Can savage, childhood violence spark gay genius? Let’s sink to the sordid depths with Lady Sasha!
Ever taken it like a man? A full-on, ‘fuck-you-little-cunt!’ punch to the guts at a tender age? Oh, don’t look so shocked – frankly, there’s nothing like it for focusing a wandering attention span, mine at least! Why, swift and juicy, it’s more shocking than an impromptu fist-fuck, and far more memorable! Still, let’s not blame the inherently ultra-dumb dispensers of working-class brutality too much – I’m sure my dear, deceased daddy had honourable motives!
How could he not? See, like it or not, there’s a disproportionate link between brutalised, fey kids flowering into mass, gay Michaelangelos, some crucial link between abuse and gay genius. Wishful thinking? Hardly – even borderline pervert Lewis (Alice in Wonderland) Carroll sussed that, memorably immortalising parental cruelty in a poem that rubber-stamped public-school sadists nationwide. ‘Be brutal to your little boy/and beat him when he sneezes’ Carroll wrote, setting an indelible, poetic template for future, furiously unrestrained flogging!
So pardon me while I spit on poor, misguided, hugely over-privileged author George Orwell, a public school ponce and apologist who despised caning! In his novel, 1984, he inexplicably portrays a ‘boot crushing the face of humanity forever’ as tragic, completely overlooking the sexual thrill of abuse! Me, I’d beat myself daily into a pre-orgasmic frenzy, just itching for the whistling agony of daddy’s tightly bunched, leather belt on my butt! Why, even now – day-dreaming on tubes – I entertain sexual fantasies of being randomly viciously beaten, and creaming my otherwise immaculate pantyhose. Gee, no wonder my Holy, living idol on this earth is one Jesus H. Christ, a beyond-fabulous, bleeding corpse and reigning S&M queen!
And surely, I’m not the only one. Time and again – as inevitably as an overworked rent-boy’s dick craving Viagra – gay prodigies and the lash intertwine. And forget fiction – sometimes, parental cruelty makes Hollywood sadism look sane. Take one typical, tousle-haired teenage tearaway by the name of Lou Reed, future gay pop genius for the ages. Sullen, blatantly effeminate and dripping deviant witticisms from the ying-yang, Lou’s tender, sexually diverse brain cells were, supposedly, humanely electrocuted in the non-consensual torture called ECT. That’s electro-convulsive therapy to you and me, and yes, it’s twice as barbaric and disorientating as it sounds! You want a taste? Try OD’ing on forty Xanax and a half-bottle of raw whiskey, just so you’re thoroughly familiar with Lou’s preferred brand of parental care!
But you know what? Gay genius is positively Nietzschean, and whatever doesn’t kill it makes it sassier and more lethal throwing shade! Somehow, Lou Reed recovered from his deliberate, cognitive fogging, proceeding to pen killer albums Transformer and Berlin. And of course, he didn’t ever forget daddy, so let’s hope Lou’s track ‘Kill Your Sons’ stuck deep in his lousy father’s throat!
Just like world-famous artist Francis Bacon, who serially outraged his volatile, hung-up, easily scandalised Daddykins. Caught red-handed one morning, oozing lubriciously against full-length mirror-glass in his Mummy’s finest knickers, bra and stockings, Francis was dementedly tenderised by fatherly fists. On another occasion – dressed as a 1920s flapper – he was horse-whipped by a family groom. Oh, if only it had been me! It makes one’s penis pump with imagined ecstasy! For Francis, of course, it arguably detonated and spurted out a sick-fuck fountain of glorious atrocities, a spectacle matched in words by the similarly, Daddy-damaged Tennessee Williams! Hell, who wouldn’t beg for parental pain if the pay-off, artistically, was Blanche Dubois? Me, certainly, because who knows what might spark your inner, Noel Coward? The proof of the pudding is in the beating!
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