The Intimate Journal of Sir Noley the Dauntless 1973-1974
There never was a time and a place
As far as I can recall, my dears,
When or where at, among the many milling there,
That one, indubitably the cynosure, did not
Alight each eye, enflame each quivering libido—
An instantaneous conflagration! But alas, my dears, mes choux,
Singed kiddies do shy away from ravening fires,
Scorched egos memorialize stoic lessons learned.
Yet What Might Have Been's amorphous cheer may thrive, may
Well survive, revive and flare again deliciously, more gaudily, than can
The ashy vestiges of one's few achieved Entitled Delights.
So they, the tease-maddened, soberly-saddened many, choose to aver,
They the mere Lookers-on, as they thankfully retrieve
The cherished glimpse they stored and, recalling,
Enjoy again with a delicious tingle. Don't they? Well…don't they?
Ha. It was What Might Have Been's lure that led me recklessly
Out of the Inhibited and Wish-beset Mob to ecstatic plunges in which I
wallowed!
But now I find, recalling my Satiation-glories as they Must Have Been, that
Their images flicker as variously as do those of any Why Didn't I? ghost.
And evoke perhaps a deeper tingle!
Let pride in continence, the smugness of shared self-restraint reward the
laggards.
He who hesitates only makes more firm his bonds, lets dreams compensate for
Pleasures foregone.
Often enough I abandoned Maybe I Could for Damnit I Will! Often enough?
Nah.
I never went proud. Or became ‘benumbed'. I took my fun as I found it.
Did I pay? What did I sacrifice? Is Life a Grand Account, a Stern God's
Ineluctable equilibriumizing? For each and every pleasure a pain? What pain
Did I ever recognize? Who right now cares at all if I ever felt much pain
or none?
Who cares if I ‘went wild', ‘grabbed more than my share'? I took
what was offered.
So I am lucky, ‘rich' in my own fashion, ‘I flung roses, went with
the wind, Cynara'!
INTRODUCTION
At this Quiet Point in my life, I propose to survey What
I Have Done in hopes that such retrospection will suggest What I Should do
Next. I hereby begin a private journal, somewhat in the manner of Andre Gide's
making himself—and his readers—a journal. You might suppose I should
simply state that these few jotted-down personal observations are concerned
solely with two much-wallowed-about and venerable questions—viz.: How
Should a Human Being Best Operate Now…in Order to Be Considered To Be
Fully Alive? and, incidentally, too, Why Are Some Fools Determined to Practice
Sex that Others Consider so Silly? Whole books have been written, plays,
poems, editorials…in fact practically everything written, as well as
most that has been propounded orally, preached, passed along as gossip or
as ‘accumulated wisdom', has been offered as someone's considered answer
to one or the other of those recurrent, plaguey questions. So why should
I…? Am I uniquely wise? No. But I have accumulated some pertinent evidence
in my unique undaunted-but-graceful ranging around. Haven't I? You are not
required, forced, even invited, to read any further here. But I did mention
that SEX is implicated, so of course you must…. YOU ARE WARNED. You
proceed beyond this point at the risk of being stripped of your fondest illusions
and having your Eternal Verities rattled! Ha! And there may be more Bad Poetry!
Poetry is always oblique but it is also fleet and it shifts the labor to
you. I am wise enough to set it up so you have to do the work, even as I
only lay out my tangled prose and maybe some enigmatic poetry.
If you insist, persist, are challenged, venture intrepidly
on! Allez-vous Ooop! Marchons!
Certainly, in my early days—I was all of ten—when
our stalwart, pony-docile, donkey-hung distant-cousin, Jordie
Cummerford—who was all of twenty that summer—stood casually, at
sunset among the willows, placidly shaking off his naked body the lingering
drops of brackish water from the pond in which we had had our cool dip. And
his Something Special aroused much fascinated, though mostly sidelong, scrutiny.
And in one amazed observer, moi-meme—more than a mite of tremulous
lust….
I harbored no intimation then that the excitement that
rapt me was lust nor that perhaps others of the crew of males who shyly stared
as they donned their duds, felt such odd tremors. Considerable envy and outright
awe I did expect to practically crackle in the mesmerized staring and sudden
hush. If, in my ten years I had heard—been treated to or overheard as
I loitered near—a thousand ribald tales bawled out in wry, exultant
but humble celebration of just what dear dumbbell Jordie matter-of-factly
waggled in its massive naked reality, then probably all those other older
fellows, suspended in ritual adoration for a second in their rush to get
home for supper, had also heard, had even themselves bawled out, whispered,
snickered over, outdone each other in telling two thousand such ‘dirty'
tales and jokes. Of course they stared.
I was smart enough at ten to suspect that the merriment
I'd heard about the ‘Bigguns' had been mostly jolly blather, so I was
not just amazed but shocked! Those older fellows there were all young enough
to be struck dumb in amazement to see that A Rare Reality might indeed underlay
some of the wildest giddy imaginings!
The bucolic scene recurred thereafter—with Jordie's
startling lineaments—then so amazing -blooming again vivid, indelible,
possibly enhanced a bit, enthralling! What I had then beheld, I yearned to
see again. Or another like it. Thus I became a ‘size-quean'? ….
And even then did I perchance suspect the green gloom to be redolent of others'
forbidden stirrings shamefully denied? Certainly no one giggled or dared
attempt to utter some callous smart-ass wisecrack: it was like ‘church'!
Was I the only devout believer?
In the interests of thorough-journalistic reporting,
an addendum is appropriate. In nearly all subsequent such group-viewings
of amazingly magnificent proportioned phalli, a similar reverential attitude
on the part of most of the fascinated beholders was characteristic. And,
it appeared, a similar casualness on the part of most of the lucky displayers
as well. However, although few of the ‘Super-endowed' had what Jordie
clearly had to be casual about in that quasi-religious experience of ours
in the willows, a minority of the later displayers were, almost brazen…they
were self-consciously proud. Quite deliberately, it seemed to me, they
flaunted their genetically-acquired assets. And not just sardonic
professionals but some generous-minded amateurs also flaunted. Among those,
Ray Long in the Westside Y showers was notable.
Among the proud professional ‘beauties', some were
outright Hustlers, of course. Jerome Ragni as a star of the long-running
show "Hair" was a ‘professional' of a kind. Were (are) the lads who
strip and strut and stroke their fine erected phalli on-stage to be categorized
as ‘professional entertainers' or as ‘dedicated sex-workers'…so
long as they did not (do not) solicit ‘dates'? And who, besides the
IRS, really cares?
The IRS and all of us Amateur Appreciators!
Some of whom were born to be Very Very Fond of a Certain Male Attribute,
some of whom learned from Simple Inspection that a few of those male attributes
were more impressive than others and more interesting, and a few of us who
grew up in secluded ‘rural pockets' of Matter of Fact concern with all
Natural Variations and a sense that nothing was more Chancy-wondrous than
a really Big Human Phallos!
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