Not to brag, but I have a strong stomach. That happens when a fellow has a life history of summer camp food, Navy chow, church basement cuisine, and his own cooking.
So I didn't heave yesterday morning when my electric teevee got its jollies showing Bruce and Reggie swapping spit on the Supreme Court steps because the justices said they could get married.
It was a close-run thing. Moist PDAs between or among anyone make me slightly uncomfortable. Civilized humanity invented doors and drapes for a reason, and I am personally attuned to the notion that the queerer the foreplay, the thicker the curtains required.
Teevee producers disagree, of course, and there is that pesky First Amendment, so we're stuck with living-room sodomy, or preludes thereto. Fast work with the remote control is one palliative.
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The Court is to be congratulated for yesterday's slapdown of the DOMA and Proposition 8. It moderated political control over personal intimacies among free adult Americans. Liberty won, and the legal-political complex left me free to publish my annoyance that freedom can lead to things I find somewhere between distasteful and repugnant.
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2 comments:
So you'd draw the curtains on Bogie and Bacall because kissing is repulsive?
Bogie? Damn straight. A spit-slobbered Camel butt is called a Bogart for a reason.
I'd give Ms. Bacall more leeway, provided she was kissing me. Trouble is, at the height of Lauren passion I was about 13 years old and probably not very good at it.
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