had to wait for Sam to lose his virginity-to his girlfriend. When my turn came, and the oral sex was in progress, he said, \"God, you're so much better than Nancy.\" And I thought, \"Thank God my dad had all that porn.\" Afterward, Sam freaked out. He was paralyzed with guilt and disgust. He was the only one; as I drove home, blaring Aerosmith in my mother's minivan, I was thrilled.
I loved this book and Natasha Wimmer must take some credit for a job well done. One might quibble that with the vast lexicon of synonyms for ‘prick’ in English that a little variation might have been called for, but this is a minor point. 'Whoever achieves perfect balance is too close to God to be an artist,' Pedro Juan writes, but author Pedro Juan -who shares many characteristics of the narrator (journalist in his forties, once married, has travelled, lives in the heart of a decaying Havana) - has himself managed to create a perfect balance of social documentary, storytelling, humour, pathos and smutty porn. Luckily his artistic credibility remains intact by tipping the balance in one negative instance – at 392 pages it is possibly just a wee bit too long. M.G.S. Read 'Buried in Shit' and 'Stars and Losers' from Dirty Havana Trilogy in this issue of TBR In This Block There Lives a Slag . . . and other Yorkshire Fables by Bill Broady: Flamingo, U.K., 2001 In this collection of 12 stories, Yorkshire native Bill Broady focuses on the local fauna - Bradford slags, workers on the dole, pub drinkers, social case workers and other motley crew variants. The typical narrator, who is very much one of the locals, frequently combines town-boy pub-speak with an educated voice, espousing a fair share of literary and cultural references and high register vocabulary (\"mephitic breath\"; \"Rhynchokinetic beaks\"; \"sphagnum bog\"; \"strabismic\" [bears]). It’s a natural voice, however; not nearly so off-putting as it may sound. It is, in fact, like most of the stories, autobiographical in tone. One can sense the author behind the similar-sounding narrators, relaying tales about his hometown and its environs.
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