Ever snorted raw shit? Or lovingly peeled a poxy, ulcerated penis from diarrhoea-disaster Y-fronts? Really, how extreme is too extreme? Should there be any limits whatsoever to the scatological surrealism of fabulously provocative gay art? Yes, better strap yourselves in, boys, there’s a vile road ahead! So, join me in a filthily intimate kiss to Samuel R. Delaney, indisputably the fiercest gay, black, no-holds-barred sex and science-fiction writer on planet earth.
Never heard of the guy? OMG, where have you poor saps been living? At the butt-end of happy, sappy clowns like Armistead Maupin masquerading as worthwhile, fag fiction? No, instead, let’s retract the raw, diseased foreskin of Delaney’s novel The Madman, an unflinching, sexual odyssey even clap clinic junkies would puke at!
It’s the 1980s, and gay, black student John Marr’s researching Korean philosopher Timothy Hasler’s murder near an NYC gay bar in 1973. In increasingly depraved scenes reminiscent of Hannibal Lecter’s infatuated, mental fuck-buddy identification with Clarice Starling, Marr starts retracing, and finally re-enacting, Hasler’s every sexual outrage. You think bare-backing and eating multiple sticks of mixed, frozen cum – spunk lollies – is risky? Try Delaney’s beyond-queasy recreations of infamous NYC gay bar The Mineshaft’s ‘Wet Nights’ – Marr’s drenched, drinks and lubricates himself with gallons of combined, STD piss!
That’s just for starters. Ever encountered the dry-heave delights of Mysophilia, instant sexual arousal from vomit, runny turds, rank body hygiene and putrid clothes? Repeatedly, Marr indulges in reckless sex with the foulest, least attractive homeless men possible, manically feasting on dicks he sees as strangely beautified by Kaposi’s sarcomas.
Appalling? Who to, maiden aunts or brain-dead Kardashian clones? Delaney, quite rightly, is totally unrepentant in the face of any disapproval – straight or gay – and defiantly advocates personal excess whatever the risk.
Admirably, The Madman makes that clear from page one. ‘I do not have AIDS’ Delaney writes, ‘I am surprised that I don’t. I have actively had sex with other men weekly, sometimes daily – without condoms – for the last decade and a half…’ Bravo. Don’t we all, as LGBT front-liners, have a sacred duty to step beyond the bigoted guilt, shame and disdain of anti-gay contempt?
Understand, to fully appreciate extreme, gay artistry, it’s essential to overcome bourgeois squeamishness, so initially, I furiously beat off to Human Centipede and Saw torture-porn flicks. Well, who wouldn’t – it’s a sublime alternative to Eastenders. Even so, internalising Delaney’s relentless, immersive sleaze is tough, hardly some dream-date orgy with Rylan and Sam Smith!
Still, respect to the man – Delaney’s hardcore, transgressive depravity is easily on par with Mapplethorpe’s iconic bullwhip jammed in an eager butthole. Certainly, along with Larry Kramer’s Faggots, Delaney’s written an essential, gay survivor’s Bible, but – like rancid, foul-tasting spunk – one that’s still truly hard to swallow!
Phew! On the fluffier side of obscenity, treat yourself to Spanish comic-book artist Nazario’s stunningly crass she-male sadist, Anarcoma. Imagine Iggy Pop with shocking, Dolly Parton boobs, or Conchita Wurst on ‘roid-rage, as perpetually horny, private detective Anarcoma demands to fuck or be fucked! Believe me, s/he’s Superman’s worst possible nightmare, the throbbing, insatiable cock inside his tight red panties!
•Got any surgically-urgent theatre news, views or comments? Email [email protected]
