(c) Breeze Vincinz
Believe it or not, my father is a very conservative, traditional, old-school type of guy. There is a belief that my apple gently fell from some sort of Richard Pryor-cum-Lexington Steele-cum-Divine tree. In reality, my dad is more like “Frasier”, my mom is more like “Roseanne”, my brother is like Will Smith in “Fresh Prince of Bel-Air” and I see myself more or less like a Kathy Griffin-in-training. In broad strokes, I would consider my family to be a somewhat pedestrian PG brood; I am usually the one pining for existential enlightenment through enema jokes, anal sex and/or the words “autoerotic asphyxiation” (they just make me laugh).
Recently, my African-American “Frasier” father decided to create a profile on Facebook and decided to be my Facebook friend, much to my chagrin. I discovered a long time ago that, unlike Kathy Griffin with her humorously supportive parents, my folks could truly live a lifetime without me talking about bathhouses and glory holes and such. And while I still spout on about those topics, I have put in a consorted effort to shelter them from my racier prose. Then my father comes along and becomes privy to one of the last great outlets I have to be as provocative and offensive as possible, Facebook. I warn him that some of the things I say are a bit “blue” and he reassures me that over the years that not only has he grown to accept that I have an idiosyncratic sense of humor, but that he has also acquired a thick enough skin to handle any off color element that might protrude from this direction.
When I went on vacation this past Labor Day I changed my status to read, “Going to Atlanta for an extended four day proctology exam, I can’t wait!” To wit my other Facebook friends responded with barbs such as “And I have a needle for you baby!” and “Make sure you clean it out thoroughly before you get to the office girl!” and “We’re doing oral exams at the Peachtree Hotel, you should come and get a check up!”
He disabled his account about a week later.
Believe it or not, my father is a very conservative, traditional, old-school type of guy. There is a belief that my apple gently fell from some sort of Richard Pryor-cum-Lexington Steele-cum-Divine tree. In reality, my dad is more like “Frasier”, my mom is more like “Roseanne”, my brother is like Will Smith in “Fresh Prince of Bel-Air” and I see myself more or less like a Kathy Griffin-in-training. In broad strokes, I would consider my family to be a somewhat pedestrian PG brood; I am usually the one pining for existential enlightenment through enema jokes, anal sex and/or the words “autoerotic asphyxiation” (they just make me laugh).Recently, my African-American “Frasier” father decided to create a profile on Facebook and decided to be my Facebook friend, much to my chagrin. I discovered a long time ago that, unlike Kathy Griffin with her humorously supportive parents, my folks could truly live a lifetime without me talking about bathhouses and glory holes and such. And while I still spout on about those topics, I have put in a consorted effort to shelter them from my racier prose. Then my father comes along and becomes privy to one of the last great outlets I have to be as provocative and offensive as possible, Facebook. I warn him that some of the things I say are a bit “blue” and he reassures me that over the years that not only has he grown to accept that I have an idiosyncratic sense of humor, but that he has also acquired a thick enough skin to handle any off color element that might protrude from this direction.
When I went on vacation this past Labor Day I changed my status to read, “Going to Atlanta for an extended four day proctology exam, I can’t wait!” To wit my other Facebook friends responded with barbs such as “And I have a needle for you baby!” and “Make sure you clean it out thoroughly before you get to the office girl!” and “We’re doing oral exams at the Peachtree Hotel, you should come and get a check up!”
He disabled his account about a week later.
Like many American families, sex was never discussed in our household so like many American Families; I grew up with a heightened sense of curiosity, inquisitiveness and fear in regards to it. It’s something that I have been working steadfastly in resolving in my adult years and hoping I can help in changing for the next generation, the idea that sex is this taboo exercise only for the most downtrodden of us, particularly homosexuality which is only to be performed by the excommunicated and/or insane,
I think we as a society have come light years from our sanitized and shellacked puritanical beginnings, but there is still enough racial tension, gender politics and sexual dissention in the ranks to refute anyone’s thought that someone fully sexually aware equates to an intelligent, capable, strong member of society. Those double standards are also still there. A man with an active sex drive is still considered a stud while a woman with an equally active sex drive is still considered a slut. A heterosexual man with a girlfriend is still considered wholesome while a homosexual man with a boyfriend is still considered unholy.
I sometimes get the same judgment calls from my own circle of friends with whom I have begrudgingly expressed my sexual proclivities to. Two friends in particular, one male, one female, have found it increasingly hard to look past my sexual practices and focus on the guy behind the penis as it were. With the male, it’s a fascination that pops up in absolutely any conversation:
Breeze: Hey, did you see the new Chris Rock movie, “Good Hair”?
Male Friend: No. But did you see it near that bathhouse you went to and got fucked by five guys!?
…or…
Breeze: I’ve got so much work to do tomorrow. I think I might go to bed early.
Male Friend: Is that what you did when you went to the bathhouse and got fucked by five guys!?
…or…
Breeze: How’s your mom doing? Is she out the hospital?
Male Friend: She’s good. Not as good as you were when you went to the bathhouse and got fucked by five guys!?
With the female friend it’s a deep seated belief that the moments I have outside of eating, sleeping and working are most definitely involved in some sort of sexual activity:
Female Friend: I called you last night and you didn’t answer phone. What were you doing? Were you sucking somebody’s dick!?
…or…
Female Friend: You were taking a long time in the bathroom. What were you doing, sucking somebody’s dick!?
…or…
Female Friend: That’s a nice shirt you have on. Why did you wear it? Are you planning on sucking somebody’s dick in it!?
I think we as a society have come light years from our sanitized and shellacked puritanical beginnings, but there is still enough racial tension, gender politics and sexual dissention in the ranks to refute anyone’s thought that someone fully sexually aware equates to an intelligent, capable, strong member of society. Those double standards are also still there. A man with an active sex drive is still considered a stud while a woman with an equally active sex drive is still considered a slut. A heterosexual man with a girlfriend is still considered wholesome while a homosexual man with a boyfriend is still considered unholy.
I sometimes get the same judgment calls from my own circle of friends with whom I have begrudgingly expressed my sexual proclivities to. Two friends in particular, one male, one female, have found it increasingly hard to look past my sexual practices and focus on the guy behind the penis as it were. With the male, it’s a fascination that pops up in absolutely any conversation:
Breeze: Hey, did you see the new Chris Rock movie, “Good Hair”?
Male Friend: No. But did you see it near that bathhouse you went to and got fucked by five guys!?
…or…
Breeze: I’ve got so much work to do tomorrow. I think I might go to bed early.
Male Friend: Is that what you did when you went to the bathhouse and got fucked by five guys!?
…or…
Breeze: How’s your mom doing? Is she out the hospital?
Male Friend: She’s good. Not as good as you were when you went to the bathhouse and got fucked by five guys!?
With the female friend it’s a deep seated belief that the moments I have outside of eating, sleeping and working are most definitely involved in some sort of sexual activity:
Female Friend: I called you last night and you didn’t answer phone. What were you doing? Were you sucking somebody’s dick!?
…or…
Female Friend: You were taking a long time in the bathroom. What were you doing, sucking somebody’s dick!?
…or…
Female Friend: That’s a nice shirt you have on. Why did you wear it? Are you planning on sucking somebody’s dick in it!?
Usually when these conversations occur I get a little perturbed and recently another friend told me that my “puritanical” reaction is a bit hypocritical considering the fact that I am so sexually active. The thought being that if I have, indeed, been fucked by the entire Lakers basketball team then I should be willing and able to receive any joke, teasing or musing in regards to it at any time. And the more I thought about it the more I realized that I had indeed opened that door. If you pontificate on the amount of anal sex you have on a regular basis I think it’s natural for your friends to giggle when you accidentally sit down on a can of soda that someone has left in a chair and you don’t notice it going up. But I guess there is a concept of pretext and context that is usually missing in discussions of sex within my inner circle. Personally, I think its cool to, let’s say… have a chart in your house that ticks off every time you have gotten or have given head this year (personally I had to buy a new Sharpie for the month of September, Labor day in Atlanta and all), I think it’s another to bring said chart to work, or my mom’s house, or a funeral. That thought made me think of pretext and context. I’m pretty sure that even Jenna Jameson would be upset if over Christmas dinner with her mom if you would say she’s eating a turkey leg in the same manner in which she sucks a dick. Not that it wouldn’t be true, not that there wouldn’t be a level of humor to it, but it’s the timing of it all, and the pretext that just because she is one of the most famous pornographic actresses out there that there are no lines of decency that could exist in her world.
I am starting to realize that over the years, life does wear you down, scrubs the edges off of you like those smooth rocks you might find in a river bank. I’m not sure, however, if this is a good thing or bad thing yet. I keep remembering Sarah Tobias, the character Jodi Foster played in the movie “The Accused” and the fury of conversations it caused back when it was released. No one deserves to be disrespected, defiled or debased. But as I grow older the question I ask myself is… would she put herself in that position again years later. Because it wasn’t her fault that she got attacked, in that... she did nothing wrong. But I do wonder if a 40 or 50 year old Sarah Tobias could still taste the sweetness of being sexually free; wearing a revealing outfit, having a couple of drinks with her girlfriends, flirting with some cute guys, or has life smoothed that over for her. I wonder about this because I am realizing that more and more people are beginning to think that because I constantly spout off about my own sexual conquests, experiences and mishaps that I deserve to bent over the metaphorical pool table also. And I think it was that thought, the presence of that condemnation from society if not from his own self a little, that forced my father to delete his Facebook account.
The compromise I have made is to become “Cautiously Promiscuous”. I think it’s the perfect culmination of life smoothing me over but still being able to maintain my hardness.
I am starting to realize that over the years, life does wear you down, scrubs the edges off of you like those smooth rocks you might find in a river bank. I’m not sure, however, if this is a good thing or bad thing yet. I keep remembering Sarah Tobias, the character Jodi Foster played in the movie “The Accused” and the fury of conversations it caused back when it was released. No one deserves to be disrespected, defiled or debased. But as I grow older the question I ask myself is… would she put herself in that position again years later. Because it wasn’t her fault that she got attacked, in that... she did nothing wrong. But I do wonder if a 40 or 50 year old Sarah Tobias could still taste the sweetness of being sexually free; wearing a revealing outfit, having a couple of drinks with her girlfriends, flirting with some cute guys, or has life smoothed that over for her. I wonder about this because I am realizing that more and more people are beginning to think that because I constantly spout off about my own sexual conquests, experiences and mishaps that I deserve to bent over the metaphorical pool table also. And I think it was that thought, the presence of that condemnation from society if not from his own self a little, that forced my father to delete his Facebook account.
The compromise I have made is to become “Cautiously Promiscuous”. I think it’s the perfect culmination of life smoothing me over but still being able to maintain my hardness.
Cautiously Promiscuous (‘ko’-sh?s-’le-pr?-’mis-ky?-w?s):
- The act of fully manifesting an enormous sexual appetite while showing discretion when describing said acts to your messy ass friends who are more than likely dealing with their own sexual hang-ups and are giving you the same shards of judgment that they feel society would give them if they had the balls to go and get as much ass as you do.
- Not convincing your father to re-establish his Facebook page so you can continue to change your profile page status to read something on the lines of, “In an effort make a statement in regards to the sodomy laws still established in Detroit and to boost the spirit of it’s citizens as they face the worse unemployment rates they have ever seen, every time I have anal sex I am going to refer to it as getting some ‘Detroit’”
- Having as much Detroit as humanly possible and choosing the correct people to have in your inner circle who won’t mention it every fucking five minutes.
- Not mentioning it every fucking five minutes myself.
- Choose partners who won’t mention it every fucking five minutes… you don’t want to be an Idaho.
I have been under an absolutely immense amount stress and anxiety for the past couple weeks, maybe even a month or two. And then today… it started raining.
As I get older I’m trying to come to terms with my own mortality. I remember a grade school teacher once telling me that the main thing separating us from animals is the fact that we know that we are eventually going to die. Dogs just bark, fish just swim, but we know eventually one day, it’s all going to go, and once you make that realization, that’s when you begin to live, and take advantage of your opposable thumbs, your working limbs, you appreciate your lungs still being able to be filled with air, your voice still being able to speak a cognizant language. I know one day I’m going to eventually die and the thought totally sucks…. I got so much more game to play! Right now, I have a grocery list of shit that I feel is just beating me down and just raping the happiness out of my soul but I just have to think of the bigger picture in that… no one really leaves this earth completely “clean”, like… everybody gets a little shit thrown on them at one point or another… everybody, from Ghandi to Audrey Hepburn to
Oprah… nobody’s perfect and no one has had a life completely filled with perfect circumstances and easy loving… everybody has had some shit thrown on them at one point or another. You just gotta wipe it off and keep going. You gotta realize you aren’t the only one, the first one or the last one really… to ever be shitted on… and it’s okay. It fucking sucks… but it’s okay.