himself. he is his own panoptic
peepshow; and this is the difference between him and the other in whom
exposure grants visual pleasure. the structure of his exposure is
conditioned by a discipline of the body and by the muscular
construction of
it as a fortress of impermeability. but it is a fortress that has a face
which still must be given over, this much, and only this much, is a
concession to a feminist critique, and it is also a peculiar and
particular
retrenchment of masculinity within the contemporary circuits of vision.
Brad Borevitz
http://onetwothree.net
On 11/10/07 2:40 AM, Jordan Crandall [EMAIL PROTECTED] wrote:
6 scenes
1. Bar
I am standing at the doorway of a bar, in a strange city. A flight
delay
has caused me to miss my connection, and I am stuck here for one
night. I
am excited by the unique pleasure that this affords: that of being a
complete stranger, in a city that I have never before visited. To be
the
mystery person, the screen upon which fantasies are projected. I step
through the doorway of the bar with a swagger, then pause to scan the
room. As if a stage actor in a solo scene, I do not meet the gaze of
anyone in particular. By not looking, I invite others to look. Due to
the
fact that am alone, I invent a form of distributed companionship -- a
timeless consort who is everyone and no one, everywhere and nowhere. A
Knowingness that is above and beyond the here-and-now. This is not
intended to be read as arrogance, but rather, a potent combination of
presence and absence, availability and disinterest. Anything less would
dissolve the screen. Slowly and with confidence, I walk to the bar,
while
absorbing the scene, mapping the space. I sip my drink and then almost
spill it, due to the startling appearance of an enormous, lascivious
drag
queen, who now looms above me. She points a long, red-painted nail at
me
and gives me the Call. With a parting of heavily painted lips and a
commanding, heavily-lashed stare, she intones: You! I offer some
resistance, then succumb. I am whisked away into a back room. I am
instructed in the new rules of the game, along with four other
recruits. I
am now a Contestant. The drag queen stumbles out into the bar on shaky
heels, arms aflail. A breathless introduction ensues. The Contest has
begun. The bar crowd, which has now become an audience, applauds
wildly.
One by one, each of us enters onto the rickety, makeshift stage clad
only
in our underwear, as the drag queen, now wielding a bucket, hurls
water at
us. We then work the crowd and solicit applause. To win this game, one
is
expected to manage some degree of erection. If no degree of hardness is
possible, the wet underwear simply clings to the contours of the groin
and
produces a small, unappealing mound. In this case, one must attempt to
fool the eye, in the grand tradition of the dancer, the courtesan, the
magician. What is sexuality if not a conjuring trick? Desire requires a
labyrinth. I know the moves from watching others, and I make these
moves
work for me. I become someone I’m not. Yet perhaps I become more of the
person that I really am? The answer depends upon who, ultimately, I am
acting for, and the stakes that have been thereby raised. Stripped
nearly
naked, a stranger in a strange town, with no social profile to uphold,
there is nothing much to lose. Yet there is certainly an amorphous
judge
for whom I act. The audience is simply one dimension of it, the drag
queen
its obscene face.
2. Sauna
I am in the sauna at the gym, relaxing after a workout. A man sits
across
from me. He stares at my crotch for as long as appropriate, given the
protocols of sauna life, then looks away. A few beats later, his gaze
returns, sweeping across my body, circling around my midsection,
resting
upon on the bulge cast by my penis. I am not erect, yet I feel the
stimulation of his gaze. I do not return his look, and so he must
operate
surreptitiously. Yet I am aware of his gaze; I do not block it. He
senses
this, and it affords him a certain level of permission. The dance
continues. The atmosphere heats up. He subtly lifts his towel to show
his
hardness. He expects me to reciprocate, but I do not. Failing to rouse
me,
he offers a question: Can I touch you? I am momentarily stunned by his
eruption into speech, and by his directness. Cruising is generally a
nonverbal endeavor; when it does involve dialogue it is indirect, at
least
at first. I respond in the negative. At this point there are few
avenues
left to him. Quietly, he studies his options. He looks at me, looks
down
at my groin, looks at me again, then quietly asks: Can you show me? At
the
onset of this question, I feel a jolt of sexual excitement. So direct,
so
genuine. So powerful in its simplicity. The basic question that every
child wants asked, summoned by every plea of Look at me! I briefly
consider lifting my towel
